True Names, True Walks

Thus, on Heaven’s Gate, as I dredged bottom scum from the slop canals under the red gaze of Vega Primo or crawled on hands and knees through stalactites and stalagmites of rebreather bacteria in the station’s labyrinthine lungpipes, I became a poet. All I lacked were the words.

It was as though there were invisible strings leading from him to the rest of the world, and each string carried his hearing and sight along with it. He could see in all directions, though only a tiny strip at a time: he could hear worms crawling through the dirt in the mountain, and Lindon's heart beating weakly. He could see the two Skysworn guar

behind you.” I take the two-track away from the orchard and towards the woods until I find the smallest break in the trees, a path I know to look for only because I’ve come this way a thousand times. It’s like stepping into a book, one turn and everything changes: cool instead of hot, dark instead of light. Instead of cherry trees, eighty-foot heml