The wagon looked like a house on wheels, from the outside. On the inside it was anything but. On the inside it was a bed that ran the length of the wagon, a black iron stove in the corner, and a pair of chests that probably held clothing or valuables. Onainat took the bed. He was sitting on the floor, close to the iron stove, drinking in the warmth of it through his skin. You could forget how cold the desert was if you let yourself. Part of him simply couldn't believe what he'd seen. Part of him simply couldn't believe that he'd been in the shadow of Yggdrasil, that he'd seen the realm of the gods, the Empyrean extending endlessly before him. He could have climbed into the endless tower that stretched to the highest point in creation. He could have combed the heavens for the souls of the departed. He could have... but when he looked at Onainat's slight frame he thought again. Tucked under a pile of blankets, one bare shoulder exposed, she looked more peaceful than he could ever imagine being. Was she dreaming of coins and other various things that shone in the sunlight? That dream would seem superfluous, but it was probably the best dream for her. The only dream.

( He was waiting for her to wake up. )

Theirs was a mad race.

All around them boats were struggling to reach Djokole's ship, with paddles flashing wild into the water, sometimes turning the boat sideways in their zeal to propel it forward. Skandra and Leir were using even strokes, cutting through the water quickly, keeping themselves just ahead of those with more steady nerves. It was not a race they wanted to lose, yet even if they reached the ship, their battle was far from over. Leir seemed keenly aware of that - every ounce of his body was seized with the hot blood of the moment, and Skandra felt little different. A race to what could be their own deaths. What could be more exciting? Skandra stretched out with the paddle, caught the edge of the boat closest to them, and heaved down with all his might. The boat rocked once, more viciously that he could have imagined, before it capsized. The pirates cried out in rage as they disappeared beneath the boat. Lucky. Story of his life, that. Lucky to the extreme.

( How much farther could it take him? )

The spot had been picked by Leironuoth. Among the trees, in the early morning, sliver-thin wisps of child mist slipped about. Carelessly cavorting he would have said. And how odd that he was a prisoner of no one, free to follow his own whims. But it was the mist that was dancing before his eyes. Trapped by the leaves of the forest, fearing for its life against the stabbing rays of the sun. For his part Skandra was amazed at what they'd been able to accomplish in the roughly two hours they'd had before the pirates set out from the beach. That was the event that led him here. Stripped to the waist, covered in mud caked thick upon his face and chest, drenched in black and brown that hid him against the trunk of the tree. Nestled in the open space of a branch that forked like a snake's tongue he wasn't comfortable. But he was concealed from view. Somewhere out there, Leir was lurking, though Skandra did not know where. That seemed the perfect arrangement for now.

( He'd done what he could. )

Skandra grimaced sourly at the thin bone-and-leather cup in his hand. Sure, they were all using the same sort of dice, but something about the situation didn't feel right. Oh, of course. He was not winning. Long since Onainat and Aeotha had retired upstairs while he preferred to remain, drinking wine that was mixed with grape juice and pretending this little stunted hamlet was the sort of urban empire he was used to. They didn't even have proper cloves. He was smoking rolled, untreated tobacco. If that wasn't evidence enough of how wrong this all was - then Skandra didn't know a gods-damned thing about drinking, gambling or enjoyine oneself with tobacco. Despite the clean smell of the pipes from the next table over Skandra didn't miss the sour notes that ran through the air. Fellows who hadn't bathed because that was what gamblers did. Gamblers who made their living at it never would have played this game of dice. Skandra should have refused and gone to bed.

Nonsense.

( He hadn't gone to bed before midnight since he was a child. )

In the roaring fire, half-delirious from all the drink he'd taken in that day and all the heat that had rained down on his shoulders, Skandra could see a great many things. First, no one told you that nights were so gods-damned cold on a jungle island. He preferred the cold to the hot, but his face was red as an apple, and cracked besides. Water. At least his throat was burning like sand at the temperature. Aches and pains acquired in the fight were less pained now that it was cold out, but only because he was certain parts of him were numb. All in all it could have been worse. He was chewing jerky and smoking one of those fine cloves at the same time - damn propriety. If his companion cared he gave no sign. He just sat there, staring without staring at that sword. It was a pretty piece of work, but Skandra didn't know why it was worth the trouble.

