Blades clashed. Gern flesh sizzled with electric jolts. Flames crackled and licked as they ate through abominable forms. Monsters cried out in pain, slipped and fell. Those that fell did not recover.

  Despite his pain, Saul whistled in appreciation of the skill. Morrie and Kari hung back behind him. The two of them were obviously scared, but these gern were no match for the warriors they faced.

  The gern circled warily after facing the onslaught of Irene, Olivia, and the art-children for the first time. Saul’s friends did not press the attack, being that the gern still outnumbered them by far. A swish of wings drew his attention skyward. Something vaguely dragon-like swept overhead, but the shadow was too small and lithe to be one of the dragons he had created here.

  Even so, he knew it was no gern by the smell and presence of its taph. This was one of his art-children. A spear flashed down from above and hit the ground in the midst of the cautious gern. The monsters retreated as quickly as they could from the weapon, though it appeared to have missed. A pennant the color of deep ocean waters fluttered from the butt of the weapon.

  One of the monsters furthest from the spear pointed skyward with a taloned finger. “Lear bird,” it cried, “Retreat.”

  A piercing cry answered him, followed by a leonine roar.

  “It is I, Canx Twinfold!” said a deep voice. “You are right to flee.”

  Saul craned his neck but only glimpsed the speaker the wings of the flier for an instant before the art-child descended. It was serpentine, but without scales on its sinuous body.

  Feathery wings sprouted from the creature’s midsection. Another creature sat on the lear bird’s back, and Saul knew immediately where the roar and the words had originated.

  A figure of almost-humanoid build straddled the bird just ahead of its wings, hefting another long spear in one hand. He wore a vastly billowing robe that streamed out behind him. What Saul could see of him was covered in fine fur, except for the bushy mane around his head. He looked like a humanoid lion with black streaks through his golden fur.

  And he too was Saul’s child, born from this world.

  In an instant, the air was full of feathers, three more lear birds all ridden by other cat children.

  The gern retreated, snarling, into the forest. Some cut the world wall with their passage blades and disappeared into the gray between. Others faded into the shadows of the trees or took to the air.

  The fliers were in error. Another pair of birds and riders fell upon the airborne stragglers. More than one gern tumbled lifeless to the treetops.

  The lion who rode the first lear bird leaped to the ground in front of Irene and Olivia. He bristled as he straightened up from all fours. His feline eyes went wide. “Humans,” he murmured, then louder, “The day is here.”

  Irene stepped forward toward the lion. She lowered the blade of her sword and extinguished its fire. Olivia glanced at Irene, then turned to Saul. She frowned when she saw him. He knew he must be glowing with pride as he walked forward to join the two women and his art-children.

  “We are not enemies,” said Saul.

  “I can tell you are makers,” said the lion child.

  All around them, more lear birds landed. Other cat children dismounted. They gathered into a cluster behind the lion with his broad mane and black-dappled collar. Each of them wore the same sort of overly-long robe as their leader, but none of them resembled the lion in fur pattern or mane. They were all sleek and black like panthers.

  The lions’ eyes fell on Olivia. “But not all of you are makers.”

  “Indeed,” said Saul. He stepped forward. “And we are here as your allies.”

  “The Dancer taught me not to trust makers,” said the lion. “She saw the creator herself, and knows he did not mean for makers to approach this world.”

  Irene crossed her arms, though she kept her sword in one hand. “The two of us created your world, child.” She sounded gentle when she spoke. That kind of gentleness reminded Saul of years ago, when they were children. He had begun to think she had no kindness left in her to voice. Irene’s gaze met the leonine child’s eyes. “I gave the Dancer her instructions when she was still newborn.”

  The lion child’s eyes grew fiercer as he looked at Irene. “The Dancer will judge you and your friends.”

  “Very well,” said Irene. “I trust her.”

  The lion looked from Irene to Saul, then to the others with them. Then he turned to his comrades. “Prepare to fly. The Dancer will want an audience with these at once.”

  One of the other cat children nodded. Each member of the group split off to mount their lear bird. The lion looked at Irene and Saul. “Makers. If you are who you say, please forgive this caution. Selere is a dangerous place, and always has been.”

  Saul frowned. “The gern.”

  “Yes,” said the lion child. “Follow my people. It is not far to the House of the Dancer, but the gern will strike back if we tarry.”

  Saul did not need another telling. He followed one of the other cats to a lear bird and motioned for Olivia and the others to do the same.

  * * *

  The lear bird carried Saul between the spheres of the wandering world, buffeted by crosswinds. Light streamed from above and below. Somehow Saul felt safe despite the bottomless drop all around. He was with his own creation, and that pleased him.

