Chapter Thirty-Nine

Eight people met the Dawnchaser, one for each of the remaining ships of Beacon. They went running as soon as they were tossed their chunk of sunheart.

Nomad stood on the deck, looking up, sweat running down his brow. The peaks of the mountains above looked aflame. Indeed, they probably were on fire. The pounding sunlight just on the other side of those peaks was liquifying the stone.

He stepped back as he saw something shoot up on the other side, visible even at this great distance. A jet of magma, reaching high past the atmosphere. Like a sunspot.

Storms. He'd thought he possessed a basic understanding of geology, despite needing a crash course in tectonics after leaving his homeworld. But he had no idea what would cause mountains to spring up anew with each passing of the sun, after they were melted down into nothing.

Rebeke dashed up to the ship and nodded to him before climbing into the cockpit. She had to shove past the people they'd crammed in there, now that two more ships had to be left behind.

Rebeke's return meant that the convoy was ready. She lifted the Dawnchaser off, looking out through a windshield that still had a spear hole in it.

Nomad remained on the deck, not wanting to deal with the packed interior. Plus, out here, he could feel the wind, cold against his scalp. His hair wouldn't grow back until he had more Investiture to spare. At least he'd been given some trousers, a belt, and a buttoned shirt. He'd left the collar undone.

He leaned out, hands on the railing, watching the other eight ships lift off—leaving two broken ones at the foot of the mountain. Together, they fled with everything they had left. He turned, glancing toward the other horizon. He thought he could see the darkness of the shadow ahead—the dark side of the planet—but he wasn't certain.

It was a race of a very specific kind. They could move far faster than the sun would rise, but they weren't just trying to outrun it. Right now, they were within a pool of darkness in the shape of a mountain. Like the shadow of a tree on a sunny morning, stretching long at first—but shrinking as the sun climbed the sky.

Would they be able to run the length of that shadow and escape into the night? Or would they get to the edge, only to find a fiery gap between them and safety? Ever widening, driving them back, until they were destroyed as the last shade vanished?

It was going to be close. He could read it in the way the convoy pushed their engines to their utmost, despite the recent slapdash repairs. There wasn't time to coddle the machines. If something went wrong, they died. They might die anyway. So they pushed, burning away the very souls of their deceased loved ones in a mad rush toward safety.

He witnessed it from the lead ship. Elegy's vessel, though a bulbous exploring machine, was still faster than the large transports behind. Rebeke slowed her ship to stay with the others—but then sped up, likely after being chewed out for delaying. Compassion herself had insisted all the ships fly at their best speed and not slow if others had troubles.

Right now, they had to pray, flee, and hold firm. Compassion, in this context, had to be about the survival of their people.

That last one, the knight says, is a lot slower than the rest…

Nomad could just barely make out what he meant. Far down the line, the final ship was struggling. It wasn't the one with the Chorus; that was near the middle of the pack. Instead it was the bulky water tower ship, now packed with people—a number of them huddled outside, on the deck.

Nomad looked up at the ridge, which glowed like a crown. Then the tips of the peaks began to melt, magma pouring down the back side.

Nomad, I feel something, Auxiliary said. Do you feel that? What is it?

"I don't know what you…"

He trailed off as he saw it in the air beside him. A small fracture, a misalignment—like how a broken mirror might reflect a disjointed image. It floated beside his head, the size of a fingernail. There was something familiar about it.

"It's one of my fragments," he whispered. "A piece of my armor. You said those were dead!"

I thought they were gone, consumed.

Why was it back now? What had happened?

Was it because he fought again?

Was it because of why he had fought again?

He turned back down the line of terrified ships. That last one had fallen farther behind.

"Aux," he asked. "How much do we have?"

Roughly six percent Skip capacity. Just over your strength threshold.

"Enough, though," he whispered. "Maybe enough?"

For what?

Nomad dashed forward and leaped. He soared above a washed-out mudscape, air tugging at him—as if to cradle him—until he slammed down on the deck of the ship next in line. He ran across this as the people at the sides cried out.

Ahead, light began to break around the peaks, like floodwaters through a failing dam. He vaulted himself again, into the arms of the wind, and landed on the top of the Chorus's ship.

He ran. Ran toward the sun, soaring, landing, bounding along the line of ships until he reached the next to last one—and looked across a much wider gap between it and the final straggler. People on deck backed away, watching him with awe as he took a breath, then ran for everything he had and threw himself into the sky.

He hung there, locking gaze with the looming dawn, until he hit the final deck and rolled. He came up with gritted teeth, dashing for the back of the ship, passing terrified people. As he arrived, he manifested Auxiliary as a shield.

"Bigger, Aux," he growled.

How big?

"Bigger! Use it all!"

The sun finally crested the rise. And Auxiliary burned away Nomad's Investiture, growing.

Light exploded around them, the force of it beating against the shield, driving him backward—but Auxiliary, using the power of that sunheart, had grown truly large. Big as a building, big enough to shelter the entire ship.

The blazing fire of an angry sun washed over the shield. It set the air ablaze at the sides, as if Nomad were standing with shield braced not against mere light—but against the flaming breath spat by some fearsome beast of lore. The shield remained secure, and Nomad held it in place, grunting at the force of the solar fury. Sweating, he put his shoulder against it, and looked back to see the wide-eyed people. Surprised to be surviving their very first dawn.

A second later, the ship passed into the shadows and the heat vanished. Nomad dismissed the shield and slumped against the railing, dumbfounded by a sudden flood of exhaustion. He felt numb, he felt cold, he felt…

Normal.

