But he had resolved he would see the holy city again. They were within a day’s walk. He had come this far out of sheer persistence, knowing he had nothing else to do but die, and seeing what the next day would bring had thus far been better than not seeing it at all.

Now with the illusion of the city in his eyes, he recalled that he might not only see the city, but that the Ila herself had desired to see the mad. And thinking that, he foresaw he might live long enough to find the Ila’s throat within his hands. There was an ambition.

There was the way to win his father’s gratitude, once his father heard that his son had broken the Ila’s immortal neck. His father’s son was mad and outcast. But he was not helpless.

{East, the world tilted. Tilted and swung like a compass in a bowl.)

The whole plateau heaved and slanted, and the mad, all at once, set their arms to hold themselves from falling.

But the wife suddenly leapt up, shrieked, and began to run. “The city!” she cried. “Oburan! Ila save us!”

Two of the Ila’s men laughed at her flight, then got up and pursued as the mad all righted themselves and stared, and the religious babbled about devils.

“The devils are in the Ila’s court!” others jeered, being men of the west, abjori at heart. “And the Ila herself the chief of them!”

“Water is there!” the potter cried. “Water free for the drinking.”

A few of the mad rose up, cheering the wife on, or decrying blasphemy, but the guards beat them back to the sand. No one else stirred in the heat. The mad watched the wife as she sped, feet kicking up small puffs of the red powder sand.

Might she escape? Marak asked himself in mild curiosity, sitting quietly the while. There were cliffs and falls amid the dunes.

Might she break her neck or burst her heart? Others then might find the courage to make an effort. He tested his own mind and sought that courage in himself. But now that he had thought of it, now that the city was imminent, the thought of the Ila’s throat held him wholly entranced.

The Ila’s men ran faster at the last. The contest became foredoomed and most in the caravan lost interest. Most sprawled back on the sand and rested, some with aching heads. But Marak watched in curiosity as the wife eluded the men.

She had wit. And purpose.

He was faintly disappointed as, shortly after that, the Ila’s men overhauled the soft-skinned woman and wrestled her, flailing and screaming, to the sand. He had seen it before, the last burst of life from the mad, then a slow descent into despair and apathy, then death.