Near the zenith now was the constellation of the Prophet. Afsan had seen old hand-copied books that called this constellation the Hunter, after Lubal, largest of the Five Original Hunters, but as worship of them was now all but banned, the official name had been changed to honor Larsk, the first to gaze upon the Face of God.

Lubal or Larsk, the picture was the same: points of light marked the shoulders, hips, elbows, knees, and the tip of the long tail. Two bright stars represented the eyes. It was like a reverse image, Afsan thought — the kind one gets after staring at an object, then looking at a white surface — since the prophet’s eyes and Lubal’s, too, like those of all Quintaglios, must have been obsidian black.

Above the Prophet, glowing faintly across the length of the sky, ran the powdery reflection of the great River that Land sailed on in its never-ending journey toward the Face of God. At least, that was what old Saleed said the dusty pathway of light crossing the night was, but he’d never been able to explain to Afsan’s satisfaction why it was only during certain times that the great River cast a reflection on the sky.

Saleed! Abominable Saleed! It had taken Afsan fifty-five days riding atop a domesticated hornface in one of the merchant caravans to get from Pack Carno, part of the province of Arj’toolar, deep within Land’s interior, to Capital City on the upriver shore of Land.

The children were the children of the Pack, of course — only the creche operators knew who Afsan’s actual parents might have been — and the whole Pack was proud that one of their own had been selected to apprentice to the court astrologer.