“We need the way to the root,” said Sabine.
She said it on the floor of the Palate, at the end of the first watch, at the long white tables where the cups were still upturned. She’d made them into a council-table. Ferrin with his ledger and Taavi’s folded face, which Ollo had given him without a word, and which Ferrin had looked at for a long time and then put inside the ledger’s cover, flat, between the first page and the board. Mirelle with her tablets. Dorne. Varro, who’d stopped pretending she wasn’t one of them. Fenn Arrowby for the Lancers. Wick, with the net.
“The Key turns where the sleeper’s blood begins,” said Mirelle. Her voice was a thread again. Less than a thread. She’d spent too much of it in the Hall of the Basin. “The root. Where the pillars go into the mind.”
“And the Archon’s there,” said Creed. “Marchetti said. The tree. In the deepest fold. Where the gold is.”
“And the Engine’s somewhere else,” said Sabine. “Above the arch. The Kept say. Where the water’s made.” She tapped the table. “And the Drip has to go first. Before the Key. Or the blood boils four million.”
“So we need both,” said Ferrin. “The Engine first. Then the root.” He looked at Creed. “And you’ve been in the folds. Once. We don’t know the way through them.”
“Nobody knows the way through them,” said Varro. “Nobody goes there. Not the Kept. Not the Concord. The Lancers’ net never had a map. The folds are — they’re inside. Nobody goes inside.”
“Marchetti went,” said Wick. Very quietly.
“Marchetti was carried,” said Varro.
Everyone was quiet.
“Then somebody goes and looks,” said Sabine. “Small. Fast. Finds the root. Finds the way. Comes back.” She looked at Creed. “Not the army. Not yet. The army goes to the Engine.”
“I’ll go.”
“I know you’ll go.” Sabine’s flat grey eyes didn’t move. “Who else.”
“Me,” said Dorne.
“Me,” said Ollo.
Wick didn’t say anything. He just looked at Creed. And Creed looked back. And after a while Wick swallowed and said, very small, “Behind,” and that was that.
“Four,” said Sabine. “That’s all. Four.” She looked at Varro. “You know the Palate. Take my blasters to the Engine. Find the way up. Don’t go in. Wait for him.”
Varro looked at her for a long time. A Higher Rib captain. Daughter of a Senior. Being given orders by a Belly blasting-chief with two fingers on her right hand.
“Yes,” said Isolde Varro.
They went back through the Halls. Down the tower. Past the Hall of the Basin. Past the two faces. Through the low grey door.
The first fold was the same. The grey walls. The warmth. The faint gold in the creases. The place where Marchetti had been — the empty hollow in the wall, the roots hanging slack, a fine pale ash on the floor that nobody stepped on.
They went past it. Deeper.
The fold went on. Curving. Branching. Like the inside of a hand, like the creases of a closed fist, like the inside of a shell. The gap between the grey walls narrowed and widened and narrowed. Sometimes it opened into a space as big as a cavern, where three or four folds met, and the grey tissue arched overhead in great soft vaults. Sometimes it closed to a crack they had to turn sideways to pass.
The pulse was everywhere.
Not a sound. A pressure. Coming up through the soft floor into the soles of his boots. Slow. Vast. One beat, then a long time, then another. Three hundred and forty of Marchetti’s heartbeats. He counted them. He couldn’t help it. He counted his own heartbeats between the pulses and got four hundred and twelve, because his heart was slower than hers had been, and the number sat in him like a stone.
Four hundred and twelve. The number of steps from the Collar to the Seventh Stair.
“That’s a coincidence,” said Snake. In the arm. “Don’t make it into something.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can feel you doing it.”
He was.
The grey got greyer as they went in.
He noticed it after the third branching. The gold in the creases — faint in the first fold — was fainter. Then fainter. Then, in one long curving passage, gone entirely. Just grey. Dull. Flat. The tissue under his hand when he steadied himself on a wall was warm, but slack. Like a muscle that has been used too long. Like skin on an old arm.
“Drained,” said Lamp. In his blood. Quietly. “All of it. This fold. Nothing left.”
“Why are we going this way?”
“Because the pulse is louder,” said Lamp. “Ahead. Through the grey. The pulse is coming from ahead.” A pause. “And because the light is behind us. Toward the Palate. And the gold is ahead. Deeper. Where they have not finished drinking.”
