THEY WERE FLYING NEAR THE ROLLING ENERGIES OF THE BRIGHT. Only a few thousand feet above, the sky appeared to boil, like a molten river streaming from some silver-throated volcano. The ship maintained distance from that boil. But they were flying across the Sea of Arising, without a destination.

Behind Quinn lay the littered path of his mistakes: his broken promise to Sydney, and to Johanna, to bring his wife's body home. And the crime he could never have imagined: the killing of a child. He tried to shove these things away, for now.

The bright stretched on, and everywhere.

Anzi stood by his side, gazing out the viewports. “We cannot land this ship at Bei's reach,” she said. “It will cause a sensation among the scholars. It would implicate Bei.”

He barely heard her. His mind was dredging for memories, searching for a glimpse of how to pilot the ship. Nothing new came to him. Chiron had guarded her maneuvers, especially when entering the bright.

Anzi's brow furrowed. “We could land in a nascence, though. No one would see us there. Then you could walk to the reach.”

“Yes.” Thank God she was clearheaded as always. A nascence was dangerous, though. On the way to Bei's reach, when he and Anzi had been aboard the sky bulb, they'd passed a nascence in the distance. Such a place was a temporary and forbidding root hair, fitfully sparking into and out of existence. If they could get to that nascence, and if it still existed, he could hike up the minoral to the veil. Then Anzi—setting out on foot and then by train—might have time to reach Yulin, to warn him of all that had transpired. They owed Yulin a warning, although the lords might already have seized him, if Wen An, the old woman scholar, had failed to evade the Tarig—and if she had revealed all she knew.

Despite all these complications, they had one great advantage. He and Anzi had a brightship, and the lords didn't. Although they might create others, it would take time. The lords had only one other choice for crossing the Entire's galactic-scale distances: they could travel on the Nigh. But they must still cross the primacy, a distance they would have to cover by the slow means they imposed on everyone.

Anzi broke his train of thought. She murmured, “When you come back, I will be in Ahnenhoon. It's a good place to go unnoticed.”

After a long pause she said, “Or, I could go with you.”

He didn't know what to say. There were a dozen reasons against it; the greatest being that if he died in the attempted crossing, who would be left except Anzi who knew Johanna's secret?

He didn't want to tell her no. He waited for her, watching her, with her stark white hair and alabaster skin—both elegant and inhuman. For all its strangeness, her face was familiar to him. He had come to know her better than he knew even those closest to him, like his own brother, or Lamar Gelde.

“I could come with you,” she said again. “But then, who would warn my uncle?”

They were both silent then. Finally she turned and left, walking back into one of the curved arms of the crescent-shaped ship. He thought she had made her decision, and it oppressed her, as it did him.

Without the sound of engines, the ship was eerily quiet, as though they swam instead of flew. He couldn't remember how the craft propelled itself. Perhaps he had never known. The smooth bulkheads glowed like mother-of-pearl, the instrumentation hidden until touch retrieved it. He forced himself to concentrate, touching the bulkhead, bringing the instrumentation into view. It meant little to him, except to activate flight to and from the hangar.

Then the thought bloomed in his mind, like a floodlight in a dark museum: His only chance was to get the ship itself to help him.

Snatches of conversation from his excursions with Chiron came to him. The ships were sentient—not alive here, in this universe, but in another. The Tarig referred to the ship beings as fragmentals. He remembered fruitless rummaging in the archives for information on them.

Chiron had told him that the fragmentals lived in higher dimensions, traveling in the bright in the same way that the navitars guided ships on the River Nigh. The Tarig enslaved them in the four-dimensional universe, confining them to a useful form. The beings were compelled through framing, a process that shaped their hyper-forms into a lower-dimensional geometry.

This ship was an incomplete manifestation of its true self, caged and shaped by Tarig powers. They were like the navitars in that they were dreadfully altered. For the navitars, however, the alteration was by choice. Quinn didn't know how to fly such ship-beings, but they knew how to fly themselves.

