The currents of THE Infinite Carcosa ran on through the dark in long, slow blue rivers that bent back on themselves and crossed and parted again, and on one of them, frozen into a broad shelf of pale ice, the Iron Psalm had made a small camp. There was no wood to burn, so they burned a little white star-fire in a ring of stones instead, and it gave off no smoke and very little warmth.
Brunhild sat on the far side of it with a whetstone, running it along a blade that did not need sharpening, because the sound of it was better than the silence. Aethon sat apart at the edge of the shelf with his knees drawn up, looking out at the dark, and said almost nothing.
