Far to the north-east, beyond two months of caravan track, the plateaus of Kinare rise into thin, bright air. Twelve grey-stone monasteries cling to the wind; coloured prayer flags snap above flat roofs where barley dries in the brief summer. The valleys are quiet, but the quiet is not what it seems — between certain cells, in certain embroideries, an older map is being kept alive by people who memorise rather than draw.
Tomás was born in one of these valleys. His family fled in a single night and never said why. Somewhere on these plateaus a workshop still holds his father's last sketch.
Available in a future season.
