Dubían had insisted that he return to warn Vasyllia. Voran could not stop the big man, but he thought him foolish. Mirnían agreed.

“No, there is no wisdom in returning now,” Mirnían had said. “There is as much likelihood of you being captured as arriving in Vasyllia in time. And the scouts will have seen the enemy already.”

But Dubían would not be deterred. Seeing the back of him brought Voran more grief than he expected. He feared he would never see him again.

On the eighth day after encountering the changer, the mountains lessened into rolling hills. Voran’s ears began to pop as they descended. That day, they stopped early, before the sunset. They laid out their food and furs at the shores of a glass-clear lake.

“You might think that the lake is shallow,” said Leshaya, “but it is not. Do not be fooled. That is one of the deepest lakes in this part of the world.”

“That should be the slogan of our journey,” grumbled Mirnían. “Nothing is as it seems. Never in my life did I think I would follow a speaking wolf on a journey to a doorway that exists, but only sometimes.”

“What choice do we have?” asked Voran. “It seems obvious that the pilgrims entered the Lows of Aer. We have no other trail to follow.” And perhaps he would find Lyna. The need to see her pierced even the veil of sleep. He only dreamed of her now.

“You would be wise to practice a little humility, prince of Vasyllia,” said Leshaya. “You Vasylli are not equipped to battle the enemy now approaching your city. Try to learn something. It might prove useful.”

Mirnían ignored her.

In the morning, the lake was frosted over with thin tendrils of mist.

“There lies our way,” Leshaya said, pointing with her muzzle at the mist.

“What, over the lake?” Mirnían said. “It is not frozen yet.”

“Not over the lake. Over the mist.”

Voran smiled. He felt unusually eager this morning.

Leshaya led the way, and Voran followed. Mirnían, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, came last. As Voran stepped on the mist, it seemed to be hard ground. He waded knee-deep in what looked like milk. No ice, no water. When they all reached the center of the lake, a wind raised the mist around them until they were bathed in it. Something seemed to shift in the shapes just beyond the white. As the mist lifted, a high plain revealed itself ahead of them. Not a stone’s throw away lay the strangest thing Voran had ever seen—a slumbering giant’s head, the size of a three-story house, bearded, wearing an ancient helmet made of a curious silver-copper metal. It snored. Every time it snored, a cloud of starlings flew up, only to alight back on the helmet as soon as it stopped.

“Everyone is usually so taken with the head, they never notice the waystone,” said Leshaya.

She was right. Voran had missed the ragged plinth. It had carved scratches on its face, too dim to be made out from this distance.

“This cannot be real. I am dreaming.” Mirnían stood a few steps behind them, his face pale.

Upon closer inspection, the scratches on the waystone were legible, though barely, after what seemed many centuries of erosion.

If left you go, there love awaits

If right you go, there gold awaits

If straight you go, there death awaits

“What wonderful choices!” Mirnían spat on the ground.

“Maybe the head will be more enlightening,” said Voran. He picked up a rock the size of his head.

“Voran, what are you…No, stop!” said Leshaya.

Voran hurled the stone at the giant, just as it was breathing in to snore. The stone flew up the giant’s nose, and the head jolted awake, then sneezed like a gale. When Voran picked himself up, the head was awake. It looked very annoyed, but there was also something else in its eyes. The kind of amusement a bear might feel when faced with a charging ant.

“Voran, you idiot,” whispered Leshaya. Her tail was stuck out straight behind her and her ears were at full alert.

“Well,” the head bellowed. “You have my attention, tiny creatures. What do you want with me?”

A sense of the scene’s absurdity struck Voran, and he spoke without even thinking.

“Giant, what happened to you? Why does your head continue to live without…well, the rest of you?”

Mirnían looked at Voran as though Voran had mushrooms growing up his nose.

“UGGH!” The giant’s groan was like an earthquake. “Always the same stupid question. It’s not fair. It’s not as though I can, you know, walk away from stupid conversations. No. I’m stuck here, forever subject to witticisms and imbecilities.”

“Buyan, ignore him. He’s but a cub.” Leshaya’s eyes flashed at Voran.

“Oh, Leshaya, I didn’t see you there. You’re so small, you know. Can you remove these pimples from my presence, please? I am sleepy.”

“Buyan, have you seen or heard anything of Vasylli pilgrims seeking the Living Water?”

One huge eyebrow shot upward.

“Ah! Always seeking information, aren’t you, Leshaya? What makes you think that a big oaf like me knows anything in the wide world?”

“You’re right,” said Voran, turning away. “This is a waste of time. He’s obviously half-man…I mean, mad.”

“Oh, thank you for that, annoying little person. I may know something of these pilgrims, or I may not. You’ll have to take that chance.”

“Oh, by all the…” Mirnían looked ready to burst with frustration. “This is too much like a story. I hate it. Listen, whoever you are. What do we have to do to earn the chance at your knowledge?”

“Finally,” the giant head sighed with pleased relief. “A little person with a brain slightly larger than a pea. I will tell you whatever you want to hear if you can guess a riddle.” It smiled thoughtfully. “I haven’t played at riddles in ages. Oooh, this will be fun. Here’s the first one:

Above mighty water most often I mount,

Trying the hearts of heroic men.

I peer over cliffs and perilous jaunts,

Sounding the sum of all of my strength.

Don’t think I’m a dragon, though indeed I breathe fire,

A thousand sparks, like scales, rise up from my soul.

I weep among welkin, though always keep watch

To help, never hinder, the poor helpless man.”

Voran couldn’t believe how easy this one was. “Beacon. The answer’s beacon.”