The Crucible swayed like a drunkard near the end of his revels, wreathed in smoke and jerking spasmodically as Maisha’s concoction reached its innards. But life still remained in its eyes, their glow flaring bright as they fixed upon the source of its distress. Something akin to a snarl emerged from the helm as it lurched towards her, the tulwar sweeping down then up with a blurring swiftness.

Maisha stared at the approaching warrior in frozen terror until Kusiph barrelled into her side, pushing her clear an instant before the tulwar’s edge slashed across his chest. The blow possessed sufficient force to lift him off his feet and propel him over the bridge’s edge, leaving an arc of blood to mark his passage into the torrent below.

Maisha’s scream was a wordless, searing thing as she rushed to the balustrade, frantic arms outstretched as if she could somehow summon her husband from the depths. Her speed was such that she came close to toppling over before Seeker caught her about the waist, bearing her down as she thrashed, her scream of grief choking into hard, desolate sobs.

An ugly clicking drew Pilgrim’s gaze back to the Crucible, finding the metal man now on its knees, jerking as the gears within him disintegrated. It performed a parody of a human retch, tiny shards of metal erupting from the helm in a cloud of sparkled smoke. Then, with a very tired final groan, the warrior collapsed onto the bridge’s surface. The glow of its eyes flared, fluttered and died, leaving it a smoking, lifeless ruin.

A cough came from beyond the column of smoke and Player staggered into view. His mask was slightly askew and he took a moment to straighten it before surveying the scene in evident shock. “What in the name of the Endless Song happened?” he asked, and Pilgrim heard not the slightest vestige of pain in his voice.

Not so great an actor after all, the voice observed in a caustic drawl.

Seven

Chapter Seven

The Supplicants, Path

I t’s the mask, the voice said. Its tone held a note of reflective self-admonishment Pilgrim hadn’t heard before. He found it odd and more than a little disconcerting. Whatever the myriad faults of the being that lived with the sword, its sense of certainty had at least provided a measure of surety if not comfort throughout their many years of mutual bondage. Some kind of glamour on the mask. That’s why I didn’t see it.