violet. She felt that if she’d leaned down far enough to dip her hand in, it would have come out dyed.
Ahead lay only more ocean, and no hint of any other spiral. Gulls wheeled around them, probably hoping for some food, and that suggested to her that nothing else lay anywhere near, for surely gulls would find better feeding off a span or even an isle than from a single small boat where no one was eating.
If the world was infinite as Soter claimed, then how far might Colemaigne be? The way he’d described the world when she was small, she’d imagined that one span led to the next, and wherever you were you could look out over the rail and see the nearest spiral just across the way. That was certainly not the truth, however. The world might contain infinite spirals, but they could also be infinitely separated. And so, no longer able to assume that what she assumed was true, she wondered about the truth of Colemaigne. It was a much-celebrated place, the subject of endless fables and tales and, most likely, lies. A locus for hedonistic delights, they said, where wine flowed from a huge central fountain and through a thousand capillaries, so that no matter where you were, you had only to dip your cup to sample it. Streets were paved with a crust of hard rock candy, and glazed pastry shell houses leaned over them. No one ever went hungry and every pleasure was indulged—no worries, no desires left unfulfilled. She might have been amazed by such tales once, but now—and especially after rescuing Diverus from the paidika—she understood that for one person’s pleasure to be indulged, another must submit to indulging it. Pleasure had its price, even when paid by another.
In any case the stories were ancient, as old as those of the storyfish and Meersh, according to Soter. What Colemaigne might have been in its past said nothing of what it was now. Look at Ningle, a decrepit, crumbling span that had once been new and glorious and blessed by Edgeworld, and which was surely much younger than their proposed destination.
Colemaigne by implication had to be on an ancient spiral. How else could a span so old exist? Every span linked to it must likewise be old, mustn’t it? Or did bridge spans spring up suddenly after long intervals, the way that spans had appeared night upon night in Chilingana’s story? Another span, called Valdemir in one of the Meersh tales, had fallen into the sea because it was so old. Would another span have replaced it, then or later, or was there a permanent gap where it had been? She hadn’t seen enough of the world to surmise much less know the answers to such questions. Besides, every span on every spiral had its creation story; many were alike, but just as many contradicted the rest. While Chilingana’s was nearly universal—at least it seemed to be so far—it didn’t account at all for the unseen gods of Edgeworld, for Dragon Bowls or the myriad creatures and cultures she knew existed. How could one fisherman have dreamed it all? Finally she doubted she knew anything about the truth of the origins of Shadowbridge and suspected nobody else did, either. It didn’t bear contemplating. She was part of this world. The truth of its creation and its being, whatever that was, wouldn’t make her less or more so. Nevertheless, she wondered if she could ever unravel the mystery. Maybe, someday, if she ever found the mythical Library and it contained all the works it was supposed to—maybe then she would discover the truth; but not here, not in the company of a drunken old liar and a boy her age whose memory barely stretched back beyond a few subterranean months. So she focused her thoughts on their destination and let herself be excited by the notion of setting foot on one of the most ancient spans no matter what shape it was in now, for such a span must know the oldest stories, the earliest versions of all the tales she already knew. With luck Soter would let them stay awhile on each of these spans, giving her time to soak up everything while Jax’s reputation spread.
She stood at the prow until sea spray showered her, then jumped back, but too late, already drenched. The lugsail slapped against the back of her head.