“You’re welcome…” Lamp falters, unable to decide between three variations of a name. Finally he settles. “Wing.”

  His employer doesn’t respond audibly, so Lamp can only imagine Blackwing’s reaction. Perhaps the scholar should have waited to test this social boundary until he could observe the other man’s response, but even without that advantage, he doesn’t worry overmuch. Having spent every day in each other’s company for the past two weeks, and having escaped certain death together, they can justifiably advance at least one level of familiarity.

  Still, Lamp should wait for his boss to take the lead on further developments. Whichever standard the standoffish Blackwing prefers will probably suffice for both of them.

  Putting that issue aside, Lamp rises back to his feet from the cross-legged position he had assumed for their latest rest, then turns in what he thinks is Ashti’s direction. He asks whether she feels strong enough to walk, and she answers in the affirmative, though without a drop of enthusiasm.

  Facing back to his other companion, Lamp switches languages to ask. “Shall we go?”

  “In a moment.” Blackwing answers distractedly. “Before we move, I feel someone trying to embrace my arm. Is that the icon?”

  “Yes.” Lamp answers with a mix of sympathy and relief. “It’s been hounding me since I got free of that litter. It won’t arrest your movement at all. You can-“

  He breaks off as the warmth of an impending, tender kiss suddenly manifests against his neck. The tantalizing but uninvited sensation draws out a defeated sigh.

  “Never mind. It’s back to me again.” He sadly reports.

  “Is it?” Blackwing asks with a calm tone. “I still feel the icon next to me. It’s whispering something, but the phrases are incoherent. Can you hear that?”

  “No.”

  A chill creeps down Lamp’s spine in response to those words. He immediately relays the situation to Ashti, eliciting a disturbed but unsurprised acknowledgement. Through a quick series of questions directed to both of her compatriots, the girl determines that Blackwing’s perception of Heartbreak differs entirely from Lamp’s. Their sense of its position, proportions, activity, and sounds remain wholly distinct. After a moment, the merchant even admits that, to him, the icon smells of copper.

  “So is it in both places or neither?” Lamp nervously asks his guide.

  “Both.” Ashti confidently affirms. “At least, the danger it poses remains an active threat in both positions. I could not say whether it physically occupies either space, but its magic can afflict you from whichever direction it chooses to appear.”

  Blackwing, once appraised, grunts in reply before rising to his feet. Standing, he asks the girl to point the way. Or say it.

  “Gladly. Follow my voice.”

  With that, Ashti takes the lead again, guiding her foreign guests deeper into the sand flats. She directs and assures them via intermittent calls while keeping careful watch over their trajectory. Lamp initially relies on the sound of her footfalls to point his way forward but learns better after a duplicated pattern nearly leads him astray.

  When the scholar informs his companions of Heartbreak’s new tactic, Blackwing suggests harvesting the ropes from his backwards-facing chair to form a link between them. In reply, Lamp wearily admits to having left it behind to save on weight. The thought of disassembling the contraption for its components never crossed his mind, a lapse for which he receives immediate forgiveness.

  His employer even offers to carry the sole remaining burden himself, but Lamp demurs. Now that he’s assumed responsibility for the grafts, the scholar feels a symbolic duty to transport them across at least one leg of their journey, just as Ashti had done through Manslaughter’s territory. The merchant accepts his choice without question.

  Putting that issue aside, they return to the problem of Heartbreak’s subtle efforts to lure the group apart. Ultimately, the only plausible countermeasures they manage to ideate consist of either linking hands for the next several dozen minutes or else remaining in consistent communication. They pursue the latter route by mutual assent, but only after Blackwing confirms with Lamp that his voice is hale enough for the challenge.

  “Just don’t make me sing.” The scholar sets his sole constraint.

  The others agree to that condition. Then, to the scholar’s mild surprise, Blackwing produces their first topic.

  “I owe you a few more words of gratitude.” The merchant tells Lamp softly. “Had I faced that nightmare alone, I would have died after its final scream. My soul was buried by its madness until your light led me free. So thank you. Again.”

  “Oh… I only managed that flare because I’d tried to absorb some of its power and I needed to push it back out.” Lamp awkwardly deflects. “Give credit to my panicked flailing.”

  He also feels uncomfortable accepting praise when it was probably his fault the monster found them to begin with. After a guilt ridden moment of indecision, the scholar decides to confess his self-suspected culpability. Woodenly repeating himself between languages, he tells the others that Manslaughter seemed to respond to his hand signs and speculates that it was likely drawn to them by his side of a needless conversation with Ashti.

  Blackwing listens patiently to the complete explanation before replying in brief. “You couldn’t have known.”

  Ashti soon echoes the merchant’s sentiment. “I would not fault you even if your explanation was proven true; if I did, then I might as well blame myself for teaching you the language and for engaging in that same dialogue. Regardless, the icon’s reaction was hardly trivial to predict. I doubt such a response has ever been observed or provoked. Only the Select and their highest attendants learn my homeland’s hand signs, and that entire population knows better than to enter a hostile icon’s territory in the first place.”

  She sighs. “Even you knew better, Lamp. You only agreed to this rushed itinerary to accommodate the two of us, so if you must assign blame, lay it away from your own feet, please.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the vote of confidence.” He stiffly communicates to both companions before speaking more earnestly to Blackwing. “While we’re distributing appreciations, Ashti deserves her due as well. If she hadn’t summoned the second icon, our initial pursuer might have crossed their shared border to finish us off.”

  The merchant nods and asks Lamp to translate his gratitude to the girl. She accepts the words gracefully, though Lamp hears neither pride nor celebration in her tone. In fact, she sounds about the same as he did a few moments ago.

  That subdued reaction bothers Lamp, so he tries to find words of encouragement that won’t sound hypocritical or patronizing. Before he manages to craft an agreeable affirmation, however, Blackwing reenters their conversation and changes its subject.

  “Could anyone have seen our struggle against the first icon?” He asks with a neutral affect.

  Lamp conveys the question, and Ashti answers evenly. “The intensity of its wrath was almost certainly visible from the Red Watch. I expect members of House Courage will have noticed the fluctuations in starlight.”