At the fifth branching, they found the first pod.
It was set into the wall of the fold. Half-sunk. The way Marchetti had been half-sunk. But it wasn’t a person. It was a machine. A long rounded capsule of something that had once been bright — chrome, or silver, or steel — and was now dark, tarnished, furred with a pale grey growth like mold. The size of a person lying down. With a lid. The lid was glass, or had been, and it was cracked, and fogged, and furred over.
Cables came out of it. Dozens. Thick ones, thin ones. Chrome and copper and something black and flexible. Out of the end of the capsule where the head would be. And into the wall. Into the grey tissue of the fold. Deep.
“What is it,” said Wick. A whisper.
Creed went to it. He put his right hand — the spurred one — on the lid. On the glass. He rubbed the furred growth away with his palm.
Inside, a skeleton.
Lying on its back. In the capsule. On a padded bed that had rotted to black threads. Human. Old. So old the bones had gone the color of tea. The arms crossed on the chest. The legs straight. A long thin skeleton with long thin bones, longer than a Belly person’s, longer than a Mid’s.
And the skull —
The skull was open. At the back. Not broken. Opened. A neat round hole at the base, where the spine went in, the size of a fist. And through the hole, out of the skull, into the cables at the head of the capsule — something.
Dry. Grey. Shriveled. Long. Segmented.
A husk. Like the husk of an insect that has crawled out of its skin. The shape of a parasite. Forearm-long. With dozens of hair-fine legs, dried, curled, stuck to the inside of the cables where they ran into the wall.
Empty. Whatever had been in it had gone. Into the cables. Into the wall. Into the fold.
“Oh,” said Dorne. Very quietly. She was beside him, looking down through the glass. “Oh. That’s how.”
“They lay down,” said Creed. “In these. The first ones. The expedition. They lay down in pods, and plugged the pods into the god’s mind, and —”
“And grew,” said Dorne. “Out of their own heads. Into the wires. Into the god.”
“And left their bodies behind,” said Ollo.
There was writing on the side of the pod. Carved, or scratched, in the chrome. Old script. Not the Wright script. Not the Concord’s square capitals. Something in between. And under it, newer, in the Concord’s capitals, someone had scratched over it, hard, again and again, until it was almost illegible.
He made it out anyway. It took a long time.
WE LAY DOWN IN THE PODS SO THAT WE WOULD NEVER HAVE TO GET UP AGAIN. THAT WAS THE POINT. THAT WAS THE WHOLE POINT.
He looked down the fold.
There were more pods.
All along it. In the walls. Half-sunk in the grey. Dozens. Every few meters. Tarnished. Furred. Cables running from each one into the tissue. And as the fold curved away ahead of them into the dim, more, and more, and more. Not dozens. Hundreds.
“Lamp,” he said. “How many.”
A long pause.
“I cannot count them,” said Lamp. “They go on. Through the fold. Into the next. And the next.” Its voice was thin. “Every one of them a person who lay down. Every one of them a thing that crawled out of its own head and went into the wall.”
“And they’re still here?”
“They are still here,” said Lamp. “In the wall. In the folds. Rooted. Drinking.” A pause. “They are watching us.”
He felt it then. He hadn’t, before. He’d been feeling for hearts. There were no hearts. But under the pulse — under the slow vast pressure of the god’s dream — there was something else. Something small. Many small things. Everywhere. In the walls. Behind the grey. A faint, cold, thin, buzzing attention. Like a thousand stair-dogs’ ear-discs all turning toward him at once.
Tens of thousands.
“They know we’re here,” he said.
“They’ve always known,” said Snake. Low. “Since the first fold. They’re just — deciding.”
It came out of the wall ahead of them, at the next branching.
Not out of a pod. Out of the grey. The tissue of the fold bulged — like something pressing against the inside of a sheet — and split, softly, wetly, along a crease, and it came out.
A parasite.
He’d seen them in the Wardens’ seams. Forearm-long. Pale. This one was bigger. Much bigger. The length of a man’s leg, and as thick around as a man’s thigh. Segmented. Each segment ringed with fine chrome — bands of tarnished metal grown into its pale flesh, like the cables had grown into the wall. And along its sides, not dozens of hair-fine legs. Hundreds. Rippling. Moving in waves, like grass in wind, like the legs of a centipede, carrying it out of the split in the wall and onto the soft floor of the fold.
