“From the darkness the sun will rise, and lay before it a carpet of light.”

FOR A MOMENT EVERYONE stared at the raging fire, trying to take in what had just happened. Their eyes passed over the splintered remains of bookshelves, the scattered books and pictures, the orange flames licking up the walls and the great plumes of black smoke climbing rapidly towards the vaulted ceiling.

Finally Sylas turned his pale face to his friends. “Are you all right?” he asked in a husky voice.

Espen raised his bloodied face and answered with a broad smile. Simia and Ash looked at Sylas with a mixture of wonder and fear.

“We’re... fine,” said Simia hesitantly. “You?”

“Yes, I think I’m OK,” he said, surprised. The trace of a smile creased his lips. “Did you finish? Before they took you?”

“Just about,” she said.

She shifted her gaze to take a proper look at Naeo. It was bewildering: the face she knew so well, Sylas’s face, yet changed, different, somehow more feminine and delicate, her expressions quicker and sharper. Naeo met her eyes for a moment and then, looking unsure of herself, she glanced away, moving a little closer to Sylas. The two of them stood easily together, shoulder to shoulder, relaxed with each other. Neither looked at nor spoke to the other, but somehow they responded, seeming to know one another’s mind.

“We need to get to the Apex Chamber,” said Simia. “To the opening on the south side.”

“Well... I hope you have a plan,” panted Espen doubtfully. “There’s no way down from—”

“We do,” she interjected, rather more harshly than she intended.

Espen raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment. “I know how to reach it. This is the Medial Chamber – it leads to all parts of the Dirgheon. There are staircases behind the shelves – one of them should take us there, though I’m not sure which...”

“Scarpia took me that way once.”

It was Naeo’s voice. She spoke more softly than Sylas and she had a different accent, but her voice was uncannily similar: the tone, the cadence, the way she formed the words – all were the same.

“You’ve been there?” asked Simia.

“I’ve just come from there,” said Naeo. She glanced at Sylas. “I left my father—”

“Bowe?” exclaimed Ash, feeling a surge of renewed hope for their friend.

Naeo nodded. “He was...” Her voice faltered. “He was barely alive.”

“Then show us the way,” said Ash with new urgency.

She pointed to the large bookcases now bearing just a meagre scattering of books. They made their way across the hall through the strange black and white ooze, shaking and stamping the peculiar liquid stone from their shoes. When they reached the bookshelves, Espen and Naeo moved along them, investigating each one, searching for the one that formed a concealed entrance. But, despite pulling and heaving and shifting books, the shelves seemed to hold firm. They looked at each other anxiously and walked back to the end of the hall, trying each in turn.

Sylas tried some as well, but had no more luck. He began pulling out some of the books, wondering if they concealed a secret latch or lever of some kind. None seemed to hide anything, but soon he became distracted by the volumes themselves, which looked very different from the leather-bound books he had seen in the Den of Scribes or on the Windrush. The covers were shiny and colourful and the text seemed neat and regular: printed rather than written. He tilted his head and looked at some of the titles: The Age of Industry read one; Man and Machine read another. He felt the hairs begin to rise on his neck.

These were books of his own world.

His eyes came to rest on a small group of books that still lay undisturbed on the shelf. He read the titles under his breath:

“The Encyclopaedia of Weaponry… Technology of Warfare… Science and Supremacy…”

He gathered one of them off the shelf and looked through it, turning to page after page of photographs and diagrams depicting engines, factories, cars, guns, planes, missiles... He raised his eyes and looked about him... to the other shelves. He saw legions of books about technology, industry, weapons and war. This was not a hall, but a library – a collection of knowledge taken from his own world. The wrong kind of knowledge.

“They’re all about science and war…” he murmured. “They’re learning from us…”

He felt a new dread. He knew instinctively that these books had no place here; that however they had been brought here, whatever their purpose, they were not to be used for good. Gathering his strength, he did something he would never have dreamt of doing before – he hurled the pile of books into the fire.

Behind him Naeo pushed against one of the bookshelves. There was a loud click. Instantly it sprang back and swung open, a rush of cool air entering the hall. They all gathered around to peer into the dark passageway beyond.

