‘I was recalling my clan,’ Mappo said, shrugging. ‘It is astonishing the trivial things one comes to miss. Birthing season for the herds, the way we winnowed the weak in unspoken agreement with the plains’ wolves.’ He smiled. ‘The glory I earned when I’d snuck into a raiding party’s camp and broken the tips of every warrior’s knife, then sneaked back out with no-one awakening.’ He sighed. ‘I carried those points in a bag for years, tied to my war belt.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘Stolen back by a cleverer raider.’ Mappo’s smile broadened. ‘Imagine her glory!’

‘Was that all she stole?’

‘Ah, leave me some secrets, friend.’ The Trell rose, brushing sand and dust from his leather leggings. ‘If anything,’ he said after a pause, ‘that sandstorm has grown a third in size since we stopped.’

Hands on his hips, Icarium studied the dark wall bisecting the plain. ‘I believe it has marched closer, as well,’ he said. ‘Born of sorcery, perhaps the very breath of a goddess, its strength still grows. I can feel it reaching out to us.’

‘Aye.’ Mappo nodded, repressing a shiver. ‘Surprising, assuming that Sha’ik is indeed dead.’

‘Her death may have been necessary,’ Icarium said. ‘After all, can mortal flesh command this power? Can a living being stay alive being the gateway between Dryjhna and this realm?’

‘You’re thinking she’s become Ascendant? And in doing so left her flesh and bones behind?’

‘It’s possible.’

Mappo fell silent. The possibilities multiplied each time they discussed Sha’ik, the Whirlwind and the prophecies. Together, he and Icarium were sowing their own confusion. And whom might that serve? Iskaral Pust’s grinning face appeared in his mind. Breath hissed through his teeth. ‘We’re being manipulated,’ he growled. ‘I can feel it. Smell it.’

‘I’ve noted your raised hackles,’ Icarium said with a grim smile. ‘For myself, I’ve become numb to such notions – I have felt manipulated all my life.’

The Trell shook himself to disguise his flinch. ‘And,’ he asked softly, ‘who would be doing that?’

The Jhag shrugged, glanced down with a raised eyebrow. ‘I stopped asking that question long ago, friend. Shall we eat? The lesson needed here is that mutton stew is a taste superior to that of sweet curiosity.’

Mappo studied Icarium’s back as the warrior strode down into camp. But what of sweet vengeance, friend?

They rode down the ancient road, harried by banshee gusts of sand-filled wind. Even the Gral gelding was stumbling with exhaustion, but Fiddler had run out of options. He had no answer to what was happening.