At its front end, where a head would be, there was a mouth. Round. Ringed with tiny hooks. Opening and closing.
And above the mouth, worn on a band of chrome around its first segment like a mask on a strap: a face.
A man’s face. Old. Very old. The skin gone dark and leathery and tight, preserved in some other way than the Gallery’s. The eyes closed. The mouth a thin flat line.
It turned the face toward them.
“Vessel,” it said.
The voice came from the mouth, the ringed mouth, under the face. Wet. Clicking. And from everywhere, at the same time — from the walls, from the grey, from the thin cold buzzing attention of tens of thousands of things in the folds — the same word. Whispered. Echoed. Vessel. Vessel. Vessel.
“You are in the wrong fold,” said the parasite. “The tree is not here. The tree is deeper. This fold is drained. There is nothing here.” The face tilted on its band of chrome. “There is nothing here for you. Go back.”
“I’m looking for the root.”
“The root is the tree’s.” The hundreds of legs rippled. “You will be taken to the root. When it is time. When you have seen the Engine. When you understand.” The ringed mouth opened and closed. “Go back to the Palate. See the Engine. Then come.”
“And if I don’t?”
The face looked at him for a long time.
“Then we will remember,” it said, “what it was like to want a body.”
And the walls of the fold moved.
They came out of the grey on every side.
Not one. Not ten. The walls of the fold bulged and split and bulged and split, softly, wetly, all along its length, ahead of them and behind them, and out of every split came pale segmented shapes. Small ones, forearm-long, like the ones in the Wardens. Big ones, leg-long, chrome-banded, like the first. Hundreds of legs rippling. Ringed mouths opening and closing. Some of them wearing faces. Most of them not.
They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. They poured out of the walls the way water pours out of a cracked tank, and pooled on the soft floor of the fold, and came toward the four of them in a slow pale tide.
“Back to back,” said Creed. “Wick in the middle.”
Wick was already in the middle. Dorne on one side. Ollo on the other. Creed in front. The long rifle came off Ollo’s back. Dorne’s fists came up.
The first one reached Dorne.
It was a small one. It came up the soft floor at her boots and leapt, the way the stair-dog had leapt, and went for her face, its ringed mouth open, its hair-fine legs spread wide —
— and she caught it out of the air in one square hand and crushed it.
It burst. Pale fluid. A thin high scream from the ringed mouth. And from the walls, from the tens of thousands of cold buzzing things in the folds — the scream echoed. All of them. At once. A sound like a cable snapping, everywhere.
They felt it. Every one of them. When one died, they all felt it.
The tide came faster.
He fought.
He didn’t fight like he’d fought in the Forge. There were no seams to put the sword in, no armor to get behind. They were naked. Pale. Soft. Fast. They came up his legs and he burned them off. They came off the walls at his face and he caught them on the spurs and burned them there. The black arm went white-hot and stayed that way and Snake roared through it, roared, and everywhere he touched them they shriveled and blackened and went up in a stink like the vats.
But they kept coming.
And they weren’t trying to kill him.
He realized it in the first minute. They weren’t biting. Not him. They were reaching for him with their legs. Wrapping. Clinging. The small ones going for his wrists, his ankles, his neck. The big ones — the chrome-banded ones — coming slowly, steadily, through the tide toward him, their ringed mouths opening and closing, their legs reaching. Not to bite. To hold. To get their legs around him.
To root.
Then we will remember what it was like to want a body.
“They want in,” said Lamp. In his blood. Fast. “Creed. They want into you. Like the roots into Marchetti. Like the tree into Arral. They want to root in you. In your blood. In your bone.” A shudder. “They want to drink you from inside.”
A big one reached him.
It came up through the tide in front of him, leg-long, chrome-banded, faceless, and reared, and its hundreds of legs came out and around him in a wave — around his chest, his arms, his waist — and gripped. He felt them. Hundreds. Hair-fine. Cold. Pressing through his shirt, through the jacket, against his skin. Looking for a way in.
The black arm came up and burned it in half.
The front half kept gripping. The ringed mouth turned toward his chest. Toward the mark. Opened.
He felt a leg go into him.
One. Hair-fine. Through the skin over his ribs, under the jacket. Like a needle. Cold. Going in. Reaching. Toward his heart. Toward the blood.
