“Not a step further without answers,” Errol said, arms crossed. He blocked the pathway to the Bridge proper, using his height advantage to loom over the hooded girl. “You promised you’d tell us who you are as soon as we arrived—and how you knew about Gruvrik. Here we are, so start talking.”

“Are you prepared for the truth, Mako?”

Errol scoffed. “I just rode through a sorcerous hurricane on the back of a magical kraken, and you think your identity is going to shock me?”

“Fair point,” the girl said, throwing back her hood to reveal gleaming metal. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled off the full-body robe that had covered her limbs and obscured her face. Underneath were polished plates, pneumatic pistons, and power servos, all glistening with the telltale sheen of limitless possibilities that marks something newly-crafted.

“My name is Rashana. I am Indara’s spirit made manifest.”

For once, Errol had nothing to say. He stared at the alien, all-metal body.

“I vote we stuff the spy into a crevice and get her on the way out,” Gruvrik said, picking a strand of seaweed out of his beard.

Rashana laughed—an eerily human sound. “Don’t forget who got the rum for you.”

“I’ll thank you next time I see ya in the flesh.” Gruvrik walked over and poked Rashana in the stomach, thunking his blunt, square fingernail against her smooth metallic surface. “For now, go away and stop keeping an eye on us. Gives me the creeps.”

Rashana ruffled his matted hair as though Gruvrik were a small child. The dwarf shouted and slapped her hand away. “She can’t see you, dwarf. I am a sliver of her, an echo of sorts, not a scrying pool.”

Taras pulled Gruvrik back a step. He peered at Rashana and frowned. “I’ve never seen such craftsmanship. You’re a marvel, and we need you to survive this place. But I can’t say that I’m comfortable in your presence. Did the temples approve this soulbond? Somehow I doubt you would be permitted to live if the priests knew of your existence.”

“I do not sense an abomination,” Jarkoda rumbled. “She may be split from Indara, whom I do not trust, but she is still young. Innocent, maybe. I can perceive goodness in her.”

“You merely like that she backed you up when you rejected the hit job on Stefano,” Errol said, probing to see how much the halfdragon would push back.

Jarkoda shook his massive head. The scales around his eyes and nose undulated in a hypnotic pattern, dilating and closing with his mood. “That is a good example, yes, but it is not my evidence. I may be the youngest of this group, but my time spent training as a monk has given me wisdom beyond my years.”

“You’re the youngest?” Errol burst out, staring up at the hulking form of the halfdragon.

“Technically, I’m newer,” Rashana said.

An uncomfortable silence hung over them after Rashana’s pronouncement.

Errol shrugged on his pack. “Now that we’ve solved one mystery, let’s go find another. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.”

They fell in line behind him, ordering themselves in a rough segregation by age. Errol wondered if they even noticed, or if they simply sought out their peers subconsciously: Taras and Gruvrik in the front where they could scout the ruins; Rhae and Rashana chatting in the back, fast becoming friends; and Maeda and Jarkoda brooding as they wandered in between, never quite finding their place.

Errol scratched his chin, feeling the stubble that had grown out since he had shaved it off yesterday for his meeting. He might go back home looking like Gruvrik.

Home. He’d never really considered Laurentum all that attractive of a place to live, but compared with the Bridge so far, it was paradise. Part of him couldn’t wait to return, but another part of him reveled in the idea that out here, Maeda was just as much of an outcast as he was, if not more. She’d forced her way in, although he suspected she may regret that now that they’d arrived on the Bridge and she seemed out of place.

They stumbled along the uneven quay. Footing was treacherous on the pitted surface, its once-uniform cement sheathing now torn apart and warped by the endless pounding of surf and virulent storms. According to the map that Errol had reviewed before the ship had hit the storm’s wall, the quay widened toward the Bridge foundation, allowing passage to the first of the artificial islands that supported the vast pillars of the Bridge.

Every few dozen yards, they came upon the wreckage of shipping vessels strewn about the dilapidated dockyard of Edgewater, the buffer zone between the bay and what was left of the Bridge. Once, the Bridge had extended all the way to the mainland in a long, gentle slope, but that was before Laurentum had destroyed the roadways and transformed the Bridge into a penal colony, which they’d abandoned after the storms claimed possession.

The edges of the quay curved outward. Traveling conditions improved as they moved away from the salt spray. Ahead, Errol could see rocks give way to dirt and underbrush, a hardy breed of gnarled shrubs that still clung stubbornly to life. The splintered timbers and rotted hulls thinned out. They all seemed happy to leave the ship graveyard behind; he couldn’t believe so many foolhardy sailors had ventured this close to the Bridge.

Errol shuddered at the thought. Would they end up in that graveyard, just the latest string of victims of their own stupidity? The Bridge suffered no fools.