‘If she is false, the ritual shall destroy her.’

The ancient island rose in a flat-topped hump above the cracked clay plain. Grey, weathered stumps marked mooring poles and more substantial piers just beyond what had once been the shoreline, along with remnants of the usual garbage that had once been dumped over the sides of ships. Sinkholes in what had been the bay’s muddy bottom glittered with compacted layers of glittering fish-scale.

Crouching beside Fiddler, Mappo watched as Icarium made his way up the crumbled remains of a sea wall. Crokus stood just behind the Trell, near the hobbled horses. The lad had fallen strangely silent since their last meal stop, a certain economy coming to his movements, as if he had chained himself to his own vow of patience. And seemingly unconsciously, the Daru had begun to emulate Icarium in his speech and mannerisms. Mappo was neither amused nor displeased when he noticed. The Jhag had always been an overwhelming presence, all the more so because he made no affectation or pretence.

Still, better for Crokus had he looked to Fiddler. This soldier’s a wonder in his own right.

‘Icarium climbs like he knows where he’s going,’ the sapper observed.

Mappo winced. ‘I had come to the same observation,’ he ruefully admitted.

‘Have you two been here before?’

‘I have not, Fiddler. But Icarium ... well, he’s wandered this land before.’

‘But in returning to a place he’d been to before, how would he know?’

The Trell shook his head. He shouldn’t. He never has before. Are those blessed barriers breaking down? Queen of Dreams, return Icarium to the bliss of not knowing. I beg you . . .

‘Let us join him,’ Fiddler said, slowly straightening.

‘I’d rather—’

‘As you wish,’ the soldier replied, setting off after the Jhag, who had vanished into the thorn-choked city ruins beyond the sea wall. After a moment, Crokus strode past Mappo as well.

The Trell grimaced. I must be getting old, to let being distraught cow me so. He sighed, rising from his crouch and lumbering after the others.

The slope of detritus at the base of the sea wall was a treacherous scree of splintered wood, slabs of plaster, brick and potsherds. Halfway up, Fiddler grunted and paused, reaching down to pull free a shaft of grey wood. ‘I’ve some rethinking to do,’ he said, glancing back down. ‘All this wood’s turned to stone.’

‘Petrified,’ Crokus said. ‘My uncle described the process to me once. The wood soaks up minerals. But that’s supposed to take tens of thousands of years.’

‘Well, a High Mage of the D’riss Warren could manage the same in the blink of an eye, lad.’