As the army filed through the narrow canyon that sloped yet further downwards, there was now very little sand beneath its feet; this floor was bare rock. Almost at once the men found themselves on the first of the stairs that had been chopped into this rock countless millennia before, and as the Earthwrought stood upon the naked stone, they gasped, their eyes closing as if they had been touched deep within themselves by something invisible, something distant in time. Sisipher and Brannog also felt an inner stirring, a dim awareness of the incredible vista of time that spread backwards to infinity, filled with shadows and shapes, like a darkened landscape that cried out for light. The further the army moved down the stairway, the wider it became, and for another mile it went down into a great basin in the rock strata, a hollow where, to everyone's bewilderment, a city had once stood. Sand had buried it, but the storm had raked it over with gigantic claws, heaping the sand up and shoveling it aside to reveal rectilinear streets, uncovering buildings that were yet clogged. Broken statues gaped up blindly at the sky and fallen archways and columns littered the roads. Over all the wilderness of ruins presided the silence, made more terrible by the ruins themselves, as if it were alien to this place, which should be alive, thriving.

Korbillian led the descent, but found that it was Ygromm who now stood at his side, the little man watching the dead city as if he were wide awake in one of his own dreams, or racial memories. Korbillian was aware of the murmuring of the Earthwrought, as though they were offering up prayers to some spectral guardian of this place, or performing a protective working to shelter themselves from it. Yet there was no hint of evil here. Whatever had lurked in the moving dunes had departed, and Korbillian sensed that it could not touch this city. Only time could do that, but slowly.

'You know this place?’ he asked Ygromm.

'The legends of the Earthwrought speak of a time when we lived in cities above the ground. This is one of those ancient cities. The memories sleep, deeper than the sand that buried it. I would that our lore masters, the Earthwise, were with us. I would that all the tribes could see this place.’

'We will rest here for the remainder of the day and travel on by night.’

Ygromm nodded. ‘There will be water here, perhaps deep below, but my people will find it.’

As they descended, they began to appreciate the true proportions of the city. What had seemed large ruins from the top of the long stairway were now seen to be immense, their spires and domes reaching high up from the valley floor. Many of the towers had fallen, or were in a dangerous state of decay, and most of the domes were cracked like eggshells, with gaping holes spoiling their symmetry. Some of the statues were vast, and by the strangeness of the figures they represented, they suggested some long lost pantheon of gods. The glaring sun reached down to the streets, but many were in shadow, like miniature gorges from which the sand had been blasted away. It had not failed to impress the company just how powerful a storm Korbillian had released, and every man of the company looked upon him now with a new respect. Sisipher alone did not fear him.

Wargallow sensed the anxiety in his men, and some of them asked him discreetly if this were the place where the evil powers were to be confronted, but he told them it was not, in so doing acting by instinct. He felt drawn to the place, sensing that something was indeed buried here, and that part of him that had closed itself to all belief in power and which had been eroding for years, awoke properly. He burned, and he hungered. He had travelled Omara with his eyes and mind closed, shuttered by Grenndak's laws. Here was truth, worth crossing a dozen Silences to find. And share.

Just as Wargallow pondered the secrets of this place, so did Guile. My instinct, he told himself, was right! Korbillian does not hold all power. Omara holds power deep within her own bosom, like a mother protecting her infants from wolves. What fountain is this city? Who lived here and what did they achieve? Where did they go? His mind cried out for answers, and beside him Elberon sensed his excitement. He was more guarded. This place seemed long dead, but even so, his sword was ready, and he quietly readied his warriors for sudden action. If there were anything here worth finding, it would likely be protected.

The great stairway led to one of the main thoroughfares, cleaned by the wind and easily accessible. The horses were far less nervous on its surface, as if the city alerted no sense of danger in them. But the Earthwrought were like hunting hounds, taut on their leashes. To them the air seemed full, the city teeming with visions.

Korbillian looked for Ratillic, who kept himself apart. With his wolves he moved along the edge of the grand boulevard, lost in thought. Since the storm, the air had become still, with not even a suggestion of a breeze. It remained so now, dry and heavy, but the silence was broken by a faint whisper. Many heads snapped up at the same moment, so it was no illusion. Ratillic's wolves howled, but he silenced them with a word and they dropped to their bellies. Ygromm listened, nodding as if someone spoke to him. The whisper came again; there were no words and there was no meaning. It came and went, with no pattern to its susurration, an invisible tide ebbing and flowing around the streets. Ygromm pointed.

'Through there.’ He indicated another street that led away into the shadows.

'What will we find?’ said Korbillian.

