They were beautiful walls, deceptively plain, perfectly molded. At one time, there must have been gates, but the damp corrosive air had claimed them and they had not been replaced. It gave him a twinge of disappointment, seeing that anyone could walk in, and he had to stop there in the opening with his neck bent until he had reminded himself that Sheul’s house was open to all His children. The inner doors, those were the true test.

“Are we going in or are we standing here all day?”

“Dude, just give him his space. This is a big deal for him.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lizardman’s gotta get right with the Big Liz. Meanwhile, I’m freezing my nuts off.”

Six breaths, deep and slow. One for the Prophet, who had been the first to enter these ruins and hear the true voice of God within. Two for his Brunt, who had surrendered everything, even his own name, to serve others in faithfulness and humility. Three for Uyane, the first Sword, father of his own line. Four for Mykrm, the hammer, who had raised the first true cities under Sheul and taught men to rule them fairly. Five for Oyan, who carried seedlings across the ruin of the Fallen world and brought life out of the poisoned earth. Six for Thaliszr, priest and healer, who had brought the man Lashraq out of death and restored him as Sheul’s own Prophet.

Meoraq raised his head and crossed through the gateless portal into Xi’Matezh.

He saw the ruins at once, ruins he had every reason to expect to see, ruins he had no right to resent now that they were before him. There were several buildings within the walls, much eroded by the ocean air, windowless, doorless, lifeless. He saw the thing the humans called a transmission tower—weathered, but still standing, still humming beneath his hand when he reached out to touch it. He saw no machines, but the courtyard was too well-kept to think none were here, even here.

The next thing he saw was the ocean, which he could see only because of the huge, tumbled hole in that beautiful wall. Not just one or two missing bricks, but a whole length of them, loosened by the constant pounding of the waves on the cliffs or eroded by the wet wind that had pitted so many of these other buildings. If he and his humans all joined hands, they still couldn’t make a line long enough to touch both sides. This fine wall, the life’s work of who knew how many master masons, carried block by block to be raised here under Oracle Mykrm’s own living eye…This beautiful wall was falling.

But beside the hole, Meoraq saw the only thing that really mattered: a dark stone dome enclosing the true shrine and the heavy doors that sealed it. The doors were made of qil, the same as his sabks—a lost metal, from a lost age. Perhaps Oracle Uyane had made the knives from the scraps left after the doors were cast. Perhaps he had always carried a piece of Xi’Matezh with him and never knew it.

“Wife,” said Meoraq, and when she was with him, he began to walk.

“God, there better be wall-to-wall booze and burgers in there,” Crandall said, falling into step at his side.

Meoraq halted. He turned, his head cocked, and thrust his snout into the human’s flat face. “You,” he hissed, raking his gaze across the rest of them as well. “All of you. You wait here. This place is sacred.”

“Oh what the hell, man!” Crandall looked back at his people, then at Meoraq, and finally at Amber. “What, we’re not good enough to see God? We’ve come just as fucking far, haven’t we? Maybe I got some questions too!”

“Stay here,” Meoraq said again and snorted, blowing back the dirty hair from Crandall’s brow. “Look for your abbot’s ship. Wife, come.”

Crandall faced him down for a second or two, but did turn away in the end, pucker-faced and full of color. “Fucking lizard’s pet. Come on, guys. I ain’t standing out in the wind.”

Amber had a special look for him when Meoraq turned back to her, but he didn’t care. He went on ahead to open the outer doors of Xi’Matezh. The hinges were stiff, but they opened, blowing the dank, waxy-scented breath of the temple back at him.

The doors were too heavy to hold indefinitely. Meoraq gave his wife a not-so-subtle nudge with the toe of his boot and let go of them. They immediately began to swing shut, ponderous as doors in a dream, and closed with no more than a muffled whump, trapping them in black.

Meoraq took his pack off and found his lamp and strikers. He waited until his hands steadied before he made a light, and it was all there, just as he’d imagined: a thousand half-burnt candles like a second wall all around him, melted together, stacked one atop the other, like a city made of wax; the Prophet’s mark painted on the wall, renewed by countless pilgrims over the years; the building, not ruined but maintained, a relic outside of time, and the doors, marked with the names of those who had passed through. Meoraq raised the lamp and approached, his hand skimming the air just over the doors until he found one name he knew: Tsazr Dyuun.

“Your teacher?” Amber asked, watching him.

He grunted, his eyes tracing each line of each letter. They were not even, which surprised him some. He remembered Master Tsazr as such a meticulous man, but then making letters was a very different thing from teaching boys to beat one another senseless. Still…

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He looked at her, his spines flexing forward. In the close air of this place, he could actually hear them flexing, which was so unnerving that he reached up to rub at them. “Why would you say that? I’ve walked across the world, woman!”

She averted her eyes, rolling her shoulders as she hugged herself. “This doesn’t look like much of a temple, is all. It kind of looks like a bunker.”

“Whatever it may have been before the Fall, it became a temple when God entered.” His eye wandered back to Master Tsazr’s name on the wall. “All things change when He enters, Soft-Skin.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“How can I be? Look there.” He nudged at her arm and pointed to the wall. “The mark of the Prophet. Prophet Lashraq made that mark.”

Amber studied it with a singularly dubious expression. “It looks awfully fresh.”

“It’s been repainted, I’m sure, but he made it first. He was here, Soft-Skin. Here, where I stand.” He dropped his arm and turned to her, holding his lamp before him like a candle-ward. The flame underlit her odd face in unflattering ways; he leaned close and nuzzled at her chin. “Will you stand with me, wife? One more hour?”

“Meoraq…what if—”

He pushed his mouthparts against hers and rubbed them lightly together until she pushed him away, laughing. “Will you stand with me?” he asked again.

“I think my lips are bleeding.”

“Will you?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, I have to say it?” She sighed, wiped her mouth, then suddenly raised both arms and dropped them loudly to her side. “I’m with you,” she said. “I’m always with you. So…open up that door, Meoraq. Let’s do this.”

He smiled, nuzzling her one more time, and put his palm to the lock-plate.

It warmed, clicked twice and began to hum. Lights came slowly to life all around the door, soft white and palest blue. Another click, and then the voice, echoing off the rounded shell of the dome so that it seemed to be speaking directly in Meoraq’s head: “Warning. This is a secure area. All access restricted. Warning. Lethal force authorized.”

“Nuu Sukaga.”

The humming changed pitch. Small vents opened to either side of the door. “Defense imminent. Present mnabed. This is your final warning.”

Amber took a large step back, catching at his arm, but Meoraq was not moved. “Nuu Sukaga,” he said again.

The vents closed. The door opened.

Deep in the darkened room beyond, Sheul the All-Father stood, the sword of war sheathed and the light of wisdom burning in His hand.