Мор - ученик смерти
EveryonehadseenMortrunthroughitthreetimes.Hejusthadn’topenedit.
Binkyfoughtforheight,risingnearlyverticallywithhishoovesthrashingtheairandhisbreathcurlingawaybehindhimlikeavapourtrail.Morthungonwithkneesandhandsandmostlywithwillpower,hisfaceburiedinthehorse’smane.Hedidn’tlookdownuntiltheairaroundhimwasfreezingandthinasworkhousegravy.
OverheadtheHubLightsflickeredsilentlyacrossthewintersky.Below—
—anupturnedsaucer,milesacross,silveryinthestarlight.Hecouldseelightsthroughit.Cloudsweredriftingthroughit.
No.Hewatchedcarefully.Cloudswerecertainlydriftingintoit,andtherewerecloudsinit,butthecloudsinsidewerewispierandmovinginaslightlydifferentdirectionand,infact,didn’tseemtohavemuchtodowiththecloudsoutside.Therewassomethingelse...ohyes,theHubLights.Theygavethenightoutsidetheghostlyhemisphereafaintgreentint,buttherewasnosignofitunderthedome.
Itwaslikelookingintoapieceofanotherworld,almostidentical,thathadbeengraftedontotheDisc.Theweatherwasslightlydifferentinthere,andtheLightsweren’tondisplaytonight.
AndtheDiscwasresentingit,andsurroundingit,andpushingitbackintonon-existence.Mortcouldn’tseeitgrowingsmallerfromuphere,butinhismind’searhecouldhearthelocustsizzleofthethingasitgroundacrosstheland,changingthingsbacktowheretheyshouldbe.Realitywashealingitself
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