Nor sat sleeplessly in a corner, her wary eyes on the two golems whose personalities were far closer to [i]souls[/i] than any golem had a right to contain. But they were keeping her safe, and she could not judge them.

Occasionally her eyes drifted to Grace, and the stone arm that held so much pain.

[i]The stone has never lived before.[/i]

Shaiolesh spoke in Grace's dreams, softly, like an elder memory. The god never took notice of anything in particular, instead content to merely exist in dark silence -- but notice had been taken of the golems.

[i]It has been so long since I have felt life.[/i]

In her dreams, Grace stood -- dressed in silk, both of her natural arms intact -- in a vibrant garden with marble pillars and laughing fountains; the garden, she knew, was called Celana, and was the heart of the gods. Under a twisted tree before her, a group of men and women lounged and laughed -- they were gods, she knew instinctively. Among them, a young robed boy with dark hair and pale skin sat reading a book; this was Shaiolesh, as he had been. A woman wearing bright green with a cascade of fiery hair -- Lha'tak -- danced happily with Rshalogg, a spindly youth with a venomous gleam in his eye.

[i]Then we left Celana, and could not find it again, no matter how far we searched. We became lost, and some of us sought power instead.[/i]

Grace stood in a battlefield, the story of which had been passed down through generations. The dance of Lha'tak and Rshalogg had turned bloody; an army of shrieking witches gathered earthquakes and tornadoes and hailstorms behind them; while a mass of flickering, shadowy heathens -- Rshalogg's gleam in their shining eyes -- hissed and grinned and devoured the sky in darkness. A few of the witches knelt to Rshalogg, and a few of the heathens embraced Lha'tak. The other gods each formed their own armies to throw into the fray; the Snares were created for the advantage in the neverending fight for power. Until --

The god of song stood at the center of the battle, and a soft voice lifted up over the screeches and snarls.

The song wasn't just in Grace's dream.

Nor stood at the far side of the room, a hand pressed against the wall while she sang sweet, unintelligible words under her breath. Grace could feel the power there weakening; she could no longer control the stone that made up that wall, and neither could Shaiolesh -- but as the song continued, Grace felt a tingling in her phantom limb, like the bones and flesh awakening.

The stone crumbled under Nor's fingers, and the restless bird darted out of the hole. On the other side of that wall was a distinctive ticking sound, and the soft glow of moonlight. Nor continued to tear away the wall, piece by crumbling piece.

[i]The song is the antithesis of every god's power,[/i] Shaiolesh explained calmly. The song was the very same to which Lha'tak and Rshalogg had danced in the garden of the gods. It was the song of Celana.

[hr]

Under the rising moonlight, the bird fluttered and perched upon a bent pipe and warbled prettily high above Rain's head. At the edge to one side there was an owlish glimpse of the god of dreams; across the chasm, along the ledge of what used to be the Stone, stood a silhouette like an enormous lizard. They each were silent a moment, and then they faded into the violet evening.

Somewhere along one wall -- behind the dense chaos of broken sprockets -- something was picking away at the stone wall.

The man-from-the-water opened his goggle-eyes and lifted his head without so much as a cough or a breath. He moved an arm experimentally, and he climbed to his feet. His eyes fell on Rain, and then he looked up at the sky. The clouds were drifting apart, revealing the stars.

"Guess it's done then." He looked to Rain again, his body heavy and loose and dripping wet. "The gods sleep no more, the singer sings no more, the Stone sleeps instead, and Celana is lost to never be found, never to be found." He lifted his head again, scanning the wreckage. "Where are the humans I wonder? So afraid. Maybe died of fear."

He walked as he spoke, loping over bent springs, and yanked on a line attached to a pulley high above. A boiler began to rumble and hiss, and with a few bangs on a stuck coil there was at least one intact source of steam power.

"Up and over, no place for me here." He set about the long task of finding the necessary materials to fix the elevator, which sat half-submerged in the pond.