“I’m sorry, Kan. I should’ve told you to get rid of the stone,” said Vlada, compassion and sadness in her voice. “It seemed harmless. I’ve never thought that the White Region could even notice a thing with such a weak magical potential.”

“I wouldn’t have left it anyway,” said Kangassk firmly as he unclenched his fist and let the warmed up pebble fall on his shirt. The black soothstone glinted in the moonlight and sparkled reflecting the distant stars. Why was it so important now? Kangassk didn’t understand himself. “Vlada, I think I have a right to know… Who was this Malconemershghan? Why did Sereg burn the city because of him?”

“He made a very dangerous discovery, Kan,” the answer was vague, unwilling, and not to the point.

“What discovery?!!” Kan exploded all of a sudden. “He wrote poems! Silly, childish poems!”

Vlada ignored his rage, again, just like she did back in Tammar. She walked away from the group of mortals and joined Sereg. They talked and talked to no end, like ancient mages often do. As to the common folk, they wanted their rest and food. Kan had little choice here; he joined Astrakh’s traders for supper.

Soon, they were sitting around the cauldron full of hot porridge sweetened with honey, scooping the delicious meal with their spoons. They talked little and in a cautious whisper.

“Those two are great mages!” whispered Astrakh. “You have no idea how lucky you are to travel with them, Kangassk!”

“Why’s that?” sighed Kan.

“Becoming a mage’s apprentice is what I’ve been dreaming of my whole life. I’ve never cared whether my teacher would be a kind mage like Vlada or an evil mage like Sereg… He’s evil, right? You said he burned down a city!”

“I’ve seen it in my vision. I have no other proof.” Kan turned away.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re teaching you!” exclaimed Will in a loud whisper. “That’s awesome!”

“Actually, no one has taught me anything so far,” retorted Kan in a gruffy tone; thinking of Sereg tended to trigger the worst in him. But thinking of the other worldholder… “Wait, no, Vlada did,“ he admitted, softening his voice, “She told me stories and taught me some fencing tricks.”

“See? What did I tell you!” Will grinned.

“That’s just the beginning!” Klarissa patted Kan on the back. “And how did you think they were going to teach you magic here, in No Man’s Land, huh? I’m sure you’ll get all the training you wished for once you’re back on the stable lands! You have a great future. Trust me, I know!”

“How?” Kan sniffed at her; he was in no mood for jokes and sappy encouragements.

Klarissa tugged at the thin string on her neck and revealed a small soothstone, just like his own. Kangassk’s eyes became very round; he gasped…

“Hide it, you silly girl!” he hissed at her under his breath. “If Sereg sees it, you’ll go to prison for five, no, ten years! And will spend them felling trees in a bitter cold!”

Unlike the Regions Kangassk passed through before, Shamarkash had a very distinctive border, a beautiful one at that: flowers, a whole “river” of flowers, so wide it was hard to tell where it ended.

“The border! We made it!” cried Iles and Ergen, the youngest of the five traders, and dived into the flowery river. The marvelous plants were so tall they closed in above their heads like sea waves.

The flowers cheered up everyone: the traders who ventured beyond the No Man’s Land for the first time, Kangassk who had been especially unfriendly and sulky for the last few days, and even the mages who had obviously missed their magic a lot during the journey. The older traders picked flowers to make themselves wreaths, the kids played tag with the chargas among the tall plants, Kan smiled for the first time in days, and the ancient mages threw sparkling spells at each other, happy to be themselves again. The traders’ old donkey remained a sole island of tranquillity among the madness: to such a simple beast, the blue river of flowers meant only food, a lot of food that no one was going to take away.

Vlada beckoned Kan to come closer and showed him a small plant she pulled up by the roots, the plant with blue flowers everyone liked so much.

“This is karlaman,” she said and made a pause to see whether Kangassk was interested; he was, so she went on, “or, scientifically speaking, tall karlaman – Karlamanus altus. It’s extremely sensitive to the strength of magical background in the area and grows only at the borders of No Man’s Land where the tension of magical forces is the strongest. You see a river of karlaman – that’s the border for you, unless you’re in Kuldagan, of course…” She returned to the previous thought: “So, No Man’s Land is wrapped in flowers on both sides: Karlamanus altus grows on the northern border; Karlamanus lineatus, or striped karlaman, on the southern. It looks similar to his plant, only its leaves have stripes.”

“Got it,” Kangassk nodded, “It’s a natural indicator of antipodal magic.”

“Wow, you even know the proper scientific term! Attaboy!” she praised him.

“Well, I like to read…” said Kan, humble, confused, and a bit blushing.

“When karlaman starts spreading or gets sick and dies out on vast spaces, that means something’s gone wrong with one of the stabilizers. We used that a lot before we framed the stabilizers about eleven thousand years ago. The borders used to dance a lot back then and tuning the Horas manually was such a chore… Well, lesson’s over. Remember the karlamans!”

Vladislava handed the flower to Kangassk and ran away to catch up with Sereg. The small caravan slowly moved forward, further and further away, but Kangassk still stood where he was with the blue flower in his hands…

He thought of the mangled silver frame of Hora Lunaris, imagined the worldholders working on the miracle device someone had so ruthlessly destroyed to get to the precious stone; and kept trying to get over one eerie phrase pounding in his head: “about eleven thousand years ago”…

She’d just stood there, Vladislava the Warrior, all sweet and down to earth, speaking of an unimaginably long number of years as if it were nothing special… Also, she explained the sacred inner workings of the world to him, a provincial boy, like he was five…

What should he do? What should mortals do in such a moment? Drop to their knees in awe? Kangassk didn’t feel like it. Also, he felt no awe in his heart. He felt something else; connection, responsibility… as if he were no longer a usual guy thrown into a fairy tale but an important part of the story.

He spent way too much time lost in thought. The little caravan, swallowed up by the karlaman river, was nowhere to be seen. Lucky for Kan, his faithful charga returned for him to carry him to the others.

He was no longer lost, in more ways than one…

Kangassk leapt into the saddle and hurried to catch up with his companions. The blue “river” of Karlamanus altus looked more and more like a real river and less than a thick twisty bed of flowers as the distance between it and the little group of travellers grew. One last sprint up the hill, one last glance back – and Kangassk was back with his group again, on the road through the forest.

After the vast open space they had just left, the new scenery seemed claustrophobic. Rows of tall, broad elms with bushy, spiky undergrowth between them stood like two solid walls by the sides of the road; their long branches intertwined above, blocked half the light, and made even a sunny day look gloomy.

This place, so unlike the spacious oak forest near the White Region, gave Kangassk creeps. He had no idea plants could do this to people. That forest stirred some primeval fear even in the desert native. Kan felt watched, hunted, and he wished to get out of here as soon as possible.