And Lamp met it.
He felt the cold in his blood gather. All of it. Rushing. Toward the place where the leg had come in. Like the guard on a gate running toward a sound. And the leg reached into his blood — reached for something to root in, something to drink —
— and found the Lamp.
And the Lamp ate it.
Not the frost. The leg. The cold thin reaching thread of the thing’s will — the wanting — Lamp closed on it the way it had closed on the half-Warden’s cold in the Forge and devoured it, and he felt it go up the leg, the way Snake’s fire had gone up Sere’s threads — not fire, cold, eating, up the leg and into the half-parasite on his chest —
— which went still.
Not dead. Still. Empty. The way the half-Warden had gone empty. The legs went slack. The ringed mouth stopped opening. The pale segmented body went grey, then darker, then dry. Like the husk in the pod. Like something that had crawled out of its skin.
It fell off him.
“Lamp,” he said.
“I ate it.” Wild. Shaking. “I ate what it was. Not the frost. The wanting. The thing that wanted in. I ate it. Creed, it was —” A gasp. “It was cold. It was cold like me. It was made of the same thing as me. Holding. Keeping. It wanted to hold you. Keep you. In your place. Forever.” Its voice cracked. “It was the light. In a worm. It was me —“
“It’s not you.”
“It was. It tasted like me. Creed. They are the holding hand. Gone wrong. Gone — hungry. They are what the holding hand becomes when it has nothing left to hold but itself.” A sound like glass splintering. “That is what I could be. That is what I will be, if I —”
“LAMP.”
A jolt.
“Yes. I am here. I am — I am telling you. I am not — I am here.”
“Can you do it again.”
A long, shaking pause.
“Yes,” said Lamp. “Yes. I can do it again.” A breath, if a thing in his blood could breathe. “I do not want to. I am telling you. It tastes like me. But I can.”
“Then do it. To the ones that touch me. Like the Forge.”
“Yes.”
It took an hour.
He didn’t remember most of it. Pale shapes. Rippling legs. Ringed mouths. The stink of burning. The cold of eating. Snake roaring in the arm, white-hot, burning everything the arm could reach. Lamp in his blood, eating everything that reached in. Between them, the two hands, working. Not together — they never worked together — but at the same time. Fire outward. Cold inward. And him in the middle. Holding the sword. Holding his ground.
He remembered Dorne.
She didn’t burn and she didn’t eat. She crushed. With her hands. With her boots. Square and steady and tireless, the way she’d worked the half-Wardens in the Forge, the way she’d taken Sere’s heart. One. Crush. Next. The parasites came at her and found the drops of him asleep in her blood and couldn’t root, and slid off, and she crushed them. Her striped arms were wet to the shoulder with pale fluid. She didn’t stop.
He remembered Ollo.
He couldn’t shoot them — there were too many, too small, too fast — so he didn’t. He swung the long rifle by the barrel, one-handed, like a club, like a press-lever, in long flat arcs at the floor. Sweeping. Crushing. Swearing. Never fast. Never stopping. Every time one got onto him — onto his leg, his back — he slapped it off with the stock and stamped it.
And he remembered Wick.
In the middle. Where he was supposed to be. With no weapon. Nothing. On his knees on the soft floor of the fold with his comm-set clutched to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut and his lips moving.
Talking.
To the net. Low. Fast. Into the comm-set. He was reporting. Every turn. Every branching. Every pod. Every split in the wall. Fifth branching, left fork, pods, hundreds, they came out of the walls, they want to root, Lamp can eat them, Dorne can crush them, they scream together, when one dies they all scream — all of it, into the net, to Sabine on the floor of the Palate, to Tamsin on the Collar, to anybody who was listening. In case. In case the four of them didn’t come back out of the fold. So that somebody would know.
A parasite came over Ollo’s sweep and landed on Wick’s back.
He felt it. He felt Wick’s heart go up like a rocket. He turned — too slow — the thing’s legs were already around Wick’s shoulders, his neck, the ringed mouth turning toward the bandage on his throat, toward the eight old burns —
Wick didn’t scream.
He opened his eyes. He looked straight at Creed across the tide. White. Shaking. And kept talking into the comm-set. “— one’s on me. One’s on my back. It’s going for my neck. Tell Sabine —”
Creed’s spurs went through it.