Storms. This was what it was like to be without even a single drop of Investiture. It had been a very, very long time.

I can't believe that worked, the knight whispers with boundless shock and enthusiasm.

Nomad shook his head, lying back on the deck, feeling weak. Unaware of his surroundings. Tired. The weight of years and years pressing against him.

I felt something from that light, Auxiliary said. Something very unusual. Did you sense the force of it? Light shouldn't push like that, Nomad.

"It was being pulled into the ground," Nomad whispered. "Like…an electric current. Like lightning, forming a current between cloud and ground—only this time, between sunlight and the core of the planet."

Storms. That was it. That's why he could stand on the deck up high and not be aflame. Because he hadn't been between the sun and the planet. That was why sunhearts were charged so much as they were made. That was why the ground melted.

Everything between the sun and the core…it acted like the filament of an incandescent light bulb. Superheated by the transfer of energy.

Something roused him from his stupor. Were those…

Cheers?

He numbly picked himself up off the deck, standing straighter as he looked along the column of ships. The cheers came from those ahead, who rejoiced in having made it into the shadows.

The Beaconites on this last ship didn't shout. They stared at Nomad, trembling, overwhelmed. They knew. Though they'd only been in the sunlight for a moment, that would have been enough to vaporize their ship. Being that close to death rattled a person.

Someone familiar stood at the front of the group. He hadn't realized that Contemplation was on this ship. She knelt, holding a young girl, and looked at Nomad.

He braced himself for further adulation. Instead she just bowed her head, hugged the girl to her breast, and whispered, "Thank you."

Nomad nodded, then slumped by the railing—barely aware—as they flew. Eventually they landed a safe distance into the dark side, beneath the specular light of the rings. The ships set down in a circle. There, amid plants growing with uncanny speed, they offered prayer.

He'd remained on the ship as each of them left and knelt. He'd never seen it done this way, with everyone kneeling together. They let Confidence lead, but each seemed to be saying their own version, quietly. To Nomad's people, religion, the monarchy, and certain levels of bureaucracy were all intertwined. He'd been modestly religious himself, and still accepted the idea of a God Beyond.

But he'd never seen something like this prayer, so raw, so tearful, so genuine. He climbed to his feet and couldn't help but watch, couldn't help but feel the energy.

The people began to rise, and the Greater Good gathered at the heart of the circle they'd formed. There, they waved him forward.

Perhaps he should just have walked away, but the cynical part of him…well, it seemed to have been put to sleep by the fatigue of being completely without Investiture. He stumbled down off the ship, then walked through the undulating, growing grass to stand before the Greater Good.

Each of the three women removed a glove and held a hand toward him, taking his hand in their gnarled ones.

"It won't work," he told them. "Offering me your heat."

"It didn't before," Compassion whispered, seated as always. "But you weren't one of us then."

"I've been told by Rebeke," Contemplation said, "that you prefer not to be called Sunlit."

He nodded, feeling strangely self-conscious with everyone watching him. "I'd rather be known for what I've done, not for some prophecy."

"You go by the name Nomad. Why?" Confidence asked, squeezing his hand.

"It is the name I deserve. And it sounds a little like my birth name, in my own language."

"Which is?"

"Sigzil," he whispered. For some reason, speaking it again after so long brought tears to his eyes.

"Nomad," Compassion said. "A wanderer with no place. That name no longer fits you, Sigzel, because you have a place. Here, with us." She said the name a little oddly, according to their own accents.

"Will you accept a name from us?" Contemplation asked. "One you deserve and have earned?"

Feeling numb, he nodded.

"We name you Zellion," Contemplation said. "After the original Lodestar, who led us to this land and to life. As you have led us."

"Zellion," he whispered.

"It means One Who Finds," Compassion said. "Though I know not the original language."

"It's from Yolen," he whispered. "Where my master was born."

"Zellion," Confidence said. "You are one of us now. Whatever you've run from, whatever you've left, whatever you've done—none of that matters. Here, you are of Beacon, of the planet Canticle. We welcome you. We accept you."

He tried to spit out an argument. Something about how you couldn't make someone your own with words. You couldn't erase what someone had done with kindly sentiment.

Could you?

Words are power, the knight whispers, as long as they have meaning. As long as they have Intent.

"I…" he whispered. "I accept."

Warmth flooded into him through their grip. He gasped, eyes going wide. The three elderly women smiled at him as he dropped to his knees, feeling an ignition within him. They stepped back, releasing his hand. But then each of the other people, even the children, approached in turn. One at a time, they touched him with ungloved hands. A hand to his. A touch on the side of the face. A few hugs.

Each of them imparted warmth, until he was afire with it. Until he knelt there wondering why he didn't glow like the sun. They stood back, and let it burn within him.

That's not much in the way of BEUs, Auxiliary said. Less than a single percent combined—but a remarkable amount for each person to give up, though, as they have.

It felt like so much more. Perhaps it was being without, then having the Investiture returned. Perhaps it was something else, something special about how this was given. In contrast to his earlier numbness, he now felt more alive than he had in years.

The Greater Good approached again. "Zellion," Contemplation said, "this is our thanks to you. But…we have work to do. One final task. We need to find the way into the Refuge."

"You have a plan?" Confidence asked. "To get us there?"

"Yes," he said, voice hoarse. "But…could I have a moment or two to process this first, please?"

"Of course," Compassion said. "You have given us all each and every moment we have, from now until we are given to the sun. Please, take some for yourself."