( Had to get it. )

Ash was still floating before him, floating like snow. Flecks of ruin clinging to his clothing. Skandra resisted the urge to wipe his face clean as he shoved the Vel into place on his belt. Whatever it was... whatever madness they had created... it was done. His body ached with the strikes that thing had managed to land against him. Hard to care that this women's clothing he'd stuffed himself into was torn to hell. Harder to care that Uathis was probably going to die. His breath was coming ragged to him now. Onainat was going to live. That was the important part. A dragon. He should have guessed, if he had half a brain. The desert heat hadn't bothered her at all. It had nearly ruined him. Skandra could feel whatever strength he had left seeping out of him. Exhaustion setting in. She was going to have to carry him back, or else wait for him to wake up with a little more energy.

Skandra felt every bone creak as he moved, felt every tense muscle screaming out against the surface of his skin. Couldn't stop the grunts that were escaping from the back of his throat as he lurched toward... something. Something worth having, or something that was irrelevant? That probably depended on whether or not he died here. It wasn't going to be that way. But on the other side of the door they'd taken to get here was a desert. And only a peddler's mad company to keep him safe until he reached civilization. Whatever that creature was, it had been blown to hell, but he didn't know if that was enough for him. Almost he regretted coming here. Almost. Running a gloved pair of fingers across his cheek rewarded him with blood on leather. Still bleeding. From his face, even. Tomorrow morning, if he saw it, was going to be miserable. His only company would be agonizing stiffness in his muscles.

( And a vicious headache. )

"They look pretty ugly from here."

Skandra was kneeling behind a tree, half of his face hanging into open view. Enough for one eye to see what they were up against. The first man was something out of a story. The sword on his back, as wide as Skandra's torso. As tall as the pirate himself, with no dull edges and a rounded point. So you weren't going to be winning any contests by running a man through, but Skandra was fairly certain if you hit someone with a weapon like that, they were done. No matter how small the hit was. That fellow, whom Skandra affectionately dubbed Brickhead, was surrounded by a group of four other pirates. They were strapped from head to toe with knives. All of them had crossbows. They were throwers, then, range experts to his melee. Skandra grimaced as he twisted on one heel, shoulders coming to rest against the bark of the tree. Sweat was rolling down his face in waves. Even with his hat back on, the jungle heat was taking its toll.

( Why had he agreed to come out there? )

It had been but a few short years since bein stripped of his title. Little over three, if he remembered correctly. A paltry amount of time in the eyes of the average elf. Yet the humiliation of defeat, the agony of exile, cast a gloom over each and every one of Leironuoth's hours. And so, by the time any of this happened, he felt as though it had already been a thousand years.

He wandered many great miles from his home, from the songs and fires of his people, and he inflicted his rage upon the wickedness of the outside world. Far and wide he roamed, carving a name for himself with the Champion's blade. He killed brigands and slavers, marauding orcs and ogres. When his path crossed that of the tyrant and the thief he destroyed them with a fury unmatched in the lands of humans: ( this is how he became a privateer of Trone. )

"Aren't you gonna cut us loose before they get here?"

"Can't imagine why I would do that," Skandra replied easily.

"They're gonna kill us, mister!"

"Don't," and Skandra held up a gloved hand for peace. "Rush me."

( Life on the road could be hard. )

Skandra could see why they were called the Hanging Gardens. Hard not to, with a thousand strands of... something green... hanging in your bloody fucking face. They were vines but thicker, coated with coarse thin strands of green that seemed like blades of grass but looked more like hair. And they were dotted along the way with flowers. Dandelions. Poinsettias. Every type of flower that was not a flower and some that were. Reds and greens and blues abounded. Everywhere. Though there were paths between these hanging things - gaps where the vines did not drop - Skandra couldn't help but feel they were walking in a maze. West. West to the Fountain of the Dome of the Eternal Sky. A florid name for something like that. What would they see when they arrived? And more importantly, from what were the vines hanging? He thought he saw coarse wood when he looked up. He thought he did. But water would drip down, and he would flinch to save his eyes, or one of the vines would move and he would be looking for something to jump out at him. Funny how strange such a beautiful thing could be. No one had ever seen its like. Entire flower beds growing, hanging, on each of these vines.

