“Shouldn’t it be the same everywhere?” Gabriel asked, and then he gasped.

Tancreda nodded.

“Oh my . . . God,” Gabriel said.

There were stars. The constellations were alien, of course.

But almost directly overhead . . .

. . . there was a patch of pure black. It was . . .

. . . huge.

And empty.

He went into his palace and found the dominant colour outside the iron gate of his mind to be blue. There was the omnipresent black, there was gold, and there was some green as well.

“The water is full of life,” Mortirmir said. “There is something in there with talent. In the water.”

Gabriel thought of the beaked kraken. Of the Eeeague. The whales, the serpents. . . .

He shook his head. “I thought there were seven worlds,” he said. “And then I thought there might be twenty-five.”

“There are hundreds,” Mortirmir said.

“Thousands,” Tancreda said.

“Again, no water, no food, and no place to camp,” Gabriel said.

Ariosto appeared with a burst of warmth and affection, and Gabriel went back through the gate to get armed.

“We’re jamming up,” Sukey said without preamble. “I’m through most of the food and most of the horse fodder.”

“Tell me some good news,” Gabriel said.

Sukey shrugged. “Bad Tom loves me?” she said, more a question than an answer.

“One more gate after this one,” Gabriel said. “We could be fighting at Lissen Carak in four hours.”

Sukey blinked.

But I don’t like this gate, and I don’t like those moons and the black hole in the sky. This is wrong. I can feel it.

He led Ariosto through the gate.

“Mortirmir?” he asked.

“Gabriel, something fell in the water. I’m . . . listening to it. My advice . . . is not to disturb it . . .”

Gabriel tried not to admit to himself that he was afraid to fly out over the black water alone. The surf was rising; the night was dark despite the moons.

Gabriel mounted, and Ariosto didn’t wait; he ran forward along the causeway and leapt into a sea-scented breeze and they were away in a wind of kelp and lobster, and his great wings worked, up and down, the pinions of his wingtips brushing the surface of the water, and wherever they brushed, some sort of life bubbled up.

Gabriel looked down. There were whorls of phosphorescence like pinwheels in the dark water, and they had both light and depth; at first, his eyes were fooled and he thought them reflections, but the more he looked . . .

. . . the patterns troubled him, and he raised his eyes to confront the blackness beyond the stars.

This place is wrong, Ariosto said.

Wet and wrong, Gabriel said.

At least I am strong here. You burn bright gold, brother. What is this? A disease? Or a power?

I don’t know. What was that?

In the real, a tentacle erupted from the water, slashed through the air, and struck back into the water with an explosion of spray.