Haomane, Lord-of-Thought

Arahila the Fair

Satoris the Sower

Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters

Meronin the Deep

Yrinna-of-the-Fruits

Oronin the Glad Hunter

DARKHAVEN�S FORCES

Tanaros Blacksword�General, one of the Three

Ushahin�Dreamspinner, one of the Three

Vorax�Glutton, one of the Three

Hyrgolf�Fjel field marshal

Carfax�Staccian captain

Skragdal�Fjel squadron commander

Speros�Midlander, recent arrival

Meara�madling, attendant to Cerelinde

HAOMANE�S ALLIES

Malthus the Counselor�Haomane�s emissary

Ingolin the Wise�Lord of the Rivenlost

Cerelinde�Lady of the Ellylon

Aracus Altorus�heir to Kingdom of the West

Blaise Caveros�Aracus� second-in-command, member of Malthus� Company

Fianna�the Archer of Arduan, member of Malthus� Company

Peldras�Ellyl, member of Malthus� Company

Lorenlasse of Valmar�Leader of the Host of the Rivenlost

Dani�Yarru, the Bearer

Thulu�Yarru, Dani�s uncle and guide

OTHERS

Lilias�Sorceress of the East

Calandor�dragon, one of the Eldest

Calanthrag�dragon, the Eldest

Grey Dam�ruler of the Were

All things converge.

In the last Great Age of the Sundered World of Urulat, which was once called Uru-Alat after the World God that gave birth to it, they began to converge upon Darkhaven.

It began with a red star rising in the west; Dergail�s Soumani�, a polished stone that had once been a chip of the Souma itself�that mighty gem that rested on the sundered isle of Torath, the Eye in the Brow of Uru-Alat, source of the Shapers� power.

Satoris the Shaper took it for a warning, a message from a sister who had loved him, once upon a time; Arahila the Fair, whose children were the race of Men. His enemies took it as a declaration of war.

Whatever the truth, war ensued.

Haomane, First-Born among Shapers, long ago uttered a Prophecy.

�When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found, when the marrow-fire is quenched and Godslayer is freed, when a daughter of Elterrion weds a son of Altorus, when the Spear of Light is brought forth and the Helm of Shadows is broken, the Fjeltroll shall fall, the Were shall be defeated ere they rise, and the Sunderer shall be no more, the Souma shall be restored and the Sundered World made whole and Haomane�s Children shall endure.�

It began with the rising of Dergail�s Soumani�. Cerelinde, the Lady of the Ellylon, a daughter of Elterrion�s line, plighted her troth to Aracus Altorus. It was the first step toward fulfilling Haomane�s Prophecy; Arahila�s Children and Haomane�s conjoined, their lines inextricably mingled. But in Lindanen Dale, their nuptials were disrupted.

Bloodshed ensued.

It was a trap; a trap that went awry. It seemed at first that all the pieces fell into place. Driven by vengeance, the Grey Dam of the Were spent her life in an attack, and the half-breed Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed madness and illusion. Under its cover, Tanaros Blacksword abducted the Lady Cerelinde and took her to Darkhaven.

Haomane�s Allies were misled. Pursuing a rumor of dragons, under the command of Aracus Altorus, they raised an army and launched an assault on Beshtanag and Lilias, Sorceress of the East. And there the trap went awry. The Ways were closed, and the Army of Darkhaven was turned back, their company�s leadership scattered. In Beshtanag, Haomane�s Allies took to the field.

There, they prevailed.

They were not supposed to do so.

They were coming; all of them.

They came on foot and on horseback and by sailing ship, for the Ways of the Marasoumi� had been destroyed. Lord Satoris had done this in his wrath. The Dragon of Beshtanag was no more, slain by the Arrow of Fire; the lost weapon, found. Bereft of her Soumani�, the Sorceress of the East was nothing more than an ordinary woman; Lilias, mortal and powerless. The Were had struck a bitter bargain with Aracus Altorus, ceding to his terms; defeated ere they rose. Aracus was coming, his heart filled with righteous fury, knowing he had been duped.

Malthus the Wise Counselor, trapped in the Ways, had vanished beyond the sight of even Godslayer itself � but rumor whispered of a new figure. The Gal�inridder, the Bright Rider, whose words bred fear in the hearts of Men, inspiring them to betray their ancient oaths to Lord Satoris.

But Haomane�s Allies had not won yet.

On the westernmost verge of the Unknown Desert, Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven, made camp alongside a creek. There he slaked the thirst of his long-parched flesh and made ready to rally his surviving troops and set his face toward home. Immortal though he was, he could have died in the desert. Thanks to a raven�s gratitude, he lived.

When he dreamed, he dreamed of the Lady Cerelinde.

On the back of a blood-bay horse, Ushahin Dreamspinner rode the pathways between waking and dreaming, plunging into the Midlands and leaving a trail of nightmares in his wake. A wedge of ravens forged his path, and on either side, a riderless horse flanked him; one a spectral grey, the other as black as coal.

If he had dreamed, which he did not, he would dream of the counsel of dragons.

Vorax the Glutton, muttering over his stores, awaited them in Darkhaven.

The immortal Three were soon to be reunited.

Haomane�s Prophecy was yet to be fulfilled.

In the mighty fortress of Darkhaven, where the Lady Cerelinde endured imprisonment and fought against a rising tide of doubt, the marrow-fire yet burned. Within it hung the dagger, Godslayer; ruby-red, a Shard of the Souma. Once, it had wounded Satoris; the wound that would not heal. Godslayer alone could end a Shaper�s life; the life of Lord Satoris, the life of any of the Shapers. And while the marrow-fire burned, no mortal hand could touch it. None but a Shaper would dare.

Only the Water of Life, drawn from the Well of the World, could extinguish the marrow-fire. The Water had been drawn, but its Bearer was lost.

Thrust out of the Ways by Malthus the Counselor in a desperate gambit, abandoned and lost, Dani of the Yarru wandered the cold lands of the Northern Harrow, deep in Fjeltroll territory, with only his uncle to guide him. Together, they sought to follow the rivers, the lifeblood of Urulat, to Darkhaven.

And they, too, were being hunted � .

Led by Skragdal of the Tungskulder, the Fjel were on the hunt. Their loyalty to Lord Satoris was beyond question. Haomane�s Prophecy promised them nothing but death. No matter where it led them, they would not abandon their quest. They would succeed or die trying.

All things converge.

For days, their path had taken them westward on an arid course through the Northern Harrow, following an underground branch of the Spume River.

Thulu led the way, probing with his digging-stick and listening, listening to the lifeblood coursing through Uru-Alat�s veins, deep below the surface. Dani did not question his uncle�s guidance. All children of the Yarru-yami were taught to follow the deep veins of Uru-Alat, but the skill was honed by age and practice, and this was a task for which the Yarru elders had trained his uncle for many years.

Although it was a hardship, at least it was one to which the Yarru were suited. Dani and his uncle sipped sparingly from their waterskins, their bodies accustomed to eking the most from every precious drop. When ordinary folk would have faltered, the Yarru pressed onward with only a touch of discomfort.

They kept to low ground, to dry gorges and valleys. Away from the leaping rivers there was scant sign of any other living thing, save the tall spruce that dotted the mountainsides. It was a mercy, for it meant they saw no sign of Fjeltroll. Here and there, Uncle Thulu found a tiny spring, like an unexpected gift of Neheris, a sparkling trickle of water darkening a narrow cleft amid the rocks.

Where there were springs, there was small game; hare and ptarmigan. Using Yarru-style slings Thulu had made with strips of hide, both of them took turns shooting for the pot. It was harder to get a clean shot than it was in the open desert, but to his pleasure, Dani found his keen eye held him in good stead as a marksman.

After clambering amid the mountain peaks, it was almost easy going. Their feet, already hardened by the desert, grew accustomed to the harsh terrain. The nights were cool, but nowhere near as chill as they had been in the heights. After some debate, they gauged it safe to build a brisk fire, which dispelled the worst of the cold; for the rest, they shared their wool cloaks and huddled together, doubling their warmth.

On the morning of the seventh day, they heard a distant roar. Uncle Thulu, leaning on his freshly sharpened digging-stick, turned to Dani with a grin. �That�s it, lad. That�s our river!�

The trail wound through a torturous series of switchbacks, and it was an afternoon�s hard tramping before they reached the source, standing upon a promontory of rock and beholding what lay below.

When they did, Dani gazed at it with awe.

The Spume River burst out of the side of a mountain, plunging in a mighty cascade to the churning riverbed below. At close range, the sound of it was deafening. It was like a living thing, foam-crested and green-thewed, boiling around the boulders that dared disrupt its course. On the edge of the near bank, the barren limbs of a half-fallen spruce tree struggled desperately against the current.

�We�re going to follow that?� Dani asked, agape.

�Aye, lad!� Uncle Thulu widened his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He shouted his reply. �Can�t you smell the taint of it? One way or another, it will lead us to Darkhaven!�

Opening his mouth to respond, Dani gazed past his uncle and paused. Forty yards downriver, hunkered on a ledge, a squat figure was watching them.

At a passing glance, it looked like a boulder, perched and stolid, the color of dull granite; then it flung out one massive arm to point at them, its barrel chest swelled and swelled, increasing vastly in girth, and its mouth gaped to reveal a cavernous gullet.

The roar of a Tordenstem Fjel split the gorge.

Dani�s blood ran cold.

It was a wordless roar, and it echoed between the walls of the gorge, drowning out the sound of the river, impossible though it seemed. Dani clapped both hands over his aching ears, his insides reverberating like a struck gong. His teeth, the very marrow of his bones, vibrated at the cacophonous howl.

�Fjeltroll!� he shouted unnecessarily.

Again the roar sounded, making his innards quiver. And, oh, worse, even worse! On the ridge above it, other heads popped up, silhouetted against the sky; inhuman heads, misshapen and hideous. There were at least a score of them. The sentry repeated its deafening howl and the Fjeltroll began to descend with horrible speed, jamming talons into narrow fissures and swarming down the cliffs.

�Dani!� He could see Uncle Thulu�s mouth shaping his name as he pointed toward the banks of the churning river. �This way!� Without waiting, Thulu plunged downward, slithering through a gap in the rocks.

�Don�t leave me!� Fighting panic, Dani scrambled after his uncle. It was hard to hold a thought while his insides churned, and he could scarce feel his fingertips. The paralyzing roar sounded again. Glancing behind him, Dani saw the Fjel drawing closer. They wore nothing over their coarse hide, and their leathery lips were drawn back to reveal long tusks. Small yellow eyes glinted with ruthless cunning under their bulging brows. �Uru-Alat,� he whispered, freezing.

�Come on!� Uncle Thulu shouted. At the bottom of the gorge, he had made his way to the fallen spruce and was wrenching at its uppermost branches, breaking them loose. �Dani, come on!�

Half-sliding, half-falling, the Water of Life banging against his chest in its clay flask, Dani made the descent. The plunging Spume boiled like a cauldron, then snarled and raged in its narrow bed, spitting geysers in his path. He stumbled across rocks slick with spray to his uncle�s side.

�Hold these.� Sparing a quick glance up the gorge, Thulu thrust a load of spruce branches into his arms. �No, like so. Good lad.�

�Are they � ?�Dani clenched his jaw to still his chattering teeth.

�Aye. Fast.� As calm as though he were braiding thukka-vine in the desert, Thulu wove a length of rabbit-hide rope amid the branches, deftly knotting and tightening. �We have to try the river, Dani. It�s our only chance.� He met Dani�s gaze. �Whatever happens, hold tight to the branches. They�ll keep you afloat.�

Dani nodded, understanding.

�Good lad.� With a single, quick motion, Thulu stooped and grabbed his digging-stick, shouldering past Dani. �Now go!�

The Fjeltroll were on them.

The path was narrow, and even the sure-footed Fjel could only attack two at a time. Uncle Thulu fought like a tiger at bay, wielding his stick in a blur. The unarmed Fjel hissed in fury, swiping with their terrible talons, unable to get within reach. The largest among them barked a guttural order, and two pair split away, clambering up the gorge in order to flank the older Yarru on his left. Dani, clutching his makeshift float, stared in horror. The one who had given the order grinned, a malicious intelligence in his yellow eyes.

�What are you waiting for?� Thulu shouted over his shoulder. �Go, Dani! Go!�

�No.� Deep within him, an unexpected wave of fury surged. Dani dropped the spruce bundle and reached for his sling. �Not without you!�

Busy fighting for his life, Uncle Thulu grunted.

It was a clean rage, clearing Dani�s head and making the blood sing in his ears. Somehow, although fear was still present, it seemed distant and unimportant. He reached into his pouch and withdrew a smooth stone, fitting it into the sling. He spun it, taking careful aim at the nearest Fjeltroll approaching on the left. Uru-Alat, but they were hideous! With a grimace, the Fjel pointed at the flask on his chest with one grimy talon, saying something in its harsh tongue. Dani let fly with the sling.

His aim was true. Clasping one hand over its right eye, the Fjeltroll roared and staggered. Grabbing a handful of stones, Dani flung a barrage in quick succession, driving the Fjel several paces backward. The others regrouped, watching. �Leave us alone!� he shouted at them.

It was a brief respite. Lowering their heads, the uninjured Fjel renewed their approach, grimacing as Dani�s slingflung rocks bounced from their tough hides, from the dense ridge of bone on their brows. In a few seconds, they would reach him.

On his right, he heard rather than saw it; Thulu�s sharp exclamation of pain, then a grunt of effort and a heavy thud. A Fjel voice roared in agony. An arm clamped hard about Dani�s waist, wrenching him off-balance. �Now, lad!�

And then he was falling.

The river smacked him like a mighty fist. It was like a living thing; a malevolent one that sought his life at every avenue, seeking to extinguish the spark of vital fire that made his heart beat and his lungs draw breath. Water filled his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, more water then he had known in a lifetime. Dani flailed and the river rolled him over like a piece of debris, driving him into its depths.

If not for his uncle, he would surely have drowned. It was Thulu�s strong arm around his waist that hauled him up until his head broke water and he gasped for air. With his other arm, Uncle Thulu held tight to the spruce-branch float, his fingers wedged under the hide ropes. �Hold on!� he shouted above the river�s din. �Hold on to the branches!�

Dani did.

It was barely large enough to let them keep their heads above water. The river spun them and Dani saw the Fjel on the banks, arguing amongst themselves. One lay fallen and motionless, Uncle Thulu�s digging-stick jutting from its torso. On the ledge above the gorge, the lone sentry howled in fury, receding quickly from view.

The biggest Fjel, the one who had given the orders, gave pursuit.

�Uru-Alat!� Clinging to the float, Dani watched the Fjel race along the narrow path, using all four limbs, scrambling and hurdling. His heart sank. Its mouth was open and panting hard, but it was outpacing the very current. �Can they swim?�

�I don�t know.� His uncle grimaced. Glancing at him, Dani saw trails of blood winding through the foam that churned around his submerged chest.

�You�re injured!�

�A scratch.� Thulu pointed with his chin toward a bend in the river. �Here he comes. Kick with your legs, Dani! I don�t think he can swim. If we can swing wide left, maybe the current will carry us past him.�

There where the bend created a shallow apron of shoreline and the current slowed a fraction, the Fjel was fording the river, wading with dogged persistence to intercept their course. Water parted to surge around the mighty thews of its thighs, around its waist. The force of it would have swept anything else off its feet.

Not the Fjel.

Step by step, it continued its steady advance.

Dani kicked frantically, felt the float�s course shift. His uncle grunted, beating at the river with one arm. The trails of red in the foam surrounding him spread and widened. Almost �

Neck-deep in the river, the Fjel raised one dripping arm and reached out with a taloned hand to catch a branch of their float, halting its progress. It had to tilt its chin to keep its mouth clear of the river�s surface. It was close enough that Dani was staring into its slitted yellow eyes, mere inches away.

It said something in the Fjel tongue.

�Go away!� Dani kicked at it.

The Fjel grinned and said something else, reaching with its other hand for the clay flask that hung about his neck. Water surged all around them on every side. Its taloned hand closed around the flask �

� and dropped, sinking below the surface of the river as though it held a boulder in its grasp. The Fjel sank, its head vanishing beneath the river. Its grip was torn loose from the float, and the current restaked its claim. Dani choked, feeling the thong tighten around his neck and burn his skin; then that, too, eased as the Fjel let go.

The float rotated lazily as it cleared the bend, its passengers clinging for dear life. Behind them, a column of bubbles broke the surface. The big Fjel rose, dripping and staring after them.

Too late.

They had rounded the bend.

Struggling to stay afloat, Dani watched it until it was out of sight and wondered what the Fjel had said. And then the river�s course took a steep drop and it turned once more to a white-water torrent, and he obeyed his uncle�s desperate, shouted orders and clung to the float and thought of water and how to stay alive in it and nothing else, until the raging current flung them hard against a boulder.

Something broke with an inaudible snap, and Dani felt an acute pain in his shoulder and a dull one in his head. As the world went slowly black in his vision, he worked one hand free to fumble at the clay vial around his throat. It was intact.

It was his last conscious thought.

On their second day on land, Haomane�s Allies compared notes as they rode along the coastal road that lay between Harrington Bay, where the dwarf-ship Yrinna�s Bounty had deposited them, and Meronil, the Rivenlost stronghold whence they were bound.

All of them had been plagued by strange visions in the night.

The Borderguardsmen spoke of it in murmurs, clustering together in their dun cloaks, bending their heads toward one another. Even the Ellylon spoke of it, when the tattered remnants of Malthus� Company found themselves riding together on the broad road.

��Twas as if I dreamed,� Peldras mused, �or so it seems, from what Men have told me; for we do not lose ourselves in sleep as Arahila�s Children do. And yet it seemed that I did wander therein, for I found myself watching a tale not of my own devising unfold. And a great wind blew toward me, hot and dry as the desert�s breath, and I beheld him emerge from it�the same, and not the same, for the Wise Counselor was somehow changed.�

�Yes!� Fianna breathed, her face aglow. �That�s what I saw!�

��Twere as well if he were,� Lorenlasse of the Valmar� said shortly, coming abreast of her. �For all his vaunted wisdom, Haomane�s Counselor has led us into naught but folly, and we are no closer to restoring the Lady Cerelinde.�

Nudging his mount, he led the Rivenlost past them. Sunlight glittered on their armor and their shining standards. Peldras did not join his fellows, but gazed after them with a troubled mien. At the head of the long column of Allies, Aracus Altorus rode alone and spoke to no one. His dun cloak hung down his back in unassuming folds, but his bright hair and the gold circlet upon it marked him as their uncontested leader.

�What did you see?� Blaise Caveros asked Lilias abruptly.

Bowing her head, she studied her hands on the reins�chapped for lack of salve, her knuckles red and swollen. She preferred to listen, and not to remember. It had been an unpleasant dream. �What do my dreams matter?� she murmured. �What did you see, Borderguardsman?�

�I saw Malthus,� he said readily. �I saw what others saw. And you?�

Lifting her head, she met his dark, inquisitive gaze. What had she seen, dreaming beside the fire in their campsite? It had been a restless sleep, broken by the mutters and groans of Men rolled in their bedrolls, of Ellylon in their no-longer dreamless state.

A Man, or something like one; venerable with age. And yet � there had been something terrible in his eyes. Lightning had gathered in folds of his white robes beneath his outspread arms, in the creases of his beard. There was a gem on his breast as clear as water, and he had ridden into her dreams on the wings of a desert sirocco, on a horse as pale as death.

And he had raised one gnarled forefinger like a spear, his eyes as terrible as death, and pointed it at her.

�Nothing,� Lilias said to Blaise. �I saw nothing.�

On that night, the second night, the dream reoccurred; and again on the third. It kindled hope among the Men and unease among the Ellylon, and discussion and dissent among members of both races.

�This is some trick of the Misbegotten,� Lorenlasse announced with distaste.

�I do not think he would dare,� Peldras said softly. There were violet smudges of weariness in the hollows of his eyes. �For all his ill-gained magics, Ushahin the Misbegotten has never dared trespass in the minds of Haomane�s Children.�

On orders from Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard sent scouts to question commonfolk in the surrounding territories. They returned with a confusion of replies; yes, they had seen the Bright Rider, yes, and the other Rider, too, the horses the colors of blood, night, and smoke. A wedge of ravens flying, a desert wind. A stone in a child�s fist, crushing bone; a clear gem, and lightning.

They were afraid.

Lorenlasse of Valmar� listened and shook his fair head. �It is the Misbegotten,� he said with certainty. Others disagreed.

Only Aracus Altorus said nothing. Weariness was in the droop of his shoulders; but he set his chin against the weight of the Soumani� as he rode and glanced northward from time to time with a kind of desperate hope.

And Lilias, whom the visions filled with terror, watched him with a kind of desperate fear.

�You know more than you say, Sorceress,� Blaise said to her on the fourth day.

�Usually.� Lilias smiled with bitter irony. �Is that not why I am here?�

He studied her. �Is it Malthus?�

She shrugged. �Who am I to say? You knew him; I did not.�

Blaise rode for a while without speaking. �Is it Ushahin Dream-stalker?� he asked at length, adding, �You knew him; I did not.�

�I met him,� Lilias corrected him. �I did not know him.�

�And?� He raised his eyebrows.

�What would you have me do?� she asked in exasperation. �You are a courteous enough keeper, Blaise Caveros, but I am a prisoner here. Would you have me aid you, my lord? After you destroyed my life and rendered me��Lilias held up her wind-chafed, reddened hands��this?�

�What?� Leaning over in the saddle, Blaise caught her wrist in a strong grip. Their mounts halted, flanks brushing. �Mortal? A woman?� His voice softened. �It is the lot to which you were born, Lilias of Beshtanag. No more, no less. Is it so cruel?�

Ahead of them, the Rivenlost rode in glittering panoply, ageless features keen beneath their fluttering pennants. �Yes,� Lilias whispered. �It is.�

Blaise loosed his grip and retrieved his dropped rein, resuming their pace. �I do not understand you,� he said flatly.

