“Don’ look at it,” muttered Short Tooth. “Seriously, Cap’n. That’s fucked up.”

“No shit,” Gabriel said. “And then what happened?” he said to Kearny.

“It moved back,” Kearny said. “We did nowt, like Sauce said.”

“Never piss off somethin’ ye cannae’ kill,” said Short Tooth. “Long Paw’s rule number two o’ scoutin.”

Gabriel finished his apple and lobbed the core out into the endless night. “Rule number one?” he asked.

“Scoutin’ an’ fightin’ are two different jobs,” Kearny said.

“He’s full o’ crap like yon,” Short Tooth said.

Gabriel nodded, suddenly feeling much better.

“We’re going to cross in groups of three lances,” he said when he’d walked back to Sauce. “I’ll go first with whomever you choose. You’ll come last. I’ll pause at the midpoint in the causeway, in case—”

Sauce leaned up and gave him a sudden kiss. “You are so full of shit,” she said. “You go. All the way to Mortirmir. If’n you want to cover us, send him to the midpoint. Not you, Mister Emperor. Not now.”

He thought about it.

“Just once, do as I say,” Sauce said.

Gabriel made a face. “Sure,” he said.

She laughed. “Things must be desperate.”

The first three lances included Wha’hae, and they went out at a trot. Gabriel mounted Ariosto and they launched into the wet air.

So hungry, the griffon said. Love Sauce, too?

Gabriel’s breath caught. But there was no lying to a griffon. Love Sauce, he admitted.

The griffon seemed to chuckle, and something like a rippling purr passed along its trunk and spread to the wings.

By then they were high enough to make out the first three spots of phosphorescence. They were farther away—two or three thousand paces. Gabriel watched the second party of lances depart. And the third.

On the far side of the causeway, a great lidless eye of pale green began to drift in.

Gabriel turned Ariosto. Sorry, he thought. I need you to fly about ten more minutes.

Ouch, Ariosto said.

Gabriel turned again, coasting back along the causeway. He flashed over the fourth trio of lances, spooking Kearny’s horse, and he turned Ariosto and they went in through the gate as if it was not a magnificent flying achievement.

Gabriel didn’t augment his voice; he was trying to use no ops whatsoever. But he used his lungs, which were powerful.

“Everyone. Right. Now!” he called, and pointed with his spear at the outer gate.

They all saw him. And Sauce understood immediately.

He turned Ariosto, or Ariosto turned him, and they were out in the moist dark, the griffon’s wings beating strongly in the eerie moonlight. Another phosphorescent patch was creeping in.

The fear was palpable, like the onrush of a dragon or twenty wyverns.

Gabriel rolled Ariosto at about the midpoint of the causeway and took him down over the water in a long dive away from the causeway. Three minutes.

Doing it, the griffon seemed to pant in the aethereal.