“This is crazy!” I shout after her. “All of this. It’s impossible.”

Without turning, she flicks her hand in the air. “Hah! Impossible is nothing. Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

Somewhere, deep in my consciousness, a memory stirs.

Frankie, sitting on the edge of my bed, reading me stories.

Stories about Mad Hatters and White Rabbits.

I almost burst out laughing, at the absurdity—the irony.

“That’s Lewis Carroll!” I blurt. “Adventures in Wonderland.”

“A nom de plume,” Mother says, back to me. “I met him. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was another of his names. Caused a ruckus when he wrote those books.”

“Hang on. You met Lewis Carroll? That doesn’t…I mean, wasn’t he like, from the nineteenth century?”

She doesn’t answer. She keeps walking. And I follow, until finally she comes to a standstill. We face a wall hung with a striking Persian wool carpet with seven geometric rings of woven red and dark blue medallions, worn to a shine.

“A dead end,” I say, looking left and right.

The old woman snorts. “Look beyond the obvious, Ana.”

She grabs a corner of the carpet and gives it a sharp yank. There’s a snapping sound and the entire thing comes tumbling down in a pall of dust. I cough and stagger back. And, when the dust settles, I see this:

A granite wall, stretching from the floor to a gargantuan height, and on the wall, hundreds upon hundreds of weapons. Guns: bone-handled pistols, revolvers, what looks like a shotgun collection. Then swords: katanas and broadswords. A sabre, a crossbow, ninja weapons. Blowguns and throwing stars, a mace and spikes and hooks and gory, unspeakable things.

“Well?” she says.

“Well…what?”

“Which one is yours?”

“Mine?”

“Are we not speaking the same language?”

I stare at her in stunned silence.

“You’re a Pathfinder,” she says. “Pathfinders carry weapons.”

“But—”

“I was under the impression you are searching for your friend.”

“I am, but—”

“The path you are taking will lead to dark places and dark things. A weapon is not an option. It’s a requirement. And, more, it is the reason you are here.”

I look at the wall of weaponry in shocked amazement.

And I feel it.

My gaze is directed—pulled—by some invisible force.

Mother sees. She moves forward, unhooks and fetches a weapon from the wall and turns to me, the weapon laid across her forearms, polished leather strap and scabbard hanging below. The blade is fifty centimetres long. The metal is inlaid with seven white-gold and bronze symbols, so bright they seem to radiate their own light. The outside curve—the cutting edge—gleams. A sickle-sword.

“This is Ra,” Mother says. “The sun-blade. Take it. It is yours.”

I stare at her, dumbstruck.

“But…I’ve never used a sword. I wouldn’t…I don’t know how.”