Such a statue, old before the empire, ought to be pitted by erosion and overgrown with lichen and moss, but its curves and folds and intricately rendered strands of long hair were as pristine as if it had been set on its plinth yesterday. She reached out, thinking to run a hand down the statue’s bare right arm just to see if it was as smooth as it had looked in the glamor of moonlight. At Kem’s gasp, she caught herself. Touching the statue, however tempting, seemed like borrowing trouble. She’d never touched the statues before, or even thought to do so. Was the haunt whispering to her still? Best to get moving.

With a shake of her head she set off walking, faster now, needing to get away from the encounter, from the Spires, from the stirring of pain in her heart. From the memory of that fading bell tone that rang like a warning she didn’t understand. Her forearm itched. Her back crawled as if the statue’s gaze watched them go, willing her to return. She determinedly did not look back. She was good at not looking back.

They descended from the heights, past the cairn, and took the turn that led up a long, gentle slope toward the crest of Lancer’s Ridge. Their feet crunched on the lane’s chalk surface. Yellowing grass and clusters of late-blooming spiny-throat grew along the ground, not offering much in the way of grazing, except for goats. A morning breeze spun autumn’s chaff in the air. A hawk circled above.

They passed the ruins of a village where a white pine grew. Stepping stones made a path across a dry streambed that ran merrily during the spring rains. The chalk path ran for a while below the ridgetop, alongside the outlines of old summer pastures. Here and there the broken wood railings of corrals stood as a reminder of a time when horses were still raised here, before the rising of the Pall.