On all sides they shall be assailed by Scavengers: the Trading Beast, Avaricious, whose weapon is the need of the Living co-opted; the Silence of the Grave, Bellicose, whose weapon is the fear of Man misdirected; and the Bitter Queen, Furious, whose weapon is Woman’s righteous anger misappropriated.

And if they heed the Tempters, then they shall lose themselves forever, tumbling from their Appointed Path into the churning scum below the world, where they shall serve only their captors.

But if their feet carry them through the snares of the Scavengers unharmed, then, joining together, they may find themselves equal to any task: to the breaching of impenetrable walls; to the navigation of impassable ways, yea, even unto the overthrow of Death Itself.

And theirs will be the choice—the Nameless, Faceless Girl who was called Bluma; the warlike Lion of Judah, Yehuda Leib—whether they shall topple the Great Mottled Tower, or choose to walk the Way Back.

For the Death of Death is the End at the End—no wound may be healed, no injustice remediated when the Great Wheel has ceased its turning.

But if the Eyes That Cut can learn to knit together, the Lips That Lock to live, then, side by side…

Here ends page 390.

The rain began to fall on snowy Tupik as Mottke pulled the ferry across the river. Yehuda Leib sat quietly at the edge of the small barge, watching drop after drop after drop after drop slam down into the surface of the water.

How little time it took before they became part of the surface.

Beside him, Bluma drew the folded page of Dantalion from the pocket of her apron and read, but, midway across the river, the letters on the page began to squirm and blur.

By the time she realized what was happening, the rain had washed the page completely blank.

Bluma and Yehuda Leib clambered up and off the moment the ferry barge made contact with the landing, their boots squelching in the mud. Yehuda Leib turned back to thank the ferryman, but he was gone: not on the barge, not on the bank—nowhere. Only when they finally came level with the shack at the height of the rise did they see Mottke there inside, dead drunk and reeking, fast asleep by the stove.

But this was impossible—they should’ve seen him climbing past them.

Bluma turned back to the opposite bank and scanned the emptiness between the trees for any sign of life.

All was still.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and beside her, Yehuda Leib said, “Thank you.”