�Nor do I expect you to,� she retorted, rubbing her wrist.

He stared across at her. �Did we not show you mercy?�

Unwilling laughter arose from a hollow place within her. �Oh, yes!� Lilias gasped. �As it suited you to do so. Believe me, you�ll regret that, my lord!� She laughed again, a raw edge to the sound. �And the great jest of it is, I find that being forced to continue living, I have no desire to cease. I am afraid of dying, Blaise.�

He looked away. �You, who have sent so many to their death?�

�Not so many.� She considered his profile, stern and spare. �Beshtanag was left in peace, mostly. The Regents were afraid of Calandor. Do you think me a monster?�

�I don�t know.� Blaise shook his head. �As you say, I have met you, Sorceress. I do not know you. And of a surety, we are agreed: I do not understand you.� He rode for a time without speaking, then asked, �What was he like?�

�Calandor?� Her voice was wistful.

�No.� He glanced at her. �Ushahin.�

�Ah.� Lilias gave her bitter smile, watching her mount�s ears bob and twitch. �So you would pick over my thoughts like a pile of bones, gleaning for scraps of knowledge.�

He ignored her comment. �Is it true it is madness to meet his gaze?�

�No.� Lilias thought about her meeting on the balcony, the Soumani� heavy on her brow, and her desire to Shape the Dreamer into wholeness, taking away his bone-deep pain. And she remembered how he had looked at her, and her darkest fears had been reflected in his mismatched eyes. Everything he had seen had come to pass. Another hysterical laugh threatened her. �Yes, perhaps. Perhaps it is, after all.�

Blaise watched her. �Have you met others of the Three?�

�The Warrior.� Seeing him look blank, she clarified, �Tanaros Kingslayer. Your kinsman, Borderguardsman.�

�And?� His jaw was set hard.

�What do you wish me to say, my lord?� Lilias studied him. �He is a Man. Immortal, but a Man. No more, and no less. I think he gives his loyalty without reserve and takes betrayal hard.� Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fianna the Archer watching them with distaste and smiled. �And he does not understand women. You are much like him, Blaise Caveros.�

Blaise drew in a sharp breath to reply, wrenching unthinking at the reins. His mount arched its neck and sidled crabwise.

But before he could get the words out, the fabric of the world ripped.

A hot wind blew across the coastal road, setting the dust to swirling. Haomane�s Allies halted, their mounts freezing beneath them, prick-eared. Borderguardsmen shielded their eyes with their hands; Ellylon squinted. At the head of the column, Aracus Altorus lifted his chin.

A clap of lightning blinded the midday sun.

Out of the brightness, a figure emerged; the Gal�inridder, the Bright Rider, astride a horse that shone like seafoam in starlight. The horse�s broad chest emerged like the crest of a wave, churning onto the world�s shoals. The Rider�s robes were white and his white beard flowed onto his chest. Nestled amid it was a gem as clear as water, as bright as a diamond, so bright it hurt to behold it.

�Borderguard!� Aracus� voice rang as his sword cleared its sheath. �Surround him!�

They moved swiftly to obey, dun cloaks fluttering in the breeze as they encircled the shining Rider, who calmly drew rein and waited. Blaise nodded at Fianna as he moved to join them, entrusting Lilias to her care. At a gesture from Lorenlasse, the Rivenlost archers strung their bows, moving to reinforce the Borderguard.

�How is this, Aracus?� The Rider smiled into his beard. �Am I so changed that you do not know me?�

�I pray that I do.� Aracus nudged his mount�s flanks, bringing him within striking range. His voice was steady, the point of his blade leveled at the Rider. �And I fear that I do not. Are you Malthus, or some trick of the Sunderer?�

The Rider opened his arms. �I am as you see me.�

Sunlight dazzled on the clear gem. Lilias flinched. On her right, Fianna unslung Oronin�s Bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at Lilias� heart.

No one else moved.

Aracus Altorus broke into an unexpected grin. �That�s a wizard�s answer if ever I�ve heard one.� He sheathed his sword, leaning forward to extend his hand. �Welcome back, my lord Counselor! We feared you dead.�

�Ah, land.� Malthus� eyes crinkled as he clasped Aracus� hand. �I�m harder to kill than that.�

The Borderguard gave a cheer, unbidden. There was no cheering among the Rivenlost, but they lowered their bows, returning arrows to their quivers. Turning her head, Lilias saw that Fianna kept an arrow loosely nocked, aimed in her direction. There was lingering distrust in her gaze.

�How?� Aracus asked simply.

�It took many long days,� Malthus said, �for I spent my strength in maintaining the spell of concealment that hides the Bearer from the Sunderer�s eyes. What strength remained to me, I lost in my battle with his Kingslayer. When the Sunderer destroyed the Marasoumi�, I was trapped within it, scarce knowing who I was, let alone where. And yet, in the end, I won free.� He touched the white gem on his breast, his face somber. �I fear the cost was high, my friends. As I am changed, so is the Soumani�. It is a bright light in a dark place, one that may illuminate Men�s souls, but no longer does it possess the power to Shape.�

A murmur of concern ran through the ranks of Haomane�s Allies.

�Is that all?� Aracus Altorus laughed, and removed the gold fillet from his head. A gladness was in his manner for the first time since Cerelinde had been taken from him. �Here,� he said, offering it. �The spoils of Beshtanag. It�s useless to me. I�d thought to ask you teach me how to wield it, but it�s better off in your hands, Malthus. I�m a warrior, not a wizard.�

Toward the rear of the company, Lilias made a choked sound.

�Ah, lad.� Malthus gazed at the fillet in Aracus� palm, the gold bright in the sunlight, the Soumani� dull and lifeless. �Truly,� he murmured, �you have the heart of a king. Would that the gem could be given as easily. No.� He shook his head. �It is not truly yours to give, Aracus. The Soumanid must be inherited from the dead or surrendered freely by a living owner. Until that happens, I can wield it no more than you.�

Aracus frowned. �Then��

�No one can wield it.� Malthus lifted his head, and his gaze was filled with a terrible pity. With one gnarled forefinger, he pointed at Lilias, who sat motionless, conscious of the Archer�s arrow pointed at her heart. �Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.�

The valley in which the Rivenlost haven of Meronil lay was a green cleft shrouded in mist. By all appearances, it filled the valley to the brim, moving in gentle eddies, sunshot and lovely, a veil of rainbow droplets.

Lilias caught her breath at the sight of it.

Blaise Caveros glanced at her. �I felt the same when I first saw it.�

She made no reply, watching as Aracus Altorus and Malthus the Counselor rode to the valley�s edge, peering into the mists. There, they conferred. Aracus inclined his head, the Soumani� dull on his brow. Mist dampened his red-gold hair, making it curl into ringlets at the nape of his neck.

He needs a haircut, Lilias thought.

Aracus didn�t look at her. She wished that he would, but he hadn�t. Not since the day the Counselor had appeared before them, pointing his gnarled finger at her, and spoken those fateful words.

Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.

It was Aracus Altorus who had placed his hand on the Counselor�s forearm, lowering his pointing finger. It was Aracus who had raised his voice in a fierce shout, bidding Fianna the Archer to lower her bow. And it was Aracus who had brought his mount alongside hers, fixing her with his wide-set gaze. All the words that had passed between them were in that gaze. He was not a bad man, nor a cruel one. He had extended trust to her, and mercy, too.

�Will you not release your claim upon it, Lilias?� he had asked her simply.

In the back of her mind there arose the image of Calandor as she had seen him last; a vast mound of grey stone, the crumpled shape of one broken wing pinned beneath him, the sinuous neck stretched out in death. To join him in death was one thing; to relinquish the Soumani� willingly? It would be a betrayal of that memory. While she lived, she could not do it. Tears had filled her eyes as she shook her head. �I cannot,� she whispered. �You should have let me die when you had the chance.�

Aracus had turned away from her then, giving a curt order to Blaise to ensure her safety. There had been dissent�not from Blaise, but among the others, and the Archer foremost among them. Arguing voices had arisen, calling for her death. In the end, Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West, had shouted them down.

�I will not become like our Enemy!�

Throughout it all, Malthus the Counselor had said nothing; only listened and watched. A horrible compassion was in his gaze, and Lilias flinched when it touched her. It had done so all too much since he had rejoined them. She wished he would turn his gaze elsewhere.

Now, on the edge of the valley, Malthus turned in the saddle, beckoning to the commander of the Rivenlost, Lorenlasse of the Valmar�. The clear gem at Malthus� breast flashed as he did so, making the mist that filled the valley sparkle.

Lorenlasse rode forward, placing the mouthpiece of a silver horn to his lips.

A single call issued forth, silvery and unsubstantial.

For a moment, nothing happened; then an echoing call arose from the valley�s depths, and the mists parted like a veil, revealing that the paved road continued onward in descent Below them lay the cleft green valley, divided by a gleaming river that widened as it flowed toward the sea harbor, spanned by an intricate series of bridges that joined fanciful towers spiring on either side. It was white, white as a gull�s wing. White walls curved to surround both hemispheres, and the city itself was wrought of white marble, structures more delicate than Men�s arts could compass.

Through it all ran the Aven River, toward the silvery sea. Sunlight gilded its surface, broken into arrowing ripples by the low, elegant boats being poled here and there. And on an island in the center of the river stood the Hall of Ingolin the Wise, his pennant flying from the highest tower, depicting the argent scroll of knowledge on a field of sage green. A trio of white-headed sea eagles circled the spire in a lazy gyre, borne aloft on broad wings.

�Meronil.� There was deep satisfaction in Blaise�s voice. �Have you ever seen anything so lovely?�

Lilias remembered Calandor alive and the majesty of his presence. How he had looked perched on the cliff�s edge; sunlight glittering on his bronze scales, the glint of his green-gilt eyes, filled with knowledge. Love. A trickle of smoke, twin plumes arising in the clear air. The moment when he launched his mighty form into flight, the gold vanes of his outspread pinions defying the void below. So impossible; so beautiful.

�Perhaps,� she murmured.

In the valley below, a company of Ellylon warriors emerged from the eastern gate, riding forth to meet them. They wore Ingolin�s livery over their armor, sage-green tunics with his argent scroll on the breast. Their horses were caparisoned in sage and silver, and their hooves beat a rhythmic tattoo on the paving stones as they drew near.

The leader inclined his head. �Lord Aracus, Lorenlasse of Valmar�,� he said, then inclined his head toward Malthus. �Wise Counselor. Be welcome to Meronil. My Lord Ingolin awaits you.�

With a gesture, he turned his mount and his men fell into two lines, flanking their guests to form an escort. With Aracus, Lorenlasse, and Malthus at the head, the company began the descent.

Lilias found herself in the middle of the column; behind the Rivenlost, but at the forefront of the Borderguard of Curonan. She twisted in the saddle to look behind her, and Blaise, ever mindful, leaned over to claim her mount�s reins. Riding at her immediate rear, Fianna the Archer gazed at her with smoldering distrust. Lilias ignored her, watching what transpired. As the last Borderguardsman cleared the lip of the valley, the pearly mist arose. Dense as a shroud, it closed behind the last man. Once again, the green valley was curtained; and yet, overhead the sky was clear and blue, the sun shining upon Meronil.

There was magic at work here she did not understand; Ellylon magic. What was true Shaping, and what was illusion? She could not tell, only that she was captive within its borders. Lilias shuddered. Without thinking, she lifted one hand to feel her brow, keenly aware of the Soumani�s absence.

�Are you well, Sorceress?� Blaise asked without looking at her.

�Well enough.� Lilias dropped her hand. �Lead on.�

They completed their descent. There was fanfare at the gate. Lorenlasse blew his silvery horn; other horns sounded in answer. The leader of their escort spoke courteously to the Gate�s Keeper; the Gate�s Keeper replied. Rivenlost guards stood with unreadable faces, crossing their spears. Aracus sat his mount with his jaw set and a hard expression in his eyes. The Gate�s Keeper inclined his head. Malthus the Counselor smiled into his beard, fingering the bright gem at his breast. Fianna the Archer scowled, trying hard not to look overwhelmed by Ellylon splendor. Blaise conferred with his second-in-command, delegating. The bulk of the Borderguard withdrew to make camp in the green fields outside Meronil�s eastern gate.

All of it gave Lilias a headache.

The Gate�s Keeper spoke a word, and there was a faint scintillation in the air. The gate opened. They rode through, and the gate closed behind them.

They had entered Meronil.

The Rivenlost had turned out to see them. They were Ellylon; they did not gape. But they stood along their route�on balconies, in doorways, upright in shallow boats�and watched. Male and female, clad in elegant garb, they watched. Some raised their hands in silent salute; others made no gesture. Their age was unknowable. They were tall and fair, with grave eyes and a terrible light in their faces, a terrible grief in their hearts. Their silence carried a weight.

There should have been music playing.

Meronil was a city made for music, a symphony in architecture, its soaring towers and arching bridges echoing one another, carrying on a dialogue across the murmuring undertone of the Aven River.

Instead, there was only mourning silence.

In the city, Lorenlasse of the Valmar� dismissed his company. They parted ways, returning to their homes; to regroup, to await new orders. Lorenlasse bowed low to Aracus Altorus before he took his leave, promising to see him anon. Was there mockery in his bow? Lilias could not say.

Then, they were few. Haomane�s Allies; Malthus� Company. There was Aracus and Malthus, and Blaise and Fianna, keeping watch over Lilias. Among the Ellylon, only Peldras accompanied them. Ingolin�s escort led them across a wide bridge toward the island, while the River Aven flowed tranquilly below and the denizens of Meronil watched. No longer hidden amid a large party, Lilias shrank under their regard, feeling herself small and filthy beneath it, aware of the stain of her own mortality.

She imagined their disdain.

So this is the Sorceress of the East?

She reclaimed her reins from Blaise and concentrated on holding them, fixing her gaze upon her own reddened, chapped knuckles. It was better to meet no one�s eyes. The Bridge�s Keeper granted them passage. The company alighted on the island. When the doors to the Hall of Ingolin were thrown wide open, Lilias kept her gaze lowered. She dismounted at Blaise�s quiet order and bore out the exchange of courtesies, the embraces given and returned, with little heed. None of it mattered. She wished she were anywhere in the world but this too-fair city.

�Sorceress.�

A voice, a single voice, speaking the common tongue, infused with deep music and bottomless wisdom, a host of magic at its command. It jerked her head upright. Lilias met the eyes of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost.

He was old; so old, though it was not in his features, no. Or if it was, it was not in such a way that mortal Men understood. It was true, his hair was silver-white, falling like a shining river past his shoulders. Still, his shoulders were broad, and his features unlined. Time�s footprints did not touch the Ellylon as they did the rest of the Lesser Shapers. But his eyes � ah!

Fathomless and grey, eyes that had seen the world Sundered.

They met hers, measured and knew her. They saw the hopeless tangle of grief and envy knotted in her heart. Ingolin was not called the Wise for nothing. He bent his head a fraction in acknowledgment of the status she had once held. �Lilias of Beshtanag. We welcome you to Meronil as our guest.�

Others watched her; Aracus, with the dead Soumani� on his brow, filled with longing. Fianna, seething with resentment. Malthus and the Ellyl Peldras, both with that awful compassion. And Blaise; what of Blaise? He sat his mount quietly, scarred hands holding the reins, avoiding her eyes.

Lilias drew a deep breath. �You put a pleasant face upon my captivity, Lord Ingolin.�

�Yes.� Ingolin offered the word simply. �You know who you are, Sorceress; what you have been, what you have done. You know who we are and what we seek.� He indicated the open door. �You will be granted hospitality within these walls; and sanctuary, too. Of that, I assure you. No more, and no less.�

Lilias� head ached. There was too much light in this place, too much whiteness. She rubbed at her temples with fumbling fingers. �I don�t want it.�

There was no pity in his face, in the eyes that had beheld the Sundering of the world. �Nonetheless, you shall have it.�

It felt good to hunt with the Kaldjager.

Skragdal had shed his armor for the hunt; set aside his shield, unbuckled the leather straps to remove the unwieldy carapace of steel, laid down his battle-axe and his mace. Without them, he felt light as a pup, almost giddy with lightness.

Beyond the western outskirts of Drybone Reach, where the smallfolk had fled, ash trees grew and the White River tumbled from the heights in measured stages. Water gathered in foaming pools, a shining ribbon spilling over a worn granite lip only to gather and spill onward, lower and lower. In this fashion did it make its way to the field of Neherinach, several leagues hence.

It was beside one such pool that Skragdal crouched amid the roots of a tall ash, his talons digging into the rich loam. He was glad he had chosen to dally here. A cool breeze played over his exposed hide. He widened his nostrils, inhaling deeply.

There.

The odor of blood, living blood. A beating heart and the rank odor of fear, the distinctive scent of lanolin. He felt a keen hunter�s smile stretch his mouth. Late summer, when the young males among the mountain sheep vied for precedence and territory, staking their claim for the winter to come.

The Kaldjager were driving one his way.

Lifting his head, he saw it. A ram, descending in bounds. Its coat was shaggy and greyish-white. A pair of ridged horns rose from its brow in looping, massive curves, as thick as a Tungskulder�s forearm.

It saw him and froze.

And there were the Kaldjager, emerging from their pursuit, one on either side. They moved quickly and efficiently, sealing off the young ram�s avenue of retreat. One of them saw Skragdal as he rose from his crouch, stepping from beneath the shadow of the ash tree. Even at a distance, his yellow eyes glinted. He hunched his shoulders, opening one hand in an overt gesture. Tungskulder, the prey is yours.

Skragdal spread his arms gladly. They felt so light without armor.

Beside the pool, the ram halted, setting its forelegs and planting its cloven hooves. It was breathing hard. It lowered its head, the heavy, curling horns tilting as it glanced behind it to either side, catching sight of the grinning Kaldjager.

There was no way out.

Skragdal lowered his head and roared.

Everything else went away when the ram charged. It came hard and fast, its scent filling his nostrils. At the last moment, it rose upon its hind legs. For an instant, the ram�s head was silhouetted against the sky. He took in its amber-brown eyes, filled with determined fury of the will-to-survive, its narrow, triangular nostrils and oddly Man-like mouth set in a slender muzzle, the heavy, ridged spirals of its horns. It was for these moments that Fjel lived in the wild.

The ram descended.

Skragdal met it head-on; head to head, brow to brow. It made a clap like thunder breaking. The shock of it reverberated through the thick ledge of bone protecting his brow, through his whole body. His shoulders sang with echoing might. Digging his taloned feet into the loam, he reached out with both arms, filling his hands with lanolin greasy wool.

They grappled, swaying.

And then the ram�s legs trembled. Its amber-brown eyes were dazed. With another surge of strength, Skragdal roared and wrenched sideways, breaking its neck. He swiped at the ram�s throat as he flung it to the ground. Red furrows gaped in the wake of his talons. The ram lay without moving, blood seeping slowly over the rocks without a beating heart to pump it.

Truly, Neheris had Shaped her Children well.

Skragdal grinned as the wild Kaldjager approached. �My thanks, brethren. That is how the Tungskulder hunt,� he said to them. �What do the Kaldjager say?�

They eyed his kill with respect. �We say it is well done, Skragdal of Darkhaven,� one of them said. �Our clan will feast well tonight; aye, and your lads, too. As for the rest?� He nodded to the east. �One comes. One of yours.�

Skragdal straightened, feeling the tug of absent armor on his shoulders where the straps had worn his hide smooth and shiny. It was Blagen, coming at a trot, his arms and armor jangling, a half-empty waterskin sloshing at his belt. He was unaccompanied.

�Boss,� Bl�gen said briefly, saluting as General Tanaros had taught them.

Everything that had gone away came crashing back. He was not free from the constraints of command. Skragdal sighed and pulled at the pointed lobe of one ear, willing the act to stimulate words, thoughts. �Where are they?�

�We lost their trail in Drybone Reach.�

Skragdal stared at him. �How?�

Bl�gen shrugged, glancing sidelong at the dead ram. �It is a large area. They are Arahila�s Children, cunning enough to hide and let us pass. Ulrig and Ruric have gone back to begin at the beginning. We will find them.� He glanced then at the other Kaldjager and showed the tips of his eyetusks. �We could use the aid of our brethren if they are willing to undertake a different kind of hunt.�

The wild Kaldjager exchanged slow smiles.

Skragdal considered them. �How many of you?�

�Twelve,� one replied. He nodded at Bl�gen�s waterskin. �If we had those. Twelve and your three would be enough to sweep the Reach. Your smallfolk could not hide.� He pointed at the dead ram. �You see how we herd our prey.�

Others from Skragdal�s company began to arrive, straggling; Gulnagel, N�ltannen, the strapping young Tungskulder Thorun. Not taking part in the hunt, they had retained their arms, and their gear rattled and sloshed about them. Skragdal suppressed another sigh. He had hoped it would have ended sooner, more simply, but was not to be. He squinted at the sun, which seemed so bright after the Vale of Gorgantum. Although he misliked entrusting the task to Fjel he had not seen trained himself, too much time had passed to equivocate.

Anyway, old Mulprek was right. There were no better hunters than the Kaldjager. Although they were not as swift as the Gulnagel nor as strong as the Tungskulder, they were swifter and stronger than any of the other tribes. Kaldjager were strange and solitary for Fjel, living in roaming clans instead of proper dens, but they were unflagging in the chase, and utterly ruthless. Not even General Tanaros could improve upon their skills. If the Cold Hunters could not do it, it could not be done.

�All right, then.� Stooping, Skragdal picked up the ram�s corpse and slung it over his shoulder. Its head lolled, blood gathering to fall in slow drops from its gashed throat. It had seemed like a gift, this fine, clean kill, and now it was spoiled. Feeling obscurely cheated, he glared at the other Fjel. �Why is it so hard to kill these smallfolk?�

For a long moment, no one answered.