He possessed only one inducement for this ship to do so: he could free them—this ship and the four others. Could they be persuaded? Could he communicate with them, and did they understand the Lucent tongue? To find out, he might try to unframe the ship. But that meant jeopardizing the stability of its shape. The more frames he removed, the more free will the sentient had, but also the more the ship's form would decay.

So Quinn sat in the Tarig-sized pilot chair and sweated out the decision, whether or not to attempt communication. If you let a tiger out of its cage, the creature might be grateful—or not. He sat for a time, looking out over the world outside, the Sea of Arising below, the bright above. On all sides they were surrounded by exotic matter, like wayfarers in a transient bubble of air, unable to touch the world.

He spoke to the ship, murmuring, “Help me.” But he knew that a closely framed ship couldn't speak. The Tarig didn't want to hear cries of pain.

He touched the cool surface of the wall. A simple navigation display sprang to life.

What choice did he have? He could land the ship—possibly—and then what? No, to return home, to bring home what he'd learned, he had to use this ship to escape quickly to the far reach. Through the bright.

Touching the grid of the display, he called up the framing patterns. Chiron had said, There are many frames to keep them in bounds.

He canceled one pattern of lines, the outermost frame.

In their true form, the beings would appear in the three dimensions of the Entire as fragments, much like a human standing in a two-dimensional realm might look like two round circles, when viewed at ankle level. Chiron had told him these things, her black eyes lit with a dark fire, anticipating the dive into the bright, where she could taste the other dimension through the sensibilities of the ship. Because even the Tarig, for all their powers, couldn't directly perceive a higher dimension—and, being curious, they wished to.

As he sat waiting, it seemed that the air around him had thickened. He watched it turn cloudy, become tangible. “Help me,” he repeated. The breath behind the words created vacuoles in the thick air.

He spoke again. His voice had become deeper, unrecognizable. “The brightships can go home.”

He waited. Sweating, his face was slick inside the jellied air.

Anzi had come to his side. “What's wrong?”

“I have to ask for the ship's help, Anzi. I can't do it alone. I told you this.”

She looked like she was standing in a league of water—like the interpreter who had died in Yulin's lake.

“I'm sorry,” he said to her. “For everything.”

“No, I'm sorry.” She knelt at his side. Her arms were around his legs, as though she needed to hold on or she would float away.

He reached out his hand and erased the next frame.

Instantly, the navigational display moved into the air in front of him, in a heads-up display, freed from the bulkhead. Brilliant hues flashed, representing the frames. They flashed on, off, clamoring for his attention.

The ship was telling him which frames to remove.

“Take me to the minoral at Su Bei's reach,” he said. Through the clotted air, bubbles issued from his nose. “Then I'll release the frames. And all the other ship frames.”

The navigation display stopped flashing. Then one frame appeared as a hot, red line.

One more frame, was the implication.

Quinn thought hard. If this was a poker game, he had no idea what cards the ship held. Or even if the ship was in the game.

He touched the display, releasing the next frame.

Deep in his skull, a needle probe of light found a path. He heard a garbled sound of condensed words, unintelligible.

Another pattern in the display began flashing. The ship was treating him like a child: pick the pretty colored lines, it was telling him. He hesitated, as his mind filled with static, the cries of a muzzled ship.

His hand hovered over the lines. Then he released the next frame.

The ship walls blurred, and pustules appeared there, swelling convex then sinking, as though in rhythm with blood or breath. The chair melted into the floor, and Quinn sprawled down beside Anzi. Beneath him the deck undulated, but whether it was real or a visual disorientation, he couldn't tell. Anzi's face twisted in impossible contortions. They clung together in the middle of the cabin.

He heard a voice. Daishenquinntitus, it said.

Quinn looked at Anzi. She nodded. Yes, she could hear it, too.

His pulse pounded into the thick air; his sweat streamed into the gel, making rivulets. “We help each other,” he said out loud.

Free of boundaries, Daishenquinntitus. Free us.

His heart caught on a snag. Those beings, caged all these years. He wanted to open the gate for them. But not yet.

