Mappo and Icarium paused for a rest in the courtyard of some ruins. The mudbrick walls had all but eroded away, leaving nothing but shin-high ridges laid out in a geometric pattern around an old, dried-up well. The sand covering the courtyard’s tiles was fine and windblown and seemed to glow faintly to Mappo’s eyes. Twisted brush clung with fisted roots along its edges.

The Pan’potsun Odhan and the Holy Desert Raraku that flanked it to the west were both home to countless such remnants from long-dead civilizations. In their travels Mappo and Icarium had found high tels – flat-topped hills built up of layer upon layer of city – situated in a rough procession over a distance of fifty leagues between the hills and the desert, clear evidence that a rich and thriving people had once lived in what was now dry, wind-blasted wasteland. From the Holy Desert had emerged the legend of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic. Mappo wondered if the calamity that had befallen the city-dwellers in this region had in some way contributed to the myth of a time of devastation and death. Apart from the occasional abandoned estate such as the one they now rested in, many ruins showed signs of a violent end.

His thoughts finding familiar ruts, Mappo grimaced. Not all pasts can be laid at our feet, and we are no closer here and now than we’ve ever been. Nor have I any reason to disbelieve my own words. He turned away from those thoughts as well.

Near the courtyard’s centre stood a single column of pink marble, pitted and grooved on one side where the winds born out in Raraku blew unceasingly towards the Pan’potsun Hills. The pillar’s opposite side still retained the spiral patterning carved there by long-dead artisans.

Upon entering the courtyard Icarium had walked directly to the six-foot-high column, examining its sides. His grunt told Mappo he’d found what he had been looking for.

‘And this one?’ the Trell asked, setting his leather sack down.

Icarium came over, wiping dust from his hands. ‘Down near the base, a scattering of tiny clawed hands – the seekers are on the Trail.’

‘Rats? More than one set?’

‘D’ivers,’ Icarium agreed, nodding.

‘Now who might that be, I wonder?’

‘Probably Gryllen.’

‘Mhm, unpleasant.’

Icarium studied the flat plain stretching into the west. ‘There will be others. Soletaken and D’ivers both. Those who feel near to Ascendancy, and those who are not, yet seek the Path nonetheless.’

Mappo sighed, studying his old friend. Faint dread stirred within him. D’ivers and Soletaken, the twin curses of shapeshifting, the fever for which there is no cure. Gathering. . .here, in this place. ‘Is this wise, Icarium?’ he asked softly. ‘In seeking your eternal goal, we find ourselves walking into a most disagreeable convergence. Should the gates open, we shall find our passage contested by a host of blood-thirsty individuals all eager in their belief that the gates offer Ascendancy.’

‘If such a pathway exists,’ Icarium said, his eyes still on the horizon, ‘then perhaps I shall find my answers there as well.’