Once again, I saw the world through Asp’s vertical pupils.

The world became a 3D photo.

The grass so still it looked fake.

A reddish cobweb of raised dust.

Wax figures of humans and monsters.

The disheveled girl—me—looking so grown-up it was hard to believe she had just turned fourteen.

Kasamarchi scowling at her.

“Die, monster, die! Come, come!” The familiar screaming chorus jerked me out of the contemplation of wax figures.

The shattered silence rained down in shards.

My silence.

My absolute, inviolable, sacred silence.

How dare they!

“Kill that abomination, Ana! What are you waiting for? Come come!” the chorus of clones jabbered, their high-pitched voices hammering on my nerves. Their lips remained motionless as they screamed, their faces twisted in a shared grimace of loathing.

“Kasamarchi, destroy those saints before they choke on their righteousness. Come, come!” an unfamiliar voice growled, full of primal power.

Deep and low, the voice seemed to come from inside a large, metal barrel, the sound bouncing against the walls multiple times on its way out, creating these unnaturally drawled vowels and dulled consonants.

The voice dripped with sarcasm.

It took me several seconds to realize it was the Worm speaking. I looked at it. The smooth metal surface of the monster’s head had no opening that could pass for a mouth. And yet it was the Worm’s sonorous voice echoing through my mind and scaring the old men.

Could they hear it?

Weren’t they supposed to be frozen by Asp’s time-stopping skill like everyone else?

I felt a pang of jealousy. Who were these dwarves to intrude on my personal silence?

These hysterical dwarves continued begging me to kill the Worm, which, in turn, was calling to Kasamarchi, urging him to destroy the saints.

Coming all at once, their voices were mind-boggling.

The speakers seemed to understand that, so each side spared no effort winning us over.

At first, the old men prevailed.

Flashing through my mind came the scenarios for me to choose from.

Asp’s white eye freezing the hornets that rain down like bits of frost.

Asp charging at Angel and dodging his whip.

The Worm knocks down one Cammoth but gets pressed down by another coming over it like an avalanche stopping a train.

The Budrah hits Asp with his spear, but the first Cammoth breaks the Budrah’s spine with a mighty slap of its trunk. The tusks lift his body into the air.

“End their suffering! Come, come!” a booming voice intruded, playing the chain of events desired by the Worm.

Angel’s whip slashes Asp in two. The revived hornets reduce the dwarves’ chorus to a bloody mess.

While the first Cammoth is distracted by the Budrah, the Worm attacks another…

Hey, stop!

What’s going on?

We’re a single whole. So much for Asp as the head, Angel as the arms, hornets as the wings, the Budrah as the torso, and the Cammoths as the legs.

Why would this united creature slash at its own head?

There’s something terribly wrong with these old men and their Worm.

Why should we kill each other over some disagreement of theirs? Let them sort it out.

“Shut up, all of you!” I yelled.

The squealing voices and the growling one stopped instantly.

The frozen moment became as quiet as it should be.

The scenarios stopped, too, letting me choose the best one like a card from the deck. For some reason, I visualized that deck very clearly. It was black, almost square-shaped, with an intricate, golden pattern embossed along its edges.

I imagined turning one card and dropping it to the table.

The wheel of Time shuddered—and turned to those rails where I needed it, as though obeying a switch.

As the fragile wall of silence dissolved, the sounds gushed out into the reviving world like water into a sinking ship. They hissed as they seeped in through the spreading cracks, then spurting in a plentiful stream, flooding the Forecaster Valley with noise.

I looked around.

No arms slashing at our head.

Good.

Kasamarchi stood by my side, raising his brows and frequently blinking as though fighting sleep.

I checked the nape of my neck.

My hair was up, with Asp around it.

The other animated things were quiet in their pouches.

Phew.

Then I suddenly realized that the old men and the Worm were gone.

And not just them. There was no hollow, no drilling rig, and…and…no green valley! Nothing but the dry, brown grass swaying with thirst in the hot wind and the veil of smoke overhead, hiding the bulk of the distant volcano and half-covering the small hill nearby.