Ygromm shrugged. ‘Only by searching will we know. But this may be the city which our legends call the place where time died.’ There was a murmur among the Earthwrought. ‘No evil,’ said Ygromm, but there seemed about him a great weight of sadness.

They moved on, following the route he had suggested, and came at length to a great square. It was partially awash with sand, its surface whorled and patterned by the eddy of the wind, and once there had been vast flagstones paving it. The army assembled. Beyond the square was a building that was, like many others, domed, but which appeared to be largely intact. None of its mighty pillars had fallen, its stairs were not broken, and the dome itself offered no immediate evidence of cracks. As the men looked at this timeless marvel, the whispering flooded around them, elusive as a dream, voiceless but yet like voices, as if the city itself sought to speak to them all and impart some lost truth.

Korbillian looked down at Ygromm and saw to his amazement that the little figure had dropped to its knees, its mouth agape. ‘What is it?’ said Korbillian, concerned at once.

'It is here,’ gasped the Earthwrought. ‘The Forbidden.’

'Within the dome?’

Ygromm nodded. ‘Can you not hear its voice?’

Brannog had come to stand beside them and he touched Ygromm with great tenderness. ‘No evil,’ he told him softly. ‘Unless truth is evil.’

'What does he fear?’ said Korbillian.

'It is not fear,’ said Brannog gently. ‘But reverence. The city speaks to us. We are the first to hear it since it died.’

Korbillian did not want to break the spell that held them all, waiting, knowing there was more, an answer. Finally Brannog walked forward. ‘Who will enter?’ he called.

Ygromm stood up. ‘Since we are enjoined in making war on our enemy, let us go together.’ Behind him the Earthwrought murmured their agreement.

They approached the huge building, seeing now that it had after all suffered at the hands of time. The stonework had been etched and gouged, and at the top of the stairway, the doors (probably once made of wood, Korbillian assumed) were gone, leaving a gaping black rectangle, ninety feet high. He stood in the portal, peering into the building. After a moment he could see more clearly, for light slanted in from a dozen concealed openings in the huge dome. Sand was heaped against everything, but the pillars had survived. The building was a magnificent feat of architectural engineering, the work of a major civilisation. Yet there were no artifacts to be seen, and on the circular walls, no paintings, or none that had survived. Korbillian and Ygromm went on together, and behind them came the army, like pilgrims to a shrine.

Again the whispering came, and tiny clouds of sand puffed up from the centre of the building as if there was a grille there leading down to a source of power. Ygromm stopped, eyes widening as he saw the truth. There were two enormous slabs placed side by side, resting in a circle of smaller stones, which had been placed in the precise centre of the edifice. At first Korbillian thought perhaps the slabs had crashed down from above, but then saw how exactly they had been positioned, like the equal halves of a book, sculpted in the great stone. That image of a book grew in his mind.

Brannog's mind was also racing, flooded with images. Inside his shirt, burning against his breast, was the stone that had been given to him by the Earthwise. He pulled it out and it almost burned his fingers. For the first time he saw the rune that had been subtly chipped into its veins, or perhaps the rune had never been quite so evident before. As he looked at it, the whispering amplified. Ygromm saw what he was holding, his eyes widening. He spoke a single word and Brannog knew by instinct that it was the uttering of the one rune.

At once the whispering focussed on the great slabs, as if they spoke to each other. Every eye in the building was turned to those slabs. As many men as possible had crowded in, craning their necks, and as many more were outside, eager to learn what was happening. Those that could see now noticed the faint lines that had appeared down the sides of the stones, lines that came and went, then thickened. They also were runes. Brannog went to the stones, which were twice as tall as he was. He touched the stone that he held to the great slabs and at once felt the heat surge along his arm. Then he put his stone away and turned to the men.

'It is as Ygromm says. The stones speak. To all of us. Whatever secrets this city guards are here. It will not deny us those secrets.’

'A revealing,’ said Ygromm, his voice carried to the doors by the acoustics of the building, and word was passed to those outside. ‘It is how the ancients are said to have shared knowledge.’

Ygromm now went forward, apparently having appointed himself as the one who would conduct the ritual, and no one raised a voice against him. As Brannog stood back to let the little man press his hands against the stone, Sisipher stood by his side.

'How do you know these things, father?’

He smiled. ‘They are in all of us, hidden just as the city was.’