“Without the frames, you'll kill us.”

Frames kill us. Free of lords. Pain of the form. We die of the pain of this form.

It sent him a sample. A spike of pain slanted into his head, and he thrashed forward.

“Quinn!” Anzi whispered.

The pain had vanished, but the brightship had made its point. If it could send pain like that into him, it wouldn't be long before the ship had all it wanted.

Now the display showed a searing blue pattern. Before the ship could compel him, he said, “I want to go home, like you do. I am in pain here, also.”

Daishenquinntitus in pain.

“Yes. Help me. Take me to the nascence.” He pictured in his mind where it was, although he had only the vaguest idea. He turned to Anzi. “Think of the geography, Anzi. Think of where Bei's reach is.”

Meanwhile, the ship was clamoring for freedom. The blue frame flashed on, flashed off.

“The nascence,” Quinn insisted.

Daishenquinntitus free in the nascence.

“Yes,” he told it. Had they agreed?

He thought so. A different display came up, a dizzyingly complex pattern. But the pattern was clear to him, as the ship-being spoke to him. It was a schematic for the other ships, four of them. A fifth schematic remained off to one side, representing the ship he and Anzi were on.

“Anzi,” he said. “Hold on.” He couldn't think of what else to say. They were gambling everything.

Quinn touched the pattern, moving his fingertips along the paths. He canceled each frame in turn.

Soon the ship icons began melting away. No longer framed, no longer coerced.

He thought he felt a sigh move through the ship. The other ships were free. Now they would choose their own destination, and that would be toward home. God not looking at you, Quinn thought, wishing them well, wishing them the blessings of obscurity.

The floor tilted. The ship had begun to climb.

Anzi murmured, “No one can live in the bright.”

“They lied,” he said, and then wished it were not the last thing he had said to her.

A leaping white foam reached down and swallowed them as the ship plunged into the bright.

He awoke to utter silence. The ship was down. He'd passed out, but how long had he been here, blacked out in the ship? Anzi was gone. The odor of powerful biologicals nearly overwhelmed his senses.

A wan light spilled from deeper in the ship. Even in the semidark, he saw that the former ship cabin was wobbling between forms. He was no longer in a brightship, but in the deformation of the fragmental. Half submerged in the walls were tubes pulsing with a flow of bright matter, humming like a struck tuning fork.

He went in search of Anzi, making his way down the former cabin, now a ribbed tunnel that thrashed to and fro, each twist evoking a muffled twang.

Ahead, he saw her walking toward him, but half in, half out of the tunnel walls.

He hurried to her and grasped her outstretched hand, then pulled. Stepping into his tunnel, she looked disheveled but unhurt, her white clerk's tunic stained yellow-brown, and her hair askew.

“The ship...,” she began.

“Reshaping,” he said.

The rear of the cavity was thin enough to see through it, as though that portion of the ship was already abandoned. Through the thin walls they could see a blue-black storm raging. They were close to the storm wall. In the distance, lightning stabbed laterally, almost lacing the two storm walls together, where they converged at the end of the nascence.

He spoke aloud to the ship. “Is this the right place?”

There was no answer. He put his hand on the tunnel side, attempting to call up the navigational display, but the tunnel wall contracted from his touch.

“Brightship,” he said. “Where are we?” When no answer came, he wondered if the ship, in deforming, had now lost the ability to communicate.

With a sucking sound, a tiny hole appeared in the floor nearby.

It grew. Below the hole, a short drop away, was solid ground, darkened to gray by the storm walls.

If this wasn't the right nascence near the right minoral, they wouldn't have another chance. It was time to go.

Quinn put his hand on Anzi's arm. “Are you ready?” And more to the point, “Are you sure, Anzi?”

Her clear, amber eyes were steady, looking into his. “Yes.”

He took a deep breath and told her something she wasn't going to like. “I'm staying on board. This is how I'm going home. On the ship.”

The look on her face was incredulous as she surveyed the chaotic surroundings.