�Don�t worry, boss.� Bl�gen broke the silence with the fearless insouciance of the Cold Hunters. �We�ll find them.�

�You had better,� Skragdal said grimly. �It is the only thing his Lordship has asked of us.� He held Bl�gen�s gaze until the Kaldjager blinked. �Back to the clan�s gatheringplace,� he said. �We will share out our gear there.�

�Then we hunt?�

�Yes.� Skragdal grunted, shifting the ram�s corpse on his shoulder. �And we go to Neherinach to lay a trap.�

From his perch high atop a pine tree, Dani saw the Fjel.

It was the fourth time that day he had clambered up the tree, using it as a vantage point to survey the barren reach. Each time, he whispered a prayer to Uru-Alat, praying to find the landscape empty as it had been the day before, and the day before it.

On the third day, his luck ran out.

Although it was hard to tell from so far away, they appeared to be the same kind he had seen before�lean and predatory, with smooth, grey hides that were blended into the rocky terrain. If he hadn�t been keen-sighted, he might have missed them. But, no, there it was again�a steely flash in the distance, the northern sunlight glinting on armor plate. Clinging to the pine�s trunk with his good right arm, he stared intently at the direction of the Fjel. There were more of them this time, though only one wore armor. Save for the waterskins strapped over their torsos, the rest were unadorned.

They were traveling in a pack and they were traveling swiftly. For a moment, Dani watched, mesmerized by their steady, tireless lope. Even at a distance, an awful grace was in it.

Then fear returned in a rush, the sour taste of it in his mouth. Using both feet and the one hand, Dani descended the pine tree in awkward haste, heedless of the prickling needles and rough bark, and hurried into the hidden cave.

�Fjeltroll?� Uncle Thulu�s voice was faint and thready.

�Aye.� He met his uncle�s feverish gaze. �A dozen at least.�

�Did they see you?�

�No.� Dani shook his head. �They�re pretty far south of us and moving fast, all in a pack. It doesn�t even look like they�re hunting. I think they�ll miss us,� he added hopefully. �Maybe they�re not even looking.�

�No.� Uncle Thulu coughed weakly and wheezed, one hand scrabbling at his chest. In the dim light, his shirt was stained dark with seeping fluids. Despite Dani�s best efforts to clean and tend them, his wounds continued to fester. Yesterday, they had begun to slough dead flesh and the small space stank of it. �Help me sit.�

With alacrity, Dani eased him into a sitting position, propped against the cavern wall. �Better?�

�Aye,� Uncle Thulu whispered, licking his dry, cracked lips.

�Here.� Moving deftly and quietly, Dani made his way to the mouth of the cave. There, in a shallow depression to one side, was a cache of moss he had gathered. It had sustained them during the past three days. Grasping a smooth stone, he ground the spongy moss into a damp paste. Scooping up a handful, he returned to squat beside his uncle. With gentle care, he spread the paste on the elder Yarru�s parched lips. �Try to eat.�

Uncle Thulu�s mouth worked with difficulty, his sluggish tongue taking in the moss paste. Blinking back tears, Dani spread another fingerful on his lips. There was moisture in it, not much, but enough to live on. It was the only thing he had been able to find within half a day�s journey of their hiding place. And if he had not seen a single lost elk grazing on it, he might never have thought to try the moss. It was all that had kept his uncle alive.

And barely, at that.

�Enough.� Uncle Thulu grasped Dani�s wrist with urgent strength and drew in a deep, rattling breath. �Dani, listen to me.�

�Yes, Uncle.� His chest ached with fear and love.

�They�re starting over. That�s why they�re moving in a hurry. They�re going back to pick up our trail from the beginning. And if they�ve added to their numbers, they�re not going to miss us this time.� Thulu�s eyes were overbright in his wasted face. �Dani, you have to go. Now.�

�I won�t.� He refused to hear what Thulu was saying. �Not without you.�

His uncle said it anyway. �I�m dying, Dani.�

�What if we went back?� The thought struck him like an offer of salvation. �We could wait for them to pass, then head south! They wouldn�t hunt for us once we passed out of Fjel territory, and the Staccians � well, they�re just Men, we can hide from Men, Uncle! And get you home, where��

�Dani.� Uncle Thulu�s grip tightened on his wrist. �I�m not going anywhere,� he said gently. �Do you understand? This is where the journey ends for me. I�m sorry, lad. You�ve got to go on without me.�

�No!� Pulling away, Dani clutched the clay vial around his neck. �For what?� he asked angrily. �For this? It�s not worth it! It�s not fair, uncle!� He yanked at the vial with all his strength. For a moment, the braided cord on which it was strung burned the skin of his neck; then it parted with a faint snap. Dani held the vial in one hand. Hot tears burned his eyes, and his voice trembled. �I didn�t ask to be the Bearer! What�s Satoris ever done to the Yarru-yami, anyway, that we should seek to destroy him? It�s not his fault Haomane�s Wrath scorched the desert, he was just trying to hide from it! And if he hadn�t � if he hadn�t, we wouldn�t have found the Water of Life! We wouldn�t be the keepers of Birru-Uru-Alat. We wouldn�t even be what we are!�

The ghost of a smile moved Thulu�s cracked lips. �These are fitting questions for the Bearer to ask,� he whispered. �But you will have to answer them alone.�

Dani unclenched his hand, staring at the vial. It lay on the starry, radiating lines of his grimy palm; a simple object, fragile and crude. Clay, gathered from a scant deposit at one of the Stone Grove�s water-holes, fired with baari-wood and dung in a pit dug into the desert�s floor.

Inside it was the Water of Life, water he had drawn from the Well of the World and dipped from the bucket, holding it in his cupped palms as old Ngurra had told him to do, filling the vial with care. The lifeblood of Uru-Alat, the World God; the secret the Yarru-yami held in trust. A gift only the Bearer could draw; a burden only the Bearer could carry. A choice in the making.

In the apple orchards of Malumdoorn, while the sun slanted through the trees and the Dwarfs stood watching, a single drop had caused a dead stick to burst into green life; planting roots, sprouting leaves and blossoms.

A dawning certainty grew in him. For the first time, Dani saw clearly the divided path before him and understood that the choice between them was his, and his alone, to make. Not for the sake of Malthus, whose impassioned words had swayed him; not for the sake of Carfax, who had given his life to save him. Not even for his uncle, who would gainsay it. The choice was his, and his alone. This, and not the Water itself, was the Bearer�s true burden.

Dani lifted his head. �No, Uncle. Not just yet.�

�Ah, lad!� There was alarm in Thulu�s weak voice. �The Water of Life is too precious to waste��

�Am I the Bearer?� Dani interrupted him. �You keep telling me it is my right to choose, Uncle, and yet you give me no guidance, no hint as to which choice is right. Well, I am choosing.� With one thumbnail, he pried at the tight cork, working it loose. The faint scent of water, life giving and mineral-rich, trickled into the small cavern. With his heart hammering in hope and fear, Dani bent over his uncle and smoothed his brow, putting the vial close to his lips. �I choose for you to live.�

Uncle Thulu exhaled one last, long, rattling breath and closed his eyes in surrender. �May it be as Uru-Alat wills,� he whispered.

At close range, the stench of his suppurating wounds vied for dominance with the odor of water. Dani ignored it, concentrating on tilting the flask. Under his breath, he chanted the Song of Being, the story of Uru-Alat and how the World God died to give birth to the world. It was an act of prayer; a Yarru prayer, the oldest prayer, a story learned and told in the deep places of the earth, where the veins of life pulsed and the Yarru had hidden from Haomane�s Wrath. It was an old story; older than the Shapers. It was as old as dragons, who were born in the deep places from the bones of Uru-Alat and carried a spark of marrow-fire in their bellies.

A single drop gathered on the clay lip of the vessel. It gathered and swelled; rounding, bottom-heavy. It shone like a translucent pearl, glimmering in the shadowy cavern, reflecting all the light in the world.

Beneath it were his uncle�s parted lips. Dark flesh, fissured and cracked, smeared with moss-paste. The tip of his tongue, a pink supplicant lying quiescent on the floor of his thirsting mouth.

Dani tilted the vial.

One drop; two, three!

They fell like stars through the dark air into the mortal void of Uncle Thulu�s waiting mouth. And, oh, Uru-Alat! A sweet odor burst forth as they fell, redoubled in strength; a scent like a chime, like the sharp clap of a pair of hands.

It happened almost too quickly for sight to follow. Uncle Thulu�s eyes sprang open, wide and amazed. His chest heaved as he drew in a great, whooping gasp of air. Dani cried aloud in astonishment, scrambling backward and nearly spilling the Water of Life. He shoved the cork into the clay flask, then shoved his knuckles into his mouth, fearful that his outcry would draw the Fjeltroll.

�Ah, Dani, lad!� Uncle Thulu sat upright. The brightness in his eyes owed nothing to fever�it was the brightness of sunlight on clear waters, a promise of life and health. �If this is folly, what a glorious folly it is!� He grinned, showing strong white teeth, and yanked his shirt aside to expose his chest. �Tell me what you see!�

Beneath the foul-crusted wool, Thulu�s skin was smooth and dark, gleaming with health. In the dim light, Dani could barely make out three faint lines, pale threads like long-healed scars. He sighed with relief. �They�re well and truly healed, aren�t they?�

�More than healed!� His uncle�s voice reverberated joyously from the cavern walls. �Ah, lad! I�ve never felt better in my life! Why, I could��

�Shhh!� Dani laid one hand over Thulu�s lips. �The Fjeltroll.�

�Right.� His uncle nodded. �Aye, of course.�

�I�ll go look.� Without waiting for Thulu to argue, Dani turned to wriggle out of the cavern�s narrow opening. With the vial in one hand and the dirty sling still tied around his left arm, it was awkward going. He inched beneath the concealing pine branches and into the open, crawling on his belly until he had a clear view.

There, to the southeast, a moving smudge on the landscape; a dull glint of steel. He didn�t even need to climb the tree to spot them. The Fjel had already passed them. They were moving fast � and they would be returning fast, too.

�Have they gone?�

Dani winced at the sound of his uncle�s voice. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Thulu standing in front of the cave. �Aye, barely. Uncle, get down, please!�

�Sorry, lad.� Thulu drew a shuddering breath and dropped to a squat. In the open light of day, he looked even more hale�unnervingly hale. The muscles in his sturdy thighs bunched and twitched with vigor. �It�s just � I don�t know if I can explain, but it�s like a fire in my veins, Dani. I can�t hold still.� He rubbed his face with both hands. �Just as well, isn�t it? We�ve no time to waste.�

�You�ll have to sit for a minute.� Dani sat in a hunched pose and concentrated on splicing the broken thukka-vine thong on which the vial was strung, braiding the strong fibers. �VVe�re not going anywhere until those Fjeltroll are long out of sight.�

�And where shall we go when we do, Bearer?� Despite it all, Uncle Thulu put the question to him gently, remembering the words Dani had spoken in fear and anger. �It seems, against the odds, that I am still here to guide you. Where is it you would go?�

Dani bowed his head, his coarse black hair hiding his expression. �Darkhaven,� he murmured. �We go to Darkhaven, Uncle.�

�You�re sure?�

�Aye.� He stroked the pit-fired clay vessel with one fingertip. �I made a choice, Uncle. I�m responsible for it now. And if there are questions the Bearer should ask �� He shrugged. �Perhaps I should ask them in Darkhaven.�

Uncle Thulu watched him. �It is Darkhaven�s agents who seek your life.�

�I know.� Dani tested the spliced thong�s strength and gauged that it would hold. Raising his good arm, he slipped the vial around his neck, feeling it nestle into place against his chest. �I have given them reason.�

�You know, lad.� Uncle Thulu nodded at Dani�s left arm, bound in its sling. �I know what I said before. But we�ve a long way to go, and Fjeltroll to outrun. Whatever questions you might ask, it�s not going to alter their orders; not here and now. A single drop from that flask��

�No.� Dani shook his head. Fear had passed from him; in its wake, he felt tired and resigned. �You were right, Uncle. It is too precious to waste. And how terrible might we become if the Bearer chose to use it thusly? No,� he said again. �It was my choice to use it to save your life. It is enough.� He glanced behind him, surveying the horizon. There was no glint of sunlight on steel; the moving smudge had gone. �Shall we go?�

�Aye, lad.� Uncle Thulu sprang to his feet, then paused. He fumbled at his chest with blunt fingertips, finding no wound, but only the pale ridges of long-healed scars. An expression of perplexity crossed his broad face. �What was I saying? It was a folly of some sort, I fear. Something has changed here, Dani, has it not? I should be dead, and yet I live. And you, you ��

�I am the Bearer,� Dani finished softly. For the first time, he had a glimmering of what the words meant, and it made him feel very, very alone. With an effort, he used his good arm as a lever, clambering upright. Once standing, he touched the clay vial at his throat, aware of his burden. �Will you be my guide, Uncle?�

�I will,� said his uncle. And he bowed, low. �Aye, lad, I will.�

Peering into the chasm, Speros gave a low whistle. The brilliant flicker of the marrow-fire far below cast a masklike shadow on his face. �That�s what this place is built on?�

�That�s it,� Tanaros said. �What do you think? Is there aught we can do?�

The Midlander glanced up at raw rock exposed on the ceiling, then back at the chasm, frowning. �It�s beyond my skills, Lord General. I can make a better job of patching it than Lord Vorax�s Staccians did, but it�s only a matter of time.�

�Where does the fault lie?�

Speros shrugged. �There�s no fault, not exactly. Only the heat of the marrow-fire is so intense, it�s causing the rock to crack. Do you feel it? There�s no forge in the world throws off that kind of heat. I�d wager it�s nearly hot enough to melt stone down there at the Source.�

Tanaros� brand itched beneath his doublet. He suppressed an urge to scratch it. �Aye, and so it has been for a thousand years and more. Why does it crack now?�

�I reckon it took that long to reach the breaking point.� Speros stamped on the stony floor. �This is hard rock, Lord General. Or it may be �� He hesitated. �Hyrgolf said there was a rain that fell while we were away, a rain like sulfur.�

�Aye,� Tanaros said quietly. �So I heard.�

�Well.� The Midlander gave another shrug. �Rain sinks into the earth. It may have weakened the stone itself.� He glanced at Tanaros. �Begging your pardon, Lord General, but why is it that Lord Satoris chose to erect Darkhaven above the marrow-fire?�

�Gorgantum, the Throat, the Pulse of Uru-Alat.� Tanaros favored him with a grim smile. �You have heard of the dagger Godslayer, have you not, Speros of Haimhault? The Shard of the Souma?�

�General Tanaros!� Speros sounded wounded. �What manner of ignorant fool do you take me for? I know the stories well.�

�I know what they say in the Midlands,� Tanaros said. �I am telling you that the legends are true, lad. It is Godslayer that wounded his Lordship. It is Godslayer, and Godslayer alone, that holds the power to destroy him. And it is that��he pointed into the flickering depths��which protects it.�

�From whom?� Speros gazed into the bright void.

�Anyone,� Tanaros said harshly. �Everyone. Godslayer hangs in the marrow-fire in the Chamber of the Font because his Lordship placed it there. And there, no mortal hand may touch it; no, nor immortal, either. Believe me, lad, for I know it well. Your flesh would be burned to the bone simply for making the attempt, and your bones would crumble ere they grasped its hilt. So would any flesh among the Lesser Shapers.�

�Even yours?� Speros asked curiously. �Being one of the Three and all?�

�Even mine,� Tanaros said. �Mine, aye; and Lord Vorax�s, and Ushahin Dreamspinner�s. Godslayer�s brand does not protect us from the marrow-fire.� His scar burned with new ferocity at the searing memory. �Even the Lady Cerelinde, lest you ask it. Not the Three, not the Rivenlost. Another Shaper, perhaps, or one of the Eldest, the dragons.� He shook his head. �Elsewise, no one.�

�Ah, well.� The Midlander tore his gaze away from the marrow-fire. �I can�t imagine anyone being fool enough to try. I wouldn�t, not if I had a hundred buckets of that cursed water.�

�The Water of Life.� Tanaros remembered the taste of the Water in his mouth; water, the essence of water, infusing him with vigor. If the Well of the World were before him now, he would dip his finger into it and sooth the burning tissue of his brand. �Did you taste it?�

�Are you mad?� Speros� eyes widened. �The cursed stuff nearly killed me. I wouldn�t put it in my mouth for love nor money!� He laughed. �I can�t imagine what those poor little Yarru folk think to do with it. Haomane�s Prophecy doesn�t exactly say how they�re to use it, does it?�

�No,� Tanaros murmured. �It doesn�t.�

�Well, then.� Speros shrugged. �If you ask me, Lord General, I think you worry too much. This is a problem, aye, but you see that?� He pointed to the ceiling. �By my gauge, there�s a good twenty fathoms of solid rock there. At this rate, it ought to hold until Aracus Altorus is old and grey. And by that time, Haomane�s Allies may as well call off the siege�and make no mistake, Lord General, Darkhaven can hold out that long, fortified as it is!�because now that I�ve seen her with my own two eyes, I don�t see the Lady Cerelinde taking some doddering old mortal relic into her bed, Prophecy or no. So then it�s too bad for them, try again in another generation or three, and meanwhile Lord Satoris can pluck Godslayer out of the marrow-fire and put this right. Do you see?�

Tanaros laughed. �Clear as day. My thanks, lad.�

�Aye, sir.� Speros grinned at him. �So what would you have me do here?�

�Seal the breach,� Tanaros said. �If it is all we can do, we will do it.�

�tell me again.�

The Shaper�s voice was deep and resonant, with no trace of anger or madness. It loosened something tight and knotted in Ushahin�s chest, even as the warmth of the Chamber of the Font eased his aching joints. The blue-white blaze of the Font made his head ache, but the pulse of Godslayer within it soothed him. Between the heat and the sweet, coppery odor of blood, the Chamber was almost as pleasant as the Delta. Ushahin sat in a high-backed chair, both crooked hands laced around one updrawn knee, and related all he had seen and knew.

Armies were making their way across the face of Urulat.

His ravens had scattered to the four corners and seen it. It would be better to recall them and summon the Ravensmirror, but they were yet too far afield. Still, Ushahin perceived their flickering thoughts. He could not render their multitude of impressions into a whole, but what glimpses they saw, he described for his Lord. Pelmarans, marching like ants in a double row. Vedasian knights riding astride, encased like beetles in steel carapaces. Arduan archers in leather caps, accorded a wary distance. Midlanders laying down their plows, taking up rusted swords.

A company of Rivenlost, bright and shining, emerging from the vale of Meronil. Behind them were the Borderguard of Curonan, grim-faced and dire. Above them flew two pennants; the Crown and Souma, and the gilt-eyed Sword of Altorus Farseer. And among the forefront rode Malthus the Counselor, who carried no staff, but a spear whose blade was a nimbus of light.

Lord Satoris heaved a mighty sigh. �So he has brought it forth. Ah, Malthus! I knew you had it hidden. Would that I dared pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire. I would not be loath to face you on the field of battle once more.�

Sitting in his chair, Ushahin watched the Shaper pace, a vast moving shadow in the flickering chamber. There was a question none of them had dared to ask, fearful of the answer. It had been on the tip of his tongue many times. And when all was said and done, the fears of Ushahin Dreamspinner, who had made a friend of madness, were not like those of other men. This time, he asked it. �Will it come to that, my Lord?�

�It will not.� The Shaper ceased to pace and went still. Shadows seethed in the corners of the chamber, thickening. Darkness settled like a mantle on Satoris, and his eyes shone from it like twin coals. �For if it came to that, Dreamspinner�if it became necessary that I must venture onto the field of battle myself�it would mean we had already lost. It is not the defense I intended, nor have spent these many years building. Do you understand?�

�Perhaps, my Lord,� Ushahin offered. �You have spent much of yourself.�

�Spent!� Lord Satoris gave a harsh laugh. �Spent, yes. I raised Darkhaven, I bound it beneath a shroud of clouds! I summoned my Three and bent the Chain of Being to encompass them! I bent my Brother�s weapon to my own will and tuned the Helm of Shadows to the pitch of my despair. I brought down the Marasoumi�! I am a Shaper, and such lies within my reach. It is not what I have spent willingly that I fear, Dreamspinner.�

The blue-white glare of the Font gleamed on the trickle of ichor that bled down the black column of the Shaper�s thigh. At his feet, a dark pool was beginning to accumulate, spreading like ink over the stone floor. How much of the Shaper�s power had his unhealing wound leached from him over the ages?

�My Lord.� Ushahin swallowed, the scent of blood thick in his throat. �I spoke to you of my time in the Delta. There is power there, in the place of your birth. Might you not find healing there?�

�Once, perhaps.� Satoris� voice was unexpectedly gentle. �Ah, Dream-spinner! If I had fled there when Haomane�s Wrath scorched me, instead of quenching my pain in the cool snows of the north � perhaps. But I did not. And now it is Calanthrag�s place, and not mine. The dragons have paid a terrible price for taking part in this battle between my brethren and I. I do not think the Eldest would welcome my return.�

�She�� Ushahin remembered the endless vastness behind the dragon�s gaze and fell silent. There were no words for it.

