The Natural Order of Things

Ferre was only half present on the smoggy port landing as he led Finch and his brother away from the sea. The foot of his new cane kept catching on the uneven planks, and in his distraction, he nearly impaled himself on it more than once.

But he could not stop thinking about it. What if I fail? He had never once in his ten years on this journey stopped to think about the possibility that he could die before he reached the Altar. Talle's Integration had left Ferre with the idea that he was invincible, that he would survive any circumstances.

He had never realised how many times he very nearly hadn't.

The scar beneath his jaw stung. He rubbed it with a gloved hand. Then something hit him roughly in the back; stumbling, he swiveled around and met eye to eye with an irritated Talle. "That was your fault," Talle said. "Don't stop in the middle of a path like that. You'll get run into."

"Worse things could happen," Ferre replied. "For instance, I could punch you in the jaw." He'd always wanted to do that.

The look on Talle's face suggested that Ferre should stop talking.

When night fell again, it seemed too soon. Ferre hated travelling during the day; he and Talle stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs anywhere that wasn't Pendris, as for the most part Pendrin people stayed in Pendris and everyone else stayed out of it. Moving at night let them cover great distance without interference.

Fortunately, they were very close to Ferre's destination. The southernmost landmass on the planet, given a different name in every language, was called Arre Falla in Pendrin, meaning World's End. There weren't any countries or settlements there that Ferre had ever heard of — and Ferre had heard everything there was to hear many times over — so he didn't anticipate danger in the Arre itself, just a lot of walking. He'd considered practising with Propulsion more, but that was risky; it worked with direct releases of energy, which was often difficult to control and unpredictable in result. Ferre figured that at best he would arrive at the Altar unconscious if he tried to fly to it, but at least he wouldn't have to walk.

He sat anxiously in the hotel room's single armchair, tapping his thumbs together. The room was small, with two single-person beds; Finch slept soundly in the one closer to Ferre, while Talle's posture in the other suggested that he remained awake. Looking at Finch, Ferre felt a twinge of guilt, but it was fleeting.

He leaned back in the chair. You have done nothing right since you left, he thought. You have done nothing right in your life. You shouldn't have ever chosen this path.

Despite his knowledge that his goal was noble, Ferre couldn't get rid of the creeping worry that he would cause more harm than he could ever prevent.

With a quick glance at Talle, Ferre got up and grabbed his cane, then wandered into the adjacent washroom for a glass of water.

Cup in hand, he flipped the light switch by the door; the dingy mirror on the opposite wall flared to life as the room was flooded with blinding white. Ferre squinted at his reflection. He looked awful — all stray hairs and early frown lines, little scars and big ones, the order of disarray. And he didn't feel much better.

He turned on the tap and stuck the glass under it, deep in thought.

You should have died on that table.

The words were not ones he would ever admit to thinking.

He had been only twenty. Reckless, too certain in the probability of his success. He had blazed through Avlar's dusty streets without abandon, throwing rocks and pushing boxes and Slashing live oaks to ribbons. He had thought no one would approach him if he made his strength obvious.

And, as usual, he had been wrong. They had come quietly in the afternoon shadows, armed with knives bigger than Ferre's head. They had spoken urgently of time and water and the universe, of heroes and destiny and death, and Ferre had understood none of it. And then they had lashed him down and dug the knives in.

Ferre repressed a shudder. Had Talle not stormed in all-guns-blazing, he would be dead, and his journey forfeited. He owed his brother more than he wanted to accept. But that day had destroyed Ferre's careful plans, he had lost that edge of confidence that had boosted him forward on the harder days, and realising that he would never again walk without assistance had almost been enough to turn him around and send him right back home.

Sometimes he still wished he were close enough to Pendris to make that decision.

"Ferre," said a voice. "That cup is full."

Ferre blinked, staring at the cup in his hand. The tap still gushed at full blast, water spilling down over his fingers, the sensation only just beginning to register in his mind.

He looked to the side. "You really like to creep up on me, don't you," he said to Finch, who stood in the doorway with their arms crossed.

They shrugged. "You're too easy to creep up on," they said. "You should probably turn off the tap."

Ferre looked down again, and something clicked. He dropped the cup as though he had been stung and instinctively tried to stuff his hands into pockets that weren't there — he'd shed the longcoat hours ago. A sort of panic building in his chest, he crossed his arms tightly and pinned his hands beneath his elbows. He could feel himself trembling; Finch stood there in their too-large sweater staring at him in confusion. "I… are you okay?" they asked.

Despite himself, Ferre nodded. "I'm fine," he said dismissively. "Go to sleep. You will need it."

"Says the one who looks as though he hasn't slept in a whole month," Finch said. They stepped over and turned the tap off, the splattering of water on porcelain finally coming to a stop. "You're the one who decided to bring me along, so you gotta deal with what you got."

Ferre looked at them, feeling oddly grateful. "I suppose you're right," he said, then brushed past them into the main room, where he would sit in stony silence until the sun rose.