The ship had put the idea into his mind. As Quinn had lain unconscious on the deck, the being had said, You will pass through to the home place in this conveyance, this unframed.

It was a risk. He didn't know how long the being would cohere as a vehicle. As well, he didn't know if the ship-being could survive the passage, or live in the Rose, in space. But this idea appealed far more than waiting at Bei's reach for a safe moment to cross over. The Tarig might easily arrive long before that moment.

Anzi's gaze hardened into amber stone. “This ship will unravel. It could kill you.”

“At least it'll be quick.” He said it lightly, but she didn't smile.

Stubbornly, she held his gaze. The ship shuddered, and a moan came needling in from some unseen throat.

The hole in the floor was now a yard wide, rippling at the edges. Ozone-charged air flooded in, refreshing the stench of the interior.

It was becoming unpredictably hard to say good-bye. They had awoken suddenly, and now she must simply jump down, and leave.

Again the moan from far away.

Into his mind came the clear voice: Kill the Tarig.

It was an odd piece of advice at such a time, but Quinn thought that were he the ship, revenge on the lords might well be his first free thought. And it was a relief that the being could still communicate. They would need to, once in the Rose.

“Anzi,” he said.

Her expression softened as she gave up on argument. “Look for me at Ahnenhoon,” she said, barely audible.

Then she crouched beside the hole. And jumped down.

The ship was propped up on its jointed struts, allowing her to exit through the underbelly. There was something he'd meant to do or say, when the time came. He'd forgotten what. It was all happening too fast, and he was half-stupid from the transit of the bright.

Outside the ship he glimpsed a motion as Anzi jumped. It was the glinting view of a long bronze leg.

“Anzi!” he shouted. She was looking up at him instead of protecting herself. He scrambled out of the egress hole, dropping to the ground and drawing his knife.

They stood on a splintered plain, between glowering storm walls that tossed lances of light back and forth. A tall, segmented bronze body stood fifteen yards away. The clothes and some of the skin had ripped from his body. The Tarig's blood was red. It didn't seem right.

Hadenth, it must be he. But how?

Although his lips were gone, Hadenth opened his mouth. Out came a sound of a body gone mad. A low moan, issuing from what was left of his throat.

Knife drawn, Anzi was moving off to one side, to spread their attack.

Quinn moved away from the ship to avoid becoming trapped there. As he did so, Hadenth lifted his arm. Out came a talon, clicking into place.

The storm walls leaned in toward each other, squeezing the sky into a lightning-filled crack. The air was crushed into a stillness.

He tried to judge Hadenth's strength. One human and one Chalin against a Tarig—that was no contest. But a Tarig who had ridden outside the ship through the bright? If the creature was half-dead, they had a chance.

Hadenth watched him impassively with one eye, the other eye tracking Anzi. But he hadn't moved yet. Perhaps he couldn't move.

It was in that frozen moment that Quinn noticed a strange formation on top of the ship. It looked like Lord Ghinamid, sleeping on his bier. But that made no sense.

Quinn edged in a circular pattern around Hadenth, goading him to move. As he did so, he looked once more at the ship. Extruding from the hull was a mold in the shape of a Tarig. The side was split, where Hadenth had emerged. The ship had encapsulated the lord. Kill the Tarig, the ship had said. Yet the ship itself may have been incapable of such an act.

Again, the awful sound trickled from Hadenth's lips. The creature stepped forward, his long legs jerking him toward Quinn, his hand still outstretched. His reach was long.

“Come to us,” Hadenth said, as blood welled up with each word. “No death. You will stay now. Alive, ah?”

As assurance, the talon snapped back in, but the hand remained out.

“Yes, I stay alive. You die, though.” Quinn came at him, lunging with the Going Over blade. Hadenth stepped into his path, making no attempt to evade. His arm swept out, thrusting into Quinn's shoulder. The jolting blow sent Quinn to his knees.

That clarified the issue of Hadenth's strength.

