A few of the villagers spit in the water before they turned and followed their leader behind their fortifications. Fintan manifested a torch. The bad witch stumbled to her feet. Her arms and legs realigned, and her neck twisted into a position compatible with life. She wore an exosuit like the Free People, except frozen in a pattern of greens and browns. Her boots were thick-soled, and the cowl and mask were thrown back so he could see her face. She had an expression of wonder behind her severe features and dark black hair tied in a knot behind her head.

  The wonder leaked out of her as her eyes traveled past his torch to his clothing. His clothes were much the same as any Union clothing, where people lived under the protection of a bubble. They were UV resistant, but outside of his modified lab coat, they were soft synthetic fibers designed to be long-lasting and shed dirt.

  “Saved by city folk,” she said monotonously. An almost imperceptible shake of her head was all the read he had on the melancholy she directed at herself.

  “I’m Fintan,” Fintan said. “I’ve only been dead for a few weeks, but I could see you were in trouble.”

  “RuTing,” she said. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, measuring. “I came through the portal days ago. I didn’t recognize anyone, so I left. This is the first village I found.”

  “They called you a bad witch.”

  “I’m not sure what went wrong,” RuTing said. “They needed simple things, but every time I did something, it changed back the next day.”

  Fintan had an idea. So much of the afterlife was governed by your own belief, and with few people together reinforcing those beliefs, anything RuTing manifested was probably undone. Judging by her incredulity at the torch in his hand, she didn’t know she was manifesting at all.

  What would have happened to Fintan if his grandfather hadn’t been there?

  “We need to get away from here,” RuTing added. “The Adversary’s priest has the same powers you do. Maybe greater. I think the only reason he left was because the villagers will not go out at night.”

  Fintan nodded.

  “As long as we keep a light, most bad ideas that take shape at night will stay away.” Most but not all. He knew that already. “Let’s keep going down the river.”

  He started ahead, uncertain of letting this stranger at his back, but she was from the Union, the same as him. As a Free Person, she was probably more skilled with woodcraft, but she’d been here a short time, and even small obstacles could prove challenging.

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  They walked for an hour, leaving the village behind. The trees continued to thin, and the river splintered into streams. At each crossing, Fintan created a small wooden bridge. The midsts at his feet curled around him in the night when he stopped for each manifestation. As long as he stayed away from the river, they seemed strong, but the near presence of water left them hollow, as if they were ready to collapse into mist quickly. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the bridges crusted over with white corrosion before the end of the night.

  While they walked, he gave RuTing the same explanation his grandfather gave him about the afterlife. When he felt tired, she attempted the last bridge, creating something more natural to the Free People. Instead of two-by-fours and synthetic rope, her bridge was made of whole-cut saplings and cordage.

  The strength didn’t seem any different.

  Past the streams and deeper into the woods, he found a clearing, and they placed free-standing torches and a tent with a mesh wall to repel the insects. Last but not least, he lit one of his grandfather’s special candles. It was brighter than any torch, and a whole candle would burn all night long.

  He was so tired he was afraid he wouldn’t wake until mid-morning. RuTing didn’t say much about her story. She’d died in the woods, hunting—not an unusual fate for a Free Person where a single misstep could prove fatal.

  Most died younger than people who lived in the safety of the city, but in a bizarre twist, she was actually older than he was by several years.

  He expended the last of his energy to make a cot, and when he woke the next morning, he jerked upright.

  A humid breeze flapped the canvas on the tent. He slept in his clothes, and they seemed untouched, but his overcoat was gone, along with his sword and his grandfather’s candle.

  He looked around the tent. RuTing’s pallet was still there. She’d manifested a pallet bed with a firm cushion. There were no other signs of his former companion. He felt rested but disappointed. He quickly tested his pouch for gilders, along with his belt and hat. All were still present.

  Then he heard a low growl behind him. The canvas was thin, with no sound barrier, but good at blocking sight where he hadn’t created an opening. It would offer no protection. Quite possibly, he would get tangled in his own manifestation, which could prove fatal. He didn’t want to use the effort to dissolve the tent, so his most logical move was to run out the flap.

  His feet carried him around the tent as quietly as he could. He expected a wild animal, but instead, it was RuTing, and she had his sword.

  As he watched, she worked the blade through multiple forms. Even in the boots, she was graceful.

  “The shape of the blade isn’t right,” she said, “but it's coming back to me.”

  She spun and struck at an imaginary opponent. She was careful to stay in the clearing far away from trees, but as she swung, another low growl of pent-up rage turned into a yell, and a water oak twenty feet away split in half.

  Dying has a way of putting fury in your heart. He’d transformed his fury into passion—the desire to find a way out. He wasn’t sure what RuTing would do with hers.

  It fell in two symmetrical parts, the twenty-foot truck cut neatly down the center. The crash startled RuTing. She dropped the sword.

  “I didn’t know it was magic,” she said.

  “It isn’t,” he said, “At least not more than usual. Let me tell you about Skills.”