Ingo sat for the third time in front of the advocate general. He settled onto a cushion in front of Demetos and looked into the calm, green eyes and hawkish face which watched him so closely. A single sheet of paper lay between them. Ingo recognised the thin, almost perfectly smooth parchment that Gavan handled. It was folded in half, so the contents were obscured.

  “I cut our conversation short last time. But there is something else I want to show you.”

  Ingo wanted desperately to unfold the paper. He wanted to delve into whatever secrets it contained. He heard his father's voice in his mind again. Every suit of armour has a weakness.

  “What did you want to show me?” he asked, doing his best to keep his expression neutral.

  Demetos pulled the sheet open. It definitely resembled the document he’d seen Gavan pore over. That new word came back to him. Cartography. He looked at the intersecting lines and tried to fathom a meaning behind them. Some were straight, some wiggled like a tangled vine. Some resembled simple, stylised drawings of trees, mountains or waves. Dotted about were the names of places that he knew from stories, as well as many he had never heard of.

  “Dombarrow,” he read out loud, then looked for another word he recognised. “The Godsroof, Katarthion, Standingford.” He began mouthing the names that were unfamiliar to him, “Raston,” “Great Barrow."

  He looked up at Demetos, who waited with his silver eyebrows raised.

  “It’s names of places, but what about the pictures and lines?”

  “It’s a map," Demetos replied.

  Ingo looked at him blankly. The general let out a stream of air through pursed lips and shook his head in wonder.

  “You’ve really never seen one before?”

  “I’ve seen paper before, though not this thin. I’ve seen pictures and writing before.” Ingo felt his cheeks grow hot. He remembered how he’d felt, years ago, when the merchants of Scursditch had laughed at his ignorance. He remembered the beetroot flush of his father’s face. But Demetos did not laugh as they had done, nor did he even smirk.

  “Incredible," the old man breathed deeply and whistled. “I suppose you’ve never travelled beyond the forest’s edge? I suppose none of you have?”

  Ingo shook his head, though he thought of Adalina's grandfather, Gurithen. He was the exception though, not the norm.

  “Then you’d have no use for a map. They’re meaningless inside the forest, at least so far. The small world of your people has shaped you in many ways.”

  “What do they do?” Ingo asked.

  “They don’t do anything. But they describe how to move from one place to another, even if you’ve never been there before. In the movement of armies and the organisation of a state, maps are important. This,” he waved his hand over the paper, “is not an invention of my people, though. Everyone has maps. Or at least, everyone who lives on land that can be drawn.”

  “Everyone except us,” conceded Ingo with a rueful grimace.

  “Perhaps,” said Demetos in a gentle voice, “you need not be left out. Here, let me see if I can teach you. Look at these triangles.”

  “I see,” said Ingo, following where Demetos pointed.

  “They represent mountains.”

  “Why don’t you just write ‘mountain?’ Why make a new symbol?”

  “You need to see immediately what it is, without pausing to read. Comprehension requires efficiency. But we do have writing on a map. These mountains are called 'The Highhomes.' See?”

  “I see. But I’ve seen better pictures of mountains. Luthold showed me the pictures his father brought from the West.”

  Ingo spoke about Luthold without thinking and went quiet when he realised what he’d said. It was the first detail he'd let slip about his clan, apart from his own name. He'd been fascinated by the things that Luthold showed him, though. He'd felt then a little like he felt now. Adalina's family offered a glimpse into another way of seeing the world, one in which the unknown was something to be understood, not fought against. He learned his letters from Luthold quickly and started to learn other things, too, before his father grew jealous.

  “That's interesting,” said Demetos, looking up curiously. “You’ll have to tell me about them some time. Perhaps there were maps amongst them, if this man you know travelled beyond the forest. But paintings and maps serve different purposes. These are not meant to look like mountains. It just shows you where the mountains are. Now, you know these ones. They are the hills in your forest that my soldiers rather roughly took you from.”

  He looked down apologetically as he said this. Ingo was too interested in the conversation now to pay attention to Demetos' play at contrition.

  “So, what does that tell me?” he asked.

  “Where do you get to if you cross the mountains? If you go north beyond them?”

  “They say that’s where Dombarrow is.”

  “Then look. Let’s travel north – on this map.”

