‘You have gravely erred, Darian.’ said Alaliaq in his robotic monotone, ‘You had best hope the authorities do not find us.’
         ‘I know,’ said Darian, ‘I will not disobey you again.’
         ‘You had best not. If they find us, boy, I will not achieve my goal and you will be in a far more sorry state than when you started.’ Darian knew this to be true and he wept until he fell asleep. It seem as though nothing would ever go right for him.
         When he awoke, Darian judged by the sun and by the disc of Thoriam that it was halfway into the first circad of the long-day. He pulled back onto the highway and drove for another twelve hours, through the pinewood forests of Anicia, across the Lyonas River and into the fertile farmlands of Mesomara, following the directions given to him by Alaliaq. Early on, he stopped at a small town to buy food and water for the road, but when he stopped to sleep at the end of the circad, he once again pulled down a side road and slept in the truck. Fugitive as he was, he would not risk any more inns. He awoke once more and drove for another twelve hours, across nearly all of Mesomara. When he pulled aside again to sleep, the sun was high in the sky and Thoriam was once again showing it’s dark side to it’s windy moon as it did every long-day at mid-day on this part of Epaphus.
         After waking on the third circad, the great, orange planet was growing back into a thin crescent, and Darian and his jarred head crossed the Palfrat River, out of the lands of Mesomara and into the equatorial desert. And after driving for ten hours, their truck broke down just outside the town of Carralac, notable only as a small way-station along the railway that joined the east and west coasts of Epaphus’ one continent.
         Try as he might, Darian could not get the old hunk of rust started again and fell down to his knees and despaired.
         ‘Alaliaq. Master.’ he moaned, ‘What are we to do? I have failed you. Our truck is dead, we are nearly out of water and we will never make it to Arufara.’
         ‘Boy, you fret too much,’ intoned the impatient head-in-a-jar, ‘Water you will find in Carralac and the ruins of Arufara are only thirty miles distant. Look, you can see them from here.’ And sure enough, on the horizon, shimmering in the haze of the desert heat, Darian could see the towers of that ancient city. He sighed and stood up.
         ‘Yes, master, I will take you there.’ he said, and picked up the jar and pressed on on foot.
         As he walked across the desert, Darian was reminded of the morning he first set out from Naham with his jar and it’s macabre talking head. Only a long-day ago, but it seemed more like a year. The northern shrublands were cool and temperate though, but here the desert sun beat down cruelly. Then again, he made that first walk without any supplies and now, with the satchel of money he found in the old rancher’s truck, he was able to buy all the food and water he needed for his trek.
         For five hours he trudged on until, finally, he found himself walking past the foundations of ancient buildings. But the towers were still far away. Indeed, Arufara was a massive city, larger than any on Epaphus in Darian’s day, and before completing the last leg of his journey, Darian decided to rest under the shade of an ancient wall.
         When he woke up, the sun was beginning to sink low and Thoriam had grown once more into an orange crescent. For eleven hours he walked through the ruins of that ancient city, sand blowing through the ancient streets, eroding the remains of structures that must once have been magnificent, and Darian wondered how such a mighty city could fall into such ruin. But Alaliaq guided him on, speaking as always in that computery monotone, until finally they arrived at a cliff on the edge of the ruins overlooking a great expanse of pure whiteness - the Great Salt Desert of Sitnalta.