Anzi was moving in even as Quinn was falling, bringing her blade up into Hadenth's back, where it stuck, thrust upward toward whatever organ lay where his heart should be. At the impact, Hadenth leaped high, turning to strike Anzi in the chest with his foot.

She fell, blood flying from her neck; then she lay on the sand. Red soaked into the white of her tunic. Quinn fought with his emotions to focus, focus, on Hadenth.

The lord crouched next to Anzi. The burnished bronze of his skin was blistered black, especially on his arms, where he might have tried to cover his face when the bright scalded him. But there were huge scabs where his skin had already begun healing. Hadenth was growing in strength with every moment. But now he crouched, panting.

Seizing the moment, Quinn came at Hadenth, howling, forgetting strategies, lessons, and warnings. Hadenth was rising up to meet him, but too slowly, as Quinn slashed his knife in a lightning motion across Hadenth's eyes. It wasn't a firm cut, but it creased the lord's nose and cheek with red. The Tarig rose to his full seven feet, pivoting toward his assailant, sending out a circle of blood as he did so. Snapping his foot into Quinn's path, Hadenth knocked Quinn's feet out from under him, sending him sprawling.

Even with his mouth full of dust, Quinn managed to keep the grip on his knife. But now he felt Hadenth approach, felt his footfalls on the sand, next to his ear.

Quinn rolled over, yanking his knees toward his chest, and, seeing an opening in the creature's defenses, sent his feet crashing into Hadenth's groin, where his phallus had curled into a tight spiral. The blow buckled Hadenth, bringing his upper body forward so that he lost his balance and crashed heavily.

That was when Quinn realized that Hadenth didn't know how to fight. Why should he? When had anyone but Titus Quinn ever assaulted a Tarig?

He collected his thoughts. When overmatched, Ci Dehai had said, be content with small harms. Small adds up to large.

He began circling Hadenth, forcing him to turn and turn. The creature was off balance, pivoting on one foot. Quinn lunged, striking for the hands. Swift as a sparrow, he darted his arm out, and back, and before Hadenth understood that he was wounded, his left hand suffered a deep cut. Turning as he swept by, Quinn slid his knife along Hadenth's back.

Quinn wouldn't commit to a large action that could open him to a Tarig mortal blow. He would parry and strike, stinging and maiming.

He circled again. The Tarig had learned nothing, turning to watch, waiting for Quinn to choose the moment.

Hadenth faced him dead-on, both arms held ready to attack. A foolish posture. Again Quinn darted in, slashing at the upraised hands, cutting him.

Then, as Hadenth saw Quinn spiraling in for another cut, he began backing away.

The lord was afraid. The Tarig walked backward, arms raised, ready for the major assault that never came. Quinn advanced, feinting a lunge, following him.

Quinn slashed at Hadenth's hand, taking three of his right hand's four fingers. The talons now hung useless.

Hadenth kept backing up. Quinn followed. Slowly, step for step, he matched the lord's pace.

Hadenth could no longer fight. His hands, wrists, and lower arms were strips of gore. But he was still upright, still walking backward, walking toward the storm wall that hovered behind, roaring with dark light. It was impossible to tell exactly how close they were to the wall. Tendrils of silver wriggled out to surround Hadenth, to stab at Quinn. It jolted him. Walking forward now was like advancing into a line of spears.

Quinn could go no farther as Hadenth receded from him.

“You do not kill us,” Hadenth said.

Quinn stood locked in place, watching the Tarig move toward the wall. Quinn said, “You need to die.”

“You do not kill us,” Hadenth said.

Kill yourself then, Quinn urged.

And Hadenth did. He turned, and walked deliberately into the wall, into that jumping land of sometimes wall and sometimes not. His form grew indistinct, wavering, then burning. A blistering tear appeared where Hadenth's body appeared to rend the billowing fabric.

He was gone, leaving behind the odor of singed meat.

Around Quinn the nascence sputtered like a fire crackling in grease. Quinn staggered back across the sand toward the ship. The fragmental was now twitching and shuddering as though nervous to leave. “A moment more,” Quinn said to it.

