Masina strolls through the humming vineyard, detecting the presence of nearby bees, but seeing none.<br/><br/>The day beats down on her with its familiar, hard hand.  It makes her feel bronzed; it sharpens the smell of loam and grape all around, giving an edge to the scent of her rising sweat.  It reminds her how brutal this place is - this place she knows as home.<br/><br/>Halfway there, she hears a scuffle back at the outpost.  A brief flurry of flailing bodies, then quiet.  She can barely detect the lilt of Anastasius' voice, picking it up from the air like a signal transmitted.<br/><br/>A few steps farther, and the sound of bees blends with it.  Their fat, golden bodies weave about - another swarm.<br/><br/>She steps over earth that feels thinner than the fields around.<br/><br/>And doing so, she comes to the high watchtower.<br/><br/>All about at the top of the tower, the landscape stretches - from the cyclopean hills in the forbidden lands of inner Cappadocia, Trog Country, to the shimmering band of isolated settlements that cling to the red river like rot to the ragged rim of a wound.