"They have wings, fool."

"Of course, of course. But we could build vessels to fly, like those toys children play with that float upon the air."

"And if we did so?" said a female from the middle of the crowd.

"Why, we could fly from this world to another. One of the other moons, perhaps. Or a moon around a different planet. Or maybe somewhere else entirely."

Afsan cringed at the sound of clicking teeth. "What nonsense!" said Palsab. A flash of lightning lit the group.

"No," said another voice. "I’ve read tales of such voyages. The fantasies of Gat-Tagleeb."

"Children’s stories," sneered Palsab. "Worthless."

But the fan of Tagleeb spoke again. "I’d like to hear more of what this fellow has to say."

"And I’d love to tell more," said Afsan. The rain was growing heavier. He tipped his muzzle up at the clouds. "But this is not the time, I fear. Tomorrow, I’ll be in the central square at noon. All those who wish to discuss this more, please join me there." As an afterthought, he did not know why, he added, "I have a friend named Pal-Cadool in the palace butchery. I’ll arrange for a haunch of meat to be available."

This seemed to satisfy most of the crowd, although Palsab glowered at Afsan before moving on. Lightning jagged across the sky, and the people hurried to get out of the rain.

Afsan tried to catch Yenalb’s attention, wanting to thank him for helping arrange his passage on the Dasheter, but he had already left.

Oh, well, thought Afsan, I’m sure I’ll be seeing him again soon.

High Priest Det-Yenalb returned to the Hall of Worship, his claws flexing in agitation. What had gotten into the boy? Afsan hadn’t been like this before his pilgrimage.

Before his time with Var-Keenir.

Yenalb slapped his tail.

He should have heeded the stories about that one. Yes, there were still Lubalites scattered throughout the eight provinces, but Yenalb had dismissed the grumblings about Keenir. Idle gossip, he’d thought, the kind you hear about any public figure, the kind that even circulated about himself.

But the boy’s mind had been corrupted. He was talking heresy, blasphemy.

That could not be allowed. It could not.

Yenalb entered the main part of the Hall. Most of the lamps were off now, conserving thunderbeast oil. But in the flickering flames of those that were lit, he took stock of the room: circular, so that the domed roof could represent the Face of God, swirling and banded.

Yenalb had seen the Face many times, taken the pilgrimage over and over again, gone there with Empress Lends and her predecessor, Empress Sardon, would go there with the new Emperor, Dybo, on his next pilgrimage.

He had seen the Face, felt the rapture, heard the voice.

It was no lie. It could not be.

Shifting his weight onto his tail, he looked down the mock river, that channel of water between the planks through which the sinners walked. It was half empty, much of the water from the last service having evaporated.

But this was only a model. There was a real River, and Land did float down it, and the Face of God did look down upon the way ahead, to make sure it was safe.

It was true.

It must be.

It was his way of life.

It was the way of life for all the people.

He stared at the sinners’ river for a long time. And, at last, Yenalb felt a calm come over him. The tranquillity of the room entered him, the peace that comes with faith relaxed him, comforted him, assured him.

He knew what he must do.

Afsan had expected his reunion with Dybo to be a private affair. After all, he’d once met on his own with Dybo’s mother, the late Empress Lends. Surely Dybo himself — Dy-Dybo, as he was apparently called now — would make time for his returning friend.

But when Afsan arrived at the main palace, the guards did not nod concession to him, as they had the first time he’d had an audience here. Instead, they turned and walked just behind Afsan, closer than protocol would normally allow. They were much larger than he, and Afsan had to step quickly to keep up with the speed they were imposing.

He was allowed no time to enjoy the Hall of Stone Eggs with its myriad polished hemispheres of rock cut to reveal the crystal hollows within. The guards marched behind him wordlessly. The complex and uneven walls of the Hall deadened the echoes of their mighty footfalls.

They came out into the vast circular chamber with its red telaja-wood doors. Afsan was hustled along so quickly he barely had time to notice that the cartouche representing the Emperor was different: gone were the profiled heads of Tak-Saleed and Det-Yenalb. Instead, most of the cartouche was a carving of an outstretched hand spread over a flat map of Land in the great River. Odd choice, thought Afsan, since Dybo knew full well that such depictions were now obsolete.

One of the guards pushed ahead of Afsan and clicked heavy claws against the copper signaling plate by the door.

Afsan warmed at the sound of his friend’s voice. "Hahat dan."

The guard swung the door open, and Afsan and his burly escorts stepped into the ruling room.

Lying on the ornate throne slab, high on the polished basalt pedestal, was Dybo. His head sported several new tattoos, including an intricate web-like one fanning outward from his right eye and extending back to his earhole. On his left wrist he wore the three silver loops that signified his position. He’d lost weight, although it would take a charitable soul to think of him still as anything less than fat. And he’d grown — even recumbent, it was obvious that he was slightly older.

Afsan realized that Dybo was likely appraising him the same way. The Emperor’s eyes were probably tracking up and down Afsan’s body, but with those obsidian orbs, there was no way to be sure.

Dybo was not alone. Benches, perhaps ten paces long, with intricate gold inlays at the ends, extended from either side of the throne slab. On the left-hand one sat Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. On the right, a mid-sized fellow with a slightly concave chest. Afsan didn’t know his name, but recognized him as a palace advisor — quite senior, obviously, if he was allowed to sit upon a katadu bench.

To the left and right of the benches stood more people, some wearing priestly robes, others sporting the orange and blue sashes of the Emperor’s staff. Lends’s worktable on wheels was nowhere to be seen.

Afsan bowed low. He half expected to be greeted by one of Dybo’s usual barbs — a quip about Afsan’s scrawniness, perhaps. But it was Det-Yenalb, not Dybo, who spoke.

"You are Afsan?" the priest said, his voice liquid and unpleasant.

Afsan blinked. "Yes."

"You took a pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter?"

"You know I did, Your Grace. You helped arrange it."

"Answer yes or no. You took a pilgrimage aboard the Dasheter, a sailing vessel captained by one Var-Keenir?"

"Yes." At the far right, one of those in the sash of a staff member was writing into a small leather booklet. A transcript of the proceedings?

"You claim to have made a discovery while on this voyage?"

"Yes. Several discoveries."

"And what were those discoveries?"

"That the world is round." There was a sharp hiss from several members of the assembly. "That the object we call the Face of God is really just a planet." Tails swished back and forth like snakes. Individuals exchanged worried glances.

"You really believe this?" said Yenalb.

"The world is round," said Afsan. "We did indeed sail continuously to the east, leaving from Capital City here on the east coast of Land and arriving back, simply by continuing in a straight line, at the Bay of Three Forests on the west coast."