He found Anzi, propped up against one of the ship's legs, or piers, whatever they were. She had gotten that far, and watched his fight. He knelt by her side.

Her eyes were open. “You are bleeding,” she said.

“Hadenth's blood.”

He took out his knife and cut her tunic at the neck. Carefully, he ripped the tunic fabric all the way to Anzi's waist. When he got to skin, the news was good. The wound was not deep, though it was still bleeding, a gash straight up the middle of her sternum and ending at her throat just shy of a mortal wound. He used his own shirt to make a bandage to bind her up.

“You fought well,” she said. “Ci Dehai would be proud.” By her look, she was, also.

“He killed himself,” Quinn said wonderingly.

“He was a flame in the storm wall,” she murmured, and then she closed her eyes—in exhaustion, or savoring the memory.

The ship supplied water, and Anzi drank. After a half hour she declared herself ready to make the several day trek to a train station.

It was nonsense. They argued. He would help her walk down to the train, then come back.

She refused to budge in that case.

Eventually, he saw there was no winning. She was going alone, and perhaps she was right to try.

Behind them, the ship flowed alarmingly into and out of higher dimensions. He had to hurry.

Helping Anzi to her feet, he said, “Now Yulin can release the gardeners.” He had never forgotten their awful sentence, to remain within Yulin's garden walls because they knew of a stranger who shouldn't have been there.

She shook her head, brushing the sand from her leggings. “Still thinking of gardeners.” But she smiled.

They stood a moment in silence.

“The walls,” Anzi said, gazing at the coiling dark side of the nascence. “They hold us. But burning the Rose to do so.” The look on her face was bleak, deepened in shadow by the blue storm. It was an irreconcilable contest. One world lived at the expense of the other.

She turned to him. “Go home now, Quinn.”

He nodded, whispering, “And you.”

Then he remembered the thing he had wanted to do when the time came for them to part. He reached under his jacket and removed the cord on which the heartchime hung. He placed it around her neck. “Stay away from the Ascendancy,” he said, smiling. “If this thing screams, you're too close.”

Her hand closed around the chime. “Once was enough,” she said.

Then she turned, and began her walk down the nascence. It was not the custom in the Entire to say good-bye. You never knew in such long lives when you might meet again.

The minoral was near. In the distance he could see a land where the view opened up, and the world was permanent. She didn't turn around again, for which he was glad.

When she was only a small white blur, wavering in the charged air, he turned and entered the ship.

Afterward, he remembered little of punching through the wall. One moment what was left of the ship was picking up speed down the minoral, aiming—he knew, but could not see—for the fold where the two walls met: Bei's reach.

In the minutes before takeoff he had conveyed to the fragmental all he could of how to identify the solar system. God above, even the galaxy. Finally, almost despairing of saying the right things, he advised, Look for radio transmission sources.

What is radio?

Before he had time to answer, the ship rose from its landing space. They were under way.

He remembered hoping that no travelers were in the minoral to witness this. He remembered thinking that Anzi would be pausing in her trek, watching the brightship speed away, up the minoral. He wondered what it looked like to her, what it had become as it prepared to go between realms.

He found himself trusting this creature. The fragmental had waited for him during the fight with Hadenth, when it could have simply slipped into the side wall of the nascence. Since coming to the Entire, Quinn had become an optimist. It was what the Entire did for you. Gave you hope—not that life would be necessarily better, but that, given the long hours, eventually you would have time to do what you must.

They sped toward the junction in the wall.

And then he was unconscious.

He dreamed the ship said, Cannot hold the form.

He dreamed that he responded, Now you tell me.

Immobilized and helpless, he was spinning. Around and around, stretched out, his feet moving clockwise and his head following, like a baton. Set adrift.

He remembered looking down at Small Girl, her face under a foot of water. Immobilized. Helpless.

Dead.

He remembered the girl in his backyard looking up the barrel of his shotgun. Sorry we bothered you. We just wanted to see you for real.

Here I am, then.

Ready or not.

Going home.