“It’s Thandril,” he said, his tone dull. He stood at a good remove from Pilgrim and had kept to the rear of the company throughout the day, face set in a permanently wary scowl. It seemed he expected his true mission to be revealed at any moment and rightly feared his companions’ reaction. From the new bulge in his pack, he had apparently selected but one skull from the pile of inscribed bones in the library. Pilgrim spent scant energy pondering which had been chosen amongst so many, as it seemed unlikely the man would ever bear it beyond the Execration.

“Who?” Seeker asked.

“The human consort of the Absolved,” Book explained. “Said to be the most perfect man ever to grace the earth. The Absolved was smitten at the first glance they shared, as too was Thandril. It’s said their love endured for more than a century, the youth kept youthful by the Absolved’s devotion. But all love fades, as does all beauty.”

“Was he cursed like everything else here?” Seeker reached up to run an appreciative hand over the statue’s wooden thigh. “It would seem a terrible waste.”

“The legends say he grew tired of life,” Book said. “He remained young whilst his family and friends withered and died, an old man trapped in a prison of youth. The Absolved showered him with riches and comforts, built palaces and, as this wreck attests, great pleasure barges to soothe his troubled heart. But it was never enough. Finally, Thandril prayed to his divine lover for release and, though it pained him, the Absolved granted his prayer. All the depredations of age came upon Thandril in an instant, and he died.”

“Is that what did it?” Maisha wondered. “Did the heartbreak drive the Absolved to madness?”

“No,” Priest stated, unclasping his hands and getting to his feet. “The Absolved grieved for his lover and decreed he be honoured for all the ages to come, but his grief did not descend into madness. For the next two centuries, his love for his people sustained him.”

“But all love fades,” Book said, offering a bland smile in response to the cleric’s sharp glance.

“The Crucible Bridge lies five miles west,” he said, striding off. “To reach the Crescent, we need to be across it before dusk.”

T he great dams that had once held back the Azure Sea rose like a long row of stunted teeth against the perennially overcast sky. As they drew nearer, the sound of rushing water became ever louder, eventually swelling to a continuous roar. The source became clear when Priest led them up the broad steps to the Crucible Bridge and the deep gorge between the ruined wall of dams and the irregular granite massif opposite stood revealed. A raging torrent of roiling water rushed through the gorge, birthing a perpetual mist as it rebounded from the enclosing rock.