Espen leaned cautiously into the blackness. “This is it,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He led the way into the shadows, taking just a few paces before beginning to climb a steep, spiralling stone staircase. Simia and Ash set out after him, followed by Sylas and Naeo, who kept an eye out behind.

The cool of the stone stairwell was pleasant after the hall’s searing heat, but once they had left the doorway behind, the darkness was almost absolute. They found themselves searching the shadows for signs of movement, their eyes lingering on every dark shape, every misshapen step and uneven wall. Several times Sylas and Naeo thought they heard footsteps below them and they both stopped, holding their breath, straining to listen. Each time they paused for a few seconds until they were sure that it was nothing and then, without saying anything to the other, continued the climb. Sylas had the strange sense that Naeo was thinking the same thing at the same instant, that as he resolved to continue, she would be at his side. It was peculiar, but at the same time comforting.

The staircase was behaving like a giant chimney, drawing smoke from the inferno below up into the cooler air above. It was thick and acrid and it quickly started to sting their eyes and fill their lungs, making them cough and splutter. Espen continued to lead, climbing with remarkable speed, but his breathing was heavy and laboured and Simia saw him wince a number of times, as if racked with pain.

A dim glow appeared above them and moments later they saw the top step. A large dark hallway extended beyond, flanked by two faceless statues, their arms clasped to their chests. They stepped into the open space and saw the source of the light: a long, vertical crack at the far end of the hallway – a gap between two doors.

They all paused for a moment, bending low to take in gasps of clean air, and then Espen walked up to the doors. Crouching low, he pressed his hands to the wood, listening for a moment before putting his eye to the light.

The others stayed at the top of the steps, trying not to cough, getting their breath back.

For some moments the Magruman peered silently into the room beyond. Finally he rose to his full height and glanced over his shoulder.

“We seem to be in luck,” he whispered. “There’s no one here.”

Naeo stepped forward. “No one?”

“I don’t think so.” He drew a wheezing breath and pushed on the doors.

They squinted into the light. As their eyes became accustomed, they saw a vast square chamber – several times larger than the hall. It was lit by huge flickering flames that rose from four giant urns of oil, one in each corner. There was an opening in the centre of each wall, which provided enticing views of the night sky beyond – a promise of escape. But their eyes were drawn to the strange splendour of the room: floors decked with red carpets and animal skins, strewn with seats and pillows of glittering gold fabric; in the centre a broad circular pool of still black fluid, accessed by white marble steps; walls covered with tapestries depicting scenes of magic and battle.

The towering ceiling was painted with a host of murals, each telling its own story: peoples trekking across deserts and mountains; feasts and banquets attended by strange, unnatural beasts; priests chanting incantations in a magic circle; maps of castles and great cities; yet more battles; yet more magic.

But one of these pictures, the one in the very centre of the ceiling, dominated all others. A vast, empty, skeletal face depicted in bland silvers and greys. The terrifying visage of Thoth glowered down at the entire chamber, giving the fugitives the sense that he was watching them even as they hesitated in the threshold, mocking their futile attempt at escape, daring them to pass.

“Follow me,” said Espen firmly.

He led them over the soft carpets and skins. They glanced in all directions, checking every opening, every corner, every hanging. All was eerily still except for thin, delicate drapes gathered at the sides of the openings, flowing and fluttering on a gentle breeze. They felt fresh, clean air blowing across the room, offering a tantalising taste of the open night beyond.

Yet escape still seemed far away, for between them and the world outside lay the trappings of luxury, privilege and power: thick incense on the air; couches of velvet and gold; pitchers and goblets studded with jewels; silver-clad volumes stacked neatly on shelves; ancient maps laid open on tables of polished wood; a beautiful, ornate cello laid on a golden stand... a stone table, decorated with intricate red engravings, golden chains and manacles...

“That’s where my father was!” hissed Naeo, instinctively moving towards it.

Espen took hold of her shoulders. “It could be a trap!”

“But I have to find him!” protested Naeo. “We can’t leave without him!”

“You must leave without him. We don’t know where he is, and soon this place will be swarming with guards.”

She struggled against him.

