The Wickan’s grin widened, deepening the scar until it seemed he had two smiles instead of one.

Outside, Kulp waited with the mounts, astride his own small, sturdy-looking horse. Duiker found the cadre mage’s glum expression perversely pleasing.

They rode through almost empty streets. It was marrok: early afternoon, when sane people retired indoors to wait out the worst of the summer heat. The historian had grown accustomed to napping during marrok; he was feeling grumpy, all too out of sorts to attend Sormo’s ritual. Warlocks were notorious for their impropriety, their deliberate discombobulating of common sense. For the defence of decency done, the Empress might be excused the executions. He grimaced – clearly not an opinion to be safely voiced within hearing range of any Wickans.

They reached the city’s northern end and rode out on a coastal track for half a league before swinging inland, into the wastes of the Odhan. The oasis they approached an hour later was dead, the spring long since dried up. All that remained of what had once been a lush, natural garden amidst the sands was a stand of withered, gnarled cedars rising from a carpet of tumbled palms.

Many of the trees bore strange projections that drew Duiker’s curiosity as they led their horses closer.

‘Are those horns in the trees?’ Kulp asked.

‘Bhederin, I think,’ the historian replied. ‘Jammed into a fork, then grown past, leaving them embedded deep in the wood. These trees were likely a thousand years old before the water vanished.’

The mage grunted. ‘You’d think they’d be cut down by now, this close to Hissar.’

‘The horns are warnings,’ Bult said. ‘Holy ground. Once, long ago. Memories remain.’

‘As well they should,’ Duiker muttered. ‘Sormo should be avoiding hallowed sand, not seeking it out. If this place is aspected, it’s likely an inimical one to a Wickan warlock.’

‘I’ve long since learned to trust Sormo E’nath’s judgement, Historian. You’d do well to learn the like.’

‘It’s a poor scholar who trusts anyone’s judgement,’ Duiker said. ‘Even and perhaps especially his own.’

‘“You walk shifting sands,”‘ Bult sighed, then gave him another grin, ‘as the locals would say.’

‘What would you Wickans say?’ Kulp asked.

Bult’s eyes glittered with mischief. ‘Nothing. Wise words are like arrows flung at your forehead. What do you do? Why, you duck, of course. This truth a Wickan knows from the time he first learns to ride – long before he learns to walk.’

They found the warlock in a clearing. The drifts of sand had been swept aside, revealing a heaved and twisted brick floor – all that remained of a structure of some sort. Chips of obsidian glittered in the joins.

Kulp dismounted, eyeing Sormo who stood in the centre, hands hidden within heavy sleeves. He swatted at a fly. ‘What’s this, then, some lost, forgotten temple?’