I find it difficult these days to summon the will to lift my pen and write. There are so many other things which draw my attention and so many other things that have a higher call on my time. But at Rosédan’s urging, I return to my account, for what I hope will be the last time.

It was, I have no need to say, a very long distance from Alka’ales to Edazzo. It was early morning when we came through the portal not far from A’ula Zölköh, and since neither Rosédan or I had any wish to come before the Lord of Dreams again, we flew westward without pausing to rest until we were in sight of the coast. My sense of the seasons was by now thoroughly confused, but it seemed to be spring in the land, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the richness of Alka’ales, at its many rivers and fields. There were men working the fields, but from our height I couldn’t tell whether the spell of somnolence still hung over them. No doubt it it did: even in my own time the name of the Lord of Dreams is spoken in fear.

We passed over many different lands in the days that followed. I am pained to admit that I am by no means a geographer, and even if I were, things look very different from dragon’s back than they do on a map. For a while we followed the coast that would someday be the southern boundary of the empire into which I was (or will be) born. We passed over a peninsula bearing a city that I am convinced is Apālaqi, the capital of an ancient empire that will someday fall and be drowned under the sea, but which now stands in all its glory.

When we saw the coastline curve to the south and leagues of desert stretch before us, Rosédan became less certain about our route. “We want to cross the land between us and the western sea,” she said, “but I’m worried that if we don’t keep the proper course we’ll go too far north or south and end up crossing one of the continents on either side.”

“We’ll have to hope for the best, I suppose,” I said, wishing that I had something more to offer, and regretting the many opportunities I had in the past to pore over a map of the western lands, or to learn how to determine the cardinal directions from the arc of the sun and the position of the stars. My readers may perhaps be relieved to learn that I have in recent weeks worked to make myself more familiar with the night sky, and in fact I have learned a number of remarkable things from my tutors about the relationship between the sky and the earth. If I had known them at the time, our journey to Edazzo might have been a less anxious one.

We passed along the southern fringe of the great lake in the middle of the continent, which I told Rosédan probably meant that we were on the right course. “Yes,” she said, “we’re not far from the northern parts of Ghadáreim.” I caught the tremble in her voice and understood that she was hesitant to see what had become of her home.

And I’m sad to write that her hesitance was justified. What we saw of Ghadáreim was a blighted land, dry and dead. There were no signs of life, except for the occasional hardy tree.

“The river Kasíli is gone,” Rosédan said. She wouldn’t face me, but it sounded like she was weeping. When I looked down I couldn’t see any sign of a river, not even a dried bed. Then, after a short while, Rosédan began to chant.

“Though I have stricken you with the heat of my anger,

“I shall make your streams flow with honey,

“I shall make your gardens bloom under the sun,

“And they shall come from east and west to drink from your fountains.”

At last, and to our great relief, we saw what seemed to be the western sea ahead of us. Though Rosédan says I must have been imagining it, I insist that I tasted salt on my tongue. We stayed close to the northern coast, keeping it on our right and the sea on our left for many miles, before we beheld the fingers of land sticking out from the coast, and on the fourth finger the city of Edazzo.

Rosédan took us down to earth in the hills northeast of the city, pointing out, no doubt correctly, that the good people of Edazzo would be alarmed by a dragon descending from the sky on top of them. I argued that they had no idea what a dragon was, using the word to describe legendary beasts that were more similar to snakes than to Halgh, but she retorted that that would only give them more reason to be alarmed.

She whispered in Halgh’s ear for a long time, and when she returned to me she was crying again. I comforted her and kissed her, of course. “It was a long journey,” she said. “He’ll rest here until he’s ready, then he’ll go back home to the mountains of northern Alka’ales. He’ll be happy there among his own.” This seemed to call for another comforting kiss.

Halgh sang as he flew away, a mournful series of notes that rose and fell until he was too far away to hear. As I listened to it, it brought to mind many things I thought I had forgotten. I remembered my family and my home in Tarinzar, which were both lost to me forever.

So we returned to Edazzo. It seemed much the same as we had left it; I suppose that a city doesn’t change much in a couple years. I wondered, as we walked through the gates, if one of our old friends would see us. I imagined Bekrao, say, crying out in joy and running to greet us with outstretched arms. Well, it was an absurd thing to imagine, but nevertheless I could feel my heart warm at the thought.

As it transpired, it was not a friend that saw us but I who saw him. Elerias was standing outside the door of his shop, arguing with another man over the price of oil. I interrupted their argument, which was no doubt a deep and profound one, with the words I had carefully chosen for such an occasion. “Good morning, Elerias. I’m back from Dūrī.” Belatedly I added, “and some other places too.”