“Naeo! His only hope is that you escape! Think! He wouldn’t want you to be captured again. You can’t risk that! Not now that you’ve finally found Sylas!”

She hesitated, tears welling in her eyes. The Magruman drew her away as gently as he could, pulling her close, tenderly, caringly. His manner revealed a deep affection.

He began leading her across the chamber. The others followed, looking with horror at the place of Bowe’s torture, noticing traces of blood and signs of a long struggle.

They moved quickly, without pausing, trying to keep their eyes to the shadows and openings. As they skirted the pool, Sylas chanced a look down. The haunting face of Thoth glared up at him, mirrored on the smooth, glassy surface. He knew it was only the image on the ceiling, but he found it hard to look away. The large hollow eyes seemed darker and emptier than ever before and yet, at the same time, he felt that they were seeing into him, gathering his thoughts, mocking him. To his surprise, the primal face showed not an absence of humanity, but an abundance of it: an endless transition between amusement, anger, despair, hatred and malice.

He shuddered and turned his eyes away.

Where was Thoth? Surely he was somewhere nearby?

Onwards they rushed, half walking and half running, the dark window rising in front of them, the air becoming crisp and cool.

Naeo moved onward in a daze, trying not to think of her poor father, sobs rising in her chest. At last they were at the drapes, feeling the first traces of hope, lifting their heads, gathering pace. The carpets gave way to stone and suddenly they were taking the last ten paces… five… then out on to the threshold, into the open air, jumping down on to the first of the huge stone steps.

They gulped deep draughts of the chill night air.

Below them the city looked almost beautiful. It was a broad shimmering carpet of pinprick lights, its tangled, twisting streets occasionally picked out by the last flickers of lightning. There was no sign of Paiscion’s storm. The clouds had risen to expose broad horizons: the greyish shimmer of the winding river and the open sea; the endless blackness of the Barrens.

Suddenly a ghastly, appalling sound rose from the base of the Dirgheon.

A howl pierced the night and hung in the air. Far below them the base of the pyramid seemed to be moving, shifting, rippling in the dim moonlight. It was as though it was being consumed by some thick bubbling blackness, some foul surging growth rising up the sloping wall, moving ever more quickly towards them. And, as they watched, its smooth darkness began to gain shape and form. It took the appearance of a great swarm of dark bodies: an army of leaping, thrashing beasts.

“Ghorhund!” cried Ash.

Naeo put her hand to her mouth. “There are thousands…” she murmured, watching with horror as beasts crawled over beasts, hurling each other down the steep sides of the pyramid in the blind fury of their charge.

She turned to Espen. “What do we do?”

He too was peering down the side of the vast Dirgheon, shaking his head. But then something caught his eye. He looked past her and out across the side of the pyramid.

The trace of a smile formed on his lips. “It seems our friends are one step ahead.”

She followed his gaze and saw Sylas, Simia and Ash running along the terrace, then leaping down to the next and the next. She looked ahead of them and gasped. There, lying across the stone terraces, were two gigantic structures of wood and canvas.

Their beautiful, broad wings caught the moonlight.

She stepped towards them, her mouth falling open. “Birds…” she said.

“Not birds,” said the Magruman, with a fascinated smile. “They are something from the Other.”

Espen turned, lowered his broad face to hers and smiled warmly. “You have much to learn from Sylas,” he said, brushing the hair from her face, “and he from you.”

Naeo turned away and her eyes found Sylas. He was beckoning them frantically, calling for them to follow. She watched him for a moment. She felt a strange kind of completeness, a peculiar certainty that her future lay with him.

“I know,” she said.

Espen and Naeo ran out along the terrace and began leaping down to where Sylas, Simia and Ash were hoisting the first of the two great birds off the stones. Sylas was explaining how each of the parts worked, pointing beneath to a single horizontal bar for steering and a broad sling of canvas.

“… So this is where you hold on, and this is where you rest once you’re in the…”

Simia put her hands on her hips. “We know, Sylas.”

“And you pull back to…”

“Sylas, if we don’t get moving, it won’t matter which bit we pull where,” said Ash, eyeing the throng of Ghorhund below.

