‘And Iskaral Pust expects us to attend this rebirth? How effortlessly has he ensnared us in his mad web. For myself, I am glad the witch is dead, and I hope she remains that way. Rebellion is ever bloody. If her death plucks this land back from the brink of mutiny, then to interfere would put us in great peril.’

‘You fear the wrath of the gods?’

‘I fear being unwittingly used by them, or their servants, Icarium. Blood and chaos is the wine and meat of the gods – most of them, anyway. Especially the ones most eager to meddle in mortal affairs. I will do nothing to achieve their desires.’

‘Nor I, friend,’ the Jhag said, rising from his chair with a sigh. ‘Nonetheless, I would witness such a resurrection. What deceit has the power to wrest a soul from Hood’s clasp? Every ritual of resurrection I have ever heard attempted inevitably resulted in a price beyond reckoning. Even as he relinquishes a soul, Hood ensures he wins in the exchange.’

Mappo closed his eyes, kneaded his broad, scarred brow. My friend, what are we doing here? I see your desperation, seeking every path in the hopes of revelation. Could I speak openly to you, I would warn you from the truth. ‘This is an ancient land,’ he said softly. ‘We cannot guess what powers have been invested in the stone, sand and earth. Generation upon generation.’ He glanced up, suddenly weary. ‘When we wandered the edge of Raraku, Icarium, I always felt as if I was walking the narrowest strand, in a web stretching to every horizon. The ancient world but sleeps, and I feel its restless shifting – more now than ever before.’ Do not awaken this place, friend, lest it awaken you.

‘Well,’ Icarium said after a long, thoughtful moment, ‘I shall venture out in any case. Will you accompany me, Mappo Trell?’

His eyes on the heaved pavestones of the floor, Mappo slowly nodded.

The wall of sand rose seamlessly into the sky’s ochre dome. Somewhere in that fierce, swirling frenzy was the Holy Desert Raraku. Fiddler, Crokus and Apsalar sat on their lathered mounts at the top of a trail that led down the slope of the hills, out onto the desert wastes. A thousand paces into Raraku and the world simply disappeared.

A faint, sibilant roar reached them.

‘Not,’ Crokus said quietly, ‘your average storm, I assume.’

His spirits had been low since awakening in the morning to find that Moby had once again disappeared. The creature was discovering its wild instincts, and Fiddler suspected they wouldn’t see it again.

‘When I heard mention of the Whirlwind,’ the Daru thief continued after a moment, ‘I assumed it was ... well ... figurative. A state of being, I suppose. So tell me, do we now look upon the true Whirlwind? The wrath of a goddess?’