Our standard is wobbling in the air. Jil Punkinflake struggles forward, and his dog is there at his heels, tripping him up. It takes the tails of his tunic in its jaws, braces its legs, and pulls him back. He curses and kicks at the dog. We are stealing in between the slopes. The land is still—you can hear the air move through it. Silichieh marching with his head flung back, a look of exaltation on his face. He and Thrushchurl are walking together for the first time, and I can see wild expectancy flicker across Thrushchurl’s features. They both want to see the magic for themselves, no matter what. Thrushchurl in particular seems completely at home, even a little oblivious, as though it were already entirely familiar to him.

White vapor sifts in the air on the trail ahead. The ground is spotted with mirror puddles that reflect the sky. There’s the white passage up there. The wind goes through me as though I’m not there. Thrushchurl gazes at the passage and says “Death.” I hear a shot and the entire column jerks—Jil Punkinflake stands over the body of his dog with the standard in one hand, pennant shaft end braced against his hip, then holsters his pistol.

Cinnamon ground, the powdery earth here is saturated with rust. The passage takes us high into the mountains, the time goes with the passage and we are threading along a rocky course. Glance back and I can make out the remote, crumpled form of the dog where he died on the path behind us. The sounds we make, our voices, are muffled. Makemin stops us and sends a man up a shingled incline toward a house standing alone there against the rock. It seems to suck the breath out of my lungs; the house seems to stand outside time. It is plainly as it always was, an octagonal brick house with small-paned windows. The man comes loping back down to the column breathing hard. He explains that the house is on the far side of a chasm that runs down out of sight, hidden behind this mound of shingle. He saw signs there was a stone span there once, but the house is now completely inaccessible. He called to it, but there was no answer. A light burned in the window. Makemin strides up the slope to see for himself, and returns quickly, his face pale. With a terse order we are set in motion again.