( Incredible. )

As the mist parted before him Skandra wished he could cast off that ridiculous red hat. It stood there like a beacon, perched atop his head and howling, inviting the enemy to come and find him wherever they might be. Those black shapes were growing closer all the time but with them came a sense of... something. Dread, maybe. Not dread but something just as ominous. He couldn't put his finger on it. Hating his hat for being his hat - however temporary the arrangement - was a response to that dread. He could bow down to it, give in to it, or he could push on. Pushing on was the better option. So that was what he did. All this time walking through nothing but mist like soup and they still hadn't found a thing. Only a curious sound which he thought was drums. It sounded like drums. Skandra wanted his sword in his hand. It would have comforted him. This was the other side, the realm beyond realms. All points intersected in that one place but he didn't know how to get back. Maybe that didn't matter anymore. Maybe he wasn't supposed to get back. Or maybe this was all some sort of cosmic joke. Maybe there was no getting back.

( Still, he wished he knew what the hell to call the place. )

From here you felt as though you could see the very edge of everything, eternity's source, even though such a thing was impossible. Here the river was neither raging nor quiet, the middle section. Quiet days before its worst offenses to come. Mountains were good for that sort of thing. Mountains were good for a lot of things if you could stomach the emerald hue of the world. Plants here forgot that there were other colors in the world. So did princes and peoples who lived without a blemish on their souls. Perfect in every way. Such was the perfection that resided in the outpost across this quiet bubbling river. No one had come out to greet them yet, but that was only because they had not yet violated the treeline, had not exposed themselves. It would be a long walk for someone who approached in bulk with their forces evident. A long walk filled with arrows.

( For Aeotha there was no safer walk in creation. )

"It would," Skandra muttered darkly. "Be a rope bridge."

There it stood swaying before him. Saucy, like some kind of little minx, encouraging him to try it. Just try it. Skandra did not want to try it. But as they were rapidly running out of options, he supposed there was little enough choice. After all. Life was nothing without a couple of risks along the way. If he'd wanted to die in a temple there were plenty of chances along the way. More than enough chances. Skandra shoved his sword into place on his belt, gripped one side of the rope rail, and gestured wildly with his free hand. Aeotha was supposed to take the hint. She looked as concerned as he was. Not nearly as bold, not nearly as overjoyed regarding the risks of the thing, but concerned as he was all the same. Skandra didn't blame her. Even if no one was stupid enough to cut the gods-damned rope it could still give way beneath enough bulk.

Those, as a toothless cur he'd known once had said, were the breaks.

( Well, fuck. )

"If this is a dream," Skandra muttered. "We can't be having the same one. Can we?"

He was lying on his back with the sky spinning above him, spinning and yet stationary, as though he was the only thing moving and the sky itself remained untouched. Perhaps it was true. But he wasn't moving. Only the sky was moving and it wasn't. Moving. Skandra spit up water, drenched his throat and his face in the stuff. Swimming. He hadn't been swimming. Every muscle ached. His eyes burned as though they'd never seen light before, as if the desert with all of its torments was nothing beside the radiance of this sun. This sun. Why this sun? Why not the sun? It was this sun, not the sun. His clothing was clean. Not wet but clean. Only his head was wet, only his face, as if the water in his lungs had come from nowhere and was nothing. Onainat likewise coughed up that water. It was pointless. There was no reason for it but it was happening.

"If this is a dream," Skandra muttered. We can't be having the same one. Can we?"

( He was still on his back. )

Candles flickered like musical instruments as the door opened and closed. In the worst of darkness these were all one had to guide his eyes. At some point it might become more difficult to tell if your hand was the one that conquered. This was where he felt at home. This was where he felt truly alive. Luck could be a gentle mistress or a savage lover. Tugging at you, pulling you in directions that you'd never have picked for yourself. That was part of the fun. Part of the risk and part of the challenge. Skandra wouldn't have done anything else with his life if he knew how to stay out of situations like this. Situations like this included having a priestess sitting at your back, and playing for money because your coffers had run dry. This was the largest city outside of Ithacles' kingdom. He was lucky to find a game at all among such puritanical folk. Then again you often found the most interesting games in such places. Skandra shouldn't have been surprised there was some taqble in some decrepit establishment that would offer him a game of chance. It was either that or steal,a nd he didn't want to steal in front of Aeotha. She was prickly about such things.