  Demetos moved his fingertip up the paper. He stopped at a large square with ‘Dombarrow' written beneath it.

  “Here we are. This way is north, this way south, that way is -”

  “West,” Interrupted Ingo. “And the other is east.”

  “Good!” Demetos beamed. “So tell me, on which side of the map will you find The Godsroof?”

  Ingo thought for a moment, then pointed to the left and looked down to confirm that he was right. Another square, this one overlapping with a four-pointed star, had ‘The Godsroof' written underneath. It sat almost on the furthest side of the map and Ingo quickly compared the distances. The Godsroof, their capital, was nine times as far as the city of Dombarrow.

  “Then a square is a city?”

  “A capital city or a very important one. And a star is a big temple or other building of importance to Serviles. Look, a little south and east of the Godsroof you have the same symbol – a square and star – that's the city of Katarthion, where you can find the Consecrate Library.”

  He uttered the name of the high temple to Manafel almost with admiration. Ingo looked from one place to another. As his eyes and fingers darted over the lines his mind opened in a revelatory wave to the world of possibilities this document contained. He could reach places he had never heard of! Demetos tracked the movement of his eyes and fingers, muttering instructions that unlocked his understanding.

  “It's a river, that thick line. You see the waves? That’s the sea. The brutes who worship Maralon live in the far West over there. A circle is a town, a dot is a village. There are lots of squares in the South, aren’t there? So many capitals. There are many small nations there, not like in the North. See this big one though, with the star? That’s Terras. A capital of capitals, you could say.”

  “Terras!” mouthed Ingo under his breath. It was a distant place of myth and mystery, of pale faced poets, hedonists and enchanted labyrinths. A city of clever words and devious deeds where the priests of Terlos, the earth-singers with their golems, had carved out a land where the Winter King was worshipped above all others. That city had broken the army of King Brunulf, according to Luthold. In Elder Mildred’s stories even Cadrafel, the greatest of the ancient Western kings, met his end before the insurmountable walls of Terras.

  “I can see where it is!” Ingo exclaimed, “I can see where everything is!”

  A tired, wheezing voice that Ingo almost recognised chimed in behind him: “He’s a quick learner, that’s for sure.”

  Ingo started and looked round to see Gavan. He stood unsteadily, but on his own two feet, at the entrance of the tent. He looked frighteningly thin, but something about his eyes was clearer, more alive than last time he saw him. The young soldier's cheekbones stuck out and his clothes hung off him, but he twitched as he stood there, eager to get involved in the conversation. He carried more bundles of paper rolled under his arms.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Gavan, thank you for coming." Demetos smiled at him and he smiled back, then made a mound of cushions for himself and sat beside them. Demetos addressed Ingo:

  "Gavan has made history. He is the first person to survive an attack by those beasts you call sleepers. All thanks to a cure developed by our doctor."

  "It makes me very sleepy," Gavan chimed in. "But if inhale the fumes every time I feel them keep my thoughts on something I know, I can get by. Forgive me this afternoon if my mind is slow."

  "I knew cartography would bring you back to yourself," Demetos said. "Ingo here is getting his first taste of it — his first glimpse of the wide world."

  Ingo nodded to Gavan and looked back at the map. So far, he'd seen places that he knew from stories but none yet that he himself had visited. He began investigating the forest below the mountains, which he assumed to be his homeland.

  “You’re looking for your village?” asked Gavan.

  “No. Our villages move. I’m looking for Scursditch.”

  “I don’t think that map has Scursditch on it,” said Gavan, peering over at it. “It’s a world map. It looks like Davio’s world map, to me. The scale is large. It doesn’t have space for every village.”

  Village! thought Ingo. What is a town like, or a city, if Scursditch is a village to them? And then another thought occurred to him. In the vast world that was laid out before him, were his people so insignificant that they did not even feature in this ‘map’ of it?

  “What about the forest? That’s where these symbols like trees are, isn’t it? Why isn't it named?”

  “Understand this, Ingo,” Demetos spoke delicately. “To those outside your forest, it is an impassable terrain that leads nowhere. To see a human at its border is a rare thing. Before I came here, no one who ventured in returned. We know the West trades with the town called Scursditch, and some smugglers pretend to stop there before coming to us. But we know as little about that town as we do about the rest of the forest. How big is it? How many people live there? These are questions we in Dombarrow are only beginning to ask. None moreso than Gavan.”