Ygromm arranged now for each of the leaders to come forward and place his hand upon the stone, saying that what they heard, their men would hear, just as though a single voice spoke to each man present. Korbillian motioned Guile forward, but Elberon held back, not eager to touch the stone, hand yet on his sword hilt. Ruan stood beside him, but Ilassa went to the stone. Wolgren also went, as did Ratillic, though on his face was a look of such anguish that it brought to Sisipher's mind the dreams she had once had of Korbillian. The girl went with her father to the stone. Wargallow also came forward, his mouth a grim line of doubt. If truths were to come out of this, they may not all be welcome ones.

'There is one other,’ said Ygromm.

As he said it, there came a beating of wings, and looking up, the watchers saw Kirrikree, who had alighted on top of the stone.

'Those I have brought with me,’ he told Sisipher, ‘are gathered on the dome. I am ready.’

'Then we begin,’ nodded Ygromm, and as one they touched the stone. The whispering began at once, increasing in volume, stretching, swirling, until it changed pitch, then dropped very low. Outside, where the press of bodies was greatest, they could hear the voices focussing, until they had become a single voice, melodic, gentle. It was neither that of a boy nor girl, man nor woman, but a blend of all four. And the history of the dead city began to unfold in every mind.

'I speak of the Fall of Cyrene, and of the Sundering of Men, and of the Descent,’ said the voice of the stone. ‘Cyrene was the proudest of man's cities, the cradle of men, and all men of Omara looked to her in awe. She rested beside the wide ocean, where ships from across all the world came to lavish upon Cyrene the Beautiful the gifts of their journeying. It was said in those days that a man had not lived a complete life until he had visited Cyrene, from whence all men had come.

'I speak also of another city, child of Cyrene, of secret Xennidhum in the east, rising up on the high plateau, watching the world hungrily, jealous of the majesty of Cyrene. And the men of Xennidhum were as the men of Cyrene, but they were ruled by a long line of Sorcerer-Kings. These had turned their eyes not outward to the bright world of Omara, but inward to other worlds, and the secrets of their own keeping. Xennidhum was the keeper of power, the guardian of the Openings.’

Korbillian felt the hairs on his neck stiffen at this. He tried to see Ratillic's reaction, but the Hierophant was bent forward like a huge black crow, his hair covering his face, masking him from view. How far back did this history go?

'It was known in Xennidhum, but shielded from common knowledge, that once the Sorcerer-Kings had been omnipotent. They had searched greedily for forbidden knowledge, for dark powers beyond the understanding of the men of Omara. In their great folly, they had found the Openings, the gates to other places. They learned the secrets of the Aspects, that Omara is not one world, but many worlds, each of its many Aspects separated by a portal, an Opening. Once they had discovered this primary law of sorcery, they sought to open the way to the nearest Aspect.’

Korbillian felt himself flooding with cold fear. This was too familiar, and yet, within this mystery was another elusive key. He shied from it, but had to grasp it. Ratillic, too, would be frightened by what was unfolding.

'In time the Sorcerer-Kings succeeded, and they found a way into another Aspect of Omara. Yet it was a darker one, an Aspect where such grim powers thrived that the Sorcerer-Kings withdrew quickly. In other Aspects they found more such terrors, and though they sealed up the Openings leading to such things, yet they could not prevent something of this evil seeping into Omara itself. Although sealed, the Openings were weakened. In their private writings, the Sorcerer-Kings recorded that they had caused great evil to thrive not only in its own Aspect, but in several. Even so, they had great power, enough to chain the evil.

'Over the centuries the line of Sorcerer-Kings waned, their powers dwindling. Yet their great working, their Chaining, remained, fixed upon itself, holding Omara in safety from the powers of its other Aspects. Xennidhum became as other cities, and from it went the shadow of its former rulers. Only the very citadel of the Sorcerer-Kings was shunned, and the power therein went on working, unhindered, protecting the world.

'Yet there came a time of chaos. Something stirred in one of the other Aspects and broke free, and its power met with the chaining power just as two perfectly matched warriors meet in battle. None was the stronger, none the weaker. It was the beginning of the great destruction, the scourge of Omara.’

Korbillian's head felt as though it would explode. He had the key, the answer, but he could not find the lock. Ratillic? But he was like a dead man, slumped against the stone, motionless.

'Xennidhum felt the worst of the power, as if many storms and many explosions had ripped out her heart. Deep in the earth beneath her, powers writhed, powers from across the Aspects, partially freed from their chains, but now racked by the chance collision of powers unleashed by whatever had freed itself from the first Aspect. The men of Xennidhum were driven out of the city. Nothing could survive as the earth heaved and threw up such changes.