“By Teleks!” Elerias swore. He set his jaw, gave me and Rosédan another look, and said, “By Kolodrinam, for that matter!” The other man started to say something, but Elerias waved his hand at him until he gave up and left with a promise to return later. Elerias continued to stare at us. “Where have you been?”

“Dūrī and some other places,” I explained.

“Come in, Kësil. And your friend too.”

“This is Rosédan. She’s the woman I was looking for, you’ll remember. We’ve come back to Edazzo to get married.”

“There’s something different about you, Kësil,” he said, squinting at me. “Well, you can tell me all about it.”

I had a premonition that I would be telling my very long story many times in the coming days, and I saw that if I didn’t take steps to forestall it I would be plunged into this disaster up to my neck. “I will, I promise. But I’m eager to see all my old friends again. Have Sāletinai and Adarzamu married?”

“They have. Phumalluo objected at first, but with Lord Agamnu on their side, he wasn’t able to do much about it. I’m quite sure Phumalluo holds a grudge against your friends because of what happened to his daughter. What did happen to her, by the way?”

This was a question I was not entirely prepared to answer. I had resolved once to take advantage of my journeys to try and find out where Rupāti had come from and where she had gone, but I had to admit I was no closer to an answer than I had been. Fortunately, Elerias spoke again before the silence became too strained.

“Bekrao knows something, I think. But I’ve had other business to occupy my attention. So! I’m very glad to see you alive and well, and I’m glad that you’ve found your Rosédan, if I caught her name correctly.”

“You did,” said Rosédan, making a small polite bow.

“I am Elerias, dealer in lamps and oil. Have you had a long journey? You look like it.” He considered, rubbing his chin, then said, “I’d invite you to my home—my wife and children would be delighted to meet you—but I’m afraid we’re celebrating the festival rites of Sattas right now, so no outsider may step across the threshold of the house. But I’m positive that you’ll find a warm welcome with Agamnu.”

“His wife might not be eager to see me again,” I said.

“Oh, of course you wouldn’t have heard. She went back to her father in Nārintho, and with both Agamnu’s daughters married off, I’m sure he’ll be glad for the company.”

I was surprised to hear this. My faithful readers may recall that Agamnu’s elder daughter had been in love with the manservant, upon discovery of which fact Agamnu had dismissed him. As for Agamnu’s younger daughter, it would be a man of unusual tastes who lived with her happily. I don’t mean to disparage her appearance by this, of course, but her habit of going around wailing and invoking dreadful spirits of vengeance, which can’t be a comfortable thing for a husband to experience every day. Still, I suppose there are all kinds of people in this world.

We talked with Elerias a little longer, and I explained something of what had happened to me, promising to recount the full story at a gathering of my friends at Agamnu’s house. Perhaps it was presumptuous of me to make such a promise without speaking to anyone else, particularly Agamnu, but under Elerias’s questions I felt obliged nonetheless. Then Rosédan and I bade him farewell and went on our way to Agamnu’s mansion.

I was surprised when Bekzamu (whom my readers will recall is Agamnu’s brother) greeted us at the door. Which I suppose is only fair, as he was surprised too. “Kësil!” he cried. “We thought you were dead!”

“I nearly was, several times,” I said. “Is Agamnu at home?”

My question was answered by the roaring voice of Agamnu himself from within. “Kësil! Kësil! Come in! Stop standing in his way, Bekzamu!”

“He’s in the courtyard,” Bekzamu said to us in a low voice. “I was just on my way out to—well, it doesn’t matter where I’m going. I’m glad you’re back.” He didn’t say anything to Rosédan, but hurried out past us.

Agamnu was still calling for me, so we went in, hurrying through the inner chamber to the courtyard, where Agamnu sat against one wall in the midst of vine-covered trellises. He hoisted himself to his feet, and I saw as he did that one of his legs had been twisted out of place so that he stood only with difficulty, clinging with one hand to the nearest trellis. “Kësil! And Rosédan too! Words can’t express how glad I am to see both of you.”

“And we you,” I said politely. Any further politeness was forestalled by Agamnu’s limping towards us to embrace me and kiss me on both cheeks in the embarrassing Edazzo custom. Able to restrain my curiosity no longer, I asked him what had happened to his leg.

“That is a long story,” he said. “But I’m sure you have a long story to tell me in turn. And you look tired, both of you. Come inside and sit down, and I will see to it that you are treated to the finest meal my cook can offer.”