Far out at sea the black-spined flagship rose and fell on a still ocean. The shadow-sail had become a curtain blotting out the stars. As the masters whispered the last of the old names, a cold wind ran outward across the water. It did not smell of salt or frost. It smelled of absence.
The darkness spread like spilled ink, rolling over waves without a ripple. Where it touched the sky, stars went out. Where it touched the water, even the glow of plankton died. It wasn't winter. It wasn't hunger. It was night given shape, a moving blindfold.
"Now," the first master hissed.
"Let his fire burn in darkness," the second said.
"And see what it lights," the third whispered.
Black Horizon
On the dunes, the second city slowed. Children at the front of the procession pointed to the sea. The horizon had turned the colour of coal. It wasn't a storm; there was no sound, no scent of rain. The glow of the city's sparks dimmed as if a giant hand had cupped them.
