She knew he made her believe them, but it wore at her nonetheless, as did the seductive whisper of the parasite wings.
"Be my disciple," he said. "And you may own me. Let me serve you, beloved, and I will give you everything. We are the world. We are the Jacob's Ladder. Between us, we can Heaven attain—"
She had no weapons. She had no allies. She touched her hip and found it naked of any defense. The bridge was draped in cobwebs until it seemed as if all the furniture had been sheeted for storage. She stood quite still and listened, and watched her enemy climb.
Ariane, assisted by her angel and her armor, picked nimbly across the webs and ladders of the world. On Dust's screens, Perceval could see a great deal—more than she ever had before. Not everything, though. Engine was closed to her, and so were many reaches of the world. Dust explained that these regions were dead, or under the domination of Asrafil or Samael or one of the lesser brothers—although there were few enough small angels and elementals left.
Perceval thought of Gavin, and held her peace. But she wondered who then the basilisk had belonged to—and who, by extension, Mallory.
Could Rien find an ally there?
Anything was possible. Pinion simpered in her ear, as it did now constantly, a low manipulative whisper. She would not hear its words. She would choose not to understand them.
"She's coming for me," she said.
Dust stroked her shoulder, down to the stump of her wing, the place where Pinion bonded her flesh. She leaned into his touch like a cat, reflexively, then recalled herself and jerked away.
She could have watched the waystars for hours, so she did, without shifting the portion of her attention that followed Ariane. The suns' embrace had grown deadly, and with Dust's senses—her senses, now, through Pinion's intercession—she could see quite plainly how dire things went with the primary. It was on the thin edge of conflagration, and there was no way for Perceval to guess what might press it over the edge.
—You could save us— Pinion murmured, and she would have blocked the frequencies of its voice, if it would have allowed.
She warmed to it; its voice was a pleasure. No, she thought. She would not accept that thinking of Dust or Pinion made her feel a melting, protective softness. She stared at the waystars and forced herself to think of Rien.
Rien, whom she had decided to love, of her own free will. Rien, whom she loved for a thousand reasons, all of them good. Rien, whom she chose.
Rien, who must not be dead, or Dust would not be at such pains to pry her from Perceval's fingers.
But thinking of Rien brought problems. Because Perceval had the means to rescue her. Or at least the means to try.
All it would cost her—
—was her integrity. Her freedom.
Rien.
She wanted to trust Dust.
She did trust him. He was there, and she knew him as if she had known him for years. As if she had trusted him for years.
Like her closest friend.
She trailed a hand down the railing as she descended into the cockpit. The bridge was not a vast room, not by the standards of the Jacob's Ladder. It was merely a comfortable size for six or eight to work in, to converse across. She stepped down the ramp, feeling stiff resistance and then a dry crunch as carpet fibers crushed under each step.
She stopped at the bottom, beside the captain's chair, which commanded the center of the bridge. She brushed cobwebs from its arms. Despite the dust, it looked comfortable.
She didn't think that was her own opinion.
"Get out of my head."
"We'll be together," Dust said, coalescing. He turned, arms wide on a grand gesture, his waistcoat catching the light of the waystars. On the screens, Ariane and Asrafil still climbed. Higher, or more inward, proceeding through the vast laddery webwork of the world. Closer now. Nearly there.
"It's the only way."
They would arrive in a matter of minutes.
"I don't love you," Perceval said. "I decide who I love, and how I love them."
"But I love you," Dust said, his breath against her scalp a thrill that made her wish she could still hide behind her hair. It wasn't real breath. It wasn't any more real than the flush that crept along her neck in response.
She stepped away from his outstretched hand. He frowned, as if he had expected her to allow him to bow over it like some make-believe prince. "I love Rien."
"But bow to me," he said, "and I will serve you all my days. Together we will cross space and sail the stars. Just your consent—"
"I don't love you," Perceval said. "I love Rien." "Because you have decided to love Rien." "Yes," she said, against the warm pressure of desire. She should have felt hunger; she did not know how long it had been since she had eaten. Her symbiont could have told her, but she did not trust its answers. It was infected by Pinion now. As surely as Perceval herself.
She scratched at the back of the chair. The cobwebs felt powdery soft; they stuck only to themselves now. And a bit to the back of her hand, but only because she tore through them.
"Get out of my head." She closed her eyes. She brushed the bit of web away with a thumb.
But even inside her head, she could see Ariane creeping like a crippled spider along the skin of the world. There was a whole world out there. Beyond her. Behind her.
Somewhere out there, beyond Dust, beyond Ariane, was Rien and Tristen and Perceval's mother and her father. Somewhere out there was a cave of bats and a necromancer guarding the vale of the dead. Somewhere there were ship-fish, flitting through gravityless corridors. There were daggery angels and lies as soft as sleep.
Perceval hated how it was made, the world. She hated what it was made for. She wished she could find the builders, and pass with them a pointy word or two. They were evil men, whatever they did in God's name.
Whatever they had thought was God's will, the world was full of people and creatures who did not deserve to die for the sins of their fathers. Perceval opened her eyes. She looked straight at Dust, at his silver waistcoat gleaming peach in the light of the dying stars, and let her hands fall.
Creatures that do not deserve to die for the sins of their fathers. And maybe, she thought, a few that do.
There was a world, and it did not matter if Perceval agreed with its plan. The world was bigger than she was. And had as much right to survive. And if she didn't like the way the world worked, tomorrow was another day.
She turned to Dust, who stood at her shoulder, shorter than she by half a head. "Take off the compulsion," she said.
"Beloved—"
"Take off the compulsion, and I shall fight for you. Give me the freedom of my heart, Jacob Dust, and I shall do your will."
"I would have given you absolution," he said. "I would have absorbed your crimes."
"Give me back my brain," she said. "Get your parasites off me, and I will be your damned captain, Jacob Dust."
"Pinion stays," he said. "There is no way now to extricate you, and you will need its protection to fight Ariane, who is armored and comes bearing an unblade."
Perceval's skin crawled, but she nodded. "Fine," she said. "As long as both of you get the hell out."
"A compromise, then. It shall be as you wish," he said. And kissed her on the cheek before she could close her eyes.
Perceval pulled away. She smiled bitterly, and looked down at her hands. The sticky bit of spiderweb smirched, her knuckle and thumb. She put her hand in her mouth, but it only tasted of grit and powder.
"Hurry, Dust," she said. "Your enemy is climbing."