  Demetos nodded to Gavan, who unfurled his own sheet with a flourish, so that it billowed in the air before them and then settled slowly over Demetos’ map. Ingo craned over. It was quite different from the last. It named places he recognised and the detail was careful and artistic. The rivers Scursrun and Severun were clearly labelled. There was Scursditch, just north of where they divided. The Lawbreakers Pass, where this very camp sat, was labelled with numbers and notes scrawled underneath it. The word ‘waterfalls’ was crossed out and replaced, in ink that looked dark and fresh, with the name ‘Levon Falls.’

  “You’re still making this map,” said Ingo.

  Gavan started to speak, but Demetos cut him off, carefully directing the conversation.

  “We’re beginning to understand how your forest differs from other places. Gavan, show Ingo what you’ve seen.”

  Gavan pointed to marks he had placed around the perimeter of the forest.

  “These are points where the paths end. I saw all the paths, briefly. Your ancestors didn't make them, you know. The sleepers spun them long before humans came. Before even the Imposter Queen, who stole control of them. The real queen is winning them back, though."

  Gavan paused and took a pipe from his pocket. Demetos leaned across and casually lit one end with his incredible fire instrument. He uses this magic they call technology for mere convenience. When Gavan sucked, the other end glowed red, but it did not smell like tobacco. Placated, Gavan continued:

  "When I try to remember how they go inside, or which end connects to which beginning, it all becomes a jumble. But look at these points inside the forest. Places like the Levon Falls, the riverbanks and the town. I know some of the paths end there, too. I need to know which points match up. If you know the paths you could help. We could map out your world and work out how the land bends in it!"

  Gavan looked at Ingo, full of hope and excitement that animated his sunken face and brought colour back to it. Ingo peered closer at the ragged ends and beginnings of the paths he had mapped. Beneath each point was a curious mix of numbers and letters.

  This talk fascinated him. This new art of mapping, of being able to draw the whole world and to know in which direction any destination lay seemed incredible. If he were home right now, he would dash at once to discuss it with Luthold. He would set to work mapping their village and all the paths he could before his father called him away to practise swinging swords. At the thought of his father, he clamped his mouth shut and gritted his teeth to stop himself from speaking. Why, he asked himself as he feasted his eyes on Gavan’s fine calligraphy, must these people be enemies?

  “Don’t pressure him,” whispered Demetos to Gavan, though loud enough for Ingo to hear. Ingo watched in dismay as he whisked the world away from under his nose and rolled it up. He stared at the rug on which the maps had lain.

  Demetos spoke to Gavan again in the same whisper.

  “He’s not ready to trust us yet, Gavan. Should we blame him? How can he know what's at stake? Let’s hope he comes around before Ilargia starts to wonder what she could find here.”

  Ingo looked from one to the other. Gavan picked up Demetos' cue and added:

  “Change is coming to his people, whether they seek it or not. I hope for their sake it’s you who brings that change, not someone like her." He coughed and added: "She was close to the encampment when I came here. She could be arriving any time now.”

  "Leave me," Demetos said. "And tell Tristor to prepare a proper welcome."

  Gavan smiled at Ingo.

  “Come on, the advocate must welcome another politician. Walk me back to Hesio. We can talk more about maps, if it suits you."

  Ingo rose, feeling that Demetos was ejecting him again from this tent before telling him everything he wanted to know. Was he teasing him? If so, it was working. He offered a hand to Gavan and helped him up then followed him, steadying him at the elbow, to the exit. It would be easier, he reflected, if these apostates would be cruel – if they would force him to cooperate. Instead, they forced him to see that perhaps he wanted to.

  As they left, Demetos called to Gavan:

  “Did any scouts find the powder yet?”

  “No. They return empty handed, if they return at all.”

  "And the Sullin can't help us? They have no idea where to find it either?"

  Gavan shook his head and Ingo's stomach sank. It was true then, what he had known but not yet admitted. He'd avoided the men and women in camp who looked like Seveners. He hadn't dared approach them, for fear of confirming who they were. He'd seen some of them watching him, though. His father had always urged respect for the Sullin. If they were working with Dombarrow, what did that mean for his own people? Would they be the only ones left behind?