  The lion-like leader of the flight of birds, Canx, guided his lear bird through gaps in stalks and their tangled branches easily. Irene rode on that bird, effectively the leader of their group because of her previous meeting with the Dancer.

  Evidently, this being, who must be an art-child just as much as Canx, had earned great respect from the other denizens of the wandering world. Selere. Canx had called this place Selere. Saul doubted he would have thought of a better name.

  Saul wished he had not left the wandering world so quickly after its creation but could do nothing to change that now. He clung to the lear bird’s hair as the art-child swooped downward through a gap in the foliage. His eyes widened. What emerged from the largest planetoid he had yet seen in Selere could only be described as a castle.

  It obviously had not been built, for there were no seams for mortar in the high walls of brown stone. No, this castle had grown from the earth itself, the stone shaped at the will of a maker. Saul breathed in sharply as the lear bird leveled out.

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  “The House of the Dancer,” said the cat child sharing the bird’s back with Saul. “A glorious sight.”

  “Truly,” Saul said.

  Shiny brown stone. Trees grown together to cover the battlements. Towers with vines wrapped around them in perfect spiral staircases. This was Irene’s work. She had stayed here longer than Saul and Olivia. And she had not been idle.

  He should have been here. To help their art-children. To fight the gern. To guide the new world.

  The lear birds circled down to the planetoid and alighted on the battlements of the fortress, before a wide gate, at least sixty feet high. Saul and the others climbed down from their lear birds. Only as they approached the sealed metal doors, did Saul see the sentries.

  Two dragons stepped out from the shadowy eaves on either side of the doors. Each of them was almost as tall as the gateway, with shifting patterns of green and black scales and dark-colored reptilian wings. The two creatures stood at attention on all fours. Saul had never intended to create dragons here, but worlds could shape themselves when untended or rushed. And he had been rushed.

  Canx called to them. “Protectors of the House, my flight and I have returned.”

  “We see you. Canx,” said the dragons together. “Do not think you fool us.”

  “I have before,” said Canx. “How else could I have earned the name, Twinfold?”

  The dragons rumbled with annoyance.

  Olivia and the other exiles stared at the majestic creatures. “You—You made dragons like this?” said Olivia.

  “Dragons?” said the gatekeepers as one. “We are Tirhanias. We protect the House of the Dancer.”

  “One mind, two bodies,” said Canx. He turned and spoke in a stage whisper. “Slows them both down if you ask me.”

  Tirhanias clearly heard, because both dragons growled. Small flames flickered within their half-closed mouths.

  “Fire-breathers?” Saul frowned. “Irene…”

  “What?” she said, sounding amused. “I like fire. Don’t tell me you made every part you did consciously.”

  “Open the gate, good dragons,” said Canx. “Please forgive my remarks.”

  “You bring makers, or we would slow you. But the Dancer must see them.”

  “Indeed,” said Canx.

  The dragons reached out with long, articulated claws, and hauled the doors open. Saul and the others walked into the House of the Dancer.

  * * *

  The interior of the castle that the art-children called a house was as majestic and strange as the exterior. Plants wound around columns of brown stone. Walls glinted with mirrors reflecting light filtered through slitted windows higher up. The floor was of one piece, like the rest of the castle, forged by the mind of makers and the power of an aleph splinter, from a fragment of Apahar himself.

  Irene led the way at Canx’s side. Saul and Olivia followed close behind them, flanked by the rest of the flight. Even the lear birds entered the hall with the cat children and humans. The great room more than accommodated them. The room stretched so far as to make Saul wonder why they had dismounted before entering. But even the lear birds slithered along the floor, apparently unwilling to take to the wing.

  They stopped before a dais of white stone some thirty feet on each side and square. Canx sank to his knees before the creature sitting on the dais, swathed in deep green robes that concealed the entire shape beneath. “Dancer, makers have come. They say they made this place.”

  The creature on the dais leaned forward. Robes fell back, revealing a white throat, cat-like ears, and a feline smile. Yellow eyes gazed at Irene. A slender trickle of tears ran from one of those eyes through a channel carved into the creature’s dark fur. The other eye was clear, but the one that cried looked like it never stopped.

  “Mother has returned,” said the Dancer in a throaty purr. She looked at Saul. “Who is this other one?”

  Irene stepped forward from beside Canx and motioned to Saul. “He is Saul, the man who made your world with me.”

  The Dancer yawned, showing long white fangs. “If this is so, let him speak for himself.”

  Saul walked to Irene’s side. “She’s telling the truth. My spark set this world in motion. My will sent Selere to wander.” He took a deep breath. “I made your winds blow so strong they rip trees from their roots. I made the first cat children and shaped the world stalks to hold everything together. And I want to protect you and your people.”

