The icon of manslaughter raises its mournful voices in protest for a second time. Heartbreak’s beatific chorus swiftly answers.

  Two walls of oppositional sound clash and intertwine. Both calls passingly resembles song, but only in the bestial manner of crickets, birds, and hounds. Nothing human would produce such music as Lamp hears now. Even his comparison to nature fails to capture the raw intensity of his experience.

  The melding voices of demigods overwhelm his senses and threaten to ensnare his mind entire. Discordant, yet not cacophonous. Lacking both melody and words, yet tantalizing to the ear and rich with vivid meaning. Each singer seeks to compromise his perception and suborn his will, yet in tandem, they dilute each other’s power.

  Their respective influences drag Lamp’s emotions towards incongruous and incompatible states. The combined distractions dull his focus, but their opposition leaves his purpose clear. He needs to act at once while the monsters still occupy each other. He has no time to lose.

  Spurred to motion, the scholar scrambles blindly at his restraints, trying to untie the ropes digging into his side by feel alone. Each unraveling takes a frustrating length of time, but he supposes he owes his survival to the integrity of these binds.

  As he digs each knot apart, Lamp morbidly wonders whether the air around him has begun condensing into droplets of color in response to Heartbreak’s presence, just as the sky above Manslaughter had bled crimson. He’d felt nothing when the blood drenched icon’s power stained his skin, so he cannot know whether a similar effect is present now.

  Even his hands only detect light by consuming it. To confirm an occurrence of the change, he would need to open either his eyes or his graft. Neither test is a risk worth taking.

  Still, Lamp cannot help but ponder what visions he might see if he drew Heartbreak’s magic into his body. Would he lose himself inside its fantasy, or could he manage to break free again? Lamp suspects the former. Although he’d slipped from Manslaughter’s stranglehold, his escape was an exceedingly near thing, and he mostly credits that success to the enormous pain and fear the icon had instilled in him. If Lamp foolishly absorbed a sweeter poison, he doubts he’d ever manage to spit it back out.

  It’s a question he’d better leave alone.

  Just as the scholar affirms his prudent decision, the arguing icons fall silent. Lamp freezes as soon as the noise stops and holds his breath, waiting for any signal of an impending attack. Tense seconds drag by, but nothing else comes afterwards. The desert has at last returned to silence. Lamp might as well avail himself of the quiet while it persists.

  “Blackwing!” He whispers with as much urgency as his tattered throat can muster. “Keep your eyes closed!”

  The merchant doesn’t respond. Lamp’s not sure if the other man still clings to consciousness, but at least he isn’t trying to reach Heartbreak. The mere fact that Blackwing’s lying passively on his side shows that his mind hasn’t yet been ensnared, regardless of whether he’s sensate. His apparent fainting spell is therefore a mixed blessing, though it’ll lose its single benefit if the man wakes up before Lamp manages to blindfold him.

  Muttering a final, victorious curse, Lamp manages to untangle himself from the last of his bindings. After gracelessly tumbling out of his seat onto the coarse sand, he rises to an unsteady crouch and blindly shuffles his way around Blackwing’s head. Once in front of the man, Lamp gently prods until he finds the imprint of an eye socket, then lays a hand over his employer’s face to impair the man’s vision as much as his graft material can manage.

  “Blackwing!” He hisses while shaking the merchant’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  Again, he receives no response. Feeling increasingly worried, Lamp leaves one hand over the man’s eyes while he shifts his other to his neck. Pressing lightly, the scholar holds his breath until he feels a steady pulse beneath his employer’s skin. With a relieved sigh and a whispered prayer of thanks, he hurriedly shifts his position a little closer to Blackwing’s feet.

  He remembers the merchant had purported to keep two green blindfolds stored in his belt pouch; Lamp will have to retrieve those himself. As a necessary first step, he unties the loop of rope around Blackwing’s abdomen that secures the litter to his back. Once that’s accomplished, all Lamp needs to do next is undress the guy a little.

  Simple as. Don’t make it weird.

  In spite of his perfectly innocent intentions, Lamp’s face still heats slightly as he pulls up his employer’s chlamys and lays a hand on the bare torso underneath. Murmuring an embarrassed apology and promising to be quick, he fumbles his fingers down the man’s hip towards his waist. Lamp makes very certain to keep his hands above that boundary as he blindly gropes along the base Blackwing’s belly for his belt bag.

  The scholar can only hope that Ashti doesn’t have a clear view of this fiasco. It would look far too suggestive from her angle. It feels plenty inappropriate from his own. He almost sheds a tear of relief when he finally locates the purse and pries it open.

  Fumbling inside the little pouch while being careful not to spill its contents, Lamp manages to identify a strip of cloth by touch. After drawing it out, he crab walks back to Blackwing’s head and gently lifts it from the sand before slipping one end of the blindfold underneath. Leaning forward, he ties the two soft tails together behind the merchant’s skull.

  Lamp adjusts the cloth over his boss’s face, ensuring that it adequately blocks his sight, before returning to the belt pouch to extract the second blindfold for himself. He ties that off then reaches forward again, intending to cinch the purse closed, when an odd sensation freezes him in place.

  It takes a moment for his conscious mind to identify the signal that had alerted his instincts. When he realizes what he felt, his breath catches, and he shivers.

  In the air beside him, Lamp feels the intimate warmth of an exposed human body drawing closer to his arm. He fights the urge to flinch at its approach, holding still like a rabbit hiding from a dog. The alluring heat stops less than an inch away, close enough that he could easily brush the back of his fingers against its skin by accident. Somehow, Lamp knows that he would find it supple.

  This most certainly isn’t Ashti.

  The unwelcome presence sends a chill down his back, but at least its arrival clarifies which of the quarreling icons won their border dispute. Heartbreak’s visitation was the best feasible outcome of that meeting, he supposes.

  Holding still for as long as his frozen breath can last, Lamp reminds himself on the next inhale that he already possesses the only defense he needs. Ashti made it clear that the lustful icon won’t touch its victims unless they see it first. Armed with that assurance, his confidence grows, and he decides to press his luck.

  With a dry swallow that tugs uncomfortably at his sore throat, Lamp carefully reaches forward to close his employer’s purse and drape the man’s cloak back over his torso. Then he shuffles away from the silent, presumably naked body at his side to begin untying the shoulder straps that connect the merchant to Lamp’s vacated chair.

  He reminds himself of his own safety as he works. Demigod though it may be, Heartbreak abides by strict rules of engagement. So long as Lamp keeps his eyes closed, he’ll be safe. He’ll get through this, and he'll get Blackwing through it too.

  Despite those affirmations, his shoulders still tense when the warmth languidly follows after him. Unsettlingly, it makes no sound as it approaches. Lamp hears no rasping footsteps in the sand, no whisper of skin rubbing against skin. It simply sidles next to him again and comes to a patient halt, silently waiting for the scholar’s hand to cross the narrow space between them and take hold of what it offers.

  Lamp pretends to be oblivious.

  The icon waits a dozen seconds longer before attempting another tactic. Softly, almost too quiet to discern at first, Lamp hears a gentle humming. The voice sounds pleasantly familiar without quite matching anyone he recalls. He knows, somehow- again, that Heartbreak could conform to any of those memories if he wanted. Any lover Lamp ever had or coveted could be waiting at his side. All he needs to do is remove his blindfold to look, and there he’ll find them.

  He shakes his head in silent refutation as he tugs a second rope free from Blackwing’s body. With both shoulders liberated, he shoves the chair away and quietly wishes it good riddance. Then, moving as cautiously as he can, Lamp positions himself behind Blackwing and rolls the man onto his back.

  Before attempting his lift, Lamp unties the wreckage of Blackwing’s sailcloth wing from the left arm to which it had tenuously remained attached. Its handheld counterpart, he presumes, was lost at the site of Manslaughter’s ambush.

  Carefully sliding the torn and splintered material free, Lamp determines with relief that the graft within feels unbroken and undamaged. Its leathery composition likely resists fractures better than his own. If Lamp tried to punch an icon, his hand would probably explode.

  Shaking his head, the scholar squats near the center of Blackwing’s mass before tucking one arm under his employer’s back and another below his knees. Then he draws a sharp breath in through his nose and heaves himself to his feet.

  “Oof!” The air immediately escapes back out of him. “Gods, man. What do they feed you?”

  While the body cradled in his arms isn’t particularly stocky, even a lean man of such height packs considerable weight. Lamp greatly doubts he’d be capable of lifting someone just a few stones heavier, and with every passing second adding to the strain on his muscles, he grows increasingly certain that he won’t manage to carry Blackwing very far.

  But he has to try.

  Struggling to take a single step forward and accomplishing that feat through intense effort, Lamp belatedly realizes that he can’t be certain which direction leads to safety. If he wanders blindly, he could easily stumble his way back into Manslaughter’s territory to reunite with the death which awaits there.

  Lamp had already considered that he’ll need Ashti’s guidance to successfully navigate across the desert to Baghdokhtaran, but he’d thought he might get started without her. On reconsideration, that’s too much of a risk; he has no option but to wait here until she catches up.

  Cursing under his breath and bending his knees into another uncomfortable squat, the scholar carefully lowers Blackwing back onto the ground. As soon as he lays the man’s head upon the sand, however, Lamp hears rapid footsteps running up behind him, along with controlled breathing indicative of a practiced sprinter.

  What incredible timing she has. He almost tells the girl to fuck off.

  “Lamp!” Ashti whisper-shouts as her pace slows to a trot. “Are you alright? Is Lord Blackwing injured?”

  “I’m fine.” He answers at the lowest volume he thinks will carry, both out of caution and to spare his voice. “I’m not sure about him, but at least his heart’s beating. Can you still see the last icon? Has it left?”

  Ashti jogs the rest of the distance between them and takes a few deep breaths before answering. “The first icon is still standing at the edge of its territory. When I passed the creature, it was leaning forward with an intensity I did not care for. We should get moving before it grows bold. Or before its neighbor makes an appearance.”

  Lamp tilts his head. “Its neighbor is already here; that’s the only reason it stopped. I assume you don’t see it, then?”

  “See it... No.” The outlander answers with a worried tone, her voice still breathy from exertion. “I heard its responses to the other icon’s final screams, but that was all. I would at least see a blur if I still had my mask; as I am now, I can only perceive the two of us.

  She pauses before asking tentatively. “Is there a voice… speaking to you? Please ignore it if so.”

  “No. So far, it’s just humming- with good pitch but no real melody- and I can feel its warmth every time it follows me around.” He sniffs the air. “Also, there’s a faint scent of honey and rosemary. The combination reminds me of my kitchen back home. I hadn’t really noticed that.”

  “Try not to focus on anything it puts inside your head.” Ashti cautions. “That said, can you discern where it is now?”

  “It’s on the other side of Blackwing. I don’t think it’s tried to touch either of us yet, though it keeps getting close.”

  “Good. It- actually, maybe I should wait to tell you this until we leave its territory. For now, we should focus on moving. This calm reprieve between neighbors may not last indefinitely.”

  “Agreed.” Lamp nods. “But before that- I didn’t think to check Blackwing for injuries when I picked him up the first time. We should confirm he’s safe to move before I touch him again. Could you help me conduct an examination?”

  “Of course.” Footsteps in the sand mark her approach. She pauses for a moment after drawing even. “He looks fine to me. Intact, rather. I see no blood or obvious injuries.”

  Lamp smiles in relief. “Excellent. Are either of his shoulders dislocated? I didn’t feel anything misaligned earlier, but we took a few big hits on our way down.”

  Ashti hesitates before answering. “Both joints look normal to me, though I caution that I have never seen a dislocated shoulder before. I would not know the signs.”

  “Huh. Guess my life’s been more interesting than yours. Anyways, you’d recognize that problem if you saw it, so we can scratch off one injury.” He pats around in the sand to find Blackwing’s left arm then waves at it to direct Ashti’s eyes. “What about his graft? Did it fracture at all? Do you see any changes in coloration or texture?”

  “From where I stand, nothing seems amiss.”

  “Please quickly examine his palm. If he suffered damage anywhere, it should be there.”

  The handmaiden treads around to the end of Blackwing’s arm. Lamp feels her fussing with its hand through small motions that travel down the limb. After a few seconds of gentle manipulations, she reports finding no external signs of damage. Though again, she reminds him that she doesn’t really know what to look for.

  “Thank you. I think that’s all we can do for him. Just one last thing before we go.” Lamp holds up his right hand. “Does this look like an immediate issue? I can’t even tell if it’s still there. Do you see a red streak inside my graft? I drained some of that hostile red light from the last zone, and it left a stain.”

  “I see it.” He hears a grimace in Ashti’s voice. “I noticed that earlier, as it stands out rather starkly, but I have nothing enlightening to say for you. House Courage will be interested in conducting an examination. They might be able to suggest potential effects, but I doubt even they can promise certainty. That mark resulted from a novel combination of previously-segregated magics. No one can tell us what it means in advance.”

  “Unsurprising.” Lamp digs his right arm under Blackwing’s upper back and prepares to lift again. He pauses in that position for a moment, then asks with a small, embarrassed voice. “Could you help me with his legs, please? I’m too weak to transport a man his size very far on my own.”

  “Maybe.” The girl answers with moderate confidence. “I might need to leave our stolen grafts behind to make this feasible, but I could simply return for them alone once the two of you are deeper inside the second icon’s territory. Speaking of, is it still nearby?”

  “Yes. It hasn’t moved.” Lamp hesitates before asking. “Should we still avoid saying its name when we want it to stick around?”

  “Probably.” He can hear the shrug in her voice as she replies. “The icon’s presence is only momentarily beneficial. It would not be prudent for us to directly engage or commune with it. We should only risk calling for attention if it abandons us before its neighbor recedes from view.”

  Ashti pauses on that unpleasant thought, then changes back to their previous subject. “So, do I leave the grafts? They should remain secure in this isolated place, but I can try to take them further if you prefer.”

  “Let’s try bringing them.” Lamp stands, turns his back towards the girl, and raises his arms. “Transfer your pack onto me. I think I can manage that weight plus half of Blackwing’s better than I can manage his weight alone.”

  Ashti completes Lamp’s request without offering any protest, wordlessly shifting the backpack from her own tired shoulders to his. The load settles agreeably, so Lamp lowers himself into another squat at Blackwing’s side and crosses the merchant’s arms over his body.

  Digging his glass hands through the coarse sand beneath the larger man’s shoulders, Lamp silently thanks the gods for his hardened fingers. Once sure of his grip, he bends Blackwing’s limp body into a sitting position.

  Ashti agrees to take the forward station since she’s the only one of them who can see, so Lamp directs her to kneel between the merchant’s legs and wrap her hands under his knees. The scholar then shuffles behind his employer’s back, tucks his arms under Blackwing’s own, and directs Ashti to lift. Slowly rising together, the two of them hoist their unconscious compatriot into the air.

  After extracting an assurance that the sand ahead of them appears level and free of rocks, Lamp orders his companion forward. While attempting to maintain a straight line behind her, he still shies away as they pass the vaguely demarcated obstacle presented by Heartbreak. Once again, however, the icon lingers harmlessly to the side.

  Onwards they march. The load feels manageable at first. Ashti’s backpack digs uncomfortably into his shoulders, and his employer weighs heavy in Lamp’s arms, but his muscles are fresh and he feels equal to this task. That confidence wears away remarkably soon.

  Around thirty paces after they started, Lamp admits. “I don’t think I can lug this guy all the way back to your city.”

  “Likewise.” Ashti answers with a slight but audible strain. “Can you manage a mile? We should try to break the prior icon’s line of sight.”

  “Probably.”

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  “Alright. Good… How about two?”

  “I’ll let you know after we get to one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Lamp falls quiet for what feels like another hundred feet of strenuous advancement, then holds his tongue for a while longer until he figures they’ve actually crossed that distance. The irregular cadence of his and Ashti’s labored footsteps atop the sand provides his only metric of progress while the steadily increasing volume of their breaths indicates an all-too-rapidly dwindling stamina.

  Throughout this period of relative silence, Heartbreak remains a consistent companion at Lamp’s side. The hovering icon seldom makes its presence obvious, but every time the scholar thinks of it, he receives some small indicator of its location.

  Most common are its gentle sighs and quiet laughs, each one delivered from a subtly different voice. As his back begins to strain and his arms grow heavy, it playfully blows against his ear, the bright scent of lilacs drifting on its breath. Immediately following that imposition, Lamp feels the warmth of its arms hanging beneath his own, poised as if to help him with his burden.

  Rationally, these distractions ought to simply annoy and disturb him, which they do, but some aspect of the icon’s magic creates a conflict in his mind that also makes each act feel not only welcome but tantalizing. Lamp’s body responds to Heartbreak’s crude flirtations as it would to the games of a trusted lover. His skin tingles, his heart quickens from more than just exertion, and a blush creeps up his neck. Thankfully, the physiological effects end there; he’s not a teenager.

  Awkwardly clearing his throat- and immediately regretting the aggravation to it- Lamp tries to distract himself from his physical and psychic burdens with dialogue. “Can you see our destination on the horizon, or are we still too far out?”

  “The city’s footprint should become visible fairly soon.” Ashti answers in a breathy tone. “Growth’s authority sets the stars burning green. I will inform you when I see the lights.”

  Perhaps her promise of an eventual update was a subtle hint to stop asking questions in the interim. She might not want to expound while she has a grown man’s lower body hanging from her arms. Her pronouncement inspires too much curiosity, however. Although talking takes more effort than either of them would prefer to expend at the moment, Lamp can’t help but follow up.

  “Growth can do that?” The scholar asks over his employer’s lolling head. “Even as a false icon? Is Hea- Is the local icon an exception to a general norm? The sky here looked black while we were making our approach.”

  The handmaiden answers wearily. “All icons produce starlight, though true icons influence much wider areas. As for the master of this region, its flares take on a dull gray color that blends with the sky.”

  “Ah.” Lamp wishes he could glance up to check. “Gray’s an odd color for an icon of lust, don’t you think?”

  “It would be.” Ashti’s tone carries an somber element of defeat for which the explanation arrives a moment later. “I apologize for requesting this so soon after we began, but I need to rest briefly. Could we stop and set him down?”

  “Happily.” Lamp answers in full truth.

  The two of them shamble to a halt and gently lower Blackwing to the ground. Lamp manages to avoid grunting with the effort but freely vocalizes his agreement when Ashti sighs in relief. Rubbing at his shoulders for a moment, the scholar shifts his backpack’s weight into a passingly comfortable position. At the same time, a soft rustling of fabric tells him that Ashti has begun stretching.

  Apart from these quiet sounds, the desert dwells in absolute silence. Lamp suffers a sudden bout of fear at the thought of Heartbreak having finally vanished in a fit of boredom, but as soon as he wonders where his selfish protector went, he feels the warmth of another palm almost pressed against his own. He jerks his hand away by reflex; the sensation thankfully doesn’t follow. Lamp can only hope that it remains where it was.

  “Is the last one still watching us?” He asks the open air with feigned composure.

  Ashti hesitates a moment before answering. “I believe so. The red stars have resumed their normal activity, so the desert has reverted to darkness, but I think I see the icon standing exactly where it stopped before I ran past. It appears to have… deformed slightly since then, as if it slowly began to melt.”

  “Hmm.” The scholar shakes his head. “I don’t envy your vision at the moment, but at least our pursuer seems to be calming down. Do you think it might leave soon?”

  “I doubt that. We should expect it to remain focused for as long as the two of you are visible.”

  Lamp nods with a frown. “Do you know how far it can see? Does the thing even have eyes? I didn’t spot any when it poked its ugly head up.”

  “It probably does, somewhere. They might be quite small in proportion to its body. Regardless, the only realistic objective we can pursue while Lord Blackwing convalesces is to carry him far enough away that the icon no longer senses him. I want to at least continue until we no longer see it. Or until I no longer see it, I suppose.”

  Lamp hears a soft shifting in the sand from Ashti’s direction. When she speaks again, her voice comes from about waist height, so she must have sat down. Thinking that action sensible, Lamp gracelessly imitates her. The handmaiden waits for him to settle before she resumes.

  “Returning to your earlier question about the nearer icon’s dull gray light, you seem to misunderstand its nature slightly. Were this creature an icon of lust, my people would call it by a closely related name. Our ancestors gave it a different title because it operates well beyond that simple aspect. When allowed free reign, its magic reproduces the charred embers of a heart scorched by unreclaimable love. It seeks to mark you with that flame. The arousal it inspires only serves as fuel to heat its branding iron.”

  Either by coincidence or conscious understanding, Heartbreak chooses that precise moment to giggle over Lamp’s shoulder. The scholar shudders intensely in response and almost jerks away from the icon’s apparent location before reminding himself that he’s miles away from true safety. A mad scamper to the left won’t protect him in the slightest. He has his blindfold; he will get nothing else.

  “Why did the gods make these things?” He asks in exasperation, hoping the question is not a heresy by local standards and trusting his companion to forgive him if it is.

  “Nobody knows.” Ashti admits apologetically. “If a record of the gods’ intent was recorded at any point, we have since lost all copies. However, those who claim to possess special insight believe the ‘red’ icon was created to destroy enemy armies if they ever marched against Carcosa, while our current icon would prevent any surviving soldiers from repopulating a new generation of invaders. Those explanations seem logical, so they are widely accepted by groups who feel the need to understand.”

  “Huh.” Lamp wracks his brain for knowledge of Old Carcosa’s wars. “Did that ever happen? I couldn’t find historical attestation for any of your world-tile’s icons across two years of searching.”

  “I fear I have no definitive answer for you. Much of our heritage was lost in the rupture. Whether or not the icons were unleashed in special circumstances, we may assume such practices never became routine. Some memory of it surely would have survived if so.”

  “Ah. Much of our history was lost as well. I can commiserate.” Keenly desiring another distraction from Heartbreak’s presence while he and the outlander recover their strength, Lamp immediately poses a third question. “Have you ever seen anything like that explosion of light before? The one we saw when Blackwing traded blows with the previous icon. I suppose I might’ve learned something about its nature had I absorbed any of it, but swallowing strange lights apparently carries serious risks. Regardless, I didn’t think to try at the time.”

  “That was likely for the best. And no, I had not seen its like before.” A trace of awe enters her tired voice. “It was a dazzling wonder to behold. May I ask what it felt like?”

  “Warm and a bit… fizzy? I’m not sure. It passed quickly, and I had significant distractions to occupy my attention. Part of me still wishes I’d tried drawing some in.” He trails off for a wistful moment before shaking himself. “Anyways, since you didn’t recognize it, I assume you wouldn’t know what happened to him afterwards?”

  “No. To my eye, Lord Blackwing seems exhausted. Beyond that, I could only guess.”

  “He likely pushed himself to his absolute limit.” Lamp muses. “Just before the detonation, I saw his magic bloom into an aura like the icon’s, though obviously not of comparable magnitude. He made just a small black shell around us both; that shield was probably what exploded on contact. If so, I don’t imagine the sudden combustion of his manifested willpower was terribly healthy for the man.”

  “Neither do I.” Ashti’s voice falls off in a manner that suggests she’s still chewing on her next words. After a moment, she picks back up. “Whenever a Select starts manifesting the colors of her or his soulmask, it indicates that their identity has begun to distend beyond their pane. At that point, transformation is imminent.

  “I strongly doubt that the structure of a graft would permit that same outcome, but you are likely correct in assuming Lord Blackwing expressed his authority to its greatest extent. For all of his power to then combust around him… Well, I am impressed his lordship survived unscathed. I will not be greatly surprised if he sleeps through the remainder of today.”

  “Let’s hope otherwise. I really don’t want to carry him all the way across this desert.”

  Lamp ruefully shakes his head before rising back to his feet. He hears Ashti copy his motion a moment later, and the two of them wordlessly return to their positions. On a count of three, they heave Blackwing up again and resume their arduous march forward.

  Lamp isn’t sure quite how much ground they manage to cover before their next break, but by the time he sets the merchant down again, his arms burn like he’d shoved them inside a forge. Ashti, for her own part, briefly sounds like she’s on the verge of relieved tears as she reports that they’ve made decent progress.

  “Can you still see the last icon?” Lamp repeats his first question from their previous stop.

  “No.” The girl answers at length. “It might yet linger where we left it, having either burrowed or flattened itself out, but I can no longer detect its body rising above the sand.”

  “Excellent news!” Lamp tries to fill his soar-throated murmurings with appropriate enthusiasm. “Though I take it we’re still close enough to see the spot where it stopped?”

  “Yes. I can clearly see the dent it carved through one of the great dunes.”

  “Not far enough yet, then.” He mutters unhappily before swatting over his shoulder to shoo away the damp sensation of a wet mouth poised to nibble on his ear.

  Ashti laughs at the gesture, though her tone sounds more shocked than amused. “Is the other icon still pestering you? Did you actually just wave it off?”

  “Yes to both questions.” Lamp answers with the clipped tones of an annoyance solely directed towards Heartbreak. “The damn thing has no less persistence and no more tact than a mosquito. Is it normal for every man who crosses through its territory to receive so much harassment?”

  “No. Or I believe not, anyway.” Ashti clears her throat. “The local icon’s territory completely wraps around Growth’s; I think I showed you that when I drew my map of this area. Consequently, traveling between Baghdokhtaran and the capital requires passing through a sliver of its domain. I have crossed that land in the company of men multiple times, and if the icon bothered any of them as frequently as it seems to be accosting you, they never mentioned it.”

  “Hmmm.” Lamp hums thoughtfully. “I won’t say that I find its attention flattering, but it is curious. Do you think the creature might be attracted to our grafts?”

  “That may well be its motivation, though it is also possible that you are currently the only conscious man who exists within its reach. The icon would typically have either a group to choose from or no one.”

  “Lucky me. You still can’t see the thing?”

  Ashti nods, a detail Lamp only learns when she laughs and admits to it, then she answers his question. “This icon is invisible and intangible to ordinary women, while men- even men of the Select- see and feel precisely what it wants them to.”

  “Oh?” Curiosity begins to bubble up, inspired by her turn of phrase. “So no one really knows what its actual body looks like?”

  “Correct. If the ion has a ‘true’ form, none have ever witnessed it.”

  Lamp nods towards his left hand. “Do you think the light from my world-tile could reveal its nature, as it did for ours?”

  The handmaiden answers hesitantly. “Maybe, but since no one has ever disrupted its illusions, we have no way to predict how it might react. My general recommendation is that you should refrain from antagonizing any of the icons. Please do not poke what might kill us.”

  “Alright, but only since you said please… Well.” He blindly pats Blackwing’s shoulder. “Do you feel ready to continue?”

  “No.” Ashti replies in a plaintive tone Lamp doesn’t think he’s heard from her before. “But I will try.”

  Neither of them bothers to suppress the undignified noises produced during their next lift. The only balm for Lamp’s pride is the awareness that no human apart from his fellow sufferer hears his feeble wheezing or grunted complaints. Heartbreak presumably observes the whole production, but in Lamp’s estimation the icon doesn’t count as a witness, and he doesn’t much care if it ever gossips with its neighbor.

  Once they achieve stability, Lamp again follows Ashti’s directions as she leads him deeper across the black sand flats. By the time he feels compelled to stop again or else risk dropping their man, they’ve passed deep enough into Heartbreak’s territory that Ashti finally declares them safe. That’s just as well, because Lamp doubts either of them have any stamina remaining.

  They carefully set down their charge before recklessly crashing into the sand themselves. Speaking with what sounds like the last air in her lungs, Ashti repeats the foreign curse she learned from Candlewire. Lamp heartily endorses her sentiment despite the phrase making no logical sense in their current context.

  The pair then sits in silence for a fair time longer, collecting their ragged breaths and waiting for the pain in their muscles to fade. Both make a few sporadic attempts at conversation, but nothing sticks until Ashti suddenly gasps in surprise.

  “What is it?” Lamp asks with immediate concern.

  He scrambles from a seated position into a squat and makes as if to rise, but his companion gently restrains him by laying a hand upon his arm. Then she whispers an explanation.

  “I see a wild jinni!” The girl quietly exclaims with hushed excitement. “I worried for a moment that we had been discovered, but it lacks the substance of a bound spirit, so we need not fret about its master.”

  Lamp elects not to comment on the implication that they should fear to be rescued. Instead, he remarks. “I don’t think we discussed ‘wild’ variants in our previous conversations. What does it look like?”

  He lowers himself back onto the sand as he awaits her answer. If Ashti isn’t worried, Lamp sees no reason why he should be.

  “Wild jinn are spirits without tethers.” She tells him quietly. “Translucent in appearance and evanescent in nature, their arrivals are both sporadic and infrequent. Each one is typically witnessed only once. They are not a separate classification of jinn, but rather a temporary stage in the normal cycle of our native magic.

  “Our current visitor has taken the form of a proud and stately wolf. Oh, but those animals have no presence in your world-tile, do they? At the risk of repeating myself: wolves resemble large hounds with thicker coats, especially around the neck, and they possess more elegant proportions along with sharp, yellow eyes… This particular one is quite beautiful. I wish you could see it.”

  “Likewise. Is it doing anything?” The scholar eagerly inquires while trying to imagine the supposedly majestic creature. “Is it watching us?”

  “It was, for a short moment, but the spirit seems to be leaving now.” She sounds disappointed as she shares the news. “It initially appeared to the east of us and has started trotting back in that direction. Our interaction thus concludes.”

  “Should we try to follow it?” Lamp asks with moderate concern, seriously doubting his ability to keep up with an intangible hunter while blindfolded and carrying an unconscious man larger than himself.

  “No.” Ashti confidently answers, setting his nerves at ease. “My uncle has attempted to pursue them a few times, but the jinn simply disappear after some random interval. He thinks they approach humans out of their own curiosity, not because they want to communicate. I have heard several fanciful stories claiming otherwise, but never from a reputable primary source.”

  “Ah. So its presence doesn’t signify or portend anything?”

  Lamp hears a shrug in her voice as she replies, though her tone grows increasingly wistful with every sentence. “It probably signifies that someone in Baghdokhtaran will receive a soulmask soon. This jinni is simply on walkabout until it senses the next Select. Whatever youth tames it will be quite fortunate if the spirit maintains its current form. Jinn which adopt the appearance of living animals are rare and highly prized, even though appearance has no bearing on their vital energy.”

  Her voice trails off before she murmurs an addendum. “My owl was the reason the royal family chose me above the other candidates. Without it…”

  Ashti draws in a heavy breath and falls silent. Lamp waits several awkward seconds for her to either continue speaking or move on to a new subject, but nothing further comes. Eventually, he decides to address the open question.

  “Do you want to…” The scholar implies an offer to hear out her story.

  The girl refuses him gently. “Not now. Soon, maybe. Once all of this is finished, and we prove the sacrifice was necessary, then I should feel ready. Thank you.”

  “Of course. Just let me know. Or don’t. I suppose you’ll have other people to talk to soon.”

  Lamp’s words carry a sorrowful tone of finality that he hadn’t quite intended to impart. The unexpected bout of melancholy promptly evaporates when a small fist punches his shoulder.

  He hears a smile as Ashti promises. “You will not rid yourself of me that easily, Lamp. Besides, loneliness should be the last thing on your mind. Even if we grow tired of each other’s company, my uncle will probably try to glue himself to both of you for a week, and I expect half the kingdom to be waiting in line behind him to meet our exciting and mysterious guests. Mark my words, as soon as your presence becomes public knowledge, you and your master will become the most popular men in almost any room throughout the land.”

  Lamp feels a sudden mix of dread and optimistic curiosity at the vision painted by Ashti’s words. While he looks forward to the prospect of cultural exchange, his excitement dims as he imagines becoming mired in an endless loop of polite small talk.

  The quality of his experience will depend on the willingness of strangers to discuss the exotic and esoteric minutiae of their lives, and the kingdom’s average socialite might well run out of novel revelations long before Lamp exhausts the pool of curious onlookers. He can only hope all parties tire of each other at a roughly equivalent rate.

  With a contemplative sigh, he responds. “I suppose that’s only natural, given our novelty.”

  The outlander laughs sharply. “You can also thank the two years of mostly-baseless gossip which preceded you.”

  “So we blame Blackwing and Lady Jaleh for their taste in art?”

  “Yes. We do.” The handmaiden answers with amusement before her tone turns serious. “By the way, you should start calling him ‘Lord’ Blackwing, even if it goes against your world-tile’s conventions. The conduct with which his only subordinate behaves towards him will influence our collective perception of his rank. Both of you should perform as though he is a peer to the Select. It will be necessary if you want any person from your homeland to ever be treated as such.”

  “Understood.” Lamp solemnly confirms. “He’s ‘Lord Blackwing, Master of the Golden Spear’ to your people, right? Should I throw in a ‘Prince of Merchants,’ ‘Vanquisher of Graft Thieves,’ or ‘Flyer of Aircraft’ for good measure.”

  “Some of them, perhaps. He will be well-served by all serious titles. I advise placing a reasonable quantity of gravitas on his name, but you should avoid any appearance of mockery.”

  “Should I practice announcing him? My throat’s still rough.”

  “Then you should practice telling announcers what to say.”

  “Noted.”

  Taking the girl’s warning to heart, Lamp absently shrugs his shoulders to slough off the sensation of delicate fingers lightly brushing against the back of his cloak. He’d briefly allowed himself to believe Heartbreak had finally departed after the past few unmolested minutes, but of course the moment he imagined the icon being gone, it showed back up again. Shaking his head, the scholar shifts back onto his feet and stands.

  “Shall we try for another march?” He asks with forced cheer.

  “Mmmhm.” Ashti doesn’t sound pleased about the prospect but still signals her assent by shuffling back into position.

  Lamp counts down from three with a little more delay between each number than he’d added previously. Despite his prevarications, he still reaches one eventually. On that signal, the two of them strain in practiced unison to lift their oversized passenger from the ground once more.

  They barely manage the ascent this time, jostling the body between their arms a bit more roughly than usual and vocalizing their complaints at a slightly higher volume. Their first step forward wobbles dangerously, and Lamp just about suggests putting the man back down before a deep voice interrupts him.

  “This is an interesting position in which to find myself.” The hoisted merchant murmurs calmly.

  “Ah!” Lamp nearly drops Blackwing in shock before hurrying to explain. “We made it to the second icon’s territory before M- that is, ‘the last icon’ caught up to us. We’re still making our way across the second zone, so your blindfold needs to stay on. Sir.”

  “Understood, and I surmised the bit about us still being alive. Please set me down.”

  The merchant’s weary porters happily comply, and Blackwing demonstrates enough recovered strength to sit himself upright. After receiving Ashti’s assurance that they face no immediate dangers, he requests another minute to compose and situate himself before they resume walking.

  “How far did we get?” The merchant asks as Lamp translates. “You both seemed quite tired, so we must have come a decent way.”

  “Aaahhhh.” Ashti releases a pained sigh and delays her answer for a damningly long pause.

  “Incredibly far. You wouldn’t believe.” Lamp interjects before switching languages. “The two of us did a great and effective job, right partner?”

  “Yup. Sure thing.” The outlander replies without conviction. “The distance we traversed could accurately be described as ‘considerable.’”

  “She agrees with me completely.” Lamp lies in his own tongue.

  “That hardly needed translation.” Blackwing responds with audible mirth. “It was a full-throated endorsement, if ever I’ve heard one… So I take it we covered one or two miles?”

  “I’m willing to assume that- and for you to assume it with me.” Lamp turns his head and switches languages. “Ashti, tell him nothing.”

  The girl laughs weakly. “You got it, partner. He will hear no words from me which contradict your narrative.”

  “Damn right he won’t.” The scholar grins.

  “Well.” Blackwing calls attention back to himself. “I appreciate you dragging me away from danger, no matter how far.”

  “Of course.” The scholar answers sincerely. “What else would we have done?”

  “All the same, thank you Lamp.”