And, Mappo now understood, he stood at its very centre.

A young woman stepped into view from behind one of the pillars. Long hair the colours of dying flames, eyes the hue of beaten gold, dressed in flowing black silks. 'This,' she said in the language of the Trell, 'is long ago. Some memories are better left alone.'

'I have not chosen it,' Mappo said. 'I do not know this place.'

'Jacuruku, Mappo Runt. Four or five years since the Fall. Yet one more abject lesson in the dangers that come with pride.' She lifted her arms, watched as the silks slid free, revealing unblemished skin, smooth hands. 'Ah, look at me. I am young again. Extraordinary, that I once believed myself fat. Does it afflict us all, I wonder, the way one's sense of self changes over time? Or, do most people contend, wilfully or otherwise, a changeless persistence in their staid lives?

When you have lived as long as I have, of course, no such delusions survive.' She looked up, met his eyes. 'But you know this, Trell, don' t you? The gift of the Nameless Ones shrouds you, the longevity haunts your eyes like scratched gemstones, worn far past beauty, far past even the shimmer of conceit.'

'Who are you?' Mappo asked.

'A queen about to be driven from her throne, banished from her empire.

My vanity is about to suffer an ignominious defeat.'

'Are you an Elder Goddess? I believe I know you…' He gestured. 'This vast web, the unseen pattern amidst seeming chaos. Shall I name you?'

'Best you did not. I have since learned the art of hiding. Nor am I inclined to grant favours. Mogora, that old witch, will rue this day.

Mind you, perhaps she is not to blame. There is a whisper in the shadows about you, Mappo. Tell me, what possible interest would Shadowthrone have in you? Or in Icarium, for that matter?'

He started. Icarium. I failed him – Abyss below, what has happened? '

Does he yet live?'

'He does, and the Nameless Ones have gifted him with a new companion.'

She half-smiled. 'You have been… discarded. Why, I wonder? Perhaps some failing of purpose, a faltering – you have lost the purity of your vow, haven't you?'

He looked away. 'Why have they not killed him, then?'

She shrugged. 'Presumably, they foresee a use for his talents. Ah, the notion terrifies you, doesn't it? Can it be true that you have, until this moment, retained your faith in the Nameless Ones?'

'No. I am distressed by the notion of what they will release. Icarium is not a weapon-'

'Oh you fool, of course he is. They made him, and now they will use him… ah, now I understand Shadowthrone. Clever bastard. Of course, I am offended that he would so blithely assume my allegiance. And even more offended to realize that, in this matter, his assumption was correct.' She paused, then sighed. 'It is time to send you back.'

'Wait – you said something – the Nameless Ones, that they made Icarium. I thought-'

'Forged by their own hands, and then, through the succession of guardians like you, Mappo, honed again and yet again. Was he as deadly when he first crawled from the wreckage they'd made of his young life?

As deadly as he is now? I would imagine not.' She studied him. 'My words wound you. You know, I dislike Shadowthrone more and more, as my every act and every word here complies with his nefarious expectation.

I wound you, then realize that he needs you wounded. How is it he knows us so well?'

'Send me back.'

'Icarium's trail grows cold.'

'Now.'

'Oh, Mappo, you incite me unto weeping. I did that, on occasion, when I was young. Although, granted, most of my tears were inspired by self-pity. And so, we are transformed. Leave now, Mappo Runt. Do what you must.'

He found himself lying on the ground, bright sun overhead. Two beasts were fighting nearby – no, he saw as he turned his head, two people.

Slathered in dusty spit, dark streaks of gritty sweat, tugging handfuls of hair, kicking and gouging.

'Gods below,' Mappo breathed. 'Dal Honese.'

They ceased scrapping, looked over.

'Don't mind us,' Iskaral Pust said with a blood-smeared smile, 'we're married.'

There was no outrunning it. Scaled and bear-like, the beast massed as much as the Trygalle carriage, and its long, loping run covered more ground than the terrified horses could manage, exhausted as they now were. The red and black, ridged scales covering the animal were each the size of bucklers, and mostly impervious to missile fire, as had been proved by the countless quarrels that had skidded from its hide as it drew ever closer. It possessed a single, overlarge eye, faceted like an insect's and surrounded by a projecting ridge of protective bone. Its massive jaws held double rows of sabre teeth, each one as long as a man's forearm. Old battle-scars had marred the symmetry of the beast's wide, flat head.