'The men of Cyrene were full of fury and bitterness. They did not show mercy, but made war upon their fellows, blaming the refugees of Xennidhum for what had happened. For many years this war raged. Cyrene, flower of Omara, became a divided city, her buildings damaged, her inhabitants more depraved. From the plateau of Xennidhum there seeped twisted power, shaping the land, corrupting. Like a curse, the power fell upon the two nations and the men of both cities began to change. In time no other cities would traffic with them. Cyrene's war ended, but the race that had emerged was alone, cut off and despised by the rest of Omara.

'The terrible upheavals in Xennidhum went on, for one of the great Openings to the Aspects had been ruptured by events there. There had been a similar disaster and chaos within other Aspects, for through the broken Opening there now came men of one of these Aspects, themselves refugees from the horrors that had been unleashed. They bled into Omara until the Opening was again sealed during further upheavals, but it was feared that other ruptures in the very fabric of the Aspect had caused temporary Openings to allow flight into Omara.

'Down into the great plain these refugees spilled. They were not bellicose, seeking only safety, freedom from destruction that had torn their own world to pieces. Yet the men of Cyrene set upon them at once, seeing in them the cause of their own fall. Those who came had simple powers. But they were no mages, no great bearers of power. Even so, there was a war, and so desperate were the refugees that they turned upon the men of Cyrene. The conflict that followed was far worse than that which had gone before. In time the men of Cyrene were driven out of the city, and they found themselves ruthlessly hunted by both the refugees and by other men of Omara.

'Thus they took to the earth, hiding themselves lest they be destroyed utterly, and they called themselves the Earthwrought.’

Ygromm nodded solemnly, as if the voice spoke only to him and his kind, and Brannog could feel the weight of guilt and sorrow upon his own shoulders.

'Though the refugees took Cyrene and made it theirs, many of them went out across Omara. In time all the portals to their Aspect closed. From the black ruins of Xennidhum the power came in waves, now strong, now less so. It caused many upheavals, the worst of these being the one that reshaped the very ocean. Just as water will cleanse a wound, so the ocean rushed up and swallowed Cyrene. The new inhabitants fled before the inundation, many of them escaping, but thousands were lost as the seabed rose up. Water stood above the city for many years, and at the bottom of the ocean the silt covered it.

From Xennidhum the evil power continued to seep outwards, like an ever-bleeding wound on the skin of the world. It dried up the land around it, using up its goodness, and gradually turned the ocean into a desert, the great Silences that ring the plateau. Over all Omara the refugees fled, mingling with other men to form a new race, while the men who had once been masters of the world, now the Earthwrought, burrowed deeper into the earth, hiding from light and from the killing vengeance of the men above them, whom they called the overmen. And on all Omara was power held in contempt, and there were those who punished its acceptance with death.

'This was the Fall of Cyrene, the Sundering of Men, and the Descent.’

Silence rushed in like the ocean that had flooded the city so many millennia before. No one broke it, each listener there alone with his private thoughts. Korbillian saw that Ratillic appeared to be unconscious, leaning against the stone. He went to him and touched him gently.

'Ratillic,’ he whispered.

Slowly the head came up and through the lank hair the haggard face looked up at Korbillian. Its torment was shocking. ‘They were wrong,’ he said softly. Ratillic drew in a great breath and sighed. ‘The Hierarchs, don't you see? They sought to perform a working that would open gates to other worlds. Other worlds, Korbillian For all their power and wisdom, they had not discovered the Aspects. Ternannoc is not another world.’

Korbillian began to see the veils lifting. ‘It is the first Aspect of Omara.’

'Why did the Hierarchs seek to open the gates? Was it because one of these Sorcerer-Kings blundered into Ternannoc and then withdrew, leaving no more than a hint of what was possible? Little wonder the Hierarchs were so determined to search. Their working went awry, founded as it was on a fundamental mistake. When they undertook their working, the power clashed with the power here, and as the voice told us, two perfectly matched warriors fought out a stalemate, while around them the worlds collapsed. It was from Ternannoc, this ruin. The Sorcerer-Kings had the intelligence to use their power to bind the evil they had unleashed, but the Hierarchs blundered through the Opening and damaged the Chaining.’

'And the refugees were from Ternannoc.’

Ratillic nodded ‘Our view of Omara has been clouded.’ He nodded to Ygromm and his people. ‘There are the true men of Omara. The rest are the mixed peoples of both worlds. A little ironic, is it not?’

Wargallow had heard this and had come forward, a strange expression on his face. ‘Is this true?’