“OK… yes,” said Sylas. “So it makes sense that Espen goes with you to keep it balanced…”

Espen reached over and placed a hand on Sylas’s shoulder. “We are the Suhl, Sylas. The winds are with us.”

Sylas looked at him doubtfully and drew a long breath. “Right. Yes. Of course…” He glanced from Espen to Ash and finally to Simia. “It’s just that I’ve never made these before… they’re much more complicated than kites.... please be careful.”

Simia reached over and squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, Sylas,” she said with a grin. “Birds of paper and string, remember...? It’s what you do.”

His eyes met hers and he smiled.

Suddenly a chorus of chilling howls erupted from the Ghorhund as they caught the scent of their prey. They charged up the final steps with a renewed bloodlust.

A single harrowing scream sounded from the opening behind them.

They all looked from the Ghorhund to the opening and saw, standing just outside the threshold, the lone figure of Scarpia. Her burned face was contorted with hatred and agony. Her blackened arms were raised aloft and there, suspended above her by some unseen force, was one of the giant urns, its orange flames dancing wildly in the breeze, trails of burning oil pouring down its sides and falling about her.

Espen launched himself forward, vaulting with remarkable speed up the steps of the Dirgheon.

“Go!” he cried. “Now!”

For a moment his companions were startled and simply watched him go, but then Sylas started to climb after him.

Naeo reached out and pulled him back. “No!” she screamed. “If we don’t get away, it’ll all be for nothing.”

He tried to pull away. “But we have to help!”

She grasped his tunic and turned him round, glaring into his eyes. “My father’s torture would be for nothing! All Espen’s done will be for nothing!”

He glanced back up at Espen’s figure, leaping from step to step, moving with impossible speed and energy, ignoring the pain. Sylas shook his head and looked imploringly at Simia, but found her standing still, her face full of emotion, but firm.

“She’s right…” she said. “We can’t—”

Her eyes were drawn away, up into the sky. A look of terror formed on her face. The urn of burning oil was hurtling high into the night, travelling in a wide arc, trailing fire in its wake. It was heading straight for them.

As it glided through the air, it was tipping, sending down a shower of flame that cascaded over the steps of the Dirgheon, streaming down the steps towards them. Then they saw Espen, standing directly in its path, his hands already turning and twisting in the air.

“For Isia’s sake, go!” he bellowed, never taking his eyes from the sky above.

They looked beyond his flailing arms and saw nothing but the approaching curtain of fire. It seemed hopeless. Sylas wanted to cry out, to do something – but it all seemed too late. And then they heard a new, unearthly sound. At first a low moan, rising to a wail, and then to an ear-splitting scream. It was coming from somewhere near Espen – somewhere directly above him. The urn was sailing over his head now, tipped almost horizontal, gallons of fiery oil plunging down towards him.

But it never reached him.

Suddenly the urn seemed to stop, turn, then twist ferociously in the air, spinning around, flipping over and over, spraying out yet more of the burning oil. But this too was caught by some dark force and hurled around in a wild, swirling vortex. As it spread, it lit up the sky, forming a colossal inverted cone that even at this distance scorched their faces. It was a gigantic, twisting, scalding whirlwind, dancing at Espen’s command.

“He’ll be all right! We have to go!” shouted Ash suddenly, pointing wildly down the side of the pyramid.

Sylas turned to see that the foremost of the Ghorhund were now just ten steps below them, their bared fangs clearly visible, their yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Reluctantly he sprinted with Naeo to the other contraption and there he looked at its wings and checked the frame. All was as he hoped.

Without any instruction, Naeo went to the far wing and then, as one, they hoisted it into the air. There they paused, turning to watch Simia and Ash preparing to launch, swaying backwards and forwards, counting down.

The great canvas bird plunged forward. Sylas felt a thrill of excitement as he saw it sweep out into the darkness, the broad wings creaking as they took the strain. It hung for a moment in the air. They heard Simia shriek triumphantly as the wind carried them upwards, but then it tilted forward, slewed to one side and began to gather speed, racing down the side of the pyramid. It dropped out of the sky and pitched towards the stone steps. Sylas watched in horror as the line of approaching Ghorhund began leaping into the air, thrashing their limbs, gnashing their teeth.