  Lamp nods along as he conveys the words. He imagines that, to distant observers, the strengthening red pulses might have appeared like flashes of lightning from a far off storm. The bleeding radiance which followed may have resembled a fiery dawn. Captured in his mind’s eye, the distant menace still produces an intimidating effect.

  As soon as her translator falls silent, Ashti clarifies that she isn’t certain whether the chaotic magical burst from Blackwing’s singular crossing of blows would have been detectable from afar. Its smaller scale and briefer existence might easily have been missed or misunderstood. Likewise, Heartbreak’s involvement at the end of the chase could have easily escaped notice.

  “They likely suspect the icon caught and killed some lost traveler or suicidal wretch who wandered into its domain either by accident or macabre intent.” She concludes.

  Blackwing makes a contemplative sound before asking. “Will they investigate?”

  “Yes, but they will almost certainly wait to approach the area for multiple hours while they allow the icon time to resume its normal activity. Not even a lifelong expert would dare to venture inside that thing’s territory while it seems agitated.”

  “What route will they take?” The merchant follows. “Could we encounter those investigators on their way out?”

  “I cannot speak with much confidence, but I believe that chance is slim. While a contingent of able-bodied women could ordinarily cross through our present environment without difficulty, the investigators should exercise greater caution in the immediate aftermath of a behavioral anomaly. I expect them to cut laterally across the narrow ring of gray stars which surrounds our city, thereby escaping this zone before turning to follow its perimeter for the remainder of their trek.”

  She clears her throat. “When an icon behaves strangely, sensible people avoid not only it, but also its neighbors… Though of course, truly sensible people maintain distance from the wild icons at all times, regardless of their temperament.”

  Lamp hears a self-deprecating smile in her voice as she delivers those closing words.

  Blackwing responds in kind. “We had a compelling excuse. Regardless, are you predicting they’ll travel along the outer curve while we follow a line straight across?”

  “Yes. I expect so. Such a route will consume much of the time they would otherwise delay for safety’s sake. From their perspective, it should appear as the more sensible choice. Of course, I could easily be completely wrong in my assessment, and they might set upon us any minute now.”

  “Assuming that doesn’t happen, what follows after they reach their destination?”

  “Hmm.” The girl considers. “Their initial priority will be to assess whether Manslaughter has breached its normal zone. Once they determine that the icon has remained inside its usual territory, recovering the body of its latest victim will become a matter of lesser urgency. They might wait up to a day before stepping across the border to retrieve it.”

  “That’s an optimistic timeline. What’s your pessimistic alternative?”

  “Well, I suppose the absolute worst timing would have them cut across this current region to intercept us before we lay eyes on our destination. The second worst- in which they left Baghdokhtaran within minutes of the first red flare and chose to veer around the gray icon’s domain only to barge into its bellicose neighbor’s territory without delay- would still place them at the start of our second leg around the time we reach the rear city.”

  “Then our lead is sufficient?” Blackwing queries.

  “Perhaps. My estimate relies on an assumption that they will travel on foot in a large contingent, but an individual scout with a suitable jinni could press ahead much faster atop a summoned mount. I doubt they would employ that method for their slow journey out, but once the search party determines who we are, we can expect them to dispatch a rider to inform city officials.

  “As for when that happens, their investigation will commence along the icon’s path of destruction. I fear it left quite a trail for them, so they will find it swiftly. From that point, they can either follow our tracks back the way we came or pursue my footprints to your crash site. A mixed contingent of Houses Reverence and Courage might split along those lines.”

  As soon as Lamp completes his translation, the merchant adds. “If we evade their search party, they’ll still identify us once they pry a lid off one the crates I left against your world wall. How fast are these mounts?”

  “Their speed is highly variable. A handful of the Select within my kingdom could return to Baghdokhtaran from the wall in less than an hour. To my knowledge, no living member of my city’s lesser houses could match that feat, but I cannot be certain.”

  “In short, we don’t know how much time remains.”

  “Correct.”

  Blackwing makes a noise of acknowledgement, perhaps compensating for Lamp’s inability to see him nodding. Silence lingers for several seconds afterwards, leading the scholar to conclude that the prior conversation ran its course. Rather than questioning why the others want to hide, he focuses his attention on their next subject of discussion.

  Lamp spends considerable time in that metal pursuit, resting his voice in deference to a throat that has begun to feel dry as well as sore. However, it only takes two opening notes of a lilting, wordless song from his spectral stalker to motivate the scholar back into sound. Parting his lips to speak- and ignoring the vague sensation of a tongue trying to worm its way inside his mouth without contacting his skin- Lamp broaches a new topic.

  “On the day I met Lord Blackwing,” he says to Ashti, “I examined a statuette of the ‘red’ icon in its humanoid form. It was actually the final object I catalogued in my former capacity before he promoted me to a new role, and I believe it was also the first image we’d ever received of that subject. At the time, I thought the sculpture struck an effective and intimidating figure. In retrospect, it didn’t truly do the horror justice.”

  Lamp shakes his head, then turns it towards the girl as if expecting to witness her reaction. “You had never seen that icon before our encounter with it, correct? How closely did it match your expectations?”

  “You remember correctly.” The handmaiden unhappily responds. “I had indeed never laid eyes upon it, and neither had I heard accounts from anyone else who personally observed the creature. None of my peers have seen the icon even in its docile mode. I doubt anyone less than twice my age ever witnessed the state of agitation we provoked from it today. They all knew well enough to leave it alone.”

  She sighs defeatedly. “I suppose my phrasing is somewhat unfair to us. Few enough people had any incentive to venture into that icon’s territory before Lord Blackwing’s portal first opened. Traditionally, only the matriarch of House Courage and her senior-most female Select would directly interact with the thing, and I never had the privilege of making individual social calls on any such personage. The only times I met them, I was tagging along with someone more important.

