He was not surprised the next day, when Qurabin came to them as they rose and told them that they would not be travelling alone. That the monk would not tell them where Iron Council was but would show them.

He wants to rest, Cutter thought. And to be alone. With us. Plucking up courage. The monk’ll unhide more and more, no matter what the cost. What does it matter? What does he-she-have to live for? To be loyal to?

It rained but it was a different rain. The sun’s rays were frozen in each drop like insects in amber, so it seemed to rain light. The Hiddentowners waved them gone.

Susullil smiled at Cutter and nodded. "Never did understand each other, did we, boy?" Cutter said with true humour. Qurabin’s voice, the odd androgynous hooting, gusted good-bye. No one seemed distraught that their god was leaving.

Of course Cutter had no notion of what Qurabin was saying. "You are your own people now, you have no need of gods," he thought. Or "Be true to my memory or I’ll come back to blind you with my rage," or "I was never a god, I’m a bloke like you, got lost because of an idiot religion."

The travellers went northwest and north. A day, and another, through the slowly cooling forest. The ground rose and the canopy fell.

Trees became more sparse. By pools creatures like spindly bears and serrated wasps the size of cats came to drink. Cutter thought he saw things; he thought they were watched.

In the unseen company of the monk, they moved very differently. It was Drogon who saw it first. "We’re travelling too fast," he told Cutter. He pointed down, toward where an ancient Y-shaped tree poked clear of the surrounds. "Keep it in sight," he whispered.

Cutter tried to watch his feet but it disoriented him; the terrain changed uncertainly as if the path were skittish. Ahead a half mile he saw the tree by a river; he heard Qurabin move and speak loudly and Cutter ducked below a thorny branch and when he released it he walked on two more steps then stopped while Drogon whispered, "I told you."

The water was behind them. Cutter could see it through the growth, and there was the tree, black-barked, its boughs spread and thrusting skyward like supplicating arms. It was behind him too.

There had been no dislocation. He had only walked. His companions looked consternated, except Judah. "What does it cost you?" the golemist said to Qurabin. "To find these ways?"

"These are hidden ways, shortcuts-lost paths," said the monk. "Sometimes the Moment’ll let me take them. Sometimes." The monk sounded tired. "I said I’d take you."

Why so fast, monk? Cutter thought. You don’t have to travel like this. What’s this costing you, all these secrets?