�You have seen.�

Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

�All things must be as they must,� the Shaper mused. �It is the one truth my Brother refuses to grasp, the one thought the Lord-of-Thought will not think. Perhaps it is easier, thus. Perhaps I should have spent less time speaking with dragons when the world was young, and more time among my own kind.�

�My Lord?� Ushahin found his voice. �All of Seven � each of your brethren, they Shaped Children after their own desires, yet you did not. Why is it so?�

Lord Satoris, Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, smiled and opened his arms. In his ravaged visage, beneath the red glare of his eyes and his wrathscorched form, there lay the bright shadow of what he had been when the world was young. Of what he had been when he had walked upon it and ventured into the deep places his brethren feared, and he had spoken with dragons and given his Gift to many. �Did I not?� he asked softly. �Hear me, Dreamspinner, and remember. All of you are my Children; all that live and walk upon the face of Urulat, thinking thoughts and wondering at them. Do you deny it?�

There was madness in it; and there was not. The madness of Shapers could not be measured by the standards of Men�no, nor Were, nor Ellylon, nor any of the Lesser Shapers. The foundations of Darkhaven shifted; the foundations of Darkhaven held. Which was true?

All things must be as they must.

Ushahin shuddered and glanced sideways, his gaze falling upon Godslayer. There it hung in the glittering Font, beating like a heart. A Shard of the Souma, its rough handle a knob of rock. It would fit a child�s hand, such a child as might raise it and bring it crashing down, heedless of what it crushed. Heedless of what it pierced. The pattern, the Great Story, was present in every pulse of light it emitted.

Let it come later than sooner.

Tears made his vision swim, spiked the lashes that framed his uneven eyes. �Ah, my Lord! No, never. I would not deny it.�

�Ushahin.� There was tenderness in the Shaper�s voice, a tenderness too awful to bear. �These events were set in motion long ago. Perhaps there was a better course I might have chosen; a wiser course. Perhaps if I had tempered my defiance with deference, my Elder Brother�s wrath would not have been so quick to rouse. But I cannot change the past; nor would it change the outcome if I could. My role was foreordained ere the death of Uru-Alat birthed the Seven Shapers, both its beginning and its ending�and though I grow weary, when that will come, not even Calanthrag the Eldest can say with surety. Thus, I play my role as best I might. I honor my debts. I must be what I am, as long as I may cling to it. And when I cannot, I will not. Do you understand?�

Ushahin nodded violently.

�That is well.� Satoris, moving without sound, had drawn near. For a moment, his hand rested on Ushahin�s brow. It was heavy, so heavy! And yet there was comfort in it. Comfort, and a kind of love. �You see too much, Dreamspinner.�

�I know,� he whispered.

�Tell me, then, what you see to the north.� The hand was withdrawn, the Shaper resumed his pacing. Where he had stood, the stones drank in his ichor and the dark pool vanished. Another portion of him had become part of Darkhaven. �Have your ravens found the Bearer? Have my Fjel dispatched him yet?�

�No.� Ushahin shook his head. �Many of your Fjel gather in Neherinach. That much, my ravens have seen. I suspect the hunt is afoot. More, I cannot say.� He hesitated. �There is another thing, my Lord.�

The red glare of the Shaper�s eyes turned his way. �Say it!�

�Staccians.� Ushahin cleared his throat. �Those we saw in the Ravensmirror, arming, those along the path the Gal�inridder forged � I have touched their dreams, and they make their way to the plains of Curonan, for it is the place toward which all the armies are bound. And yet the Staccians, they were the first to set out. By now they may have reached the outskirts.�

Lord Satoris laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. �Might they?�

�Aye.� Ushahin glanced involuntarily at the Helm of Shadows, sitting in its niche. Darkness filled its eyeholes like the promise of anguish. �I could learn more if you would give me leave to walk the plains��

�No.� Lord Satoris raised one hand. �No,� he repeated. �I do not need to know what lies in the hearts of these Men, who beheld the flight of Malthus the Counselor and his colorless Soumani�, that is so strange and altered. Still, I may use them as an example. Let Staccia see how I deal with oath-breakers, and Haomane�s Allies how I deal with those who would destroy me.� He smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. �Go, Dreamspinner, and send General Tanaros to me. Yes, and Lord Vorax, too.�

�As you will,� Ushahin murmured, rising.

�Dreamspinner?� The Shaper�s voice had altered; the unlikely gentleness had returned.

�My Lord?�

�Remember,� Lord Satoris said. �Whatever happens. All that you have learned. All that you have seen. It is all I ask.�

Ushahin nodded. �I will.�

The staccian traitors had established a tidy campsite on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan. One of the wide-ranging Gulnagel spotted it first in the late afternoon of their second day. Tanaros gave the order for the halt, lifting the visor of his helm and staring across the waving sea of grass. Shouts of alarm were borne on the wind, high and faint, as the Staccians caught sight of the attackers.

�Why do you delay?� Vorax drew alongside him. Through the slits in his visor, his face was flushed with betrayal and battle-rage. �Did you not hear what happened in Gerflod? I say we strike now, Blacksword, before they are ready!�

�No.� Tanaros thought of the news out of Gerflod; of Osric and his men slain out of hand. He weighed it against the memory of Ngurra, the Yarru Elder, unarmed beneath the shadow of his sword. �They are warriors. We will give them a warrior�s death.�

Vorax made a sound of disgust. �They are dogs and deserve to die like dogs.�

Tanaros looked hard at him. �Do you contest my command, cousin?�

�Not yet.� Vorax wheeled his mount, taking his place at the head of his Staccians. �Your word you�ll give me first strike!� he called.

�My word.� Tanaros nodded.

Here and there, figures ran among the hide tents, racing to don armor. The Staccians had staked their horses some distance from their campsite, strung in a long line that each might have ample room to graze. Tanaros frowned and wondered what they had been thinking. Had they supposed they would be safe here on the plains? Had they expected Malthus to be here waiting, offering his protection? Did they believe Darkhaven would not take the risk of striking against them?

If so, they had made a grave error in judgment.

Perhaps, he thought, they had had no choice at all. Malthus the Counselor had ridden past them like the wind, cutting a swath through Stacc�a; the Gal�inridder, risen from the ruined depths of the Marasoumi�, the Bright Rider with a gem on his breast that shone like a star. It no longer held the power to Shape matter; only spirit. Which was more terrible? Had they chosen to betray Lord Satoris and their old bargain? Or had they merely been caught in the net of Malthus� power, compelled to follow Haomane�s Weapon as the tides followed Arahila�s moon?

�Boss?� One of the Gulnagel interrupted his thoughts. �They�re in formation, Lord General, sir.�

Tanaros blinked. �Krolgun,� he said, remembering. Hyrgolf had assigned to this task all three of the Gulnagel who had accompanied him during their awful trek through the Unknown Desert. He laid a gauntleted hand on the Fjel�s bulky shoulder. �We�ll do this for Freg, eh?�

�Aye, boss!� Krolgun gave a hideous, delighted grin. �He�d like that, he would!�

�First strike to Lord Vorax and his lads,� Tanaros reminded him.

�Aye, Lord General!�

�And keep your shields up.�

�Aye, Lord General, sir!� There was a rattle along the ranks of the Gulnagel as their shields were adjusted. Some hundred and fifty yards away, the enemy had mounted, forming a dense wedge, bristling with spears. There were nearly two hundred of them, outnumbering Vorax�s company four to one. Even counting the forty Gulnagel, the treasonous Staccians held the advantage in numbers. Still, it was a mistake, Tanaros thought Numbers did not tell the whole tale. He had gauged this task�s needs with care. Better for them if they had formed a circle and made ready to fight back-to-back.

Then again, what did the Staccians know? They may have skirmished against unarmed Fjel in the wilds. They had never fought a unit of Fjel trained by him.

�Blacksword!� Vorax�s voice was impatient. He had his men in a wedge formation, too. Behind their visors they were grim-faced, ready to avenge the affront to their own loyalty. They, too, had lost comrades since the red star had risen. �Will you take all day, cousin?�

Hatred. Hatred was clean. It swept aside doubt. Tanaros thought about Osric of Staccia, dying in the Earl of Gerflod�s banquet hall, an unsuspecting guest. He thought about the Gulnagel Freg, carrying Speros� weight and staggering to his death in the desert. Malthus the Counselor had caused these things. If these Staccians wished to follow him, let them die for him. They were Arahila�s Children, and Haomane First-Born had given them the Gift of thought. Whether they used it or not, they had chosen.

His sword rang clear of its sheath as he gave the signal. �Go!�

Vorax roared, clapping his heels to his mount�s flanks. He was a formidable figure; sunlight glittered on his gilded armor. He, too, had long been kept idle. His men streamed after him, hair fluttering beneath steel helms. At a hundred yards, the Staccian leader gave the command. The plains of Curonan shuddered beneath pounding hooves as the two wedges surged toward one another.

�Traitors!� Lord Vorax�s bellow rose above the fray as the two forces collided. �Traitors!�

Tanaros watched as Vorax�s company plunged into the Staccian wedge, sowing chaos and turning the neatly ordered formation into a disordered melee. These were not men who had trained together on the drilling field, day after day. Riders milled across the plains, trying in vain to regroup and bring their short spears to bear on the enemy that had split their ranks. Vorax�s men thundered through them and past, swinging wide, their wedge still intact. The horses of Darkhaven held their heads high and contemptuous as Vorax brought his company around for a second assault.

�Let�s go, lads,� Tanaros said to his Fjel. �Go!�

With great, bounding strides and shields held high, the Gulnagel raced into battle. The long grass parted in their wake; some of them swung their axes like scythes, shearing grass out of an excess of high spirits as they ran. Twenty to one side, twenty to the other. The Staccian traitors turned outward in alarm, too late; Vorax and his men were back in their midst. And now there was no time to regroup. There was no guarding their backs, where spears and swords were waiting to thrust, finding the gaps in their armor. No guarding their fronts, where the Gulnagel wielded axe and cudgel, using their shields to parry, ducking with ease on their powerful thighs, bounding to strike from unexpected angles. They fought with concerted, trained efficiency. Their axes slashed at Staccian spears until they drooped like broken stems of grass, heavy-headed. Their cudgels dented steel with mighty blows.

Horses fell, shrieking beneath the onslaught. There were broken limbs, spouting arteries. Astride his black mount, Tanaros pounded into the fray, laying about him with his black sword. This battlefield, any battlefield, was his home. For a thousand years, he had been honing his skills. There was no blow he could not parry, no contingency he failed to anticipate. The blood sang in his veins and a clean wind of hatred scourged his heart. Where he struck, men died. His sword had been tempered in the blood of Lord Satoris, and it sheared through steel and flesh alike.

He wondered if Cerelinde knew. He wondered if she worried. The thought quelled his battle-ardor, leaving a weary perplexity in its wake.

�You.� Tanaros came upon the Staccian leader; unhorsed, dragging himself through the long grass, blood seeping under his armpit. He pointed with the tip of his sword. �Why?�

The man fumbled at his visor, baring a grimacing, bearded visage. �You are dead, Darkling!� he said, and spat bloody froth onto the plains. �So the Bright Paladin told us. Dead, and you don�t even know it!�

A sound split the air. The butt-end of a short spear blossomed from the Staccian�s chest. Its point, thrown with furious force, had pierced his breastplate. He stared unseeing at the sky.

Tanaros looked sidelong at Vorax.

�Not so dead as him,� Vorax said impassively. �Are we done here, cousin?�

�Aye.� Tanaros drew a deep breath and glanced around him. �Very nearly.�

They left no survivors. It went quickly, toward the end. A few of the Staccians threw down their arms and pleaded, begging to surrender. Tanaros left those to Vorax, who shook his head, steady and implacable. His Staccians slew them where they knelt, swinging their swords with a will and taking their vengeance with dour satisfaction. Lord Satoris� orders would be obeyed. Elsewhere, the axes of the Gulnagel rose and fell, severing spinal columns as easily as blades of grass. They had no difficulty in dispatching the wounded.

Riderless horses milled, whinnying.

�Let them be.� Tanaros raised one hand. �This day is no fault of theirs.�

�And the Men?� Vorax asked grimly.

�We leave them for Haomane�s Allies to find,� Tanaros said. �And leave a warning. It shall be as his Lordship willed.�

There had been no casualties in their company. A shrewd commander, Tanaros had planned wisely and well. There were wounded, and they were tended in the field. But the dead � it would fall to the wives and daughters of the Staccian traitors to number them. With the aid of the Fjel, they piled the dead, headless body upon headless body. It made a considerable heap, all told. Tanaros set Krolgun to ranging the plains until he found a chunk of granite that would serve as a marker. When it was set in place, Tanaros drew his dagger and used its point to scratch a message in the common tongue on the grey surface.

To Malthus the Counselor, who led these men into betrayal; mark well how they are served by your deeds. Do you assail Satoris the Sower, Third-Born among Shapers, expect no less.

In the day�s dying light, the scratched lines shone pale against the dull grey rock. Behind the stone lay the heaped dead.

�Is it well done?� Tanaros asked Vorax.

�It is.� The Staccian�s voice rumbled deep in his chest. His gilded armor, kindled to mellow brightness by the setting sun, was splashed with blood. He spared Tanaros a heavy glance. �Do you think it will dissuade them?�

Tanaros shook his head. �No,� he said gently. �I do not.�

�So be it.� Vorax gave a slight shrug, as if to adjust a weight upon his shoulders, then lifted his chin. His bearded profile was silhouetted against the dying sun. �Our task is finished!� he bellowed. �Let us leave this place!�

Tanaros, swinging into the saddle, did not gainsay him; he merely raised one hand to indicate his agreement, signifying to Men and Fjel alike to make ready to leave. There was time, still. The long, slanting rays of the setting sun would allow them leagues before they rested.

The plains of Curonan rang with thunder as they departed.

Behind them, the heaped dead kept their silence.

Tanaros checked the Vesdarlig Passage last. Of all the tunnels, it concerned him the most. There were others, farther south, that would be more accessible to Haomane�s Allies, but they were well-kept secrets. The Vesdarlig Passage was an old route, and the Staccians had known of it for many years. Once, that would not have worried him.

No longer.

Patient Gulnagel held torches aloft for him. He had sent Vorax and his Staccians home, keeping only the Fjel to aid him. This deep below the earth, the torches cast wide pools of light, flickeringly only slightly as the draft from the ventilation shafts stirred the dense air. Tanaros examined the pile of rocks and boulders that sealed the tunnel.

It appeared sound. There were boulders there that only a Fjel could move unaided. If he was certain of nothing else, he was certain of their loyalty. With the butt-end of a borrowed spear, he poked at the mound, wedging it in various crevices and shoving hard. A few pebbles skittered to the cavern floor, but he met nothing behind the rock save more rock.

�How deep is it piled?� he asked Krolgun.

The torchlight wavered at the answering shrug. �Fifty paces?� The Gulnagel grinned. �Real paces, boss, not smallfolk strides like yours.�

Tanaros smiled, gauging the distance in his head. It should be well over fifty yards; farther, if Krolgun meant a Gulnagel�s bounding stride. If Haomane�s Allies wanted to cart fifty yards� worth of stone out of the tunnels, they were welcome to try. Without Fjel aid, it would take weeks, perhaps months. He would enjoy sending out sorties to pick them off meanwhile.

�All right, lads. Let�s go home.�

Although he felt better for having inspected each of the blocked tunnels in person and Vesdarlig Passage most of all, it was a relief to emerge into open air. A cool wind blew across the plains, the tawny grass rippling in undulating waves. Haomane�s Allies were coming. This vast, open expanse would be filled with them. He didn�t like being unable to see across it, even with sentries posted. The Staccian traitors were no anomaly; they were the unwitting vanguard, the first skirmish in what promised to be a long war. He could not afford to be less than wary.

It was dangerous enough that his concentration had drifted in the skirmish.

Overhead, the sun was shining, moving to the west. The mountains ringing the Vale of Gorgantum cast a stark shadow on the plains. Tanaros skirted the shadow as they headed for Defile�s Maw, ranging unnecessarily wide. It was the last time he would see sunlight for a long, long time. After the Unknown Desert, it had been hard to imagine he�d ever miss it �and yet.

He remembered his first sight of it atop Beshtanag Mountain, gilding the peaks of the trees. After so long, it had gladdened his heart. He thought of Cerelinde, turning her face skyward, opening her arms. Even a glimpse of Haomane�s sun, dim and cloud-shrouded, had brought her joy.

�We are not so different, are we?� he said aloud.

�Boss?� Krolgun, loping alongside him, raised a quizzical face.

�Naught of import.� Tanaros shook his head. �I�m just � thinking. What difference is there, truly, between us and Haomane�s Allies, Krolgun? We breathe, we eat, we sleep. Would you have known one of Lord Vorax�s Staccians from the traitors if your eyes were sealed?�

�Sure, Lord General!� Krolgun flashed his eyetusks and tapped his snout with one wicked yellow talon. �So would you, if you were Fjel. Or Were. The Were can hunt blind, they say. I wouldn�t mind seeing that.�

Tanaros smiled ruefully. The Were would not be aiding them; not soon, maybe never. They had paid too dearly for it. �That�s not what I meant, lad.�

�Sorry, boss.� The Gulnagel shrugged. �I�m not one for thinking. Haomane�s Gift, you know. Ask Marshal Hyrgolf, he�s got the knack of it.� He laughed. �Making decisions and the like, all you made him into.�

�Made him?� Tanaros was startled.

�Aye, boss.� Krolgun glanced cheerfully at him. �Did you not mean to?�

�No,� Tanaros said slowly. �Or, yes, I suppose.� He frowned at his hands, going about their own capable business, maintaining a steady grip on the reins. They were still sun-dark from his sojourn in the desert, scars pale on his knuckles. �It�s just that I never thought of it thusly.�

�Ah, well.� Krolgun gave another shrug. �All the same in the end, isn�t it?�

�Perhaps.� Tanaros nodded. �Perhaps it is.�

Krolgun grinned. �There you are, then!�

Meara reached for the soup ladle.

�Not that one.� Thom, who cooked the soups, didn�t look up from the turnip he was chopping. �The Lady�s is in the small pot. Mind you don�t confuse them.�

Despite the sweltering heat of the kitchen, Meara shivered as though an icy finger had run the length of her spine. �What are you saying?� she whispered. �What are you doing, Thom?�

�What is best.� He worked the knife at blurring speed, thin, pale slices of turnip falling away from the blade.

�On whose orders?�

The knife went still then, and he did look at her. �By our lord�s will.�

He meant Ushahin, who was theirs. Who summoned them and gave them succor, who made a place for those who had no place. He had listened to the words she had spoken. There was a bitter taste in Meara�s mouth, and she was afraid to swallow. �He is one of the Three! He cannot gainsay his Lordship�s will!�

�No.� Thom regarded her, lank hair falling over his brow. �But we can do it for him.� He nodded at the door. �Hurry. Lord General Tanaros returns soon.�

She filled the tray in haste, ladling soup from the small pot into a clay crock. It was of Dwarfish make, simple and fine. The soup was a clear broth with sweet herbs. It steamed innocently until Meara placed the lid on the crock, sealing in its heat. She selected three pieces of white bread, wrapping them in a linen napkin, then hurried out of the kitchen.

In her haste, she almost ran into Lord Ushahin.

�Meara!� He steadied her. �Is your errand so urgent, child?�

�I don�t know, my lord.� She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes; the one with its pale, splintered iris, the other solid pupil. In its dilated blackness was that understanding beyond understanding of all the spaces between, all the lost souls who had been thrust into them and forgotten. It was beautiful to her, and comforting. �Is it?�

He saw the tray then and understood that, too. Ushahin Dreamspinner shook his head gently, releasing her. �Do not speak to me of what you carry, Meara. Whatever it is, I may not know it for certain.�

�I�m � I�m not certain, my lord. But whatever it is, is it worth �� She swallowed, tasting the bitter taste. �Defying his Lordship?�

�Out of loyalty, yes.� A somber expression settled over his uneven features. �Do not fear. Whatever you do, I will protect you. Betimes it falls to madness to preserve sanity, child. Too many things have transpired, and now, in Neherinach, something further. An entire company of Fjel is missing.� He shook his head once more, frowning into the unseen distance. �I sent my ravens too far afield, seeking the Bearer, and there were none that saw. It was an error. Yet there are too few of them for all of Haomane�s Allies afoot, and the Bearer�s pace swifter than I reckoned. How was I to know?�

�My lord?� Meara was confused.

�Never mind.� Lord Ushahin smiled at her. �Serve the Lady her supper, Meara.�

The halls had never seemed so long. She would have taken the secret ways, but General Tanaros had barred from within the entrances that led into the Lady�s chambers. He was wary of her safety. Meara�s rapid footfalls echoed, setting off a series of endless reverberations. She caught glimpses of her reflection in the shining black marble with its glimmering striations of marrow-fire; a hunched figure, scuttling and fearful. She remembered the might-have-been that the Lady Cerelinde had shown her: a pretty woman in an apron kneading dough, her hands dusty with flour. A man had entered the kitchen, embracing her from behind, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. He was tall and handsome, with dark hair.

It was a fierce hurt to cling to. The Lady Cerelinde should never have shown her something that nice. It hurt too much. Kindness was not always kind, even when people begged for it.

A pair of Havenguard were posted outside the Lady�s door, M�rkhar Fjel, black and bristling. They were loyal to General Tanaros. Meara held her breath as they examined her tray, lowering their massive heads, sniffing at it with flared nostrils. She kept her head low, tangled hair hiding her face. She knew they could smell her fear, but the Fjel would not think it strange, not in one of Darkhaven�s madlings, who were prey to all manner of terror. She did not know if they could smell poison; or if, indeed, there was poison.

There must be poison.

If there was, it was nothing the Fjel could detect; nothing that was deadly to them. Little could harm the constitution of a Fjeltroll. They unbarred the door and granted her admittance into the Lady�s chamber.

Maybe there was no poison.

And then she was inside, and there was the Lady Cerelinde, tall and shining. All the light in the room seemed to gather around her, clinging to her as though it loved her. It shimmered down the length of her golden hair, clung to her silken robes, rested on her solemn, beautiful face in loving benison. Unfair; oh, unfair! It filled her with a terrible yearning for all the lost beauty of the world, all that might have been, and was not. No wonder General Tanaros� face softened when he gazed upon her. Meara ducked her head and ground her teeth, remembering how he had spurned her advances.

