We regard our world as the uplands. Perhaps those in the west think of their lands as the world, and yet it is a truth a planet is round and this cannot be the only landmass. What is the name of this world? Do we even agree on it?
Damin and I grew up with Massin, which is where our Grenmassin derives from, but Mirlin and his ilk in the west? I ask him.
“Same,’ he murmurs. Again he taps the deserted area on the map. “This is called Arc.”
“Ark?” I repeat, lifting an eyebrow.
Grinning, Mirlin spells it, and adds, “And yet an ark is what this place appears to be. This world’s ancient name is Arc.””
Damin intervenes. “That is where we are headed, Lyra, whatever legends surround it.”
I nod. “Agreed.” I continue, for there are other matters to address. “Damin, the folk here are not the only ones needing a haven. There are innocents in upper Normur, such as Attis, and we need to get the hinterland moving.” I glance at Mirlin. “The west too.”
Mirlin answers first. “Many there work at it and all have copies of the map. It is my hope they will soon start the walk.”
Damin is next. “You and I will return to Normur while Mirlin leads these survivors.”
“How far will they get without food and shelter?” I ask, frowning.
“We have a gathering place in mind, a fort to the south where there are supplies. We will lead others there and then walk onto Arc as one.”
I am thoughtful. In Normur we too can make copies of the map. Something bothers me, though. “You have used me as if you expected I would be with you for last night.”
Damin shrugs. “I called you. A Delver is able to do so over distance.”