Korbillian frowned. ‘The working on Ternannoc did cause other portals to open here. I came through the last of them myself and I sealed it. Other refugees came through these portals before me. But the inhabitants of the two cities, Cyrene and Xennidhum, were not the only people here when the tragedy began. Some of those Omarans had spread, as the voice told us.’

'A few scattered cities,’ said Ygromm beside him. ‘The world was centred on the two cities.’

'How are you sure of this?’ said Wargallow.

Ygromm shook his head. ‘The stone has opened many closed rooms. I understand much more than I heard. It may be so with us all.’

'So you're telling us,’ Wargallow went on, ‘that when the invaders came, there were only a few men here to deter them? That Omara belongs to the little men, and that my people, and those of the Chain of Goldenisle and of King Strangarth are the sons of the invaders!’ He swung on Korbillian before he could answer. ‘And it would follow, would it not, that, as with our ancestors, the people of Ternannoc, whose blood runs in us all you say, each of us has power?’

Korbillian thought at that moment that Wargallow looked as dangerous as he had ever done. His words, however, could not be denied.

Wargallow suddenly laughed. ‘Oh, but Grenndak should have lived! Yes, he should have journeyed with us. This would have opened his mind. He wanted to rid Omara of all power, yet had he known!’

'So you see,’ said Korbillian, when the mocking laughter had died down, ‘the giving of blood is like the killing of one's own family.’

Wargallow's eyes blazed as if Korbillian had struck a nerve. ‘Family! Aye, that's well chosen! Grenndak would have appreciated that, too! How many infants died at his command?’

Brannog shifted closer to him, uneasy at this outburst.

Wargallow's calmness had deserted him, his face changed dramatically by the sudden mood. ‘Grenndak may have thought himself above the simple people of Omara, and he may have behaved like a god, but he was no more a man than you or I. And no less!’

Korbillian glanced at Sisipher, noticing that Wolgren was very close to her side, an unwavering guardian. ‘You speak in half-truths.’

'Grenndak took women, as any man would. Sometimes they bore fruit. He could not permit that, could not permit his seed to live, not when it would inherit his power. So they were destroyed, just as the women who carried them were.’ He gazed furiously outwards, seeing nothing but the bloody past and some private murder that he would not reveal. The air was charged with waiting violence.

Guile, who had been forgotten, broke the spell. ‘Then Grenndak was no less insane than my own cousin, Emperor Quanar Remoon.’

'And his Abiding Word,’ said Ratillic, directing his voice out to the gathered Deliverers, ‘is as evil as the power that seeps down from the east.’

Wargallow spun round to search the faces of his men. There were almost a thousand of them, he knew, all loyal to him, but still he looked for dissent. He could not see them all, but he heard nothing but the silence. Not a man among the Deliverers would have spoken for Grenndak. Wargallow raised his killing steel. ‘I will have blood!’ he shouted, and at once he was answered, so suddenly that Korbillian and the others felt themselves shudder at the speed of the reaction. Wargallow swung his arm down, and whether by accident or intention, the steel caught the stone behind him and a flurry of sparks arced from the metal. Wargallow howled and leapt away. His steel hand glowed blue, and his eyes fixed upon it. Before his men could react again, he raised his hand.

'The stone has answered!’ he called.

Morric Elberon's fingers tightened on the sword hilt at his side. What direction would this fanatic take? But Wargallow seemed calmer now as he lowered his steel. He grinned at Korbillian. ‘Since we all have power, let us use it.’

'On the Mound of Xennidhum.’

'Just so.’

After that they went out of the dome and used the great square to make their camp. As Ygromm had promised, water was found in wells below the city and it was pure enough to drink. But the army, once refreshed, split itself, with the Earthwrought alone. Brannog sat with them, talking to them quietly, saying that it was even more important now for them to persuade every other Earthwrought tribe to come from the earth and begin the rebuilding. But it was agreed by all that it would not be here in Cyrene.

Korbillian and Ratillic sat apart. ‘The Sorcerer-Kings eclipsed the Hierarchs,’ said Ratillic.

'Yes. Isn't that why the Hierarchs were so eager to find them again?’

'As you say. Their greed disgusted me. But it is in my mind now, Korbillian, that what lies in the east may not be so easily contained. What plans do you have?’

'The Chaining power was damaged. We must repair that damage. Bind once more the powers that these Sorcerer-Kings awoke. Success lies in the hands of Omara. The power has been scattered, and so Omara must act as a body.’

Ratillic nodded, his hostility towards Korbillian now directed elsewhere. A poetic solution, he thought, but as he looked at the army around him, and felt its tensions, its guilt and its aggression, he wondered how realistic Korbillian's dream was.