And there was the barrier. No physical thing, but something more deeply rooted in the psychology of all Noreela. Their history was long and misty, but it was always underlined by the presence of the Great Divide. Many were aware of it, some even talked about it but few acknowledged the effect it had on them, whether they were three hundred or seven hundred miles away. Hardly anyone alive would ever see it, but everyone knew it was there. And with knowledge of it came the enigma that would trouble anyone who thought for themselves: What was beyond the Divide? Nothing was the generally accepted answer. But the problems with that answer were many, and any alternate theories only encouraged more enigmas.

So the Divide pushed people away, like the opposing points of compass stones.

Ramus liked enigmas.

HE WORKED ON, and soon his room became a garden of parchment with him at its center. He scratched away at the square of parchment he had chosen to write on, but even before he had finished, he knew that the map he had created was more than half guesswork. He noted the observations from Ten's story—the heavily wooded land at the Divide's western shoulder, the impassable marshes to the east—but the space before the great cliff he left blank. He wished he had quizzed the wanderer more on his journey up through Noreela, but something told him that would not have done much good. Wanderers were known for their secrecy. Ten had only shared his story to convince them of the parchment's worth.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith and started its own journey toward night, Ramus had done as much as he could. The map would offer them direction, if not accurate information. He gathered the various shreds and copies of older maps, rolled them together and shoved them beneath his bed.

He would sleep here for one more night. In the meantime, there was his mother to visit before he left, and his traveling gear to prepare. Backpack, weapon roll, compass stones and the blank book he had been saving for such an occasion. Bound in strong leather covers, containing almost two hundred sheets of fine paper made in the mills of Pengulfin Landing, it had been a gift to him from his mother a dozen years before. To keep track of your travels, she had said, but even now the pages were still blank. He hated the idea that, once filled, the book would tell the tale of an average life.

It was time for the pages to bear ink. The things we'll see, he thought. The images I can create, the routes I will map, the details I can write. And someday, perhaps, future Voyagers will pore over my book, and they will learn.

Ramus opened his bottle of ink and chose his finest quill. On the first page of the book he wrote: