“Did you know that the Empress had left Voraxan and returned to the Nine?”

“It does not matter, Ciras Dejote. Your path was meant to touch Voraxan. It has.”

“I don’t understand. Can you see the future?”

“I am not a Gloon. I have just lived many of your lifetimes. Just as dogs circle before they lie down in grasses, so the affairs of Men circle. There are currents in time, and roles that must be played.”

Ciras shook his head. “No, I refuse to believe that. In the past, I struck Virisken Soshir down, but I would never dishonor my master that way.”

“But, in the past, Virisken Soshir was not your master.”

“Who was?”

“It does not matter.” Starlight sparkled in the Viruk’s dark eyes. “All that matters is who your master is now.”

You’re upset at being called a Gloon, but then you give me a Gloon’s riddle!

Rekarafi’s parting comment puzzled Ciras. He could come up with a half dozen ways to apply that question and get three times as many answers-none of which made the future any more clear. To complicate matters, travel south was hopelessly uneventful, which left him plenty of time to ponder the permutations.

That changed at dusk on the second day. Ciras had been with the vanguard scouting the road, and had sent back reports of what they had found. Now he took some delight in seeing the Viruk’s green flesh turn as grey as Keles’ as he beheld the phenomenon.

“Here’s a riddle better than yours, Rekarafi.”

The cartographer slipped from the rear of the wagon. “This isn’t supposed to be here.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Keles crouched and looked south. The land had been torn in half. Bits of turf and trees on the far side still fell from jagged edges. No river had softened the banks or carved the rift. A god must have pulled the land apart, splitting it suddenly. There could be no other explanation.

The cartographer looked up. “At least a mile across, and half of that down. No trails. Did you look into it?”

Ciras nodded slowly. “I did not like it.”

“Me, neither. There are spots where the bottom doesn’t exist.” Keles threw off the blanket and rocked forward onto his knees. He stripped off his bandages, then rubbed his palms together. He shifted his shoulders, then placed both his hands flat on the ground.

His eyes closed for a second, then he recoiled, jerking his hands up as if burned.

“What’s the matter?”

Keles looked at his hands. “When I touched the earth, it felt wounded. Slashed open like Prince Eiran’s belly.”

Rekarafi crouched. He extended a single talon and scraped a circle around Keles. “Try it now.”

The cartographer gingerly put one hand down. His fingers lightly stroked the ground. Keles pressed that hand flat, then carefully put the other hand down. Then his eyes closed and his body jerked. It jerked again, but he hunched his shoulders and blood slowly drained from his face.

He knelt there for a minute or more, then his eyes fluttered open. “There is something very wrong here.”

Ciras crouched. “You have a gift for the obvious.”

Keles laughed. “Your voice, my grandfather’s words.”

“What is it?”

Keles scratched the back of his neck, smearing dirt. “I don’t know. When I touch the ground, I can usually get a sense of the surrounding area. Everything is where it is meant to be. Does that make any sense?”

Ciras nodded.

“This is the opposite. If an earthquake had opened this rift, it would feel natural. Or if a river had carved it. Whatever did this wasn’t natural.”

Keles flipped a small stone into the rift. “The really bad thing-the thing that hurts — is the thing at the bottom. I’ve never felt anything like it before. It is wrong, blasphemous. And I can’t tell you what it is because it really isn’t anything. It’s the absence of anything. It’s as if, down there, nothing has ever been.”

Ciras stood again. “I guess we camp here, then look for a way around tomorrow.”

Keles shook his head. “There is no way around. It travels in both directions.”

“From the Dark Sea to the ocean?” The swordsman stared in disbelief. “The continent has been split? Will water fill it?”

“Eventually, if it does not drain out through the bottom.” Keles chuckled. “At least we have trees to build some ships to sail across.”

“That won’t do.” Ciras raked fingers through his hair. “We have to get south. The vanyesh have doubtless already reached Nelesquin. We have to reach the Empress. We’ve got to get to Moriande.”

Keles began wrapping his hands again. “There is nothing I can do, Ciras.”

Rekarafi toed the edge of the rift, then looked at the cartographer. “Yes, there is. Make this elsewhere.”

“What?” Keles frowned.

“You did it in Ixyll.”

“This isn’t Ixyll. We were moved, I moved us back. And this isn’t like Tsatol Pelyn. I just remade a fortress that had fallen to ruin.” He held up his hands. “I’m still healing from that.”

“In one, you reconnected things that had been severed. In the other, you rebuilt something that was broken.” The Viruk pointed at the rift. “This is severed and broken. Fix it.”

“You don’t understand, Rekarafi…”

The Viruk crouched. “I understand you are stopping yourself from succeeding.”

“This rift is a mile across and…and at least six hundred miles long. Do you have any idea of how many tons of stone and earth that is?”

“Don’t tell yourself why you cannot do this, Keles. All you need to do is see how it can be done. Make it connect again.”

Keles massaged his brow, smearing dirt over his forehead. “There is no way… ” He leaned forward, again placing his hands on the roadway. His chest heaved and his breathing slowed. His head came up and he looked across the rift, to the Viruk, then nodded.

“All right, maybe. There’s a chance. Get rid of this circle.”

Ciras scuffed half of it away. “What else do you need?”

Keles screwed his eyes shut. “We need everyone ready to travel quickly. This isn’t going to be an easy path. If Borosan can outfit some of his gyanrigot with ropes or some of the soldiers with axes, that will help. The wagons might not make it.”

Ciras nodded. “I will get things started.”

“Good. This is going to take a while.” Keles smiled bravely. “Oh, one more thing. Remove everyone from the edge.”

The Viruk nodded. “Did you figure out how to heal the land?”

“Not exactly. Not the way you’re thinking. But my mother’s talent is for plants. See those flutterleaf trees? They propagate when suckers grow up off the roots. Roots were snapped when the land came apart, and it is time to connect things again.”

Keles pressed his hands to the ground and Ciras’ skin tingled as the magic flowed.

Flutterleaf trees grew with incredible rapidity. Roots spread, suckers rose and flourished. Older trees fell, ripping great root balls from the earth. Some of the trees slid into the rift. Others toppled in after them, rolling to a stop parallel to the rift. They trapped falling dirt. New suckers grew up on the narrow terraces. Other trees fell and crossed them.

The sun set and the gyanrigot moved in, shaping the trail into the rift. With ax blades for hands, they chopped trees and pruned branches. They carved earth from the canyon walls and packed it down with flat metal feet. They dragged tall trees to bridge the gap above the slowly closing rift. Bobbing blue lights on their chests marked their passage. By the time the black moon had completed half its journey through the sky, they were hard at work on the path up the other side.

By midmorning, trees grew at the rift’s far side. Before noon, the first of the refugees began the trek across. The void had closed, but the trees that had grown above it had been stunted and twisted. A few bore fruit which, while perfect in shape, stank of rotted meat. Dying crows twitched below, their sharp beaks melted away.