Jig opened an eye, closed it again. He peeked out through the other one, just to be certain. Nothing had changed in the interim.

“This isn’t Straum’s cave.”

“You can do better than that, Jig. If you were really this thick, I can think of seven times in the past week alone when you would have died. Use your brain. Figure out where you are.”

Jig scowled. He knew who he was talking to, if nothing else. Somehow, Tymalous Shadowstar sounded less impressive when his words weren’t reverberating inside Jig’s skull. As for where he was . . . he sat up and took a good look around.

He noticed the sky first. Straum’s illusionary sky was nothing compared to this. There must have been hundreds of stars here. Thousands, even. He didn’t try to count, since his vision would make the task impossible.

Except that it didn’t. Instead of round blurs of light, each star was a clear pinpoint. He could even make out individual colors. Some sparkled with a blue tinge, others appeared yellow, and several flashed red as he watched. He could see!

He stared at his hands. For the first time, he could hold them at arm’s length and still see the layer of grime beneath his nails. Everything had come into focus. This was wonderful! He looked back into the sky, noticing one star that stood out from the others. It was a large red star, which appeared to be a half-inch wide and shone brighter than the rest. In fact, that star provided the only illumination. The red light gave everything an angry, flamelike tinge. His own skin had turned purplish.

What had Darnak told him? Shadowstar was the God of the Autumn Star, so the Autumn Star was probably that big red one. He lowered his gaze to survey the more immediate surroundings. Whatever this place was, it needed to be torn apart and rebuilt from scratch. Crumbled walls traced a roughly rectangular outline. Scorch marks blackened parts of the walls and the floor. The floor itself was mostly dirt and clumps of yellowed grass, and only the occasional ceramic fragment gave any hint of what must have once been an impressive temple.

There was no smell. Even the stink of sweat and blood that had followed him for days was missing. Jig glanced down at himself.

His boots and loincloth were the same as before, only brighter, lacking any trace of grime. He didn’t even try to remember when he had last washed the loincloth.

His body appeared whole. He couldn’t remember what had happened right before he came here, but he had expected to find himself torn in two, or at least bent at a sharp angle. Instead, he was healthy as ever.