She was a fool; no, he was a fool. She would have been content with a little, with so little. Was there madness in it, or a desperate sanity? She could no longer tell. Love, soup, poison, loyalty, folly. Which was which?

The Lady smiled at her as she placed the tray upon the table. �Thank you, Meara.�

What did it cost her to be gracious? It was all the same in the end. She was one of the Ellylon. They had turned their back on Lord Ushahin when he was no more than an innocent babe, because he was not good enough, though their blood ran in his veins. Tainted by violence, tainted by the seed of Arahila�s Children, who had accepted Lord Satoris� Gift. No one was good enough for them. For her.

Not Meara, who was only to be pitied.

Not General Tanaros, who protected her.

Not even his Lordship, no; Lord Satoris, who turned no one away. Whose Shaper�s heart was vast enough to embrace all of them, even though he bled. Who saw in Ushahin Dreamspinner something rare and wonderful, who understood his pain and respected it. Who offered all of those whom the other Shapers had abandoned this sanctuary, who gave them a reason to live and to serve, who valued the least of their contributions.

Meara loved him; she did.

And still her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth as the Lady of the Ellylon lifted the lid from the crock, steam escaping. Was it right? What was right? Did it matter? The thought made her uneasy, setting a tide of gibberish rising in her mind, the words she had spoken echoing in the vault of her skull.

You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.

The Lady Cerelinde lowered her silver spoon, filling it with broth, and lifted it to her lips, blowing gently across the steaming surface. Meara would have done the same. It wasn�t fair. Were they so different, Arahila�s Children and Haomane�s? Thought chased itself around her mind, mingling with her words, her shattered visions and fragmented memories, until a dark pit opened before her. It was as it had been since she was a child of twelve. The world tilted and her thoughts spiraled helplessly, sliding into a chaos of repetition and babble, seeking to give voice to a pattern too vast to compass.

The spoon halted on its journey. �Meara?�

She clutched her head, seeking to silence the rising tide within it.

Be for the best for the best of the rest for the best for the blessed beast for the rest the beast blessed for the beaten breast of the blessed rest be eaten lest the breast be wrest for the quest of the blessed for the best beast that blessed the rest . . .

Words, slipping between her clutching fingers, slipping onto her seething tongue, sliding between her clenched teeth.

� eaten lest the blessed beast be beaten lest the beaten rest be left bereft lest the breast bereft be cleft lest the blessed be wrest �

Words and words and words crawling like insects in her mind, dropping from her lips, a rising tide of them; and somewhere, more words, other words, resonant and ringing, words as bright and straight and orderly as the blade of a sword.

The Lady Cerelinde was standing, was speaking; Ellylon words, words of power and ancient magics, words like a sword, bright and blazing. Each syllable rang like a bell, driving back the dark tide of madness, and Meara wept to see it go, for the awful remorse that came in its stead was worse.

In the silence that followed, the Lady turned back to the table. Droplets of broth had spattered the white linen. In a slow, reluctant gesture, she extended one hand above the steaming crock and whispered a soft incantation. There was a ring on her finger, set with a pale and glowing moonstone. Even as Meara watched, the stone darkened, turning a remorseless shade of black.

If it could have spoken, it would have uttered a single word: Poison.

�Oh, Meara!� The Lady�s voice was redolent with sorrow. �Why?�

�Lady, what is it?� Meara scuttled forward, despising herself for her flinching movements, for the remorse she felt. She clapped the lid on the crock, making the poison vanish. �Is it not to your liking, the soup?� she asked, feigning anxiety. �Thom did but try a new recipe. If you do not like it, I will bring another.�

�Meara.� A single word, breathed; her name. All the gathered light in the room, all the gathered light of Darkhaven, shone in the Lady�s eyes. She sighed, a sigh of unspeakable weariness, bowing her head. �What must I do?�

�I don�t know,� Meara whispered, sinking to her knees. �Lady ��

�Perhaps I should drink it.� Cerelinde regarded the blackened gem upon her finger. �Do you say so, Meara? It is the simplest solution, after all. If I were no more, all of this would cease to be.� Her gaze settled on Meara. �Would it be for the best, Meara of Darkhaven?�

�I don�t know!� The words burst from her in agony; she raised her head to meet the terrible beauty of the Lady�s gaze. �I don�t know.�

�Perhaps I should, after all,� the Lady said softly. She lifted the lid from the crock and picked up the spoon.

�No!� Meara darted forward, snatching away the tray. The Lady touched her cheek. The skin of her hand was soft, impossibly soft, and her touch burned with cool fire. A bottomless pity was in her luminous eyes.

�Ah, Meara!� she said. �See, there is goodness in you yet, despite the Sunderer�s corruption. Would that I could heal you. I am sorry I have only this poor Rivenlost magic to offer, that affords but a moment�s respite. But take heart, for all is not lost. While goodness exists, there is hope. What I cannot do, Malthus the Wise Counselor may. He could heal you, all of you. He could make you whole, as Urulat itself could be made whole.�

There were words, more words, spinning into skeins of answers, filling Meara�s head until the pattern of her thoughts was as tangled as the webs in the Weavers� Gulch. She wanted to tell the Lady that it was too late, that Malthus should have cared for them long ago instead of letting them be lost and forgotten. That they had chosen the only love anyone ever offered them, that Ushahin Dreamspinner understood them, for he was one of them; yes, and so was Lord Satoris, in all his wounded majesty. That all pride was folly; the pride of Ellylon, of Men, yes, even of Shapers. That they had chosen the folly they understood best. Mad pride; a madling�s pride, broken, but not forgotten.

There were words, but none would come.

Instead, something else was coming; fury, rising like a black wind from the bowels of Darkhaven. Lord Satoris knew; Lord Satoris was angry. The touch of Ellylon magic had alerted him. Beneath the soles of her feet, Meara felt the floor vibrate. His fury rose, crawling over her skin, making her itch and tremble. The lid on the crock rattled as she held the tray in shaking hands.

�Dreamspinner!�

The roar shook the very foundations of Darkhaven. It blew through Meara�s thoughts, shredding them into tatters, until she knew only terror. The promise of Lord Ushahin�s protection held little comfort.

The Lady Cerelinde felt it. Meara could tell; her face was bloodless, as stark and white as the new-risen moon. And yet she trembled only slightly, and the pity in her gaze did not fade. �So it is Ushahin the Misbegotten who wishes me dead,� she murmured. �He uses his servants cruelly, Meara.�

There were footsteps in the hall, coming at a run. It would be Speros, the Midlander. General Tanaros trusted him. Meara glanced involuntarily at the closed door, thinking of the Havenguard beyond it. Her actions would be reckoned a betrayal.

In a swift, decisive movement, the Lady Cerelinde yanked aside the tapestry that concealed the hidden passage into her quarters, throwing back the bolts that barred the door and opening it. �Fly,� she said. �Fly and be gone!�

Meara wanted to stay; wanted to explain. Did not want to be indebted to the Lady of the Ellylon, to whom she had served a bowl of poisoned broth. But the Lady�s face was filled with compassionate valor, and terror was at the door.

�I told him you would break our hearts,� Meara whispered, and fled.

Days passed in Meronil.

One, Lilias discovered, was much like the other. Sometimes the days were clear and the sun outside her tall windows sparkled on the Aven River far below. Betimes it rained; a gentle rain, silvery-grey, dappling the river�s surface.

Little else changed.

There was no news; or if there was, no one did her the courtesy of telling her. Still, she did not think there was. It was too soon. Somewhere to the north, Haomane�s Allies would be converging, gathering to march across the plains of Curonan and wage their great war. But in the west, the red star still rose in the evenings, a harbinger unfulfilled. It seemed so very long ago that she had watched it rise for the first time.

What does it mean, Calandor?

Trouble.

She had been afraid, then, and for a long time afterward. No longer. Everything she had feared, every private terror, had come to pass. Now there was only waiting, and the slow march of mortality.

She wondered what would happen in the north, but it was a distant, impersonal curiosity. Perhaps Satoris Banewreaker would prevail; perhaps he would restore her to Beshtanag. After all, she had kept their bargain. Perhaps he would even return into her keeping the Soumani� that she had wielded for so long, although she suspected not. No, he would not give such a gift lightly into mortal hands.

It didn�t matter. None of it mattered without Calandor.

How was it that in Beshtanag, days had passed so swiftly? Days had blended into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. A decade might pass in what seemed, in hindsight, like the blink of an eye. Ah, but it was a dragon�s eye, slow-lidded and amused, filled with amusement born of fathomless knowledge, gathered since before Shapers strode the earth.

Here, the days passed slowly.

Meronil was filled with women. There were a few men of the Rivenlost; an honor guard, rudimentary and sparse. Lilias watched them from her window as they passed, riding astride without need for saddle or reins. They looked stern and lovely in their bright armor. She wondered at their being left behind; wondered if they had volunteered, if they had been injured in previous battles. Perhaps they were reckoned too young to be on the front lines of a dire war; it was hard to gauge their age.

Mostly, though, there were women.

No children, or none that she saw. Few, precious few, children had been born to the Rivenlost in the last Age of Urulat. Few children had ever been born to the Ellylon; Haomane�s Children, created by the Lord-of-Thought, who had rejected the Gift of his brother Satoris Third-Born.

And for that he was worshipped.

The thought made Lilias shake her head in bemusement. She did not understand�would never understand. How was it that Men and Ellylon alike refused to see that behind their endless quarrels lay the Shapers� War? It was pride, nothing but pride and folly; two things she had cause to know well.

The women of Meronil spoke seldom to her. There were handmaidens who tended to her needs; Eamaire and others, who brought food, clean water to bathe, linens for her bed. They no longer bothered with disdain, which in some ways was even harder to bear. Captive and abandoned, her power broken, Lilias was beneath their notice; a burden to be tended, nothing more.

When her heart was at its bleakest, Lilias imagined Meronil beset by the forces of Lord Satoris. She envisioned a horde of rampaging Fjel, besmirching its white towers and bridges with their broad, horny feet; bringing down its very stones with their powerful taloned hands, while Tanaros Kingslayer, the Soldier, sat astride his black destrier and watched and the Ellylon women fled, shrieking in disbelief that it come to this at the last.

Betimes, there was a fierce joy in the vision.

At other times, she remembered Aracus Altorus, with his wideset gaze; trusting, demanding. She remembered Blaise, dark-eyed Blaise, in all his fierce loyalty. They had treated her fairly, and in her heart of hearts she no longer wished to see them slain, lying in a welter of their own gore. It would not bring Calandor back, any more than Lord Satoris� victory. When all was said and done, they were her people; Arahila�s Children. And yet both of them believed, believed so strongly. A hope, a vision, a world made whole; a faint spark nurtured and blown into a careful flame by Malthus the Wise Counselor, who was Haomane�s Weapon.

Those were the times when Lilias leaned her forehead against the lintel of her window and wept, for she had too little belief and too much knowledge.

One day alone was different, breaking the endless pattern of tedium. Long after Lilias had assumed such a thing would never happen, an Ellyl noblewoman paid a visit to her quarters. It was the Lady Nerinil, who had sat in at Malthus� Council, who represented the scant survivors of the House of Numireth the Fleet, founder of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass.

She came announced, filling the tower chamber with her unearthly beauty. Lilias had grown accustomed to the handmaidens; the Lady Nerinil was something else altogether. How was it, Lilias wondered, that even among the Rivenlost, one might outshine another? Perhaps it was a form of glamour, a remnant of the magics they had lost when the world was Sundered. She was glad she had asked the handmaidens to remove all mirrors from her room.

�Sorceress of the East!� Nerinil paced the chamber, unwontedly restless for one of her kind. Her tone was belllike and abrupt. �There is a thing that troubles me.�

Lilias laughed aloud. �Only one, Lady?�

The Lady Nerinil frowned. It was an expression of exceeding delicacy, the fine skin between her wing-shaped brows creasing ever so slightly. �In the Council of Malthus, I asked a question of you; one to which you made no reply.�

�Yes.� Lilias remembered; the sweet, ringing tones filled with anger and incomprehension. Why would you do such a thing? She looked curiously at her. �I answered with a question of my own. It was you who did not wish the conversation furthered, Lady. Why, now, do you care?�

Nerinil�s luminous eyes met hers. �Because I am afraid.�

Lilias nodded. �You have answered your question.�

�Fear?� The Ellyl noblewoman gave a short, incredulous laugh. �Only fear? I am afraid, Sorceress, but I do not condemn thousands to death because of it.�

�Yes,� Lilias said wearily. �You do. You, and all of Haomane�s Allies. What do you think will happen when they march upon Darkhaven?�

The Lady Nerinil shook her head, her dark hair stirring. Tiny diamonds were woven into it, and it gleamed like the Aven River reflecting stars at night. �Your question was asked and answered, Sorceress. You know our plight and our dream. We march upon Darkhaven despite our fear, and not because of it.�

Lilias shrugged. �Doubtless that will prove great comfort to the wives and mothers of the slain. I�m sure they will be pleased to know a Midlander farmer�s son died so that the Rivenlost may behold the face of Haomane once more.�

A flash of anger crossed the Lady Nerinil�s features. �You are swift to condemn Haomane�s Allies for leading soldiers to take arms against the Sunderer, Sorceress. And yet you deceived us and sought to lead us into the Sunderer�s trap to be slaughtered. Is this not hypocrisy? The Rivenlost had done nothing to threaten or harm you.�

�No,� Lilias agreed, gazing out the window. �But I would have been next.�

There was silence, then. For a long time, the Lady Nerinil said nothing, for the Ellylon were incapable of lying. �Perhaps,� she said at last, and her voice was low and melodious. �Like the Sunderer, you were a dragon-friend.�

�I was that.� Lilias swallowed, tasting the salt of her tears. Oh, Calandor!

�And your life was worth the lives of thousands?�

�It was to me.� Lilias turned her gaze on the Ellyl noblewoman. �As you say, Lady, I had done nothing to threaten or harm you. I wished only to be left in peace. Did Beshtanag deserve to be destroyed because of it?�

�For that, no,� the Lady Nerinil said quietly. �But the Soumani� was never meant to be yours to wield, and never in such a manner. You set yourself against Haomane�s will when you did so. Surely you must have known such defiance could not go unanswered forever.�

�Ah, Haomane.� Lilias curled her lip. �We spoke of fear, Lady. What is it Haomane fears? Why is he so jealous of his power that he will not share even the smallest portion of it with a mortal woman?� She paused. �Or is it knowledge the Lord-of-Thought fears? Even Haomane�s Allies seem passing fearful of the wisdom of dragons. Perhaps it is that he sought to extinguish.�

�No.� The Ellyl spoke tentatively, then frowned and repeated the word more strongly. �No.� Scintillant points of light danced around the room as she shook her head once more. �I will not fall prey to your sophistry and lies. You seek but to justify your actions, which served only your own ends.�

�Can Haomane First-Born claim otherwise?� Lilias laughed shortly, feeling old and haggard, and wishing the Ellyl would depart. �At least, unlike the Lord-of-Thought, I know it. Have I ever denied as much?�

The Lady Nerinil looked at her with a fathomless expression in her dark, lambent eyes. �It seems to me that you spoke true words in the Council of Malthus, Sorceress. You are a proud woman, and a vain one.�

�Yes,� Lilias said. �I know.�

�Arahila the Fair bids us to be compassionate,� the Lady Nerinil mused. �May she in her infinite mercy forgive me, for I cannot find it in my heart to pity you, Lilias of Beshtanag.�

The words carried a familiar sting. �I do not want your pity,� Lilias murmured.

�I know.� The Lady Nerinil of the House of Numireth the Fleet inclined her head with grace. �But it is all that you deserve.�

�Lady.� Tanaros bowed. �Are you well?�

She stood very straight, and her luminous grey eyes were watchful and wary. Her travail in Darkhaven had only honed her beauty, he thought; paring it to its essence, until the bright flame of her spirit was almost visible beneath translucent flesh.

�I am,� she said. �Thank you, General Tanaros.�

�Good.� He cleared his throat, remembering how he had burst into the room and feeling ill at ease. �On behalf of his Lordship, I tender apologies. Please know that the attempt upon your life was made against his orders.�

�Yes,� Cerelinde said. �I know.�

�You seem very certain.�

Her face, already fair as ivory, turned a paler hue. �I heard the screams.�

�It�s not what you think.� The words were impulsive. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair. �Ah, Cerelinde! His Lordship did what was necessary. If you saw Ushahin�s � punishment � you would understand.�

Her chin lifted a notch. �The Ellylon do not condone torture.�

�He healed his arm,� Tanaros said abruptly.

Cerelinde stared at him, uncomprehending. �Forgive me. I do not understand.�

�Slowly,� Tanaros said, �and painfully. Very painfully.� He gave a short laugh. �It matters not Ushahin understood what he did. He bore his Lordship�s punishment that his madlings might not He did not want them to suffer for serving his will.� A stifled sound came from the corner; turning his head, Tanaros saw Meara huddled there. A cold, burning suspicion suffused his chest. �Do you have something to say, Meara?�

She shook her head in frantic denial, hiding her face against her knees.

�Let her be.� Cerelinde stepped between them, her face alight with anger. �Do you think I would permit her in my presence did I not trust her, Tanaros?�

�I don�t know,� he said quietly. �Do you trust her?�

The Ellylon could not lie. She stood close to him, close enough to touch, her chin still lifted. He could feel the heat of her body; could almost smell her skin. Her eyes were level with his. He could see the pleated irises, the subtle colors that illuminated them; violet, blue, and green, and the indeterminate hue that lies in the innermost curve of a rainbow.

�Yes,� Cerelinde said, her voice steady and certain. �I do.�

There was a sob, then; a raw sound, wrenched from Meara�s throat. She launched herself toward the door with unexpected speed, low to the ground and scuttling. Taken by surprise, Tanaros let her go. He caught only a glimpse of her face as she passed, an accusatory gaze between strands of lank, untended hair. Her hands scrabbled at the door, and the M�rkhar Fjel beyond it allowed her passage.

�What passes here, Lady?� Tanaros asked simply.

�You frighten her.� Cerelinde raised her brows. �Is there more?�

�No.� He thought about Meara; her weight, straddling him. The heat of her flesh, the touch of her mouth against his. Her teeth, nipping at his lower lip. The memory made him shift in discomfort. �Nothing that concerns you.�

Cerelinde moved away from him, taking a seat and keeping her disconcerting gaze upon him. �You do not know me well enough to know what concerns me, Tanaros Blacksword.�

�Lady, I know you better than you think,� he murmured. �But I will not seek to force the truth you are unwilling to reveal. Since I am here in good faith, is there aught in which I may serve you?�

Yearning flared in her eyes and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Her voice trembled as she answered, �You might tell me what passes in the world beyond these walls.�

Tanaros nodded. �I would thirst for knowledge, too, did I stand in your shoes, Cerelinde. Never say I denied you unkindly. Yrinna�s Children are on the march.�

�what?� Yearning turned to hope; Cerelinde leaned forward, fingers whitening on the arms of the chair. There were tears in her bright eyes. �Tanaros, I pray you, play no jests with me.�

He smiled sadly at her. �Would that I did.�

�Yrinna�s Children have broken her Peace!� she marveled. �And �� Her voice faltered, then continued, adamant with resolve. �And Aracus?�

�He is coming.� Tanaros sighed. �They are all coming, Cerelinde.�

�You know it is not too late��

�No.� He cut her off with a word. It hurt to see such hope, such joy, in her face. When all was said and done, it was true; he was a fool. But he was a loyal fool, and his loyalty was to Lord Satoris; and to others, who trusted him. Tanaros fingered the rhios that hung in a pouch at his belt. �Save your words, Lady. If you have need of aught else, send for me, and I will come.�

With that he left her, because it was easier than staying. The M�rkhar Fjel at her door gave him their usual salute. Tanaros stared hard at them. Too much suspicion and longing was tangled in his heart.

�See to it that no one passes unnoted,� he said. �Even the Dreamspinner�s madlings, do you understand? It was one such who served the Lady poison.�

�Lord General.� It was Krognar, one of his most trusted among the Havenguard, who answered in a deep rumble. �Forgive us. One looks much like another.�

�Do they smell alike?� Tanaros asked sharply.

The M�rkhar exchanged glances. �No,� Krognar said. �But you did not ask us to note their scent. They are Lord Ushahin�s madlings. You never troubled at them before.�

�I�m asking you now.�

The M�rkhar bowed. �It will be done,� said Krognar. Leaving them, Tanaros paced the halls. His heart was uneasy, his feet restless. He half-thought to track down Meara and question her, but there was no telling where she might be in the maze of corridors behind the wall. And did it matter? She was Ushahin�s creature. If it had been her, she had only been doing his bidding. He had paid the price for it; for all of them. His Lordship was content. Could Tanaros be less?

Since he had no answers, he went to see Hyrgolf instead.

There was always merit in inspecting the barracks. Tanaros exited Darkhaven proper, making his way to the Fjel delvings north of the fortress. He strode through tunneled corridors, pausing here and there to visit the vast, communal sleeping chambers. They were glad of his visit, proud of their preparations, showing him armor stacked in neat readiness, weapons honed to a killing edge. Word traveled ahead of him, and he had not gone a hundred paces before the Fjel began spilling into the corridors, baring eyetusks in broad grins and beckoning him onward.

�Hey, Lord General!�

�Hey, boss!�

�Come check our weapons!�

�When are we going to war?�

The sheer weight of their enthusiasm settled his nerves and made him smile. The Fjel, who had the most to lose in accordance with Haomane�s Prophecy, were with him. No sign of faltering there; their loyalty was unswerving. �Soon enough, lads!� he shouted to them. �I�m off to see Marshal Hyrgolf.�

They cheered the mention of his name. One of theirs, one of their own.

