Songs Of Earth And Power (Omnibus) by Greg Bear

Author:Greg Bear [Bear, Greg]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-05-16T11:45:35.598000+00:00

Here makes real The weaver's weft. Lace-maker's bobbins Spin right, leap left Lift time's thread Over atom's twist, Bind such knot with Death's stone fist.

Weave of flower And twine of light Must cross and thwart By wilt, by night. Michael mused for a time on how realities might be put together by those less than gods. Such thinking was so abstruse and farfetched, however, that he soon drifted back to more immediate concerns. He was not disappointed that Kristine did not share his bed this evening. He was patient in his love. She already trusted him, though skittishly; she had given him an incredible gift by believing his story. He smiled in his slumber. He was still thinking profound thoughts and still feeling Kristine's even, steady, sleeping existence. He would have gladly remained in that state forever, but he knew how fragile his contentment was. Now he had told everybody who counted, who had the slightest possibility of believing him. If he had been secretive, if his courage had faltered and he had kept silent, he would have been playing along with Clarkham's plans. Michael would not be isolated. He suspected he had just purchased some extra time, at very little cost indeed. Yet still, on the very fringes of his outermost perception: the foulness, the spoor of the Isomage. Clarkham had one- advantage over Michael still: a plan. Michael didn't have a clear idea of what he needed to do, or even of the nature of what was coming.

Chapter Ten Contents <> - Prev <> / Next <> Downstairs, somebody banged on the door frantically. Michael broke out of a dream - dangerous, dreams, since they now pulled in his circle of awareness - and lurched out of bed, grabbing a robe and slipping it over his nakedness. In the hallway, he saw Kristine standing in the door to the master bedroom. She wore one of Golda's nightgowns, simple dark blue flannel. "Somebody wants in," she said sleepily. Michael extended his awareness as he thumped barefooted down the stairs. The aura of the person beyond the door, a man, was very familiar and very welcome, though there was something subtly wrong� He opened the door. A heavy-set bearded fellow in his middle forties stood outside, dressed in skins and furs like a trapper, with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. His short gray hair jutted out in all directions. "Nikolai!" "Thank God," the man said with a mild Russian accent. "I have been looking all over for this place. I am not used to Los Angeles now, Michael." He lay his cloth bag down on the step and hugged Michael twice, kissing him on both cheeks. "How did you get here?" Michael was astonished; he had last seen Nikolai in the Realm, standing beside the Sidhe initiate Biri and Clarkham's mistress Mora at the outskirts of the imitation Xanadu. "I walked," Nikolai said. Michael invited him in; Kristine watched them from the bottom of the stairs. "This is a friend," Michael said to Kristine.

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