“Up!” he cried. “Push on the bar! Push on the bar!”

But instead of climbing, the glider seemed to dip even lower, diving into the midst of the Ghorhund, the tip of a wing striking one of the beasts and sending it tumbling down the side of the pyramid. The collision righted it a little and then, as the great wings bowed and the nose lifted, it swooped upwards, slicing miraculously past the leaping Ghorhund and claiming its place in the sky. Ash whooped; his hand was no longer on the bar but in the air, conducting a great updraught of wind, which sent them far out over the city below.

Sylas and Naeo watched it drifting away until it was swallowed by the blackness, then they lowered their eyes to the baying horde, now just moments away. They turned to one another, catching each other’s eyes, and smiled.

“Three, two, one…” they said in unison.

They stepped backwards, took two quick steps and threw themselves into the void. For a moment all was silent as if they were floating in nothingness, but then, as they struggled to lift their feet into the sling, they began to fall. Their stomachs turned and the air rushed in their ears as they accelerated: down into the great sea of darkness; down over the ragged stone face, towards the Ghorhund.

One terrace passed below them and then a second and a third. Sylas gasped at the night air, closed his eyes and pushed with all his might against the bar. Suddenly he heard a whip-crack of canvas as it became taught, the creak of timbers as they took the strain. The nose began to lift and then, with a gut-wrenching jerk, they were heaved upwards, gathered by Ash’s great current of wind.

They swooped over the clamour of teeth and claws, over the swarming mass of dark, angular bodies, out into the night.

They let out a whoop of triumph as they shifted to one side, changing the balance of the glider and taking them in a long, banking turn. The Dirgheon came back into view, and above it the whirlwind of fire, snaking up into the dark clouds. In its midst they saw the tumbling, glistening urn, whipping around in wider and wider circles as it ascended towards the heavens. Below there was something else, something solid but on fire, long and thin, twisting and flailing as it whirled about in the wind.

It was a human figure, thrashing about as it burned, shrieking as it tried to break free.

“Scarpia,” said Naeo, turning her eyes away.

Sylas followed the wretched figure for a moment longer, then winced and drew his gaze back to the Dirgheon. He scoured its surface for Espen, but already it was a hopeless task. The steps where he had been standing were aflame, engulfed by burning oil. Between, above and below, the Ghorhund were now leaping and snarling, clawing at the air. They poured into the openings, charging into the chamber while others turned and swarmed on to the other sides of the pyramid, searching its every crevice, examining every stone. There was no escape.

They watched in silence, saying nothing, their eyes searching desperately, hopelessly. They turned the glider in another wide circle, scything around the Dirgheon one more time. They squinted into the torrents of flame, but could see no sign of him. They let the enchanted winds carry them upwards so they could peer into the openings, but they saw that the lavish chamber was now smothered in black bodies: its hangings torn, its tapestries ripped from the walls. They climbed still higher, spiralling up into the night sky until they were above the army of beasts, until the baying and howls faded far below and they were left only with the wind and stone.

Finally, higher than they would have thought possible, they saw a dark, angular pinnacle: the very top of the pyramid.

There, on a narrow, square terrace, stood a lone figure. It was completely still, a long cloak billowing out behind it, the head turning with the sweep of their glider, following its every move. In that fleeting moment they were filled with hope; their hearts rose and Sylas opened his mouth to cry Espen’s name.

But then he stopped. A shiver passed through his body and a terrible cold flowed into his veins. The figure was not dressed in black, but scarlet; it was not broad, but frail and crooked and stooped. Its shoulders were drawn forward towards its hanging hood and, as the wind lapped at the folds of the gown, he saw the outline of wasted bones and twisted limbs. Suddenly the wind rose a little, lifting the hood just a fraction so that the moonlight slanted inside. There was no face in the shadows. Nothing but a mask of scarlet cloth.

“Thoth,” breathed Naeo.

A wave of horror and fear passed through them, drawing the air from their lungs, clawing at their throats. They were seized by terror and despair, as if the night was closing in and pulling them back to earth.

As they rounded the apex of the pyramid, they saw something else. Something lying at Thoth’s feet. A large bundle of rags.

