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One of the great burdens of being was to know things, Accolade had learned. The very idea that he was now a thing capable of learning had been strange enough. But to learn that he had a great many things to learn was stranger still, and to learn that he had somehow been born into the world with some things already known to him was perhaps the strangest of all. Most things that Accolade knew he knew in a hazy, indistinct way: he knew of his Creator, beautiful and capricious; he knew of his boundary and that in some way his tether to it was not the same that others of his kind experienced. He knew to move a bit of debris with his mind; he knew that if he wished he could step over some invisible seam in the earth and go somewhere accessible only to spirits. And he knew, dimly, somehow, of the things around him: he knew that he was born into the lists, and that he had been a weapon, and that the one who had carried him had died in his breaking and that he had done so for the sake of