  “So, in my nebulous ignorance, I based my understanding of the threat we faced on an unreliable combination of rumor and common knowledge, the precise distinction between which I was unable to accurately discern.” Lamp hears an apprehensive twinge in her voice and a rustle of fabric as she fidgets. “I apologize for the inadequacy of my warnings. Had I known better what we might disturb, I would have argued more fiercely for the two of you to remain behind.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Lamp swiftly reassures her. “We can’t blame you for not knowing.”

  Blackwing, after a translation delay, tacks on. “You couldn’t have planned for us when you prepared your expedition. By the time we attached ourselves, it was too late for you to gather pertinent intelligence. The uncertain risk we accepted was our own responsibility.”

  Ashti modestly accepts their affirmations, then allows a short pause before unexpectedly revisiting an earlier point. “Lamp, regarding that statuette you mentioned, was it molded from clay?”

  “No. As I recall, it was a quartz carving.”

  “Ah. Not the piece I was thinking of, then.” The handmaiden remarks in disappointment. “Never mind.”

  Though curious, Lamp allows that subject to drop, and they fall silent for a time. The scholar treats his voice to another period of rest, silently tolerating a sporadic sequence of Heartbreak’s nuisance provocations. Eventually, however, the icon makes a second attempt to tease him away from the group, so Lamp reluctantly elects to resume speaking. Briefly casting about, his mind returns to the same topic he’d selected previously, but this time he poses a question for Blackwing.

  “How do you feel after trading blows with a demigod?” He casually asks in his own language.

  His employer chuckles dryly at the question before correcting its premise. “Blow. Singular. And it wasn’t a trade. I’m fine, though. Bruised, tired, and with less energy remaining in my graft than I’ve allowed in a long time, but fine.”

  “Good. And- equal exchange or no- what you did, the way you stopped it, that was incredible.” The scholar shudders as he recalls their desperate flight. “I could feel its magic pressing down on us like a mountain the last time it screamed. I’m deeply impressed and profoundly grateful to both you and the gods that we survived that fiasco unscathed.”

  “We certainly owe the heavens their due.” Blackwing acknowledges one expression of gratitude while ignoring the other. “I’ll visit a local temple once our mission concludes. Feel free to join me.”

  “Gladly.” Lamp answers happily. After delaying a moment, he continues cautiously. “Have you ever clashed magic-to-magic against someone with your own level of strength before?”

  “Yes. More than once.” Blackwing answers the probing question with an unbothered tone.

  “Across all of those occasions, did you see or feel anything similar to that wild burst of magic? You were still conscious at the time, right? From my perspective, it looked like a scattering swarm of animated colors. I’ve never heard of a similar phenomenon in our homeland. Had you produced it before?”

  “Never.” Comes the merchant’s grim response. “That monster wielded more ‘authority’ than I’d imagined possible- enough to overcome an army. No clash of mortals could imitate the power of such beasts. No two humans could distort the world as it did when it struck me.”

  His final words almost sound admiring, a tone which puts Lamp off slightly. Perhaps overwhelming force simply commands respect, but the scholar’s own sentiments veer more towards curiosity than reverence. If Blackwing thinks Manslaughter earned his praise, then he holds a perspective Lamp doesn’t share. Icons might be fascinating, but nothing about the two he’s met so far seemed laudable.

  Although, that line of thinking does remind Lamp of his ill-conceived plan to reveal Heartbreak’s true form, so perhaps he ought to refrain from casting aspersions on this subject when his own judgement seems no more sound. The scholar decides to hold that topic in reserve for a later dialogue, musing that Blackwing might take interest in his foolish proposal. Before that, he turns toward Ashti and asks for an update on their progress.

  “We have more than an hour remaining before we enter Growth’s territory.” Her voice gains a trace of excitement. “Then another fifteen-or-so minutes to the base of the narrow mountain which Lady Clearheart climbed in her youth to petition the gods. Baghdokhtaran waits just beyond.

  “Between us and our destination lies a field of lesser spires. They will provide a minor obstacle but should prove easy to avoid. Also, although a good portion of those spikes fall within the proximate icon’s territory, it tends to linger on open ground. Hopefully, with its neighbor in a recent state of agitation, it will be drawn back the other way.”

  “So we might be rid of it soon?”

  “We might. I promise nothing.”

  “I’ll cling to that hope all the same.”

  Switching languages, Lamp conveys Ashti’s information to his employer and receives a word of thanks in reply. Then, simply to keep their discussion moving, he mentions his curiosity about Heartbreak’s appearance and his potentially dangerous plan to reveal it. The scholar expects his employer to respond with the same prohibitive caution as their young guide, but Blackwing surprises him by expressing interest.

  “If you’re willing to chance its ire, I won’t countermand you.” The merchant offers without reservation. “However, as Ashti will be the only one of us to see it, we must receive her permission first.”

  “Huh. Not the response I anticipated.” Lamp remarks bemusedly. “You didn’t want me laying eyes on chaos, but this is fine? I’m having a hard time working out which unknowable secrets you do or don’t want me to explore.”

  “My standard is simple.” The merchant calmly retorts. “Compared to the sea’s endless and incomprehensible mysteries, icons have far more relevance to human life and more potential relevance to my own operations. I have an incentive to learn about anything that might wander up to my storefront.

  “Should you devise a way to study them, to learn something even the inhabitants of this land have never uncovered, then it has my interest. Therefore, if Ashti believes you understand the risk you invite, and if she agrees to face that risk herself, I will not gainsay your experiment."

  “Oh.” Lamp turns the offer over in his mind before warning. “She already said no once, and I don’t expect her to change her mind, but I can ask again.”

  Switching to the old tongue, the scholar relays his employer’s willingness to chance the icon’s ire. As he predicted, Ashti remains firmly opposed. Lamp, figuring that this will be their final discussion on the matter, decides to float one final idea.

  “What if we waited until we entered Growth’s domain and shone a light on it from there? Do you think that approach might be safe enough?”

  “No, Lamp.” She almost sounds disappointed in him for making the suggestion. “There is no way for us to taunt an icon safely. Please give up on the idea. It is needless.”

  “Alright. I won’t push it.”

