Fire erupts in the dark, shining on his face, features as unyielding and hard edged as a stone face; he is setting light to a torch. Match in his right hand, torch in his left, eyes staring blank and white as fog.

“What are you going to do?” Thrushchurl asks. I can see his long face there in the chaotic light of the torch.

Makemin fixes him with that blank look, then points to the nearest coffin, standing between the trees.

“They’re made of wood,” he says hoarsely.

“Oh, but ...” Thrushchurl’s brows contract, he looks stricken. I feel my insides turn to ice and my hands grow numb, my voice bolt up and gag itself in my throat.

“We’ll make them listen!” Makemin shouts.

“Oh, but you mustn’t burn them!” Thrushchurl explains, afraid, taking Makemin gently by the left arm.

Makemin tears his arm from Thrushchurl’s fingers, draws his pistol aims and shoots Thrushchurl in the chest.

My cry seems to draw the sound of the shot down into my own bosom, and it shrivels in me as I watch Thrushchurl drop to the floor. He lies face down in spreading black.

I take three steps dropping to my knees beside my friend. I touch him blindly and clutch at him.

“Traitor!” Makemin’s voice breaks near me I look up just as he fires.

Nikhinoch’s wan blue face twists in a streak against the dark, and shock, outrage, incomprehension flash out. With a faint noise, like someone tossing a pair of shoes into a corner, he falls forward onto Makemin, who staggers back. Silichieh is rushing in the door and Makemin, still staggering with Nikhinoch sliding down his standing length on the way to the floor, shoots Silichieh.

Silichieh cries out in pain. He rolls to the side as he goes down, diving into the impenetrable shadows around the bases of the pillars. Makemin rushes toward him, lunging around the column gun ready. I see a motion in the dark. Makemin veers back to the near side of the column. Silichieh jerks his rifle one handed from the floor and shoots Makemin in the stomach. The crash of the rifle makes my ears ring, and for a moment it’s as though nothing happens.

Makemin falls. Makemin’s all but unrecognizeable voice groans from the floor. Silichieh, gasping, lies on his stomach, I see now, rifle still extended in one hand, the other, streaked with blood, clasping his injured leg. Makemin is between us, in the streak of light from the open doors, on his right side. Slowly, he tilts over onto his chest and begins to push his upper body off the hexagonal tiles dripping blood. His bare head inches into the air.

Silichieh shoots it. I cry out and throw myself backward—I feel warm droplets on my face and upraised hands.