Mappo knew where Icarium had gone. He knew what the Jhag would find. His heart thundering savagely in his chest, his pace increased as he scrambled over the rubble, pushing through thickets of thorn which lacerated even his tough hide.

Seven main avenues within each city of the First Empire. The Sky Spirits look down upon the holy number, seven scorpion tails, seven stings facing the circle of sand. To all who would make offerings to the Seven Holies, look to the circle of sand.

Fiddler called out somewhere behind him, but the Trell did not respond. He’d found one of the curving avenues and was making for the centre.

The seven scorpion-sting thrones had once towered over the enclosure, each seventy-seven arm-spans high. Each had been shattered ... by sword blows, by an unbreakable weapon in hands powered by a rage almost impossible to comprehend.

Little remained of the offerings and tributes that had once crowded the circle of sand, with one exception, before which Icarium now stood. The Jhag was motionless, his head tilted upwards to take in the immense construction that rose before him.

Its iron gears showed no rust, no corrosion, and would still be moving in a measure that could not be seen by mortal eyes. The enormous disc that dominated the structure stood at an angle, its marble face smothered with etched symbols. It faced the sun, though that fiery orb was barely visible through the sky’s golden haze.

Mappo slowly walked towards Icarium and stopped two paces behind him.

His presence was sensed, for Icarium spoke. ‘How can this be, friend?’

It was the voice of a lost child, and it twisted like a barbed shaft in the Trell’s heart.

‘This is mine, you see,’ the Jhag continued. ‘My ... gift. Or so I can read, in this ancient Omtose script. More, I have marked – with knowing – its season, its year of construction. And see how the disc has turned, so that I may see the Omtose correspondence for this year ... allowing me to calculate ...’

His voice fell away.

Mappo hugged himself, unable to speak, unable even to think. Anguish and fear filled him until he too felt like a child, come face to face with a nightmare.

‘Tell me, Mappo,’ Icarium continued after a long moment, ‘why did the destroyers of this city not destroy this as well? True, sorcery invested it, made it immune to time’s own ravages ... but so too were these seven thrones ... so too were many other gifts in this circle. All things made can be broken, after all. Why, Mappo?’

The Trell prayed his friend would not turn around, would not reveal his face, his eyes. The child’s worst fears, the nightmare’s face – a mother, a father, all love stripped away, replaced by cold intent, or blind disregard, the simple lack of caring . . . and so the child wakens shrieking . . .

Do not turn, Icarium, I cannot bear to see your face.