  “Thank you.” The outlander pauses for a moment before sighing. “You would not be the first to test its limits, despite the novelty of your approach. Foolish young men from my city sometimes venture near the border of its territory to call its name, just so they can lay eyes upon their own conception of the perfect lover. Their blindfolded friends drag them away once the icon approaches, but every few years, one of those boys breaks loose, and the icon takes him.”

  Lamp nods and repeats his acceptance of her choice. Then he relates to Blackwing that, on Ashti’s firm advice, he has decided not to take the risk. The merchant respects their answer without pushing back.

  From that point forward, the three of them engage only in light and inconsequential conversations, prompted intermittently by Heartbreak’s illusory advances. Lamp establishes a pattern of making an uncomfortable face or briefly wandering off before each new topic, and Ashti eventually begins attending to his involuntary cues.

  Once she catches on to his routine, Lamp barely has to grimace or twitch before she launches into some new discussion on a random subject too boring or esoteric to have been raised between them previously. Lamp periodically switches languages to fill Blackwing in on the broader points of their conversation, a courtesy for which the man becomes decreasingly grateful.

  At considerable length, Ashti’s footsteps eventually come to a halt, and she sighs in relief before asking. “Have you felt the icon’s touch at any point in the last two minutes?”

  “No, though I suppose I’m due for one.” Lamp pauses and waits for another impolite sensation to manifest somewhere on his body, but nothing comes. “Huh. Did it finally leave?”

  “I think it did.” The handmaiden answers happily. “We crossed Growth’s border about a hundred paces back. The last icon might have departed when we entered their transitory zone a little while before that. Both of you should be safe to remove your blindfolds now. Though, to be safe, you should avoid looking back the way we came.”

  “Excellent news!” Lamp thanks the girl, then excitedly passes her message to his employer.

  Blackwing, perhaps predictably, responds to this development by telling Lamp to leave his wrapping in place for a moment longer while the merchant unties his own blindfold first. Lamp elect to at least undo the knot, though he complies with the spirit of the order by keeping his eyes closed until Blackwing offers an all clear.

  Slowly opening his eyes, Lamp looks out upon a black, barren field dotted by thin spikes of pale stone. In the near distance, perhaps only a mile further forward, a slender and jagged spire of white limestone pierces upwards from the sand like the tapered haft of a titan’s broken spear. All of this and more reveals itself beneath the gentle glow of shimmering green stars.

  His breath catches at the sight. Though the verdant light of Growth shines no brighter than Manslaughter’s menacing red glow, it seems somehow richer, warmer, and more full. For the first time since entering this world, Lamp feels as if he’s reached a place of safety and comfort. A place where humans are meant to exist. A place of life.

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  Finally filling his lungs, he realizes a change that had escaped his notice hitherto: the air has begun to smell fresh again. Wetness gathers in his eyes as he slowly breathes and absorbs the vista before him. He blinks to clear the moisture away, confused at the potency of his own emotions.

  Ashti pats his shoulder as she overtakes him with a proud smile and a beckoning wave. “Onward!”

  Shaking his head with a relieved grin of his own, the scholar can only follow. He casts his eyes about as he trails behind his guide, taking in the small spines of smooth white stone rising at random intervals amidst coarse sand of the opposite color. Both surfaces glitter faintly each time a nearby star flares above their heads.

  The closest protrusions rise only to his hip. Looking ahead, he sees others arrayed before them that would reach his chin. That seems to be a hard limit for most of the little towers, though a rare few rise well above head height. As the trio passes close to one, Lamp notes thin veins of black quartz threading through the milky stone. The borders of those winding lines glint especially bright beneath the twinkling sky.

  Satisfied with that examination, Lamp returns his gaze to the vista’s most obvious landmark: Clearheart’s sacred peak. Its incredibly steep slope and pockmarked surface almost make the feature look more akin to a battered staff than a proper mountain. As for height, its broken crown nearly seems to touch the metal sky.

  Despite his group’s proximity to the natural tower, Lamp still struggles to judge its scale. Comparing it against what scant landmarks he can find near its base, the scholar eventually estimates a narrow footprint roughly two thousand feet in diameter. Quite slender for its geographic category, but all the more striking because of that.

  Regarding those proximate landmarks, Lamp’s main point of reference for the mountain was a small town resting at its base, visible at this distance only by virtue of its scattered lampposts or wandering torches. So far as he can discern, no wall defends the settlement, though Lamp supposes this world has no use for them; bandits don’t exist and icons can’t be stopped.

  Based on Ashti’s prior comments, this little outpost is not itself the city of Baghdokhtaran, but instead some minor sibling sat across from it. Scanning to either side of the pale obelisk, Lamp attempts to pick out subtle indications of the larger city he knows must be waiting on its opposite side. Try as he might, however, he fails to detect clear evidence of urban spillage or even stray light.

  Either the great city supports a significantly smaller population than he’d imagined, or it packs itself quite densely. While cataloging Blackwing’s artifacts, Lamp had gleaned that a portion of this city lies underground while a few key buildings dig directly into the mountainside. Additional to that layout, he’d expected outlying houses and isolated workshops to crop up along the outskirts, yet he sees nothing of the sort beyond the mountain now.

  Looking forward to resolving that mystery himself, Lamp elects not to ask the local walking beside him for an easy answer. He does, however, request an explanation for the little town seated ahead of them.

  Nodding agreeably, Ashti begins with a wry tone. “This is the rear quarter of my city, though discourteous mouths describe its location in cruder terms. In fact, it has several colorful names used by people on either side of the mountain, but most of my kingdom simply calls it the Red Watch- a grander term than many locals feel it merits.

  “Day-to-day, it operates as an independent town, but for administrative purposes it folds into the greater whole. Less than a fifth of Baghdokhtaran’s population resides here. Most of our above-ground structures hug the far side of the spire, pointing towards the white light of Judgement.”

  “Oh?” Her closing statement distracts Lamp from whatever half-formed follow up question he would have asked instead. “That’s visible from here? Are we so close to your capital?”

  He squints at the sky and discerns a slight brightening in the distance. “I see it. I think.”

  “You probably can.” Ashti smiles. “Though the region appears slightly closer than it is in truth. Judgment’s stars shine more brightly, with greater stability, and across a wider area than those of any other true icon, making its domain visible from across a greater distance.”