He didn’t know how he crossed the distance. He was there. His right fist. The four bone points. Through the thing’s segments, a finger’s width from Wick’s neck, and burning, and Snake roaring, and the thing coming off Wick’s back in two halves, blackened, screaming —
And from the walls, from the tens of thousands, the scream echoed.
Wick was still talking.
“— it’s off. He got it off. I’m okay. I’m — I’m okay.” His voice cracked into pieces. “Sixth branching. Right fork. Still going.”
Creed looked at him.
“Behind,” said Wick. Shaking so hard his teeth clattered. “I’m behind. I’m fine. Keep going.”
They broke through at the seventh branching.
The tide thinned. Then stopped. The pale shapes went back into the walls — not dead, not beaten, withdrawing, the way the Forge’s workers had backed away from the Lamp. The splits in the grey tissue closed softly behind them. The thin cold buzzing attention in the walls didn’t go away. But it went quiet. Watching.
And the fold opened out.
Into a space bigger than any of the others. A vault. Where seven folds met. The grey tissue arched overhead in great soft curves, higher than the Palate’s arch, higher than the Clock Hall’s dome. And in the creases of the walls, in the deep curves of the vault —
Gold.
Not faint. Not thin threads in the deepest creases. Gold. Thick veins of it. Running through the grey. Pulsing. Glowing. Bright enough to see by. Warm gold light filling the vault from every crease, the way the lamps had filled the Gardens of the Sixth.
The god’s mind. Not drained. Not yet.
“Oh,” said Wick.
They stood at the edge of the vault and looked.
The pulse was louder here. Much louder. He felt it in his teeth. In the black arm. In the mark on his chest. One beat — a vast slow heave of pressure through everything — and then the long silence, and then another. And with each beat, the gold in the walls brightened, all at once, like a lamp turned up, and then dimmed.
And in the walls, in the gold, the parasites.
Not tens of thousands. Thousands. Rooted. Half-sunk into the gold-veined grey like Marchetti had been, like the pods had been. Their segmented bodies arching out of the tissue. Their hundreds of legs sunk into the gold. Their ringed mouths pressed against the brightest veins. Moving. Rippling. In time with the pulse.
Drinking.
He watched them drink. With every beat of the god’s dream, the gold brightened, and the parasites pulled — he saw it, saw the gold flow up their legs into their segments, saw their pale flesh flush faint yellow — and the gold dimmed a little more than it had brightened.
A little more every time.
“Like the clockmaker said,” said Snake. Very low. In the arm. “Running out.”
“How long,” said Creed.
“I don’t know,” said Lamp. “Years. Not many. They have been drinking for nine hundred and eighty years. There is not much left.” A pause. “And when it is grey — all of it — the god stops dreaming. And then the god is dead. Really dead. Not sleeping.”
“And then?”
“And then they need somewhere else to drink,” said Lamp. Very quietly. “Something that holds the god’s blood. Something alive.”
He didn’t need it to say it.
They saw the tree from the far side of the vault.
They went around the edge. On the soft floor. Past the rooted drinkers in the walls, which didn’t move to stop them — which only turned, as they passed, the faces some of them wore, slowly, to watch. Toward the far side, where the seven folds met and one of them — the widest, the brightest, the one where the gold ran thickest — went down.
A slope. Soft. Grey and gold. Going down into a deeper fold. And at the bottom of it, far below, where the gold was so thick it was almost solid, so bright it hurt to look at —
Something huge.
He couldn’t see it clearly. It was too far down. Too bright. A shape. Pale. Enormous. Branching. Like a tree, like Marchetti had said, a tree grown upside down — roots going down into the gold, branches spreading up and out through the grey — except the branches were bodies. Segmented. Chrome-banded. Hundreds of them, thousands, grown together, fused, all rising out of one great trunk. And rippling. All of them. In time with the pulse. Drinking.
And at the center of it, where the branches met the trunk, where Marchetti had said — something small. Pale. A shape, against the vast pale mass. Oval. Like a locket.
A face.
He couldn’t see it. Too far. Too bright. But he knew it was looking down.
“There,” said Dorne. Very quietly. “That’s the root.”
“That’s the tree,” said Ollo.
“The tree’s on the root,” said Creed. “It’s grown over it. That’s where the Lock is. Under that.”
Nobody said anything for a long time.
