Below the Upper Temple lay the source of the sacred spring itself, the raw fissure in the natural rock from which the waters exploded, fizzing with heat. The Lifhendil had constructed a labyrinthine trail to lead the worshipper to the source of the sacred spring and as Orial passed beneath the ancient archway, she experienced a prickling shiver of apprehension. Steam clouded her spectacle-lenses and for a moment she was blind, lost in the gloom. She wiped the steam away and slowly groped her way forward, drawn by the roar of the bubbling waters until she found herself on the rim of the gaping fissure itself, a raw, iron-red gash in the living rock.

She gasped, gripping hold of the slender rail, balancing precariously above the churning energy of the swirling waters. The fine, warm spray dampened her face and she could taste the acrid tang of the life-giving minerals on her lips.

Silvered shafts of daylight dimly pierced the misty air from slits cut high above in the vaulted roof, slits that also served as vents to let out the drifting steam. As Orial’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she saw curling green ferns growing from the walls.

And standing watching her, in the billowing steam, a dark-veiled figure.

Silent, mute as a revenant from the far shore.

For one terrified moment Orial stared back, transfixed. Then she remembered what had brought her here to the source of the spring.

The Priests and Priestesses of the Temple kept constant vigil here, day and night, each taking a turn to assume the cloudy veils of the Augurer.

‘What do you seek, daughter?’ The voice floated towards her, low and drowsy. Orial could not even be certain whether a man or a woman stood there, gauzed in night-spangled veils. It was said that the Augurer fasted before the vigil… then inhaled the dark drugfumes of Arkendym dreamweed to lay their minds open to the will of the Goddess.

‘I – I seek guidance. Answers, maybe…’

‘I speak for Her whose place this is.’ The Augurer began to move towards her through the clouds of steam. ‘Ask your question.’

‘It’s… difficult.’ Orial twisted a straying lock of hair between finger and thumb. ‘It’s about my mother. I need to know – to know why she died?’

‘Give me your hand.’

Orial stretched out her hand and felt the light finger-tips of the Augurer touch hers. The other hand reached out to brush her forehead. Beneath the starry veils, the drug-darkened eyes were mesmerised, smoky casements to another world.

Jewelled wings dart over black waters, leaving a comet-trail of light sparks in their wake: leaf-emerald, hyacinth-sapphire, white-opal –

‘A flight of dragonflies…’ The Augurer’s voice was now so low, Orial could barely hear it.

‘Dragonflies? On the Day of the Dead?’ Orial asked. ‘Or – on the stelae?’

‘She comes through fire… through water… to set them free.’