  “A demigod above demigods.” Lamp whispers, awed. “It must wield incredible power.”

  The outlander nods gravely. “It does. More power than anything else in creation, save the gods themselves.”

  Falling quiet, she stares ahead toward the faint brightening of the distant sky. Lamp chews on her statement for a time before passing the phrase along to Blackwing. The merchant seems to gnaw on it as well, though the two of them don’t share their respective thoughts.

  Even that distraction eventually wears thin, at which point the scholar’s attention drifts to another, more personal, matter. Surprised he hadn’t thought of it earlier, he promptly turns his eyes downward to assess the mark inside his right hand.

  To his simultaneous disappointment and thrill, Manslaughter’s red stain still lingers inside his graft. Just as potent and tightly constrained as when he last saw it, the crimson streak follows the curving path of a vein from his index finger into his wrist.

  As the only bright spot of color on his otherwise bleached form, the line stands out starkly against his graft’s dull bones and the unnaturally white skin of his forearm. Knowing that the icon’s scar is likely permanent fills him with a discomforting mix of pride and dread.

  Here exists proof of his adventures; a memento of the time he nearly got his companions killed by doing something he’d thought was harmless. In the future, perhaps the sight of it will encourage him to be more careful with his hands. Lamp just hopes it serves no purpose beyond what he himself assigns. While he doesn’t feel like he’s carrying a fragment of the hateful icon with him, only time will ease that worry.

  Shaking his head and tracing its path with his eyes, he mutters to himself. “Was that line always there but just invisible?”

  He supposes there’s no way to know, but that’s hardly the most pressing question. More pertinent is the matter of whether his right graft still works.

  Lamp considers testing its function by passing light between his hands but quickly decides against that foolish notion. The foreign radiance carried in his left hand might still provoke Heartbreak if the icon lingered close to the border of its territory. Also, he should probably refrain from giving away their position to the settlement waiting just ahead.

  Lamp lowers his hand and resolves to check its capacity at a later time. For now, thinking of Heartbreak had reminded him of something else, so he turns his head to Ashti with a question on his tongue.

  “There was something you wanted to tell me about the icon, right?” He flicks a thumb over his shoulder but doesn’t turn to look. “You started saying it right before we picked up Blackwing for the first time, but then you decided to wait until we left its territory.”

  “What? I…” Her voice trails off as she tries to remember. “Oh! I told you anyway a few minutes ago. I was thinking about those reckless boys who get dragged into the icon’s territory by luring it to the edge of its domain. I chose not to mention them earlier because I hoped that ignoring the icon might cause it to grow bored of us faster. I was overly optimistic, as it turned out.”

  The corner of Lamp’s mouth twitches upwards into a faint, self-deprecating smirk. “Were you also trying to avoid incepting similar schemes into my mind?”

  “Perhaps a smidge.” She smiles faintly but doesn’t nod. “When the anecdote first occurred to me, I thought it might promote your morale by demonstrating that the icon only preys upon those who witness it. Upon a moment’s further consideration, I decided you would likely retain a better mood without hearing anything about its prior victims.”

  “Good judgement.”

  “I manage it sometimes.”

  They share a laugh before lapsing back into silence. That quiet holds as they trod half a mile towards their destination, at which point Blackwing raises his human arm to signal a halt.

  For a moment, the three of them stand in silence to reassess the humble community laid out below the mountain. Its back edge abuts the natural barrier at least three thousand paces farther ahead while its nearest buildings stand only a few hundred feet closer to them. The limestone spear jutting from the sand behind it looms broadly to either side.

  Tightly packed buildings huddle around each other as though gathering for warmth. Most share a wall with at least one neighbor. What narrow gaps occur between them barely span wide enough for men to walk in single file.

  A pair of larger structures serve as hubs for their two respective clusters. Lamp recognizes elements of temple architecture in their design, though they sport wider doors and much broader footprints than the scale of their community appears to justify.

  A scant few lights bob along narrow streets as a mix of orange lanterns and four less obvious sources of light meander at untroubled speeds. Only three structures sport exterior illumination: the two temples and an additional complex of ambiguous function.

  Peering closer at individual homes, Lamp discerns that most are assembled from black mudbrick. Their inorganic material component was obviously sourced from the surrounding desert while their straw was no doubt procured from the city’s namesake garden. Only the three larger structures sport claddings of stone, although their comparatively humble neighbors do display one even rarer material in their construction.

  “All of these buildings have wooden doors.” He quietly remarks to Ashti. “Do your people harvest that from Growth?”

  “From its orchards, yes. Wood taken from the icon’s own body is only used to craft falsemasks and royal tombs.”

  Before Lamp can continue posing additional questions, Blackwing interrupts with a cautious murmur. “Will anyone notice us from this distance?”

  “No.” Ashti answers confidently, if also hushed. “I know every soulmask in the back city, including all likely visitors. None of them could sense us from so far out. I might have been able to do it in days gone by, but not them, so we only need to worry about the residents’ conventional vision and hearing as we approach.”

  The merchant nods with a level stare, his eyes not leaving the town. “You still prefer to remain hidden until we reach our destination?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll walk silently beyond this point. Whatever else you need to say before we proceed, share it now.”

  Lamp and Ashti share a glance before both report being ready to advance. Seeing this, Blackwing points forward with a human finger.

  “I see no traffic around the mountain’s base.” The man observes. “Will we encounter travelers?”

  “Likely not.” The handmaiden answers with a shake of her head. “Natural caverns connect both sides of my city to the icon’s grotto; very few of our residents would prefer an overland trek across the desert. Aside from that factor, anyone who might want to commute would generally make their journey much earlier or later in the day. At the moment, most people are either working or eating.”

  Blackwing nods, scanning the mountainside in apparent search of tunnel entrances. “Could we reach Growth from here?”

  “We could, but we must see the princess first.” Ashti’s tone brooks no debate. “This matter concerns Her Highness primarily. We should not make our final choice without her say.”

