were shredding metal, dwindled like a juggernaut rolling off across the sea. The whoosh of waves against the breakers below reemerged as the predominant—the only—sound.
Baloyd opened his eyes.
The night was dark, but along the horizon a faint strip of dawnlight showed. Hours must have passed, although he had no sense of the lost time. Remnants of sour mist hung in the air, already dissipating in the breeze off the ocean. From a distance footsteps came running, and cries of “It came on!” “I saw it!” and “What’d it leave?” rode the air.
The approach of a crowd galvanized the two young men. They sat up and took stock of their surroundings. They were whole, undamaged. Whatever had happened and whatever had arrived—whether it filled their requirements or not—by right it was theirs. They got up quickly. The people rushing along the dragon beam drew up. Across the gap separating them from the platform at the center, they gaped, crestfallen. As a group they had shared in a hope, a promise, dashed now that others had gotten there ahead of them. The two brothers crossed to the middle of the platform.
Four objects lay on the tiles of the bowl: two unsightly red, bulbous-toed shoes; and a small black metal stylus lying atop a clay tablet.
By instinct the two brothers chose their prizes. Baloyd took the shoes; Suald collected the stylus and tablet. Then they walked onto the beam and followed it back to where the others hovered. If the crowd still held a glimmer of hope that the two might share the treasure, Suald’s arrogance banished it. He forced them back along the path with nothing more than a cold sneer.
On Brink Lane he turned his back on them as if daring anyone to try and take him. Baloyd followed, but with frequent glances over his shoulder to make sure no one pursued them. Brink Lane traced the westward curve of the span, and soon the crowd was out of sight around a bend. Suald kept walking. He turned up a narrow side street leading back into the forest of stucco houses and shops, all still dark with sleep. He pushed open an iron gate and entered a courtyard with a small fountain, bordered on three sides by houses. There he finally stopped. “All right, what have you got?”
Baloyd held the shoes up by their laces. They had high necks and spongy red circles at ankle height. The soles were curiously furrowed.
“Well, they’re something. Why don’t you put them on.”
There was a great deal Baloyd thought of saying: how his brother always created situations and then left him to resolve them; how, since the whole idea of challenging the gods had been Suald’s idea, he should be the one to test the Edgeworld gifts—he should be the one to blow up or ignite or melt. But Baloyd said nothing. A lifetime of habit overruled him.
He sat against the lip of the fountain and put on the shoes. He had to loosen the laces to get his feet in and afterward left them undone. He’d never seen laces before; he had no idea what they were for.
Standing, testing, he discovered that the shoes fit him quite well. He walked around the fountain. Nothing happened. When he’d come full circle, he pointed at his brother’s gifts and said, “What about yours, then?”
Suald held the stylus and tablet away from his body as if, should they come to life, he might fling them away. For a moment he held them above the fountain, and Baloyd almost snatched them away for fear he was going to drop them into the water.
Suald pushed his thumb into the surface of the tablet. His nail left a gouge in it.
“Why don’t you write something instead?” Baloyd suggested.
“I don’t see you running any races.”
“I put the shoes on. I walked around. Nothing happened. They’re just shoes.”
“Try running.”
Baloyd sprinted up and down in place. “They don’t work.”
“What do you think I should write?”
“Write that you’d like some breakfast. I’m hungry.”
“Naturally.” He licked the tip of the stylus and inscribed the words A KING’S BREAKFAST. Nothing happened. He frowned. “I don’t think this thing works, either. Look, why don’t you try naming a destination—somewhere you want to go.”
“I don’t have anyplace in mind.”
“Yes, and no wonder you’re not going anywhere. Pick someplace—go to the end of the span. Go to Nourey Gate or something.” He stared sternly at the tablet, then wrote above the already inscribed words, GIVE ME.