I could see ten more such hills in our way. They looked like warts on a giant reptile’s back: same-sized, with smoothed-over tops, placed close to the point of overlapping, covered with burned, chapped scales.

I turned to Kasamarchi with a silent question.

He was staring at something over my shoulder.

“Welcome, welcome, peacemakers.” A sonorous voice came from above, making me jump with surprise.

It could only be the Worm speaking! This voice had a higher pitch, no longer drawling the vowels, but it dripped the same sarcasm.

Wheeling around, I saw the Forecaster.

Of the Forecaster Valley.

He could be no one else, this old man with a benevolent and humble expression on his face similar to the kind I used to see on the pictures of saints.

Big beard.

Long hair.

Like those dwarves had. But this man was a giant. At least as tall as our Angel, if not taller. He even wore a similar, long robe.

And…his skin had a metal tint.

He was no doubt a living person; his face had pores and wrinkles. But I couldn’t help feeling like his body was just artistic, lifelike metalwork.

This giant looked much like the dwarves—and, at the same time, much like the round-headed Worm.

It was like meeting two children who were very different but shared the same last name, then meeting their mother and seeing the features of both in her face. They both took after her, just in different ways.

“Perfect timing, all of you. I’d all but killed myself. After I disintegrated into multiple personalities, the smaller ones wanted to destroy the big one. They built that drilling rig to reach him. When he fought back, they tried to involve you in that mess. Enough soul-searching. Come, come.” The old man ran his metal fingers with big rivets on the knuckles through his beard, his steel eyes under bushy eyebrows suddenly shooting a sly gleam.

Is his beard made of metal too? What does it feel like to touch?

“It’s your brain that’s made of metal,” the Forecaster boomed. “And no, you can’t touch it.”

I looked down. Damn mind reader.

“Hey, you!” the booming voice came again.

I bit my lip.

Why is Kasamarchi silent?

I looked at him—and saw him giving the Forecaster the blank stare of a complete idiot.

Kasamarchi apparently could stop his flow of thought at will. I envied that.

“What was I talking about?” The suicidal driller went on.

“About soul-searching,” I reminded him. “That went wrong. Where’s the valley?”

“No valley here,” he grumbled. “It was just my inner world that you saw, coming at a very bad moment. I was trying to kill my inner demon but just made it mad. Come, come. You were right not to join this scuffle. Although your monster could’ve rushed in. It’s not a creature of pure light.” He cast a glance at Kasamarchi and looked back at me. “Smart girl. Come, come. You’ve even taught me a lesson on how to make peace with myself. Let that demon live. My world would be too boring without it.”

I nodded, overcoming numbness and finally making sense of what I had seen in the valley. That drilling rig. The tiny men’s search for the Worm that was part of the same soul as themselves. Each side had been trying to use us to destroy the other.

My agreement with the Forecaster was sincere. Those “saint” dwarves were beyond annoying. Without the Worm’s balancing presence, he would’ve probably been just as irritating.

“Many thanks for saving this old man. Please accept my gift.” He stepped up to me and, taking my head in his giant hands, bowed it slightly and touched my snake. “For every passer-through, I have a challenge and a reward. Now leave. Come, come.”

“What have you done to him?” I felt the leather band. It seemed unchanged.

“Don’t ask. Go. Come, come. You will forget it anyway.” The Forecaster smiled under his metal-gleaming beard and locked his colorless gaze with mine.

***

The volcano was already visible through the veil of smoke as we marched toward it, an annoying catchphrase playing over and over in my head: The Forecaster Valley is the same as the Forecaster.

So weird.

I looked back, struggling to remember what had just happened.

The oasis was silent.

I noted that the East Ridge was now a several-day journey behind us.

But how is that possible? We had just descended from there that morning!

Really, really weird.

We had just stepped into the shadow cast by the smoky cloud and left the first small hill behind when a dazzling light suddenly flashed directly ahead. I covered my eyes with surprise—and heard a loud clap.