This was wrong. They should not be here. Something had broken his market. He knew its smells of trade and need. No one should sit rapt in this square. Who had done this? Who had stolen his place from him?

He knew. He heard. He smelled the stench of silver.

She was here.

She had convinced all these fools, seduced them with false comfort. But desperation tainted the silver stench. She needed these people to believe her lies. He could show them. This was his revenge.

He ran into the square and followed the gaze of these assembled sheep to the Crier’s dais, where, haloed with moonlight, his daughter stood.

“Ellen!” he roared, and ran to her.

*   *   *

Raz watched the war in heaven from his rooftop.

He saw more than a human could; he sensed the forces that warped the world above. But he ignored them and watched Cat fight.

She was more than fast: she was the only Blacksuit comfortable in the air. Some of the others spread wings, but none could stay aloft for long. They leapt, instead, and bounced off shields, or caught in webs of light. Their Suits turned against them. Broad-winged skeletal bats flew from the Craftswoman’s briefcase to tangle Blacksuits in thickets of bone.

Cat wrestled a creature made from broken glass. When the Craftswoman hit her, she bled silver.

Raz walked the blood jade down his fingers, and up again. There was a song inside it. He felt its hunger, bigger, older, deeper than his own.

He wanted it. He watched her.

When?

*   *   *

Tara walked the moon road.

Tara walked with/was the goddess/moon walking herself.

Space did not exist out here, so how could there be time? How could one being endure separate from others? In this realm stories told each other, tales tangled in tales. On the mountain there was a monastery and within the monastery was a young monk and an old, and the young monk asked the old, master tell me a story, and the master said, on the mountain—

She was is will be

moon mother tiger stone water woman wolf tooth sickle claw winter

human goddess more

falling, fallen.

The goddess tumbles to the desert floor, the goddess lies broken and bleeding in her many parts, and if she is always everywhere then she is always here, she is always dying, always the Craftsmen’s hands are inside her pulling out gobs of flesh, seizing her parts to force her story to their service. Her wings are flayed and she burns and—

—something is wrong—

Tara, for Tara was still, is still, here, felt terror larger, older than herself.

The goddess strained. She had built a hidden redoubt, a community of faith formed into a pocket through which Tara might pass and remain intact, but that pocket was in danger—

The moon that is a mirror of itself cracked and monks and mountains and sitters and spinners scattered all askew—

*   *   *