  Canx raised his head and stared at Saul. That wasn’t the only gaze he felt. He knew Olivia probably wore a look of exasperation. He hardly wanted to sound pompous, but he had been taught by his parents and his tutors how to take ownership of ones’ creation. Honesty tempered with arrogance made one convincing to a young world.

  “Saul,” said the Dancer. “While I appreciate the speech, I fear we denizens of Selere have little reason to trust our makers.”

  His stomach sank and his wounds began to make dizzy him once again. Of course things would not be so easy.

  “You abandoned us, one after the other. We could use your help to war against the Tangle, but do not mistake use for loyalty. My people will keep our world, no matter what your intentions were for us.”

  Saul folded his hands. “I regret leaving you to fend for yourselves against Apahar’s gern.” He glanced at Irene. “I will not ask for forgiveness.” His gaze returned to the Dancer.

  “But I wish to help you, not to control you. All I ask in return is refuge for my friends.” He motioned to the exiles standing among the art-children and lear birds behind him.

  “Friends?” Morrie frowned. “Not sure if I’d call us friends.”

  Kari looked at the small student. “He’s our best way out of this.”

  “That doesn’t make us friends. George and Cecilia are my friends. And where are they?”

  Saul’s brows bent together. His folded hands shook with channeled rage. He held them together. “Morrie. I am doing my best.”

  The Dancer reared up on the dais. More of her green robe dropped to reveal a tawny coat with black patterns, and a pair of wide, delicate wings that resembled those of the lear birds, only smaller.

  “Be still, humans.” She put two large front paws, which Saul felt certain could shift into hands, on the edge of the dais, claws retracted, and looked down at the group below. She waved one paw at Morrie. “You are no maker. Why are you here?”

  “I’m from a place called Pennsylvania. It’s named for having a lot of trees,” said Morrie. “Until a few days ago, I thought the biggest cat I’d ever see was a tiger in the zoo.”

  “A tiger in a zoo?” the Dancer scratched one ear. “Go on. Tell me about yourself.”

  He gulped. “I’m a student. My friends, George and Cecilia…” He reddened when he said the girl’s name. “…We—I guess they vanished on me. It turns out they’re under the control of one of Saul’s—I guess he’s the kind of guy who has enemies.”

  “And lots of them,” said Olivia.

  Saul took a deep breath, but his fingers still trembled against each other. Do not be angry. Do not be frustrated. What they say is true. Nat looked up at him from on top of his collar.

  “Master, it is getting warm down here.”

  “I bet,” Saul muttered. He pictured the temper trees from so long ago. Worlds away he knew they still reflected his emotions. Do not give father the satisfaction. He stilled his hands. The heat in his face began to subside.

  Morrie finished telling his story to the dancer, explaining how he had learned about Saul and the makers, and how they had ended up in Selere.

  “Curious,” said the Dancer. “And you trust this man.” She motioned to Saul.

  “It’s weird,” said Morrie, “But I suppose I sorta do.”

  Kari nodded when he said that.

  “I take it you other two exiles are similar?”

  “I’ve known longer,” said Olivia. “I saw your world begin. Otherwise, close enough.”

  “Interesting,” said the Dancer. “If you were here when Selere began, perhaps you can answer this: Why are the gern so relentless in their assault?”

  Olivia scowled. “I know gern better than I know makers. Those monsters are always hungry. They eat humans, art-children, even each other. I’ve hunted them for a few years. But these gern are worse. Something about Selere attracts them more than other worlds.”

  He glanced at Olivia. She met his gaze and nodded.

  Saul raised a hand and sighed. “Apahar’s essence. In the aleph shard I sparked to create Selere, Apahar’s presence lingered from ages past. It seems the gern descended from him see this place as a home.”

  “Makers are trouble. But the gern are our enemies.” The Dancer stretched, then got to all-fours on the dais. She circled, dragging the green robe with her. “I fear you may be right. We could use your help, Saul. And yours, Irene.”

  “Father and mother,” murmured Canx from behind the two of them.

  Irene folded her arms. Her hands cupped her elbows. She gazed levelly at the Dancer.

  “How can we help?” Saul asked.

  “My domain is Duskhaven,” said the Dancer. “But nearby, on the other side of the Idisa Storm Heart lies the Tangle. From there, abei-gern seek to invade and devour my people.”

  She wriggled forward to the edge of the dais once again. “Canx,” she said. “Would you not agree that now is the time to seal these demons for good?”

  “You have but to ask as Dancer of Duskhaven. I will be honored and joyous to lead for you.”

  “As much as that would please me, Canx, I must not send my warriors into battle without their ruler. I will join you in the fray.”

  “All eyes be upon you,” said Canx.

  Every Selerian art-child in the great room said the same.

  So, Saul thought, this is how a war begins on a new world.