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Ryon clears his throat. “Riv? We need your stories, brother.”

The man’s eyes narrow, but he asks no questions. Dawsyn notes how he studies them all. He seems to take note of the edge in the room. He is a calculating man. “Which?” he asks.

“Dyavnon.”

Rivdan blanches. He gives Ryon a withering look.

Strange,Dawsyn thinks.

Ryon hardens his stare. “Please?”

“It is not a story still told, Ryon. Bad luck.”

“Ha,” Ryon puffs. “Brother, if more bad luck finds us, we’ll merely add it to the pile.”

Rivdan seems to hesitate, his jaw clenching.

“It is superstition, Riv. Nothing more.”

“All stories are born from seeds of truth,” he mutters petulantly. He is reluctant, that much is clear. But eventually Rivdan sighs and nods. “Very well,” he begins. “When the sun was first born into the sky, no hill or mountain lay upon the land. Any creature could easily walk from shore to shore. It was, therefore, vulnerable to Dyavnon.”

Dawsyn understands now why Rivdan was namedStoryteller.His voice is oddly hypnotic.

“Dyavnon, a creature of the underworld, rose from the earth and wreaked havoc on all that lived on the land. She would break a creature with a mere thought, until the bones showed through their flesh, for she needed them. Each bone she took helped to remake her. She longed to be a living thing once more, to untie herself from the dark earth. She was tethered to the surface, you see. She could roam across it, but her feet made from stolen bones could not leave the ground. Only winged creatures could survive her. Glacians could take flight and avoid her grasp.”

“But Vasteel was the first Glacian,” Dawsyn interrupts. “And the ground was not flat when he changed.”

“It’s a myth, Dawsyn,” Ryon says. “But it’s an important one. Go on, Riv.”

“The Glacians could not remain in flight forever. They used their power to raise a mountain from the earth, for they knew that Dyavnon would not be able to climb something so steep – it would bring her too close to the sun, too close to the Mother who had banished her to the underworld long ago. No, she would have to remain in the mountain’s shadow, where she was closest to the underworld.

“But the Glacians were merciful. They saw no need to forsake the other creatures who shared the earth. So their mountain kept Dyavnon on one side, blocking her path to the other, where animals and man could keep on living. Dyavnon was doomed to wander her side of the mountain forever, lusting for bones to complete her transformation, and awaiting the time a foolish Glacian sought what lay beyond the Ridge, so that she might snap them in two, and harvest their skeletons.”

Rivdan’s deep timbre lingers moments after the tale is told, and Dawsyn can’t help but be affected, despite the gaping holes in the story.

A pause, and then Dawsyn says. “I’ve heard many myths, but never one so full of shit.”

“And can you guess who would have concocted a tale so blatantly dishonest?” Ryon asks her. “One that painted Glacians in the light of heroes? One that bid Glacians never to travel to the other side of the mountain? A myth told to infants, designed to scare them into compliance.”

Dawsyn grimaces. “All stories are designed to scare children into compliance.”

“Not all,” Rivdan corrects softly. “Just the ones told by wicked kings.”

“Vasteel.” Dawsyn sighs, and notes the way Yennes blanches at the name.

“I think we can be sure of where Vasteel now lurks,” Ryon says darkly. “I’ve wondered what hole he may have crawled into. What better place than one Glacians have long been conditioned to fear?”

“The other side of the mountain,” Dawsyn says. “You think there’s something there?”

“I do,” he replies, his dark eyes flashing.

“That does not mean the Chasm will lead you to it, Ryon,” Yennes says.

“Perhaps not,” Dawsyn answers. “But we will soon learn.”

Rivdan frowns. Ryon grins. Yennes shrivels.

“That is how we will save the people of the Ledge,” Dawsyn says with finality, for it is the only way. The only path that leads away from both Glacia and Terrsaw. Away from the clutches of Adrik and Alvira.