Prologue

In the still, starlit hours of early morning, when the sands of the desert whisper in cold breezes and the calls of night creatures warble out of the Kerlen Mountains, the young girl, Ciri, took it upon herself to scale the lonely promontory people called The Shard.

The Shard was something of a local landmark; jutting out of the desert sand like a broken bone through flesh. Her goal was the summit, the narrow plateau that stuck out ten or so metres under the jagged peak like a spoilt child's bottom lip, and the only way up was along a narrow fissure that curled upwards through the rock like an empty vein.

The going wasn't especially tough, but there was no reason it should have been. Ciri had been doing this long enough to be able to find her way blindfolded. Twice, the path doubled back on itself, and only once did the verticality become so severe as to necessitate the employment of her hands to haul her along. But otherwise, it was like climbing a long, wind-carved staircase.

Ciri grabbed her canteen, unscrewed the cap, put the rim to her lips, and pulled out a mouthful of water. It was warm and smacked faintly of metal, but Ciri relished the taste; felt it added texture to the whole experience. Stopping the canteen up again, she let it drop to her side. The contents gurgled as it bounced against her hip. It was a pleasing sound; when you live in the desert, the sound of water is sweet music. Some of the most beautiful songs Ciri had ever heard were about water.

Onwards and upwards she went, coming eventually to a spot where she had to bend low to pass under an overhang. Ciri was tall for her age and rangy, her muscles wrapped tight around her bones like high-tension cables. The night wind soughed along the fissure, ruffling her hair – cropped close to her scalp – and chilling the sweat on her neck and brow. She felt the sting of sand crystals on her cheeks, microscopic passengers borne out of the desert in the belly of the wind. They filled and irritated her nostrils. She pinched her nose against a sneeze. The fissure was broadening; she was almost at the top. She pressed on, her toes seeking out natural purchases in the rock floor as the path steepened, until she emerged at last on the plateau.

The night wind rushed her, tugging at her clothes as it would carry them away. She spread her arms, delighting the way it chilled the sweat on her skin, relishing even the bite of the sand crystals. She breathed deep, feeling the wind's chill against the back of her throat. At length, the wind passed over her, resuming its journey over the desert into realms undreamed. Ciri opened her eyes and turned her head, following its passage over the sands, her gaze coming to rest inevitably on the city.

Tal Shar. That was what outsiders called it. To Ciri and every other citizen, it was just 'the city.' A conglomeration of lights strewn across the sands as if by some careless giant. And rising out of the heart of it: the great mountain whereon the royal palace perched, thrusting an array of spires and minarets towards the stars.

Seeing that mountain and its occupant, Ciri felt herself seized by a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. She wondered if Lady Shen was in one of those spires, gazing out over the city, as she was said to do. Almost against Ciri's will, an array of stories paraded themselves through her head: that Lady Shen could see into the heart of each and every child and know if they had been misbehaving, and, knowing, rain punishment on them; that Lady Shen controlled the weather; that at her will the very sands would rise and devour the city.

Ciri was almost certain that it was all nonsense dreamt up to scare children into obedience.

Almost certain.

She wrenched her eyes away from the palace, deciding she'd had enough of wondering about Lady Shen for one night. She figured that if the stories of Lady Shen's all-seeing eye were true, the old witch could probably find far more interesting things to observe than a lanky fifteen-year-old scaling The Shard.

Satisfied with the logic of that, Ciri advanced towards the rim of the plateau and sat down,, her feet dangling over a dizzying drop, raised her canteen to her lips and tugged out a mouthful of water. She rested her arms on her knees and gazed out over the desert, the dunes rendered bone-white under the moon. They were a comforting sight, those dunes. Like an army of soldiers huddling under their blankets, ready to spring the moment the word was given. As a child she had wondered if those soldiers might be willing to fight Lady Shen; kick her back into the empty spaces between the stars.

There was every possibility, of course, that those soldiers were yet more servants of Lady Shen, but Ciri could never bring herself to believe that; she didn't remember much about the days before Lady Shen, but she did have one vivid image of sitting atop her father's shoulders and staring out at the dunes. That was it; no hint of her father picking her up, or setting her down, just that image of the dunes gleaming like fire in the noonday sun. The dunes had been here long before Lady Shen. Ciri knew how dumb that sounded – of course the dunes had been here before Lady Shen – but if-

A sudden clap – like a boom of distant thunder – shattered the silence, scattering her thoughts like chaff before a storm wind. For the space of a heartbeat, it seemed as if the whole galaxy had frozen. Then, her ears were filled with the roar of hyperdrive engines as a small fighter tore through the air above her head, passing so low she could actually hear the rumble of the engine turbines; feel the scalding blast of its exhaust.

Ciri scrambled to her feet, eyes riveted on the craft. For one breathless moment, nothing else existed. She had never that model before, but... there was something about it... something Ciri could not place.

Maybe it was the X-shape...

Yes, that was it; the X-shape. It tickled something in the back of her mind.

On and on the fighter went, speeding out over the desert like a stone hurled from a catapult. But something was wrong; two of the four engines were dark and the craft was lurching like a wounded bird. The lit engines were flickering, like lights on the blink. Then, one actually coughed (more of deafening crack that Ciri was certain would carry for miles across the desert), belching forth a cloud of black exhaust that narrowed into a long ribbon of smoke streaming out in its wake. The fighter listed, fought to remain level, ailerons flexing desperately. The dark engines burst into life, then went dark again. It was a painful sight. Again, Ciri thought of a wounded bird.

Ciri struggled to keep the dwindling fighter in focus. It was hopeless; with each blink, it became harder and harder to distinguish the flickering of the engines from the twinkling of the stars. By her estimate, it would be over the horizon before it went down – and there was not a shred of doubt in her mind that was indeed going down.

Another blink and the fighter was gone; swallowed up by the night.