And then the voice came up the slope. From the tree. From the bottom of the fold. Not loud. It didn’t need to be loud. It came from everywhere. From the walls. From the gold. From the thousands of drinkers. From the tens of thousands in the folds behind them. All at once. Calm. Old. Like a ledger read aloud.
“Not yet, Vessel.”
He stood at the top of the slope.
“You have seen the folds,” said the Archon. “You have seen what we are. You have seen the gold, and how little is left. Good. You needed to see.” A pause. The pulse. The gold brightening. “Now see the Engine. Go back through the folds — we will not stop you — and go up into the bone above the Palate, where your army is looking for the way. See what the Engine is. What it does. Who it keeps alive.”
“I know what it does.”
“You know what the guide told you,” said the Archon. “You do not know what it is. Go and see. And then, when you understand — when you have stood in the Engine and felt four million sleeping hearts in its pipes — come down this slope.”
“And then?”
“And then you will choose,” said the voice from everywhere. “As she chose. As your mother chose. As every Vessel before you chose.” A pause. “And we will be here.”
Every Vessel before you.
He stood very still.
“How many,” he said. “How many before me.”
The pulse beat. The gold brightened. Dimmed.
“Three,” said the Archon. “In nine hundred and eighty years. Three who woke with the pattern and carried both hands.” A pause. “You are the fourth.”
“What happened to them.”
“They are here,” said the Archon. “We kept them.”
And far below, at the bottom of the slope, in the heart of the vast pale tree — the small oval shape at its center caught the gold light. Just for a moment. As the pulse brightened.
And he saw it. Just for a moment.
A woman’s face. Old. Very old. Strong-boned. Smiling. Eyes open. Looking down into the gold.
And around it — on the trunk of the tree, among the fused segmented bodies, so small he’d taken them for knots in wood — three more shapes. Oval. Pale.
Faces.
They went back.
Through the seven branchings. Through the grey. Past the pods. The walls didn’t open. Nothing came out. The thin cold attention watched them go and didn’t move.
Wick talked into the comm-set the whole way. Low. Steady. Seventh branching. Sixth. Fifth. So that somebody would know the way.
At the low grey door, Creed stopped.
He stood in the Hall of the Basin, in front of the two faces. His father, eyes open, looking at his mother. His mother, eyes closed, singing.
“Three,” he said. Quietly. Out loud. “Three before me. On the tree.”
“And Aurel,” said Dorne. Behind him. “At the center. That’s four.”
“Aurel was the first. Before the tree. The Ash-man followed her.” He looked at the bare space beside 4,113. Waiting. “Three after her. And they kept all of them.”
“You don’t know that those were —”
“I know.”
He felt it. In the mark. In the arm. In the pattern in his marrow his mother had written. He’d felt it the moment the gold caught those small pale shapes on the trunk. A recognition. Like his blood turning toward Brann’s. Like the god’s blood turning toward him behind the dam.
They’d carried the pattern. All of them. Different hands, different marks, different centuries. But the same thing written in their marrow. And they’d come up. And they’d been taken. Before they sat.
And their faces were on the tree. Close. Not in the Gallery. Not on hooks. Worn. Like lockets. Like something kept over the heart.
“Lamp,” he said.
The cold in his blood was rigid. Clenched. As tight as he’d ever felt it.
“You knew,” he said. “Didn’t you. Not about the tree. About them. That there were others. Before me. That it’s happened before.”
A long, long silence.
“I did not know,” said Lamp. “I am telling you. I did not know there were three. I did not know about the tree.” A pause. “But I knew that I had — that I had done this before. Been in someone. Held them. I did not remember who. I only remembered the shape of it. The way you remember the shape of a song without the words.” Its voice was barely there. “I have been afraid since the reliquary, Creed. And I did not know why. I think — I think it is because I remember how it ended. The other times.”
“How did it end?”
“I do not know,” said Lamp. “I only know that it ended.”
In the black arm, Snake was very quiet.
“You too,” said Creed. “You’ve done this before.”
“Yeah,” said Snake. Low. Almost gentle. “I think so, mule. I think I have.” A pause. “I don’t remember either. Just the shape.” A longer pause. “I don’t like the shape.”
THE FOLDS
VAULT OF SEVEN
DRINKERS: UNCOUNTED
THE TREE: OBSERVED
PRIOR VESSELS: 3
NOTED