And then there was Hyrgolf, standing in the entryway of his private chamber, his broad shoulders touching on either side of it. His leathery lips were curved in a smile of acknowledgment, but the squinting eyes beneath the heavy ridge of his brow held a deeper concern.

�General Tanaros,� he rumbled. �Come.�

Dawn broke over the plains of Curonan, a glorious and terrifying sight. The sun�s red orb crept slowly over the eastern horizon, staining the waving grass until it resembled a sea of blood. To the west, the mountains of Gorgantum threw up a defiant challenge, their implacable peaks shrouded in darkness.

At night, drenched in silvery moonlight, the plains had been a safe and magical place. It was different by daylight, with the eye of Haomane�s Wrath opening in the east and the baleful shadow of Gorgantum to the west. Caught between the two on the vast, open space of the plains, Dani felt horribly conspicuous.

�Which way, lad?� Uncle Thulu asked quietly.

Grasping the clay flask that hung about his neck, Dani bowed his head. Sunlight, he knew. Haomane�s Wrath could be terrible and impersonal, but he knew it. He was Yarru, and he understood. Darkness was another matter. Darkness, in which the Sunderer awaited; Satoris Banewreaker, who had slain his people, who wanted nothing more than for Dani to die so he could spill the Water of Life upon barren ground.

And more than anything else, Dani did not want to enter the shadow of those mountains. But he was the Bearer, and the burden of choice was upon him.

�Darkhaven,� he said. �We go toward Darkhaven.�

Uncle Thulu nodded. �So be it.�

They set out at a steady walk, the sun at their backs, trampling their shadows into the sweet-smelling grass. They did not speak of how entrance might be gained into the Vale of Gorgantum. For the moment, the journey alone sufficed.

Hours later, the mountains scarcely seemed closer. Distances were as deceiving on the plains as they were in the desert. What it was that made Dani glance over his shoulder toward the eastern horizon, he could not have said. Regret, perhaps, or simple longing. It had crossed his mind that if the plains were not so immense, they might find Malthus in the east; Malthus, whose wisdom could guide him.

What he saw made him shudder.

�Uncle.� His nails bit into Thulu�s arm. �Look.�

Ravens; a flock of ravens. A long way off, a smudge of darkness against the bright sky, but coming fast. Dani remembered how a trio of ravens had found them in the marshy land on the outskirts of Vedasia, circling high above them. How Malthus� voice had risen like thunder, giving warning. The eyes of the Sunderer are upon us! How Fianna had leapt from the saddle; the Archer of Arduan, the longbow singing in her hands. One, two, three, and her arrows had streaked skyward, striking down the Sunderer�s spying eyes.

Not here.

�Run,� said Thulu, and they ran without thought, sprinting over the plains, the long grass lashing their legs. There was no cover, not so much as a shrub. Nowhere to hide. Once the ravens spotted them, there would be Fjeltroll; hundreds of them. Thousands. And the Slayer, the man on the black horse, who had drawn his black blade to kill Malthus in the Marasoumi�. Dani�s heart pounded in his chest In the forests of Pelmar, he had watched mice scurry beneath the shadow of a hunting owl�s wings. Perhaps it was a swifter death than being swallowed by a snake, but the terror was worse.

If there was any chance he survived this ordeal, he decided, he would never hunt hopping-mice again.

The thought made him careless; his foot struck something hard and stony, hidden by the thick grass, and he fell headlong. Both hands rose instinctively to protect the clay vial as he struck the ground hard, the impact jarring the breath from him. He fumbled at the vial. It was unbroken, but the cork stopper had been knocked partially loose, and moisture gleamed on its exposed surface. With frantic fingers, Dani shoved it back in place. Only then did the constriction in his chest ease, and his breath returned in a sobbing gasp. He could smell the Water of Life in the air, its clean, mineral essence rising like a beacon.

�Are you all right?� Uncle Thulu�s voice was taut.

�Aye.� Dani glanced down at the object that had tripped him. It was the lip of a ventilation shaft. He felt for the grass rope he had woven, coiled in his pack. �Uncle. Surely we must have cleared the blockage.�

Their eyes met, a spark of hope leaping between them; then Thulu shook his head. �Without the rockpile beneath us, the rope�s too short,� he said wearily. �The fall from the shaft would kill us. Even if it wasn�t��he gestured around��there�s naught to anchor the rope, lad.�

Dani bowed his head, stroking the rope�s plaited length. A trace of moisture glistened on his fingertips. His pulse quickened, and he began to chant the Song of Being under his breath.

�Lad,� Thulu began, then fell silent as the rope began to grow beneath Dani�s fingertips, stalks seeding and sprouting, stretching and growing in ever-lengthening plaits, young and strong and green. One end sprouted roots, pale tendrils questing in the open air.

Still chanting, Dani risked a glance toward the east. The ravens were coming; no longer a smudge, but a wedgeshaped cloud, soaring and wheeling, mighty enough to cast a shadow on the plains. It rode before them on the grass, darkness moving over the waves, veering in their direction. Something had caught their attention; perhaps movement, perhaps the scent of the Water of Life itself, faint and rising.

His voice faltered, then continued. There was no other avenue of escape. In one swift gesture, he stabbed the rope�s end into the cold soil, feeling the tendrils take root, sending their shoots into the dark earth. The plaited stalks continued to lengthen and twine, whispering like a snake�s coils between his palms. He tugged once, experimentally. The rope was firmly rooted.

�It will never hold us,� Uncle Thulu said flatly.

�It will,� Dani said. �It has to.�

He did not offer this time, but simply went, clearing away the overgrown grass and clambering into the shaft. The rope felt sturdy in his hands, though he could hear the hoarse, dry rustle of its growth echoing in the shaft.

Hand over hand, Dani lowered himself into darkness.

It was a narrower shaft than the other. His elbows scraped the sides, and he prayed Uncle Thulu would fit. It was a relief when he cleared the shaft, dangling in the empty darkness. Ignoring his aching shoulder for the hundredth time, he went as quickly as he dared, fearful despite his assurance that the rope would end before his feet touched the floor of the tunnel.

It didn�t.

�Uncle!� he called. �Hurry!�

What faint light the shaft admitted was blocked by Thulu�s body. Muffled sounds of scraping and banging ensued, accompanied by a muttered stream of Yarru invective. Dani clutched the rope to hold it steady, his heart in his throat until he saw daylight once more and, at the apex of the tunnel, his uncle�s battered figure clinging to the rope, lowering himself at a dangerous pace.

Then he was down, a broad grin visible on his dark face. �Think I left half my skin on that damned rock, lad!�

�Did they see us?� Dani asked anxiously.

Thulu shook his head. �I don�t think so. Uru-Alat, boy! You were as quick as a rabbit. I followed as best I could.� He touched Dani�s shoulder. �Well done, Bearer.�

�I�m glad you�re safe.� He hugged Uncle Thulu, wrapping both arms around his solid warmth, feeling his embrace returned. For a moment, the world was a familiar place, safe and loving.

�So am I, Dani.� Thulu�s breath stirred his hair. �So am I.� Squeezing Dani�s arms, he released him. �You know it only gets harder, don�t you?� His expression had turned somber. �We left the torches in the other tunnel. In a dozen paces, we�ll be traveling blind into Darkhaven. And I do not know the way, or what branchings lie along it.�

�I know. And I am afraid. But you are my guide, and I trust you to guide me.� Dani laughed softly, stroking the grass-plaited rope that hung beside him. �I have been traveling blind from the beginning, Uncle. It is only now I begin to see, at least a little bit.�

The plaited rope shivered beneath his touch. It was dwindling, the sere grass stalks crackling as they returned to their natural length. There had not been enough of the Water of Life to sustain its impossible growth, not with winter�s breath at their necks. Dani released it, and the Yarru watched in silence as it shrank, the loose end retreating into the dimly lit shaft high above their heads.

There it hung, brittle and useless. There would be no pursuit from that quarter�and no escape.

Thulu shuddered. �I told you it wouldn�t hold us!�

�Aye.� Dani grasped the flask at his throat, feeling at the cork to ensure it was firmly in place. �But it did.� He squared his shoulders beneath the burden of the Bearer�s responsibility and set his face toward the unknown. �Let�s go.�

Together, they set out into the impenetrable dark.

The Gulnagel were in high spirits, and Speros� lifted accordingly. He was grateful for the assignment, grateful for the show of trust on General Tanaros� part. And truth be told, he was grateful to be away from Darkhaven and the presence of the Lady Cerelinde. It made him feel at once awestruck and insignificant, vile and ashamed, and between the General�s fierce glare and Ushahin Dreamspinner�s insinuations, it was altogether too unnerving.

This, now; this was more the thing. The camaraderie of the Fjel and a purpose to achieve. A warrior�s purpose, serving Darkhaven�s needs. He�d had only a small glimpse of the tunnels underlying Urulat when they�d traveled through the Ways. The Vesdarlig Passage was bigger than he could have imagined; wide enough for two Fjel to run abreast, tall enough for Speros to ride his tall grey horse.

Ghost, he had named her, because of her coloring. She moved like one, smooth and gliding. After his first mount had been lost in the Ways, Speros had thought he might never be given another such to ride, but the General had let him keep Ghost for his own. She bore him willingly, though Speros was uncertain whether she liked him. She had a trick of gazing at him out of the corner of one limpid eye as if wondering how he would taste, and her teeth were unnaturally sharp.

That was all right. He didn�t know whether he liked her. He was, however, quite certain that he loved her.

They moved swiftly, the Gulnagel at their steady lope, with one pair scouting ahead and Ghost keeping pace with the others at a swift canter. Streaking torchlight painted the walls with a shifting fresco of light and shadow, and it felt strange and exciting, a little like the unforgettable ride through the Midlands when Ushahin Dreamspinner had led them along the paths between waking and dreaming.

How odd it was to think that the plains of Curonan were above them. In another day, Haomane�s Allies might be riding over their heads and never even know it.

If there had been more time, Speros mused, perhaps it would have been better to use the tunnels rather than block them. How long would it take to move the army in a narrow column? He calculated in his head, trying to estimate how large an opening it would require to allow them egress, how far away it would have to be to enable them to assemble unseen, yet close the distance and fall upon the enemy before they could rally.

A sound from the darkness ahead broke his reverie. For an instant, it sounded like a hound baying, and Speros was confused, remembering a dusty road and a small farmstead, trying to steal horses with the General.

But no, there were Ghost�s tireless muscles surging beneath him, and there was one of the Fjel grinning upward, eyes reflecting torchlight, and the sound was deep, far too deep and resonant to issue from any hound�s throat. It was the hunting-cry of the Gulnagel Fjel.

�Quarry, boss!�

Speros whooped aloud in triumph, setting his heels to Ghost�s flanks. She surged forward, and the Gulnagel quickened their pace. They burst down the tunnel like a wave, prepared to sweep away everything before them.

�There, boss!� A taloned finger, pointing down a side tunnel. Speros wrenched Ghost�s head, and she sank onto her haunches like a cat, skidding and turning, her iron-shod hooves sparking against the stones while the Gulnagel bounded ahead.

He followed them, their torches bobbing like fireflies, while the tunnel grew steadily narrower. Here and there it branched, then branched again, doubling back toward Darkhaven. The air grew hot and close. The feeling of triumph gave way to unease. As the walls closed in upon them and the ceiling lowered, he slowed Ghost to a trot, then a walk, slower and slower, until the walls of the tunnel were brushing his knees.

When he could ride no farther, Speros dismounted and felt along the wall until he found a crevice into which he could jam Ghost�s reins. He continued on foot, stumbling over the tunnel�s floor. Unlike the main passage, worn smooth over centuries, it was rocky and uneven. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wondered why he had bothered to wear full armor in pursuit of a pair of Charred Folk.

Ahead, the torches swarmed and separated, growing more distant. The sound of baying had ceased. It was hard to breathe, and harder to see. Speros fought back a spasm of panic. How many branchings had he taken? He hadn�t kept track. If the Gulnagel left him, he wasn�t sure he could find his way back.

�Hold up, lads!� he shouted.

To his relief, a pair of torches lingered unmoving. He made his way down the tunnel, forced to walk bent and doubled under the sloping ceiling. The Gulnagel were crouching, resting their weight on the knuckles of one hand, torches held awkward in the other. As Speros arrived, other Fjel were returning from farther tunnels, some nearly crawling. The narrow space was crammed with flesh and hide, rife with the acrid tang of smoke, the musty odor of Fjel, and something faint and sweet beneath it.

�Any luck?� Speros asked grimly.

�Sorry, boss.� It was Krolgun who answered, blinking. His eyes looked bleary. �Our mistake. Thought we scented Man-prey close at hand, but it�s gone.�

�You�re sure?� Craning his bent neck, Speros tried to peer past the hulking forms. There was nothing but tunnels and more tunnels, a maze of tunnels, each one narrowing like a funnel into the darkness beneath the mountains.

�Sure enough.� Krolgun shrugged. �Can�t smell prey, and the tunnels are too small to go farther.� He chuckled low in his throat. �Maybe it was you we caught a whiff of.�

�What is that smell?� Speros sniffed the air, trying to identify the underlying odor. It reminded him of his boyhood, long ago; before he had ever filched a coin or borrowed an untended horse, before his father had disavowed his name. A heady odor, like ripe, sun-warm strawberries in the fields of Haimhault.

Krolgun gave another shrug. �Sheep?�

�No, not sheep.� Speros frowned, then shook himself. The torches were guttering for lack of air and his thoughts were doing the same. �Never mind. Let�s get out of here before we suffocate, lads. We�ll double back, retrace our steps. Maybe it was a trick.�

If it was a trick, it was well-played. The Fjel searched every turn and blind alley and found nothing. Speros made his way back through the smoke-wreathed air to where Ghost stood awaiting him with unnatural patience, baring her teeth at his return. He took care to avoid them as he mounted. There was no room to turn her and he had to back her down the tunnel, watching uneasily as the dark maze before him receded.

Surely, no living thing could survive in such a place.

The remainder of their search was uneventful. They traveled at a more moderate pace until they reached the massive rock-pile that blocked the Vesdarlig Passage. The Gulnagel glanced at one another and shrugged.

Speros sighed. �Back toward Darkhaven, lads. Slow and careful, eyes and ears! Aye, and noses, too.�

There was nothing to be found. Hours later they emerged to murky daylight in the Vale of Gorgantum. Speros relayed orders regarding doubled patrolling of the tunnels, then rode toward the fortress to stable Ghost before reporting to General Tanaros. Despite the futility of his mission, open air and Ghost�s smooth, gliding pace cheered him. He wished the news were better, but perhaps it had been a fool�s errand after all, chasing after something a raven had not quite seen. A plaited rope? It may have been, or it may have been the wind in the tall grass. Like as not, it had been. At least he could set the General�s mind at ease. Soon, battle would be upon them and there would be no more need for mucking about after bits and pieces of Haomane�s cursed Prophecy.

Riding toward Darkhaven, Speros of Haimhault smiled and dismissed from his memory the scent of strawberries ripening on the sun-warmed earth.

Haomane�s allies had gone on the march under cover of darkness. Dawn broke over the plains to find them encamped a short distance from the foot of the Gorgantus Mountains. The mountains trembled at the roars of the Tordenstem sentries, summoning the Three and their chosen companions.

�By the Six!�

Tanaros heard Speros� shaking oath behind him. Another time, perhaps, he might have reprimanded the Midlander for it. In Darkhaven, one did not swear by the Six Shapers. Today it seemed meet.

The army covered the plains of Curonan, armor gleaming in the bloody light of dawn. Nothing glimpsed in the Ravensmirror had prepared him for the sight. Even from the overlook high atop the crags, it was immense.

Side by side by side, the Three gazed at the army.

So many companies! There they were, gathered at last in one place, arrayed for battle. The Rivenlost formed the vanguard. It surprised Tanaros, a little; but then, it was the Lady of the Ellylon over whom this war was waged. Perhaps it was a matter of honor.

�Well,� Vorax said. �There they are.�

�Indeed,� Ushahin said drily.

Vorax leaned over in the saddle and spat. �And there they can sodding well stay, as far as I�m concerned. Maybe they�ll go home when they begin to starve.� At his rear, a pair of Staccians chuckled.

Tanaros said nothing, squinting, trying to pick out individuals. The companies were still milling and unsettled. Yes, there; glint of red-gold, a rider moving among the disparate companies, gesturing, giving orders, attempting to stitch them into a cohesive whole. Some of them had fought together at Beshtanag, but many of them had not. Coordination would be difficult in the field.

�You look like you�re sizing them up for battle, cousin.� Ushahin�s remark sounded casual. �Do you lack faith in our fortifications?�

�No.� Tanaros wondered why Haomane�s Allies had bothered to waste a precious hour or two of sleep to arrive at dawn. He exchanged a glance with Hyrgolf, who shrugged. There was no element of surprise to be gained. Did they imagine the sight would shock Darkhaven into surrendering? He frowned, studying the army. There, there was another figure he knew, riding to the forefront as the ranks parted to allow him passage. White-robed and whitemaned, the tip of his spear shining like the last star of the morning, a spark of brightness nestled in his snowy beard. He rode astride a horse as white as foam, with an arched neck and hooves that fell with deft precision.

�Is that � him?� Speros asked in a low voice.

�Malthus the Counselor.� Tanaros confirmed it absently, still frowning. �What did you do to my horse, damn you?�

As if in answer, the figure of Malthus spread his arms wide. The clear Soumani� on his breast burst into a blaze of light, bathing him in white radiance. On either side of him, Rivenlost heralds in bright armor raised horns to their lips and blew long blasts, high and clarion, shivering and silvery in the dawn.

On the plains of Curonan, Malthus the Wise Counselor lifted his voice, and whether it was through some vestigial magic of the Soumani� or the wizard�s own arts, given to him by Haomane himself, his voice carried above the plains, as powerful and resonant as any Tordenstem Fjel; as his Lordship himself.

�Satoris Third-Born, whom Men and Ellylon have named Sunderer and Banewreaker, we have come in answer to your challenge! In the name of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, I command you to face us, or be forever branded a coward!�

His words broke like a thunderclap over the mountains, accompanied by a blinding wash of brilliant white light. Tanaros rocked back in the saddle as though he had been struck. It felt like it. Fury flooded his veins, drowning rational thought; for an instant, he nearly spurred his mount over the edge of the crag into thin air. He found he was laughing, his teeth bared in a grimace of defiance, one hand on the hilt of his black sword. The Fjel were roaring, Vorax was roaring, the Staccians and Speros were shouting promises of bloody death. Tanaros shook his head, trying to clear it. There was only one way down to the plains; back, back to Darkhaven and down through Defile�s Maw. Yes, that was the way.

�Tanaros! Tanaros!�

A hand was on his arm; Ellyl-fair, tangling his reins and detaining him as he sought to turn his mount. Impatient, he tried to shake it off, but there was unexpected strength in the grip.

�You were right.� Ushahin�s voice was taut. �There is as much danger in the power to Shape spirit as matter.�

The words penetrated slowly. Tanaros took a shaking breath, aware of his heart threatening to burst from his branded chest, of hungering for the scent of blood. Ahead of him, Fjel and Men alike were scrambling along the path toward Darkhaven. �Malthus� Soumani�,� he said thickly, understanding. �Why should you be immune?�

�To this?� Ushahin Dreamspinner gave his bitter smile. A vein throbbed in his dented temple and his dilated eye was black as a void, seeping meaningless tears at the painful onslaught of light. �It is only another form of madness.� He nodded down the path. �You had better halt your troops.�

Cursing, Tanaros lashed his mount�s haunches with his reins. He rode them down, plunging amid them, shouting. �Turn back, turn back! Hyrgolf! Vorax! Speros! Turn back!�

Hyrgolf heeded him first, coming to himself with a mighty shudder. He waded through the milling troops to plant himself in their path, setting his shoulders and roaring orders until the headlong rush stalled into aimless chaos.

�What was that?� Speros sounded confused, half-awake.

�That,� Tanaros said grimly, �was Malthus.�

The Midlander blinked befuddled brown eyes at him. �What happens now?�

They were all gazing toward him for an answer. Tanaros shook his head, wordless. Behind and beyond them, above the looming edifice of Darkhaven�s fortress, stormclouds were gathering; black and roiling. One atop another they piled, bruise-colored and furious, until the air was heavy with tension. Wind blew in every direction, cold and cutting as a knife.

A peal of thunder answered Malthus� challenge. It began deep and low, so low it was little more than a tremor felt in the pit of the belly, then built in burgeoning fury, built and built in rolling peals, culminating in a booming crack, the likes of which had not been heard since the foundation of the world was Sundered. Even the horses of Darkhaven staggered, and Men and Fjel lifted their hands to cover their ears.

A fork of lightning split the dirty clouds, blue-white as the marrow-fire, and its afterimage was as red as the beating heart of Godslayer.

Then there was silence, until it was broken again by the silvery horns of the Rivenlost, casting their tremulous, valiant challenge aloft on a surge of light, sowing fresh unrest in their enemies� souls.

�What now?� Speros of Haimhault�s voice broke. �Ah, Shapers! What now?�

�War.� Ushahin Dreamspinner rode up the path with shoulders hunched against the biting winds. Under the lowering skies and their murky light, the mount that consented to bear him was the color of old blood, spilled and drying. Tanaros watched him come; half-breed, half-healed, his gilt hair lank with disdain. Ushahin met his eyes, but it was Speros he answered. �It is what it has always been, Midlander. War.�

�We will give them war!� Vorax growled, and the Staccians echoed assent. �Supplies be damned! We will fall upon them and make them wish they had never been born.�

Tanaros raised his hand, halting them. �It is for his Lordship to decide.�

�It is in my heart that he has already decided,� Ushahin murmured to him. �The Soumani� is persuasive, and his Lordship was not unwilling to be persuaded in the matter. I hope you took their measure well, cousin.�

Tanaros glanced back toward the plains, longing to answer the horns� call. �Well enough, cousin, if it comes to it.� He steeled himself. �We�d best make haste. The fortress is likely to be in an uproar. Can I trust you all to hold firm?�

There were grim nods all around. Bloodlust itched in all of them, but the initial madness of Malthus� spell had been broken. What remained could be resisted.

