The howls of the Unkin grew louder behind them as they skidded to a halt at the edge of the chasm. Ridee glanced at Sulo.
"Well?" she demanded. "Just speak a bridge or something and make it True."
"It is not that simple," said Sulo. He held up the small glass bottle, filled perhaps halfway with shimmering blue fluid. "We're almost out of Truth."
"What? How?"
"All things are rooted in Truth," Sulo explained, "but roots... drink. Pure, unconsumed Truth is vanishingly rare. Better in some ways that we die than live in a universe with no Truth at all."
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