‘Why, of course, lad!’ Iskaral spun to face the Daru, his head bobbing. ‘I was but hastening to catch up!’ He ducked his head. ‘He believes me, I can see it in his face. The soft-brained dolt! Who is a match for Iskaral Pust? No-one! I must remain quietly triumphant, so very quietly. The key to understanding lies in the unknown nature of warrens. Can they be torn into fragments? Oh yes, oh, yes indeed. And that is the secret of Raraku! They wander more than one world, all unknowing ... and before us, ah, the slumbering giant that is the heart! The true heart, not Sha’ik’s grubby oasis, oh, such fools abound!’ He paused, looked up at the others. ‘Why do you stare so? We should be walking. A thousand paces, no more, to your heart’s desire, hee hee!’ He broke into a dance, knees jerking high as he jumped in place.

‘Oh, for Hood’s sake!’ Crokus grasped the High Priest’s collar, flung him stumbling forward. ‘Let’s go.’

‘The cajoling good-humoured jostling of youth,’ Iskaral murmured. ‘Such warm comradely gestures, oh, I am softened, am I not?’

Mappo glanced at Icarium and found the Jhag staring at him. Their gazes locked. A fragmented warren. What on earth has happened to this land? The question was shared in silence, though in the Trell’s mind a further thought ensued. The legends claim that Icarium emerged from this place, strode out from Raraku. A warren torn to pieces – Raraku changes all who stride its broken soil – gods, have we indeed come to the place where Icarium’s living nightmare was born?

They continued on. Overhead, the sky’s faded bronze deepened to impenetrable black, a starless void that seemed to be slowly sinking, lowering itself around them. Iskaral Pust’s muttering dwindled as if swallowed up by the night. Mappo could see that both Fiddler and Crokus were having difficulty, though both continued walking, hands held out like blind men.

A dozen strides in front of the others, Icarium halted, turned.

Mappo tilted his head, acknowledging that he too had spied the two figures standing fifty paces further on. Apsalar and Servant – the only name by which I know that old man, a simple but ominous title.

The Jhag strode over to take one of Crokus’s outstretched hands. ‘We have found them,’ he said in a low tone that nevertheless carried, bringing everyone to a stop. ‘They await us, it seems,’ Icarium continued, ‘before a threshold.’

‘Threshold?’ Fiddler snapped. ‘Quick Ben never mentioned anything like that. Threshold to what?’

‘A knotted, torn piece of warren!’ Iskaral Pust hissed. ‘Oh, see how the Path of Hands has led into it – the fools followed, one and all! The High Priest of Shadow was tasked to set a false trail, and look, oh, look how he has done so!’