It was well, for his prediction proved an understatement. They arrived at Darkhaven to find it boiling with battlefrenzy. Fjel poured from the barracks, abandoned their posts along the wall, streaming toward the Defile Gate. Only their sheer mass prevented them from passing through it and entering Defile�s Maw. So many Fjel were pressed up against the Gate it was impossible to open it. Enraged and slavering, partially armed or not at all, they flung themselves against the stone walls.

�Shapers!� Speros looked ill.

�Marshal Hyrgolf.� Tanaros kneed his mount forward, taking a position atop the high path where all could see him. He gazed down at the seething mass of bodies. �Get me one of the Tordenstem.� There was a slight commotion behind him, and then one of the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, was at his side, squat and grey as a boulder, offering a steady salute. Tanaros nodded at him. �Tell them their General commands their attention.�

The Tordenstem took a great breath, his barrel-shaped torso swelling visibly, and loosed his voice in a mighty roar. �All heed the Lord General Tanaros! Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros! All heed the Lord General!�

Stillness settled, slow and gradual. The long training of the Fjel had instilled the habit of obedience in them. They ceased flinging themselves at the impervious stone and gazed upward at Tanaros, a semblance of sanity returning to their features.

�Brethren!� Tanaros raised his voice; an ordinary Man�s voice, possessed of no special might, but pitched to carry over battlefields. �Who is it that has ordered this assault?� There was no answer. The Fjel shuffled and looked at their horny feet. �No?� Tanaros asked. �Then I will tell you: Malthus. It is Malthus the Counselor who orders it, and Malthus alone you obey if you heed this madness!�

They looked shame-faced and Tanaros felt guilty at it. He, too, had been caught up in the frenzy. If not for the Dreamspinner�s intervention, he would be down there among them. But it would avail nothing to confess it. Now was the time to provoke their pride, not assuage it.

�Listen to me,� he said to the Fjel. �This��he gestured��this mayhem, this undisciplined ferocity, this is how Haomane�s Allies see you. This is what they wish the Fjel to be; mindless, unthinking. Ravening beasts. Do you wish to prove them aright? Is that how Neheris Shaped her Children?�

A roar of denial rose in answer. Tanaros smiled and drew his black sword. Its hilt pulsed in his grip, attuned to the hatred that throbbed in his veins. It glowed with its own dark light under the shrouded skies.

�By this sword!� he called. �By the black sword, quenched in his Lordship�s blood, I swear to you! We will obey his Lordship�s orders and see his will is done. And if his will be war, Haomane�s Allies will know what it means to face the wrath, and the might, and the discipline of Darkhaven!�

Their cheers drowned out the distant call of Ellylon horns.

Tanaros sheathed the black sword and turned to Hyrgolf. �Summon your lieutenants and restore some semblance of order. Tell the lads to remain on alert.�

�Aye, General.� Hyrgolf paused. �You think his Lordship means to do it?�

�I don�t know.� Tanaros leaned over in the saddle, clasping the Tungskulder�s shoulder. �We shall see, Field Marshal.�

The three quarreled about it, but in the end, Vorax won. He would serve as his Lordship�s envoy. It had to be one of the Three; on that, they agreed. No one else could be trusted with a task of paramount importance. They did not agree it should be Vorax.

It was the logical choice, though Tanaros Blacksword and the Dreamspinner refused to see it, arguing that he was needed in Darkhaven, that they could ill afford the delay. Vorax listened until he could abide no more of their foolishness, then brought his gauntleted fists crashing down upon the table in the center of the Warchamber.

�We are speaking of driving a bargain!� he roared. �Have either of you an ounce of skill at it?�

They didn�t, of course, and his outburst made them jump, which made him chuckle inwardly. It wasn�t every day any of the Three was startled. There was menace in the old bear yet. In the end, they relented.

He spent the morning supervising the creation of a supply-train, shifting most of the contents of the larder, arranging for it to be carted down the Defile. Meat was a problem, but it could be hastily smoked; enough to provide for the Fjel, at least. There was food aplenty. Vorax had prepared for a siege of weeks; months. As long as it took. A battle on open ground, that was another matter.

It was folly, but it was his Lordship�s folly. And in truth, although his head was loath, the blood in his veins still beat hard at the thought of it, remembering the maddening call of the Ellylon horns.

Still, it would take a cool head to negotiate the matter. That ruled out Blacksword, who was like to lose his the moment he clapped eyes on Aracus Altorus, and the Dreamspinner � well. The half-breed could be cool enough when he chose, and betimes he spoke sense in his foolhardy madness, but he was as unpredictable as spring weather in Staccia.

No, it had to be Vorax.

When the matter of supplies had been dealt with to his satisfaction, he retired to his chambers and ate a hearty dinner, enough to give him ballast for the task to come. He kissed his handmaids good-bye and fancied he saw a shadow of concern in the eyes of the youngest. An old bear was entitled to his fancy. It heartened him when he went to speak to the Ellyl bitch.

Cool heads; now, there was one. She didn�t bat a lash at his query, just stared at him with those unsettling eyes and said, �Why should I assist you, Lord Vorax? It is not in my interest to give you tools with which to bargain.�

He shrugged. �Lady, your only chance lies in this battle. If I�m not satisfied with the negotiations, it will not happen. Do you want to take that chance?�

She turned her head. What thoughts were passing beneath that smooth white brow, he could not have said. �Is Lord Ingolin in the field?�

�Your Rivenlost Lord?� Vorax scratched his beard. He hadn�t picked him out from atop the crag, but the Ravensmirror had shown him leading the Host of the Ellylon. �Aye, Lady. He�s there.�

�Then tell them I said Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.� She spoke without deigning to look at him. �By that token, they will know I live.�

�Ladyship.� He bowed with an ironic flourish. �My thanks.�

He took his leave of her, accompanied by a pair of Havenguard. Tanaros had insisted upon it. The General might be hotheaded, but he was cautious of the Ellyl bitch�s safety. Wisely enough, since Vorax would as lief see her dead.

His escort was waiting at the Defile Gate; ten of his Staccians, a company of thirty Fjel including a pair of Kaldjager scouts, and the young Midlander Speros. Vorax had his doubts about the lad�he was untried, desert travail or no�but he knew when to hold the line and when to quibble. It was what made him a shrewd bargainer; that, and the fact that he didn�t look shrewd.

It felt strange to pass through the Gate, to abandon the safety of the thick walls and unscalable heights and enter the narrow Defile. There was little danger here�the Defile was well guarded from above�but it brought home the reality of the folly of his Lordship�s decision; aye, and the excitement, too. His skin crawled at the same time he found himself humming battle-paeans.

�If it be folly, let it be a glorious one,� he said aloud.

�Sir?� The Midlander glanced at him.

�Battle, lad. This battle.�

They passed through the Weavers� Gulch without incident, the Kaldjager striding ahead to part the sticky veils. Vorax regarded the scuttling spiders with distaste. The Dreamspinner was fond of them, finding some arcane beauty in the patterns they wove. Small wonder he was mad, though it was a madness he shared with Lord Satoris. One of several, perhaps.

For the remainder of the descent, they spoke little, paying close heed to the dangerous trail. The Kaldjager had vanished, but Vorax could hear their sharp, guttural cries and the answer of the Tordenstem sentries above, low and booming. He wished they had more Kaldjager. The Cold Hunters were tireless in the chase, and if there was any weakness in their enemy�s rearguard that could be exploited, they would find a way to circle around and sniff it out.

Too many lost in the northern territories, chasing down a rumor, a whisper of prophecy. Vorax would have given up his youngest handmaid to know what had truly happened there. Some trick of Malthus�, like as not. There was simply no way a pair of desert-bred Charred Folk could have evaded the Kaldjager and defeated an entire company of Fjel.

The Kaldjager were waiting at the last bend, before the Defile opened its Maw, crouched like a pair of yellow-eyed boulders. They nodded at him, indicating the way was clear.

�All right, lads.� Vorax settled his bulk more comfortably in the saddle and pointed with his bearded chin. �Let�s drive a bargain.�

They filed ahead of him, rounding the bend. Eigil, his Staccian lieutenant�the last one so appointed�carried their banner, the black banner of Darkhaven with the red dagger of Godslayer in the center. He was young for the task, but what else was Vorax to do? He had lost his best man, Carfax, in the decoy flight to Beshtanag; Osric had fallen to Staccian treachery. His blood still boiled when he thought about it. Speros of Haimhault carried the parleybanner; a pale blue oriflamme, unadorned. He took his job seriously, knuckles white on the banner�s haft.

A silvery blast of horns sounded the instant they were seen. Vorax scowled into his beard. Trust the damned Ellylon to make a production of war. He waited for Eigil�s answering shout.

�Lord Vorax of Darkhaven will entertain a delegation!�

He rode around the bend, traversing the final descent, lifting one hand in acknowledgment. It was a shock to see Haomane�s Allies at close range. There were so many, covering the plains, arrayed no more than fifty yards from the Maw itself. His company was clustered at its base, the Fjel with their shields held high, prepared to defend his retreat if necessary.

Haomane�s Allies stirred, conversing among themselves. He watched figures gesticulating, wondering if they argued as did the Three.

They knew the protocol. Three figures relinquished their arms with ceremony and rode forward, accompanied by an escort of forty Men and Ellylon. Half wore the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard; half the bright armor of the Rivenlost. There were no archers among them. If it came to a fight, it would be fair.

Vorax waited.

Malthus, Ingolin, Aracus; Haomane�s Counselor, the Lord of the Rivenlost, and the Scion of Altorus. Vorax took their measure as they approached, riding from sunlight into the mountain�s shadow. Their escort fanned out in a loose circle. His remained where they stood; shields high, bristling with weapons. The pale blue oriflamme in Speros� hands trembled, then steadied.

�Vorax of Staccia!� Aracus Altorus� voice was hard and taut. One hand rested on the hilt of his ancestral sword, drawing attention to the dull red gem set in its pommel. �We have come to demand that the Lady Cerelinde be restored to us.�

Vorax laughed. �Why, so you have, little Man. Will you go if she is?�

It made the would-be King of the West uncertain; he frowned hard, staring. Malthus the Counselor exchanged a glance with Ingolin the Wise and shook his whitemaned head.

�Vorax.� His voice was gentle; almost kind. The clear Soumani� on his breast sparkled. �Do not insult us with false promises. Your Dark Lord knows what we are about. Why does he send you? What is his will?�

Vorax smiled. It was always good to establish the principal agent in any bargain. �One that should please you, wizard. For a small price, it is his Lordship�s will to give you what you desire.�

�Cerelinde!� Aracus Altorus breathed.

�War,� the Rivenlost Lord said gravely.

�War,� Vorax said, agreeing with the latter. Broadening his smile, he opened his arms. �What else have you courted so assiduously? You have swayed him, wizard; you have swayed us all! His Lordship is willing to meet the forces of Haomane�s Allies upon the plain. And yet, we must have certain assurances.�

Aracus Altorus raised his brows. �Why should we bargain with you?�

�Ah, little Man!� Vorax bent a benign glance upon him. �Do you see these heights?� He pointed toward the Gorgantus Mountains. �They cannot be scaled. There is but one passage, and believe me, if you believe nothing else I say, when I tell you it is well guarded. You have no leverage here.�

�What is the Sunderer�s price?� Malthus asked.

�Fall back.� Vorax shrugged. �As I said, it is a small one. You seek battle; his Lordship is willing to give it. Fall back � half a league, no more. Allow our forces to assemble and meet yours in fair combat upon the plains. No attack shall begin until the signal is given.�

The Counselor nodded. �And if we do not agree?�

�Look around you.� Vorax indicated the plains with a sweep of his hand. �Can you fill your bellies with grass, like horses? I think not, Haomane�s Counselor. Darkhaven can outwait you. Darkhaven will outwait you.�

Malthus smiled, wrinkles creasing his face. The Soumani� nestled in his beard brightened, starry. �Will you?� he asked. �Oh, I think not, Vorax of Staccia. The Sunderer�s will is fixed.�

Vorax squinted sidelong at the Soumani�, feeling the urge to battle quicken his blood. �You�re handy with that, Counselor,� he observed. �Makes me pity my countrymen, those you led into betrayal. I trust you found them waiting, as promised. Doubtless Haomane is pleased.� Bloodlust thickened his tongue, and he nodded at the gem. �Have a care. I come to bargain in good faith.�

�And yet you perceive your weakness,� Malthus said gently.

�Mine, aye.� With an effort, Vorax tore his gaze from the Soumani�. �Funny thing, Counselor. Seems your pretty brooch doesn�t work on the Dreamspinner.� He forced his lips into a smile. �Something in his nature renders him proof against its folly, and he�s right eager to see the Lady Cerelinde dead, is Ushahin Dreamspinner. He doesn�t mind defying Lord Satoris to do it. He�s quite mad, you know.�

Aracus Altorus swore; Malthus passed his hand over the Soumani�, quenching its light.

Ingolin of the Rivenlost, who had sat motionless in the saddle, stirred. �You touch upon my fears, Vorax of Staccia. You are quick to use the Lady Cerelinde�s life as a bargaining chip, yet it is in my heart that the Sunderer has little reason to have spared it to date.�

�Oh, aye, she lives.� Breathing easier, Vorax laughed. �For now, Ellyl lordling. His Lordship,� he added contemptuously, �has staked his honor upon it.�

Ingolin�s melodious voice deepened. �I put no trust in the honor of Satoris Banewreaker. Let her be brought forth, if you would have me believe. Let us see with our own eyes that the Lady Cerelinde lives!�

�See, I thought you might ask that.� Vorax scratched at his beard. �Problem is, Ingolin my friend, she�s our safeguard. I don�t put a great deal of trust in your word.� He gave the Lord of the Rivenlost a friendly smile. �Why, you might break it, if you reckoned it were for the greater good!�

�I would not,� the Ellyl Lord said stiffly. �The Ellylon do not lie.�

�Maybe, maybe not.� Vorax shrugged. �Someone else might break it for you, eh? The Lady stays in Darkhaven. But I asked her for a token, whereby you might know she lives. She asked me if you were in the field. When I said you were, she said, �Tell them Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.� Does that suffice?�

Ingolin bowed his head, silver hair hiding his features. �Cerelinde,� he whispered.

�Cerelinde,� Vorax agreed. �Whose life hangs by this bargain, and your ability to honor it to the word. Shall we strike it?�

�How do we know you will keep your word?� Aracus Altorus� eyes blazed. �Perhaps this bargain is but a mockery. What safeguard do you offer, Glutton?�

Vorax glanced around, his gaze falling on the Midlander. �Speros of Haimhault.� He beckoned. �Are you willing to serve?�

�My lord!� The Midlander looked ill. �Aye, my lord.�

�Here you are, then.� Vorax clapped a hand on his shoulder. �He�s the architect of Darkhaven�s defense. Try the Defile, and see what he�s got in store for you! Word is he engineered the means to let General Tanaros fill in that pesky Well in the Unknown Desert, though you might know more of it than I. Any mind, he�s been Tanaros Blacksword�s right-hand Man for some time. Will he suffice?�

They looked shocked; all save Malthus. Did nothing on the face of Urulat shock the damned Counselor? He inclined his head, white beard brushing his chest.

�He will suffice,� Malthus said somberly.

�Good.� Vorax glanced at the sky, gauging the angle of the sun. �You�ll withdraw your troops by dawn on the morrow, on pain of the Lady�s death?�

�We will.�

�Then we will meet you ere noon. You�ll know our signal when we give it.� He grinned. �Gentlemen, I will see you anon!�

His Staccians closed in tight, following as he turned his mount and headed into Defile�s Maw, the Fjel guarding their retreat, step by backward step, shields held high. Below them, Speros of Haimhault sat on his ghost-grey mount and watched them go with desperate eyes.

It was, Vorax thought, a well-struck bargain.

The army of Darkhaven assembled at dawn.

Tanaros scanned the scene before him with a seasoned eye. What he saw pleased him. Tens of thousands of Fjel were arrayed in orderly ranks, awaiting his command. They were eager, but contained. Vorax�s Staccians, five hundred strong, were mounted and ready.

There was chaos in the rearguard where the supply-wagons were still being loaded, but he trusted Vorax would see all was in order. Beside him sat Ushahin Dreamspinner astride his blood-bay stallion, the leather case containing the Helm of Shadows wrapped in his arms.

Together, they waited.

The orange rim of the sun rose above the easternmost peaks of the Gorgantus Mountains to meet the enshrouding cloud cover above the Vale of Gorgantum, and the sound of Ellylon horns rent the air, uttering their silvery summons. The ranks stirred. Tanaros raised one gauntleted hand.

They waited.

A distant Tordenstem roared, then another.

Haomane�s Allies were withdrawing.

Tanaros clenched his hand into a fist, and Hyrgolf bawled an order to the Fjel maintaining the Defile Gate. The bar was lifted. Two teams of Fjel put their backs into the task, and the massive doors, depicting the Battle of Neherinach, creaked slowly open.

�To war!� Tanaros shouted.

The long column began its descent into the Defile.

Darkhaven�s kitchens were filled with a fearsome clatter.

That was where Dani and Thulu found themselves herded once the long work of loading half-smoked sides of mutton onto the endless supply-wagons was done. It had been a long nightmare, filled with blood and smoke, the both of them staggering with laden arms along the stony trails. It seemed impossible that no one should notice them, but amid the horde of toiling madlings, they might as well have been invisible. Back and forth, back and forth, until the work was done and the army departed for the plains below.

And when it was, they were herded into the kitchens under the careless eye of a pair of Fjeltroll guards, who had larger matters on their minds. Darkhaven was buzzing like a hornets� nest; no one paid heed to a pair of filthblackened Yarru huddled in a corner. The kitchens swarmed with such figures, swarthy with smoke and pitch and dried blood from the long night�s labors.

Madlings.

Dani heard the word without understanding. In the kitchens, he understood. The inhabitants�the human inhabitants�of Darkhaven were mad. They had no way to cope with what transpired. It was clear to him, and to Thulu, that the bulk of Darkhaven�s forces had abandoned the premises. Still, the madlings must cook; must prepare, must tend and be useful.

Pots boiled on stoves. Dishes roasted in ovens. It did not matter that there was no one to eat them. There was a kind of fearful safety amidst the mayhem, but it was not one that could last.

�Where to, lad?� Uncle Thulu whispered.

Dani, who had sunk his head onto pillowed arms, raised it with an effort. �I don�t know,� he said dully. �I would ask � I would ask �� He shook his head. �I�m tired.�

Thulu regarded him. �Would you ask, lad, or do?�

�I don�t know.� Dani raked his hands through his lank black hair. �Before � ah, Uncle! I wanted to ask. What has the Sunderer done to the Yarru that I should seek to destroy him? And yet �� He was still, remembering. Perhaps your peoplewould not have been slain for your actions. �I fear perhaps we have passed such a point, and Malthus the Counselor had the right of it all along.�

�Hey!� A figure shouted at them, glowering, brandishing a ladle in one hand. �What idleness is this? Does it serve his Lordship?� A platter was thrust forward, a silver salver with a dish-dome upon it. �Here,� the figure said roughly. �Take it to her Ladyship. She�s been near forgotten in the uproar. Few enough folk want to take the risk of waiting on her now, but you�ll do in a pinch.�

Dani rose to his feet and took it unthinking, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head; Uncle Thulu was a step behind him.

�Well?� The cook�s figure loomed. �What are you waiting for? Go!�

They went.

Darkhaven�s halls made its kitchens seem a haven of comfort. They were massive and windowless, wrought entirely of gleaming black stone. No gentle lamplight alleviated the darkness; only veins of blue-white fire glittering in the walls. Cradling the tray against his hip, Dani laid one hand upon one wall and found it warm.

�Marrow-fire,� he murmured. �It must be.�

�Aye, but where�s the Source?�

�I don�t know.� Dani shook his head. �Below, Malthus said. Somewhere in the depths of the earth, below Darkhaven�s foundation.�

�I�ve seen no stair.� Thulu sighed. �We�ll have to search, Dani. Best we find a place to hide that tray and ourselves before our luck runs out.�

�The tray.� Dani glanced at it. �For her Ladyship, he said. Do you suppose ��

�The Lady Cerelinde?� Uncle Thulu whistled softly.

�She would know what to do,� Dani said, for it seemed to him it must be true. The Haomane-gaali Peldras had been wise; not as wise as Malthus, but wise and gentle, filled with the knowledge of his long years. Surely the Lady of the Ellylon must be no less! The thought of laying the burden of decision on the shoulders of someone wiser than he filled him with relief. �All we have to do is find her.�

The task proved easier than they reckoned. After a few more turns, they rounded a corner to see a quartet of Fjeltroll posted outside a door halfway down the hall. They were hulking Fjel with black, bristling hides and gleaming black armor. A madling was speaking to them; a woman.

Dani stopped with a mind to retreat. It was terrifying enough to have passed to and fro under the noses of the Fjeltroll amid a reeking crowd. This was too dangerous.

And too late.

The woman caught sight of them and raised her voice. �Time and more you came! Would you have her Ladyship starve?� She beckoned, impatient, as they stood frozen and staring. �Well, come on!�

Dani and his uncle exchanged a glance, then proceeded slowly.

For a moment, a brief moment, he thought they would get away with it. The madling woman snatched the tray from his hands, giving it to the Fjeltroll to inspect. One lifted the domed cover, and another leaned down to smell the dish. Dani began to back away unobtrusively, Thulu behind him.

