“It is my sacred charge to set before you the hard truths of this pilgrimage,” Priest informed them, his manner now one of studied gravity that made Pilgrim wonder how many times he had practiced this sermon. “You seek to stand before the Absolved and have him hear your prayer. To do that you must first traverse his kingdom, a place known the world over to be cursed. Where once there was beauty, now there is defilement. Where once there was life, now there is death. We the Servants of the Absolved have taken upon ourselves the holy duty of leading these pilgrimages. We do not do this so that you, the unbeliever, can seek favours from a god you do not worship, we do this so that he may hear our words, forgive our transgressions and restore Alnachim to glory.

“I will be your guide to the Crescent where the Absolved now dwells, you will be my protectors. Should you survive, your reward for conveying me to the Crescent will be a single prayer. If he chooses to answer, the Absolved will answer only one. This is known. In the two centuries since Alnachim fell into the state unbelievers now call the Execration, only three pilgrimages have reached the Crescent and only three souls survived to tell of it. The dangers are many, the way is long and it is likely we will all perish. Mark this well and spend this night in thought, for once the first step is taken on the Whispering Sands, there will be no turning back.”

Priest paused, the tendons in his neck standing out as he straightened to look at each of them in turn, grimacing in pain but eyes unwavering. “Some of you may be given to selfish calculation,” he went on. “You may be thinking, ‘Since the Absolved will grant but one prayer, would it not be best if I were the only one to voice it?’ Know that this is folly. The fewer of us, the more likely our pilgrimage will end before it ever catches sight of the Crescent. And even if your prayer is heard, the Absolved may choose not to answer, for his ways are fickle now.”

Fickle? the voice chuckled in scorn. He’s fucking mad and they know it. This clutch of deluded grovellers should have died out decades ago.

“Go now and rest,” Priest concluded. “Think long on my words. Any who still wish to make the journey find me here at first light. If you do not, leave immediately and sully this holy place with your disbelief no longer.”

“I t smells a bit like burnt toast,” Book opined, nose wrinkling as he surveyed the grey expanse of the Whispering Sands. “Don’t you think?”

“No,” Seeker replied, running a hand through Chena’s fur. The hyena’s ears were flat as she gazed at the windswept grey dunes, apparently uncomforted by her mistress’s touch. “It smells of death.”