  She nods to Lamp at the conclusion of her pronouncement as if to acknowledge some prior argument of his. He nods back, pretending to remember it.

  Blackwing, meanwhile, accepts the girl’s unilateral decision without question or complaint. Instead, his stoic eyes trail upwards, slowly climbing the mountain to its peak. When he speaks, Lamp realizes the merchant had been charting a path.

  “Since we’re here, shall we attempt the summit and speak our prayers?” Blackwing nods to himself as if agreeing with his own plan. “It’s not impossibly tall; I could carry both of you up. I’ve seen no indications of pursuit, either, so we should have time.”

  “I would appreciate the opportunity.” Ashti graciously accepts before offering a shrug. “We should keep our expectations reasonable, however. Many before us have attempted this pilgrimage, though only a small fraction pursues the full climb. Among those who reached the top, I know of only one petition which resulted in an unambiguous miracle.

  “Perhaps the gods will smile upon us today and grant a second. Perhaps not. If nothing else, it would not hurt to pay respects to them before we make our final push. Afterwards, we will be able to descend the mountain’s other side to drop directly into Baghdokhtaran’s palatial heart while bypassing its periphery.”

  “Good.” Seeming even more in favor of the notion than when he first proposed it, the merchant still voices a reservation. “You mentioned pilgrims. Will we encounter other mountaineers?”

  “There might be a few near the base on the far side; its lower paths receive visitors almost every day. That said, the single trail on our current face sees little use outside of festivals. I cannot imagine us stumbling into idle workers on a mid-afternoon stroll.”

  Blackwing nods and starts forward without further discussion. The others follow behind. Together, they skirt a wide circle around the dim pocket of light cast by the shadowed, isolated outpost. Minutes pass in tense anticipation, but it takes little time to reach the mountainside, and they arrive without incident or discovery. As they near the stone, Ashti quietly points out a trail leading upwards, but Blackwing scorns it with a shake of his head before gesturing directly up the nearly vertical slope.

  Stepping up to the barely-slanted wall, the merchant lifts his left arm and adjusts his shoulder to cant the graft away from his body at a slight angle. Then, folding it behind his back to create a horizontal bar, he waves for his companions to take hold. Both passengers respond quickly and assuredly, well beyond any foibles they may once have held on matters of vertigo.

  Ashti slips her hands around the crook of Blackwing’s inhuman elbow while Lamp grabs part of the forearm past his waist. Once they’ve secured their grips on the dry, leathery skin, Blackwing takes possession of their weight. He trades a nod with both of them to confirm readiness, then he begins to climb.

  To Lamp’s great relief, their porter refrains from exaggerated movements and exciting jumps, choosing instead to select careful holds for his boots and free hand while following a considered and cautious route towards the top.

  Blackwing does climb quite quickly, though, progressing upwards at a faster pace than Lamp could manage crawling across flat ground. The desert quickly drops away beneath them, and Lamp hardly needs to look down to realize when they’ve passed the point beyond which no fall could be survivable. He almost yearns for the security of his abandoned chair but can’t quite bring himself to wish they’d recovered it.

  Only when his fingers tire and he’s forced to switch hands on Blackwing’s arm does Lamp start to worry that he’s in real danger. He doesn’t speak, however, until he sees Ashti wiping sweat from her palms on the hem of her chlamys.

  A quick exchange of whispers gets the merchant to agree on a break, and the group soon find itself seated atop a shallow natural ledge barely wide enough to accommodate all three of them. Blackwing takes advantage of the opportunity to stretch his limbs while Lamp and Ashti relax their fingers to either side of him.

  By silent and mutual assent, they linger there longer than recovery necessitates, taking advantage of the pause and its vantage to peer downwards and to the side on the little, wall-less town below. Lamp traces its dark, narrow streets and finds them arrayed in rough concentric circles around the two central buildings.

  He points to one, then signs to Ashti. “What is?”

  “Temples.” She replies in the same manner. “Those structures are the temples of Manslaughter and Heartbreak, respectively. While it is heresy to worship true icons outright, many among my people prefer to honor the gods through them.

  “Beyond that, the buildings also serve as courts, administrative centers, and primary residences for the members of House Courage and House Reverence who oversee them.”

  “They chose rear place so they could watch icons.” Lamp muses half-intelligibly while lifting his eyes towards the horizon and the distant flickering of Manslaughter’s red lights.

  “Partially.” Ashti responds with a wry smile. “One also hears aspersions that they keep their estates on the back side of the mountain purely to avoid House Caution, but I would never repeat such a rumor outside of close company.”

  “I will keep secret.” He promises, mostly in jest.

  Glancing back down at the Red Watch, Lamp spots a large group of people exiting the third of its stone structures. Women wholly comprise the collective so far as he can tell, and they all seem to carry heavy bags under their arms. Before Lamp can request an explanation, his employer stirs beside him and forestalls the inquiry.

  Blackwing stands, resumes his previous position, and motions for the others to take hold of his graft as they did before. They comply, and he resumes the climb.

  As the group weightlessly ascends, Lamp releases his grip with one hand and points down towards the settlement. Awkwardly signing with half the fingers he’d been trained to use, he stumbles his way through his question about the third building.

  Ashti understands him, somehow, and replies with far greater surety of movement. Through patient and repeated gestures, she explains that skilled artisans work inside the large complex under the direction and auspices of the local Select.

  According to the outlander, fair wages and work hours are determined and standardized by each town’s central authority. Physical concentration eases enforcement of their policies and simplifies both logistics and security. Lamp finds that approach restrictive and archaic, but his companion seems disinclined to debate the subject, so he decides to observe her economy for himself before casting serious aspersions.

  By the next time Blackwing pauses for a break, Lamp estimates that the group has risen higher than needed for speech to pose no risk, so he forwards the information to his employer.

  “They operate a miniature palace economy from their temple complex.” He murmurs just for caution’s sake. “Apparently, all local commerce flows through there. The Select handle material requisitions, accept commissions, and negotiate final sales. I gather that’s the normative practice throughout their kingdom.”