( She was prickly about a lot of things. )

Despite the bells - which he was systematically cutting from the belt as they walked - good time was made on the non-existent path. It wasn't just a way home that he was thinking about now but the end of his journey. He'd come here looking for something, after all, and now that the fear of death was behind him Skandra Tyullis meant to find it. Doing so without a map, or at least without a map that had discernible landmarks, was slow going. You could walk across the desert for a thousand years and never find anything worth a damn. With all of the sand kicked up by storms... no surprise he saw as many bones as he did dunes, and no markers to name them. Here the sand shifted all the time. Here a thing could be exposed one day and hidden the next. How massive was this graveyard called a desert? Did it extend all the way to the peaceable kingdoms of the west? To the badlands of the north or the mysterious empires of the south? He didn't know. Knowing would have been nice. Knowing would have at least made him feel a little better about the legend he was joining should he fall. That was closer than he wanted to admit.

( Certainly closer than Onainat thought. )

There was no name for the little house they occupied. Not like the lords of old had titled their manors for famous horses, or favored horses, or even favored cats and dogs of war. This was a country home. That its occupant was gone, to some city or market or other place, was of little question. Equally without question was the moral bankruptcy of the individual who smashed an elbow through glass and picked a lock without seeing it. Keys were for novices who waited on permission and sang songs about law and order. Skandra knew only one song about law and order, and in very specific terms it outlined the killing of a man who was for law and order. Carrying Aeotha on his back added a degree of difficulty to such an equation. Fading in and out of consciousness was not the way he wanted to remember her just before she died. If she was going to die - a third exploration of the wound with his fingers had revealed no broken bone to kill her - then it was probably because of frostbite. That and little else would end the job neatly enough for all of them. Skandra made sure she was firmly ensconced in a bed that did not belong to him, and then he set to work.

( The fire started easily enough. )

In the winding pathways that would eventually take one to the mountains economy of space was central in the minds of the creators. There were campsites off the road, well-known to travelers and thieves alike, but the road itself was narrow and was forced to follow snaking paths to allow for horses and carts which couldn't quickly adjust to rapidly rising terrain. Skandra didn't think of it as a hindrance as much as an annoyance - they would walk twice the distance between that last hamlet and the mountain pass just because of these twisting roads - but he did think of it as very irritating planning. Walking through the dense trees with their tangled roots and dangerous jutting branches wasn't a sound idea, either. If one of their horses put a foot wrong it was the end for their easy traveling days. So if it took time, it took time, but he wasn't going to obsess. After all, the conversation was so very pleasant. How could you be annoyed at the time it was taking when you had such enjoyable company?

( The dead woman was still bothering her. )

For a moment he didn't know where he was. For a moment he didn't even know his own name. In that moment you could entertain all sorts of illusions. A smell of sulfur in the air. Maybe he was a scientist, an alchemist of note, reputed to be the most honorable and trustworthy of all creatures. Then a tonic, the absent stench of healing herbs processed in water and oil. A healer, then? When the blank man opened his eyes onto the world he could be all sorts of things. He could be everything that he was meant to be in his dreams. And that moment was both rallying point and secret shame. He could never tell anyone about it. He'd still remember it, and think of it, and wonder at what could have been. When a pair of eyes finally opened it wasn't a blank man who took in the world. It was Skandra Tyullis the murderer, Skandra Tyullis the bastard, who killed his friends at least as often as his enemies. Somewhere in there he could imagine a decent person. Just that so far, the decent person hadn't reared his head.

( He must have been beautiful. )

"Chivalry is dead!" the barker screamed into the street like a storm, hands flashing above his head. "Welcome to the age, my friends! A blade of every stripe awaits but who's the time to learn? Behold, then, the work of the great master smith Galdi from the Fire Mountains! Behold a treasure to pierce your heart, your very soul, with its beauty and its ferocity! For the..."

( On and on and on. )