It was moving.

“What... what’s that?” mumbled Sylas.

But he already knew. He could see the shape of a man’s body within the folds of clothing. A hand curled into a fist. A bald head, glistening with sweat, covered almost completely in tattoos.

“No...!” whimpered Naeo, raising a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.

But then, as they both wavered, as the great canvas bird faltered in the air, Bowe moved. His body straightened, his limbs straining, his back arching. Suddenly he was looking straight at them, his vivid green eyes clear and bright, glistening with the light of the city far below.

His voice came to them on a silent wave. It entered them unexpectedly, powerfully, as though he was speaking at their ear. But his words resonated somewhere deeper, in their minds, their hearts.

“Fly, my child...” he said. “Fly for us all!”

His voice surged through them, lifted their eyes, burned in their veins. Suddenly they came back to themselves, and they knew what they had to do.

Together they pulled on the bar and shifted their weight, banking sharply, allowing the glider to pull them swiftly away. The great frame creaked, the canvas fluttered and moments later they were sailing out across the city, leaving the Dirgheon, Bowe and the terrifying figure of Thoth far behind.

They flew in silence, the image still fixed in their minds: Bowe straining to look up at them and above him, Thoth stooped over his prey. In some ways it was as though they had seen nothing of the Priest of Souls, and yet they felt that they had seen too much: that somehow they had connected with that hollow, broken figure. They felt that they had seen into his blackened eyes and, in the same moment, Thoth had looked into them. He had seen their warmth and their bond; he had seen their hope turning to despair; and in that one glance he had seen Sylas’s long journey – the Shop of Things, his passage through the Passing Bell, his flight, the Barrens, Simia, Filimaya…

The glider moved gracefully through the night, borne on magical winds, occasionally turning or tipping slightly on a current, its timber skeleton bending and creaking on eddies of air. And, as they flew, so they were soothed by the gentle motion of the wings, the play of the breeze, the twinkle of torchlight far below.

The cold started to leave Sylas’s limbs and slowly, as they came out of their darkest thoughts, he remembered Simia and Ash. They scoured the darkness, hoping beyond hope to see a hardly visible shape, black upon black, turning and swooping at their side.

For some moments they saw nothing, then a dark silhouette shifted in the blackness ahead of them.

For an instant it was gone, but then it reappeared, twisted in the air, then sailed steadily towards them, growing larger and larger. It was too dark to see at first, but then the moonlight caught its wings, its angular shape, its gliding motion. Sylas was about to call out, but his breath caught. He stopped.

Its wings were not fixed and broad like a glider’s – they were moving: rising and falling, twisting and tilting in the wind.

It was not a glider at all, but a giant living bird with a proud, angular head, piercing eyes and smooth downy feathers. It was one of the great black eagles he had seen circling the Dirgheon.

It banked, turned and disappeared into the darkness. Even as it did, two others appeared, and then another. Soon they could see six or eight eagles circling and wheeling above the city as though calling them on. And although they took their own path, they did not leave; instead they came together, gathering around them, swooping and turning, diving and climbing. Sylas’s heart pounded, blood coursing through his veins. The great birds were flying with them, sharing in their journey. They drew ever closer, the sound of their beating wings floating on the wind, their pale grey eyes shining in the moonlight.

“There!” cried Naeo.

She pointed a short distance ahead of them and there, drifting just below a line of cloud, was the other glider, silhouetted against the lamplights far below.

Sylas and Naeo banked, gathered pace and descended towards their friends, watching as the giant eagles glided ahead of them, behind them, above and below them. They called out to Simia and Ash and their friends yelled their greetings while the great flock looped playfully about them, matching human cries with their own, dancing lightly through the air, welcoming them, leading them.

Simia shrieked with delight and leaned out towards a passing bird, her hand touching the velvety feathers; Naeo and Ash exchanged smiles and looked ahead, across the city to the dark, winding river, the broad estuary and the open sea beyond.

Sylas gazed out at the silent beating wings, at the majestic eagles dancing their dark ballet, and he smiled. He reached out, took Naeo’s hand and together they headed out over the carpet of light, flanked by the birds of his dreams.