  Blackwing nods, unbothered. “I’ve seen its like before. This system may pose an impediment, but I expected restrictions on my access to their markets regardless. Everyone living here being subject to the same constraints adds no further burden on me. It might even reduce resellers.”

  Lamp snorts. “I should have expected you to find a benefit.”

  Blackwing offers one of his subtle smiles. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  “No, no. Your money inevitably becomes my money. I hope you make as much as you can.” Lamp shakes his head in exaggerated capitulation before glancing back toward the town. “Still. It’s rather antiquated, isn’t it?”

  The merchant shrugs one shoulder. “Settlements in our own world-tile follow this structure, though I’ll grant that most are backwaters.”

  “Well… Minus the water.” Lamp waves a hand downward, inviting the man to spot a second difference.

  Blackwing simply shakes his head before asking. “Do you know what they make here? More importantly, what they purchase?”

  “Yes. Ashti said most of the population on both sides of the mountain works as farm laborers. They harvest all the produce which sustains their entire kingdom. Nearly everyone else either crafts tools to support that agriculture or processes its byproducts into usable forms.”

  The merchant nods with a thoughtful expression. “I expect they’d find good use for leather, and they might take a liking to meat. Their betters likely have already; I simply need to scale.”

  He dusts his human hand against his cloak and makes to stand. “Shall we?”

  Progress resumes. Due to the assistance of Blackwing's graft, climbing requires no more of his strength beyond what little he exhausts in raising and lowering his arm. Even that grows taxing after some time, however, and the trio enjoys a few more pauses on their way up to the summit.

  Nothing along the way blocks or impedes them, as Blackwing proactively avoids the only splits and angles in the rock that might challenge his ascent. They near the mountaintop in due course. Just above them, the white spear haft to which they cling appears to splinter into jagged tines of unweathered stone. A lone break in the rough mess indicates the presence of a walkable gap.

  Blackwing orients his climb towards their likeliest dock and scuttles up the remaining distance. Upon reaching the lip, he carefully pokes his eyes above it to glance around before pulling everyone fully over the side. Setting his passengers down on stable rock, the merchant restores their natural weight, and they release his graft.

  The trio pauses for a moment at the edge as Ashti turns to look outward and down upon her kingdom. Though attracted by that same view, Lamp escapes its allure by dint of a more compelling alternative. Instead of facing the horizon, he tilts his gaze up to the sky.

  From such a high vantage, Lamp can clearly see the false stars that hang above. Standing this close to them, he at last resolves their true form: each burst is a flash of lightning unaccompanied by thunder. They spark at the gleaming tips of rough spines and broken blades protruding from the mental heaven, then flare outward in cascading arcs. By their light, the scholar catches glimpses of narrow fissures in the sky, dark cliffs overlooking deep and unknowable shadows. He turns away from those, uneasy.

  Tracking the sequence, location, and timing of each flaring star, Lamp tries to reason out a pattern to their bursts. If a governing logic exists, he’s soon forced to admit that its complexity exceeds his understanding. The only insight he manages to glean comes when he envisions invisible plumes of magic catching on the ceiling’s irregular surface to break like water frothing over stones in rapid streams.

  Thinking back to Manslaughter’s detection of their group, he wonders whether the icons can sense interference along those pathways. The ability to perceive such flows, assuming they exist, might enable safer passage through hostile territories. Of course, Lamp has no earthly notion of where to progress that idea from its inception. Even if he had a definite concept, he would be loath to test it personally.

  Shaking his head to clear the useless thought away, he notices that his companions both appear ready to proceed. Lamp waves them onwards, and the trio resumes its motion. Proceeding inward, they follow a mostly level, winding path between tooth-like protrusions. Ashti guides them unerringly towards the landmark’s center, insisting that a promontory rising from the mountain’s core will best serve as their prayer site.

  When they finally reach it, Lamp cannot disagree. A broad clearing in the limestone bramble reveals a wedge shaped hill cresting twice the height above its surrounding columns. The area seems clear, and Ashti confirms that her graft detects no attention upon them, so the group emerges from cover to cross the chalk-white field to the feature’s base.

  Here, at last, they find evidence of prior human presence. An offering bowl filled with ornaments, dried flowers, and coins. Blackwing pauses a moment to examine its contents before announcing with a trace of pride that he recognizes an object inside the woven basket as one of the trinkets he’d traded to Lady Jaleh. Its inclusion seems to please him, all the more so after Ashti confirms that her people still judge a sacrifice’s worth by the weight of attached sentiment with no respect to commercial value.

  For their own offerings, Blackwing neatly coils the blindfolds he and Lamp had worn across Heartbreak’s demesne. As he lays them down, he promises grander sacrifices in due time. For now, the humble cloth serves as recognition of the gratitude owed for their safe passage through perilous terrain.

  Lamp seconds his employer’s remarks by raising his left hand towards the heavens and setting alight the tip of his index finger. He hopes this symbolic sacrifice of his world-tile’s precious light conveys the sincerity of his thanks. The gods would not expect him to be extravagantly wasteful, however, so he dims the glow after a few seconds.

  For Ashti’s part, she carries nothing fit to leave behind, so she imitates Lamp’s offering of magic. Her graft flares for a brief moment, tugging at the thoughts of those around her like a gentle whirlpool. When the magic fades, she turns without a word to ascend the pale hill.

  The trio climbs in silence. Weighty steps carry them from plinth to peak along a slope too lightly traveled to yet be worn smooth. Despite centuries of opportunity, it’s clear that few feet ever trod this sacred ground. Seemingly, only the most desperate and devoted attempt the ritual they’ve come to perform.

  Just by being here, Lamp feels himself joining rare company, though he curbs his ego with the reminder that Blackwing hauled him most of the way. Because of that assistance, the scholar qualifies himself more as a tourist than an explorer.

  Checking the faces of his companions, he finds stony expressions upon both; clearly their thoughts follow more serious pathways than his own. Lamp considers imitation, but his untroubled mind raises no dire subjects on which to linger.

  He happened to arrive at the feet of the gods during a point in his life when there’s little he’d like to beg of them. If he must speak before he leaves, it might simply be to cast another vote of thanks. He feels quite blessed already.

