The chain bridge didn’t cross open space. It crossed an ocean of ghosts.
Ren Vale stepped onto the rusted iron links. Then, supporting Mira with his right arm while his boots slipped on the icy metal, the grey mist swirling up from the deep gap began to take shape.
They weren’t spirits of the dead. They were the shadows of the unborn.
To the left of the bridge, standing upon an invisible floor of air, a figure materialized in the silver fog. He wore the crimson velvet robes of a Chancellor of the Exchequer. His fingers were heavy with ruby rings, his hair styled in the high-born curls of the High Spires. The man turned his face toward Ren.
The face was Ren Vale’s.
“You should have signed the cartel charter in Sector Four,” the High judge murmured, his voice sounding as though it were spoken through twenty deep-water lengths of cold glass. “We owned forty merchant galleons, Ren. We bought the winter palace in Al-Mazar. Mira had a suite of rooms overlooking the orange groves. She lived until she was thirty-two.”
“Ren, don’t look at him!” Mira cried, her left hand coming up to shield his eyes.
Ren tried to turn his head, but his boots felt rooted to the iron chain.