  Ingo returned with Gavan to a high point in the camp where Hesio waited for them. They passed Tristor on the way, who saw Ingo with Gavan and gave a nod towards the mound.

  "Why are we coming up here, instead of to our tent?" Ingo asked.

  "You shouldn't miss a chance to see her," Gavan replied. Hesio scowled and Gavan added: "She's part of the Republic. And he'll be dealing with her one day, if he won't help our advocate."

  Gavan pointed to three women and two men on horseback. One of the women waited ahead of the others. The soldiers stood in ranks through the camp that formed a passageway to Demetos' tent. Demetos emerged and stood at the end. It must be intimidating, Ingo reflected, to walk through those files of identically armed soldiers, glittering under the sun.

  The party approached. They did not dismount, and the retinue made its way through the camp on horseback.

  “She likes to flash her wealth,” said Hesio beside him. Perhaps Hesio referred to the horses, because neither the woman in front nor those who rode behind her wore rich clothes. They wore dirty, ugly uniforms. The heavy grey suits looked like thick leather, but they were not tanned and decorated like the leather armour of the Sullin clan. The bulky costumes had black patches all over that looked like burn marks. Around their waists were hooked metal cylinders and spheres, and other items that might have been tools. One woman behind Ilargia with long, dark hair and a striking, beautiful face that looked chiselled out of marble glowered down at the soldiers who stood closest. They backed away. Ilargia herself stared straight ahead at Demetos’ tent.

  When Ingo saw her face, his throat closed. This was the Dombarrow of his childhood nightmares.

  The left half of it seemed to have melted, if that were even possible for skin and muscle. Ripples of red flesh hung down as though dripping toward the ground. Her left eye gazed out through the narrow slit under her drooping, hairless eyebrow. The arrogant smile that played on the lips of her right side transformed on the left into a sickening droop, through which Ingo was sure he could see part of her jaw. And then there was her arm. With her right hand she held the reins, but her left arm was covered, up to the elbow, in a taut bandage that would have resembled a glove, had it not shown the outline of bones beneath it. Ingo squinted.

  “Is her left arm nothing but bone from the elbow?” he whispered as the procession made its way to the centre.

  Hesio nodded. "It's worse than that. False bones made of steel.”

  “Why?!”

  The big soldier shrugged. “An experiment. I told you she's crazy. They say she had her own bones in the left hand ripped out and replaced with metal, just to prove she could do it.” He leaned in a little closer, and whispered with morbid enjoyment: “They say the hand still works and she can crush a man’s neck like you or I can squash -”

  “Stop scaring the boy, Hesio," said Gavan. “Everybody knows the false hand doesn’t work. She lost it in an accident at the forge. The same accident that burned her face. She didn’t rip healthy bones out, for pity’s sake.”

  Hesio pursed his lips and turned back to watch the group slide off their horses and walk into the central circle of tents. “I’m only repeating what people say. Who knows what goes on in her little fiefdom. They don’t call her the mad tyrant for nothing.”

  “What is a tyrant?” asked Ingo.

  “Someone who rules with no mandate,” Gavan replied before Hesio could speak. “She governs the forge city, outside Dombarrow. It’s supposed to be an elected position, but she’s held it for twelve years.”

  “How come she’s allowed to if it's against your rules?”

  “Madness is frightening to the sane,” said Hesio. “And it’s powerful, combined with wealth. Few will stand up to her.”

  At this comment, Gavan nodded sagely in agreement.

  “She has too much power. She’s dangerous.” He glanced at the black Sullin tents and added: “And she doesn’t like outsiders.”

  “Who’s scaring the boy now?” asked Hesio.

  Ilargia passed the black tents at the edge of the command circle and flashed them a look of distaste. She stood before Demetos, a head shorter than him but somehow holding herself as though she looked down from above. The hundreds of men fell silent as each strained to hear what passed between the leaders.

  "Welcome, Ilargia Landstrom, Advocate and Master of the Forges. Come inside and tell me what brings you to our camp."

  "Old friend," Ilargia replied, pulling her mouth into a nauseating grin. "I've come to learn what brings you out here. To learn why a decorated advocate of the Institute in the autumn of his career is playing soldiers in the woods."

  Ingo could not see Demetos' expression, but he felt he'd met the man enough times to imagine it. They stepped inside the tent.