  Perhaps, if Lamp had come here alone, he might consider requesting confirmation that his faith in Blackwing is suitably placed. It would be unwise to raise such doubts while witnesses are present, however.

  His musings terminate when Ashti steps beyond him to the very edge of the natural dais and raises her hands towards the sky. Glancing at the ground near her feet, he spies a narrow crack in the stone that might, perhaps, fit the blade of a certain golden spear. It looks so natural that Lamp can’t be certain. Ashti doesn’t seem to notice, focused as she is.

  Her prayer begins without preamble. “I plead to all the gods: If my path is true and our plan can work, show me portents of our victory. Else, if our aim is doomed to failure or tragedy, warn me away. In either case, guide me to my love’s salvation. There is nothing I would not give to see her well. Nothing I would not do to earn your aid.”

  The girl pauses then, face held upward and eyes wide open. Long seconds pass without reply as she patiently, hopefully, longingly awaits heaven’s answer. After half a minute of total silence, she closes her eyes, bows her head, and steps away.

  “One plan of three has failed.” She mutters before turning toward the scholar with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Lamp, for suggesting an alternative to Lady Clearheart’s method. I would hate to be standing here without one.”

  He nods to her, unconsciously adjusting the straps of his backpack. His gaze breaks away as his employer strides forward to take the girl’s abandoned place. Blackwing repeats her reverential gesture, lifting his arms as if to embrace the eminence of heaven.

  “Great Ones.” He solemnly intones. “In memory of Hastur and his children, I call upon the wisdom of divinity. Oh Mirror, Oh Regent, show me the surest path to my aims, clarify my judgement, fortify my resolve, and turn me from my ambitions if they would bring to ruin those I love. Humans are as frightened children, lost without your guidance yet striving to embody your grace and execute your will. Take pity on us. Show me what I must do for my people. Stop me now if my plans displease you.”

  Falling silent and holding still, the merchant waits. For a full minute, he stands patiently resolute. Again, the sky offers nothing in reply. Blackwing too steps away.

  When Lamp fails to walk forward into the same position, the others look at him expectantly. Suppressing a sigh, the scholar decides it would be more awkward to decline than to play along. Walking forward, he raises his arms, closes his eyes, and hastily improvises a request. Not wanting to impose upon the gods with a plea for physical miracles, and having nothing he’d want in mind anyway, he settles on what seems to him a more obtainable boon.

  At the last moment before he speaks, Lamp remembers a crucial detail of Clearheart’s story. With that oddity in mind, he begins his prayer in unconventional fashion.

  “To the gods or any higher powers who might be listening, I humbly ask for knowledge of pathways. If there exists a means to open doors to other world-tiles, a method to reconnect with other fragments of our scattered kingdom, please grant me an inkling of the proper course.”

  He decides to drop the matter there, preferring not to waste time with needless locution when the gods have heard out two prayers of greater import before his own. Unsurprisingly, the sky does not answer his request either. Lamp barely waits five seconds before lowering his arms and turning towards the others with a lopsided smile.

  “No dice.” He offers with a shrug.

  Blackwing responds with a pained smile while Ashti laughs in relieved mirth.

  “Well, this was a disappointment.” The girl announces . “I speak without any insult intended to the gods, of course; they have offered us ample opportunity and good fortune already. I simply raised my hopes too high beyond their generosity.

  “Still, the conclusion of this errand has an upside.” She grins widely. “As this was our final stop, I get to see her again now. Let us be away in haste, shall we?”

  The other two begin their descent with Ashti in the lead, her chin held high and steps bouncing with eagerness. Blackwing likewise seems keen to depart from the site of their shared failure. Lamp turns away from the edge at a lesser speed and takes a single step after his companions’ departing backs. He means to follow it with a second, but a strange sensation roots him suddenly in place. For the first time since his arrival in this world, he feels a touch of wind against his neck.

  Immediate apprehension and excitement swell within his whirling mind even as a doubtful voice rudely insists the sensation was either imagined or coincidental. ‘Lamphand is no one special,’ it whispers, so why would the gods choose to answer only his prayer? Why would they wait until his friends turned away? Why beckon his eyes back specifically?

  Largely unwilling to believe that anything behind him could have changed, yet unable to resist the pull of curiosity, Lamp turns even as a strange dread pumps into his veins. He half expects to see the same lifeless vista as before, and for a moment he does. In that first breath of mundanity, his egotistical apprehension exits his body within a quiet sigh of combined dismay and relief.

  Then he looks down and sees a single flower petal perched atop the precipice.

  Soft and healthy, its vibrant yellow stands in stark contrast against the pale stone beneath. Lamp fails to put a name to it, unable to recognize the parent flower by the attributes of its component. To his novice eye, the petal looks almost like a double edged blade cut from a ribbon of unburnished gold.

  It possesses an unusual yet compelling allure, seeming slightly more real than anything surrounding it yet disquieting in a way he can’t articulate. Brighter and more sublime than any flower he’s ever seen, it reminds him more of sunlight itself than of gardens.

  As Lamp witlessly stares down into its silken texture, an odd fever brings a flush to his face while the veins behind his eyes begin to itch. The discomfort feels increasingly unimportant even as it builds. Everything except the yellow petal rapidly fades into irrelevancy.

  How could anything compare to this beauty? Lamp could gaze upon it until he died of thirst. Anyone would-

  The color suddenly fades. His bizarre obsession terminates as rapidly as it began, and the pain behind his bloodshot eyes suddenly seems very pressing indeed. Lamp feels a mounting headache spreading backwards through his brain, hammering into his skull with every heartbeat like a nail driving into wood.

  Still, our man can’t bring himself to look away.

  He starts to speak, belatedly intending to alert the others- to warn them or beckon them, he isn’t sure- but a second gust of wind builds and sweeps past before a sound can escape his lips. Blowing from behind his back, the gust plucks his flower away, and the strange object vanishes so quickly the scholar almost doubts whether he truly saw it on the stone at all.

  “What was that?” He mutters softly.

  It takes Lamp a moment longer to realize he spoke those words in a language he doesn’t know.