“You’ll cross two bridges, the Slag Hills, plunge into the marble thicket and… ”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You must.”

His portentous, half-eclipsed smile sickens me. I’m certain he’s sent the writ of execution ahead. I heft the worsted wool-wrapped slab of bronze onto my shoulder. Cat-faced gods emblazoning the alloy have been my silent companions from Ynys to Caer Wydyr. Now they choke my gullet like a too-tight torc. “What then?” I call back pulling a jot of mead from my flagon hidden from Ferox’s view.

“When you’ve arrived, climb to the fourth floor and enter. They’re expecting you.”