�Wait.� One of the Fjel guards spoke. They froze where they stood. It sniffed the air, broad nostrils widening. �These two are new,� it said in its low, guttural voice. �What did the General say to do?�

Dani wished they had run, then; had run, had hidden, had never tried to find the Lady Cerelinde. The madling came toward them. Her eyes glittered with an unholy glee as she drew near, near enough that he could smell her, rank and unwashed.

�Who are you?� she asked. �Has General Tanaros been looking for you?�

Neither of the Yarru answered.

Slow and deliberate, the madling held up one hand and licked her forefinger, then swiped it down the side of Dani�s face. He held himself still and rigid, staring at her. A layer of soot and river mud came away, revealing the nut-brown skin beneath it.

�If I were you,� the madling said almost kindly, �I would run.�

They took her advice, pelting down the hall. Behind them came the clamor of a laden tray falling, and the deep roar of Fjel pursuit.

Behind the lines of Haomane�s Allies, no one was paying attention to the abandoned piece of baggage that was Speros of Haimhault.

On the battlefield, a strange hiatus had occurred; the armies had fallen back, regrouping, their attention centered on a knot of disturbance at its core. What it was, Speros could not have said. He knew only that he was forgotten. There were wounded incoming; scores of them, hundreds. Men, Men like him, and women, too, injured and groaning, carried on makeshift stretchers wrought out of spears, carried over the shoulders of hale comrades. Arduan�s archers, limbs pulped by Fjel maces; Midlanders with crushed skulls, splintered ribs protruding from their pale flesh.

Such was war.

The sight made him sick and uneasy; and yet, and yet. War was war. Where did the true battlefield lie?

The smell of strawberries ripening in the sun �

He had promised the Lord General that he would not fail him again, and he believed he had kept his word. He had built the waterwheel, improved the furnaces, created the carefully balanced defenses above the Defile. General Tanaros had not asked him to do any of those things, but he had done them anyway and done them well. Still, he had failed anyway. Some enchantment had been at work that day in the tunnels. The Fjel had been right the first time around; the Bearer had been there.

He might still be there; or worse, seeking entry into Darkhaven.

Speros paced restlessly behind the lines, glancing over at Ghost. No one was paying her any heed, either. She met his gaze, her wicked eyes calm and bright. The picket stakes that held her were pounded loosely into the plains. A thought took shape in his mind. He drifted closer to her, waiting for one of his minders to shout at him, to order him back.

No one did.

There was no further need for him to serve as a hostage. Haomane�s Allies had kept their word and withdrawn; the battle was engaged, his usefulness was ended. There would be no repercussions for Darkhaven if he failed in the attempt. The Ellyl Peldras was wrong; the General would come for him. Still, how much more impressed would he be if Speros proved himself in no need of rescue? And moreover, with a valuable warning to give.

I will not fail you again.

Speros took a deep breath. It would need to be done swiftly, but that was all right. He had stolen horses before. This wouldn�t be much different, except that Ghost was his horse. He wished he had a dagger to cut the picket lines, but Haomane�s Allies had taken his weapons. That was all right, too. Ghost was not an ordinary horse. She wouldn�t panic.

It was a piece of luck that they had not bothered to remove her bridle; too fearful of her snapping teeth. Speros sidled close, watching her eye roll around at him. �Be sweet, my beauty,� he murmured, low and crooning. �For once in your life, as you love his Lordship, be gentle.�

Her ears pricked forward. With two quick yanks, Speros dragged the picket stakes from the earth. Ghost had already begun to move when he grasped her mane and hauled himself astride.

They were ten strides away from the encampment before an alarm was shouted. Speros laughed and flattened himself against Ghost�s grey hide, feeling her muscles surge beneath him as she accelerated. Her neck stretched out long and low, coarse mane whipping his face. They were all shouting now, Haomane�s Allies, shouting and pointing. Too late. Ghost�s hooves pounded the tall grass, haunches churning, forelegs reaching, heedless of the dangling picket lines bouncing in her wake.

The plains rolled by beneath him. Speros� eyes watered. He blinked away the wind-stung tears and saw the rearguard of Haomane�s Allies turning their attention toward him. A lone Ellyl horn wailed a plangent alarm. He sent Ghost veering wide around them, around their attendants still carting the wounded from the field. No hero�s charge, this; no fool, he. He only wanted to warn General Tanaros. If he could get behind Darkhaven�s lines, he could send word. Something is wrong, very wrong. Let me investigate. I will not fail you again.

Or better yet, he would return directly to Darkhaven. There was no need to ask the General�s permission. It would be better if he went himself in all swiftness. After all, if the Bearer had managed to penetrate Darkhaven�s walls, there was only one place he would go�to the very Source of the marrow-fire itself. General Tanaros admired his initiative, he had told him so. He would still send word, so the General would know.

What a wondrous thing it would be if Speros of Haimhault were to avert Haomane�s Prophecy!

The thought made Speros smile. He was still smiling when one of Haomane�s Allies, kneeling beside a wounded Arduan archer, rose to her feet and unslung her bow, nocking an arrow. Speros� smile broadened to a grin. He reckoned he was too far away and moving too fast to be within range.

Of a surety, he was too far away to see that the archer was Fianna and the bow in her hands was wrought of black horn, gleaming like onyx. It was no mortal weapon, and its range could not be gauged by mortal standards.

Oronin�s Bow rang out across the plains; once, twice, three times.

Speros did not feel the arrows� impact, did not feel the reins slip from his nerveless fingers. The earth struck him hard, but he didn�t feel that, either. He blinked at the sky overhead, filled with circling ravens. He wondered if Fetch, who had saved them in the desert, was among them. He tried to rise and found his body failed to obey him. At last, he understood, and a great sorrow filled him.

�Tell him I tried,� he whispered to the distant ravens, then closed his eyes. He did not reopen them, nor ever would.

Whickering in dismay, a grey horse raced riderless across the plains.

Dani raced down the Halls of Darkhaven, his bare feet pounding the marble floors. Behind him, he could hear Uncle Thulu, breathing hard as they ran, accompanied by the blurred rush of their dim reflections in the glossy black walls, fractured by blue-white fire.

The sound of the pursuing Fjeltroll was like a rockslide at their backs; roaring, thudding, jangling with weaponry. But they were slow, thanks be to Uru-Alat, they were slow! Massive and ponderous, not like the Fjel who had hunted them in the north, driving them like sheep to the slaughter.

Still, they kept coming, tireless.

And they summoned others.

At every third corner Dani rounded, it seemed another squadron was advancing, grim and determined, forcing him to backtrack and pick another route. There were Fjel at entrances, guarding doors, joining the slow hunt. Soon, there would be no avenues left down which to flee � and he still had no idea how to find the marrow-fire.

Sheer desperation led him to the alcove. They had passed it once already; a tall, arched niche inset with a sculpture in high relief. He glimpsed it briefly, caught a vague impression of two vast figures struggling. When more Fjel were around the next corner, Dani doubled back, nearly colliding with Thulu, only to hear the clamor of pursuit coming from the other end of the hall.

�Here!� he gasped. �Hide!�

Suiting actions to words, he flung himself toward the alcove in a slide, skidding feet-first on the slippery floor, passing beneath the locked arms of the grappling figures, between their planted legs into the shadowy recess behind them.

There he found a small, hidden doorway, one that opened to his tug.

Scrambling onto his bruised knees, Dani grabbed Thulu�s arm and hauled him into the alcove, into the narrow, hidden passage he had found. There was no time to close the door. He clamped one hand hard over his uncle�s mouth, stifling his panting breath.

Together they huddled motionless, peering out of the shadows and watching the horny, taloned feet and the thick, armor-clad legs of the Fjel churn past. The parties met, with a sharp, frustrated exchange. Orders were barked and the Fjel separated, trotting back toward opposite ends of the hall, intent on further search.

When all was silent, Dani closed the door carefully and pointed farther down the passage. Thulu nodded. Clambering to their feet, they began to explore behind the walls of Darkhaven.

The air was hot and close, growing hotter the farther they progressed. The narrow, winding path, rubble-strewn, slanted downward in a shallow slope. Where it branched, Dani took the lowermost path. From time to time, he heard skittering, scrabbling sounds in the other passages, but they saw nothing. Periodic nodes of marrow-fire, emerging in thick, pulsing knots from the walls, illuminated only darkness.

Below, Malthus had said.

Surely, this was below.

Dani touched the clay vial at his throat, glancing uneasily at the walls. So much marrow-fire! If what permeated the fortress and its foundation was any indication, he could not imagine what lay at its Source. And he could not imagine how the scant mouthful of the Water of Life that remained in the vessel could have even the slightest impact upon it, beyond raising a brief puff of steam.

Your courage will be tested, young Bearer, beyond anything you can imagine.

Malthus had said that, too. At the time, Dani had accorded it little weight. It was the sort of tiresome warning Elders used to scare foolish boys into being cautious when there was an opportunity to do something worth doing, an opportunity for glory.

Later, in the barren reaches, when he had come to understand something of the true nature of the Bearer�s burden, he had thought he understood it better. In the northern forests, in the terrible tunnels, he had been sure of it.

In the bowels of Darkhaven, he realized he had not even begun to grasp it.

Malthus had spoken truly. It was beyond anything he could imagine. In the stifling heat, Dani shivered to the bone. He had not expected to survive this journey, not for a long time. Still, the nearer he came to its end, the harder it was to continue.

The path grew level, the passage wider. Rounding a bend, Dani froze.

Ahead of him was a cavern; a rough-hewn chamber, enlarged by the crude efforts of many generations of human hands. Everywhere, lit candles flickered; butt-ends wedged into crevices. Writing was scratched and scrawled upon the walls, and scraps of carpet were strewn about.

In the center of the room, the madling woman who had bid them to run sat waiting for them on an overturned crate. Her hands were folded in her lap, her skirts tucked around her ankles. Beneath her lank hair, her brow shone with sweat and her gaze was fever-bright.

�You have found our place,� she said to them. �I thought you would. After all, you must be a little bit mad to have come here.�

Dani took a step backward, bumping into Uncle Thulu.

The madling woman shook her head. �No, not now. It�s not time to run, now. Behind the walls, they are all around you. They are coming. Do you not hear?� Her mouth twisted in a rictus of a smile. �They. We. Will you come hither or be taken?�

�What do you want?� Dani asked cautiously.

She laughed, a harsh and terrible sound, and he realized tears were in her eyes. �Me? Me? Does it matter?�

�I don�t know.� Dani gazed at her. �Does it?�

�Yes.� She whispered the word as though it hurt. �I think maybe it does. I think maybe it matters a great deal.�

In the passages all around them, the sounds Dani had heard before were growing louder, drawing nearer. Scrabbling sounds, skittering sounds. Madlings, madlings behind the walls, coming for them. It didn�t matter. There had never been a way back, not after coming this far. There was only forward. The madling woman beckoned. Dani took a deep breath. Reaching behind him, he found the solid warmth of his uncle�s hand and clasped it hard.

Together, they entered the chamber.

The battle was joined once more.

For all his fury, Tanaros kept his wits about him. The Helm of Shadows was broken. His army was one of the last things standing between Haomane�s Allies and fulfillment of the Prophecy, and he would take no careless risks. With deliberate forbearance, he let the Fjel charge precede him and sow chaos in the ranks of Haomane�s Allies. The Tungskulder waded among them, roaring, laying about with axe and mace.

Men and Ellylon alike fell beneath their onslaught; unhorsed, wounded, trampled. Tanaros smiled grimly. On the left flank, his Gulnagel essayed sorties against the Vedasian knights, striking and wheeling as he had taught them. On the right flank, the N�ltannen were wreaking havoc amid the motley infantry.

But Aracus Altorus was no fool. Wheeling his mount, he shouted orders. His troops rallied, changing tactics. On the front line, fleet riders of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard dodged and swerved, striking at the slow Tungskulder with quick, slashing blows until Hyrgolf was forced to order his Fjel to regroup in a tighter defensive formation. The Dwarfs had retired from the field, but a handful of archers remained in the fray, and these Aracus moved to his right, slightly behind the front lines, setting them to picking off stray Gulnagel. Malthus the Counselor was everywhere, his white Soumani� a beacon of hope.

Still, Tanaros thought, the edge was his.

Darkhaven�s army was too strong, too well trained. The Borderguard and the Host of the Rivenlost might stand against them, but the others�the Seaholders, the Midlanders, the Free Fishermen�were slowly being slaughtered. Even the Pelmarans, flush from victory in Beshtanag, and the Vedasian knights in their heavy armor, had not reckoned with the awesome might of the Fjel.

They fought so beautifully! The sight of them filled Tanaros with fierce pride. They kept their shields high, they held their formations, pressing forward, slow and inexorable. What a thing it would be, what a glorious thing, if Haomane�s Prophecy were yet to be averted�by this, by strength of arms, by dint of long training. Lord Satoris had not sought this war. Haomane�s Allies had pressed it upon him the moment Cerelinde agreed to wed Aracus Altorus. But he had prepared for it for many long years.

As had Tanaros. And though there was little room in his heart for hope, he meant to try nonetheless. He owed Lord Satoris no less.

If Aracus Altorus died, there could be no victory for Haomane�s Allies. Not now, nor ever. There would be no Son of Altorus left living to wed a Daughter of Elterrion. No more royal Altorian bloodline tainted with the betrayal of Tanaros Caveros� faithless wife.

The sun was high overhead, moving toward the west. How long had the battle lasted? Hours, already. And yet, Tanaros felt no weariness. His mind was clear and keen, as though all his anger, all his grief, had been distilled into a single point of brightness. All he needed was an opening, a single opening.

Tanaros watched his enemies tire as the euphoria of their brief victory faded. The Rivenlost showed no sign of slowing, but the battle was taking its toll on the Men. Their faces were white with exhaustion, their horses lathered. The battlefield stank of blood and ordure.

When the Borderguard began to falter, Tanaros signaled to Hyrgolf.

His field marshal roared orders in the Fjel tongue, and his lieutenants and bannermen conveyed them. On the right flank, a banner rose and dipped in acknowledgment. Two squadrons of N�ltannen abandoned their careful discipline and plunged into the ranks of Haomane�s Allies, cutting a swath through the infantry to mount a rear attack on the combined forces of the Borderguard and the Rivenlost.

Tanaros saw Aracus Altorus turn to meet this new threat and signaled again. With a mighty roar, the Tungskulder forged forward, and Tanaros with them.

In this new surge of chaos, it was all hand-to-hand fighting. The battle lines had crumbled. The black sword sang as Tanaros cut his way through the Rivenlost vanguard. An Ellyl warrior was in his path, his shining armor smeared with mud and gore. Tanaros swung his blade, felt it bite deep, and continued without pausing, letting the black horse carry him past, deeper into the fray.

Pennants were all around him; not signal-banners, but the standards of the Rivenlost, carried high above the mayhem, still proud, still glittering. Tanaros ignored them, keeping his gaze fixed on one that lay beyond: no Ellyl badge, but a gilt sword on a field of sable, the arms of the ancient Kings of Altoria.

�Aracus!� he shouted. �Aracus!�

The pennant turned in his direction.

More Ellylon, seeking to assail him on either side. Tanaros slashed impatiently at the one on his right, took a sharp blow to the shoulder from the other, denting his spauldron; and then one of the Tungskulder was there, dragging the Ellyl from the saddle by sheer force. The Tungskulder grinned at his General, then grunted as the unhorsed Ellyl lunged upward, his blade piercing a gap in his armor.

No time for sorrow. Tanaros plunged onward; toward the Altorian banner, toward the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan.

�Aracus Altorus!�

And he was there, waiting, his standard-bearer beside him. His Men had turned back the N�ltannen attack. It had been a costly diversion, but worthwhile. Tanaros reined his mount, saluting with his sword. �Aracus.�

�Kingslayer.� The word was filled with unutterable contempt. Behind the eyeslits of his helm, Aracus Altorus stared at him. The sword in his hand echoed the one on his standard; his ancestor�s sword. Once upon a time, Tanaros had known it well. The only difference was the lifeless Soumani� in its pommel. �You come at last.�

�As I promised, Son of Altorus,� Tanaros said softly.

Aracus nodded, taking a fresh grip on his sword-hilt. Beneath the contempt, he looked tired and resolute. It seemed like a very long time since they had first laid eyes on one another in the shattered nuptial ceremony in Lindanen Dale. �Shall we put an end to it?�

Tanaros inclined his head. �Nothing would please me more, Son of Altorus.�

There should have been more to say, but there wasn�t.

Settling their shields, they rode at one another.

They struck at the same instant, both catching the blows on their bucklers. Tanaros felt the impact jar his arm to the shoulder. He felt, too, Aracus� buckler riven beneath the force of his blow, metal plate giving way, wood splitting. Tanaros laughed aloud as the would-be King of the West was forced to discard his useless shield.

�Shall it be now?� Tanaros asked, and without waiting for a reply, struck another blow.

Aracus Altorus parried with his ancestral sword, the sword Altorus Farseer had caused to be forged, the sword Roscus Altorus had borne before him long ago. A symbol, nothing more. It shattered in his grip, leaving him clutching the useless hilt with its curved tangs and dull Soumani�, a few jagged inches of steel protruding from it.

He lifted his bewildered gaze. He had believed, somehow, it would not happen.

Tanaros had thought to taunt him, this Man who sought to wed the Lady of the Ellylon, who sought to destroy Lord Satoris. He had thought to find satisfaction in this moment; and yet, having reached it, he found none. Aracus� gaze reminded him too much of Roscus� at the end; dimly surprised, uncomprehending.

He hadn�t found it in killing Roscus, either.

�I�m sorry,� he said, raising the black sword for the final blow. There was no choice here, only duty. �But you brought this upon yourself.�

At that moment, the Soumani� in the pommel of Aracus Altorus� shattered sword blazed wildly into life.

Tanaros strode through Darkhaven like a black wind.

The shock of his arrival rippled through the fortress with a palpable effect. The Havenguard hurried from far-flung quarters of Darkhaven to meet him, falling over one another in their haste. His abrupt, awful news shocked them into momentary silence, and he had to shout at them twice before they were able to tell him what had transpired in his absence.

Two Men, Charred Folk, madlings caught one �

He wasted precious minutes hurrying into the dungeon, clattering down the slippery stair, hoping against hope to see the Man the madlings had caught. It gave him an unpleasant echo of the memory of Speros, hanging in chains, grinning crookedly with his split lips. Not Speros, no; not the Bearer, either. It was the other Yarru, his protector. Manacled to the wall, scratched and beaten and bloodied, he hung limp, lacking the strength to even stir. The Fjel had not been gentle. Only the slight rise and fall of his scarred torso suggested he lived.

�Where�s the boy?� Tanaros asked, prodding him. �Where�s the boy?�

Unable to lift his head, the prisoner made a choked sound. �Slayer,� he said in a slow, thick voice. �Where do you think?�

Tanaros cursed and ran from the dungeon, taking the stairs two at a time.

He made his way behind the walls, through the winding passages, through the rising heat, to the chasm. To the place he had known he must go. The madlings had scattered, abandoning the places behind the walls, hiding from his fury, from the terrible news. There was only the heat, the light-shot darkness, and the chasm like a gaping wound.

There, he gazed over the edge.

Far below, a small, dark figure was descending laboriously.

Straightening, Tanaros shed his gauntlets. With deft fingers, he unbuckled the remainder of his armor, removing it piece by piece. When he had stripped to his undertunic, he replaced his swordbelt, then lowered himself into the chasm and began to climb.

It was hot. It was scorchingly, horribly hot. The air seared his lungs, the blue-white glare blinding him. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Tanaros willed himself to ignore the heat. It could be done. He had done it in the Unknown Desert. He was one of the Three, and it could be done.

Fear lent his limbs speed. Hands and feet moved swift and sure, finding holds. He took risks, careless risks, tearing and bruising his flesh. The worst thing would be to fail for being too slow, to be halfway down and find the marrow-fire suddenly extinguished.

It did not happen.

Reaching the bottom, Tanaros saw why.

The Source, the true Source, lay some paces beyond the chasm itself. It was not so large, no larger than the circumference of the Well of the World. Indeed, it was similar in shape and size; a rounded hole in the foundation of the earth itself.

But from it, the marrow-fire roared upward in a solid blue-white column. High above, at its core, a spit of flame vanished through an egress in the ceiling. The Font, Tanaros thought, realizing he was beneath his Lordship�s very chambers. Elsewhere, the marrow-fire fanned outward in a blue-white inferno, flames illuminating the chasm, licking the walls, sinking into them and vanishing in a tracery of glowing veins.

And at the edge of the Source stood the Bearer.

It was the boy, the Charred lad he had seen in the Marasoumi�. He had one hand on the clay vial strung about his throat and a look of sheer terror on his face. Even as Tanaros approached, he flung out his other hand.

�Stay back!� he warned.

�Dani,� Tanaros said softly. He remembered; he had always been good with names, and Malthus the Counselor had spoken the boy�s. So had Ngurra, whom he had slain. �What is it you think to do here, lad?�

Despite the heat, the boy was shivering. His eyes were enormous in his worn face. �Haomane�s will.�

�Why?� Tanaros took a step closer. The heat of the column was like a forge-blast against his skin. �Because Malthus bid you to do so?�

�In the beginning.� The boy�s voice trembled, barely audible above the roaring of the marrow-fire. �But it�s not that simple, is it?�

�No.� Something in the lad�s words made Tanaros� heart ache, longing for what-might-have-been. In a strange way, it was comforting to hear them spoken by an enemy. It was true, after all was said and done, they were not so different. �No, lad, it�s not.� He drew a deep breath, taking another step. �Dani, listen. You need not do this. What has Haomane done that the Yarru should love him for it and do his bidding?�

The boy edged closer to the Source. �What has Satoris the Sunderer done that I should heed his will instead?�

�He left you in peace!� Tanaros said sharply. �Was it not enough? Until-� His voice trailed off as he watched the boy�s expression change, terror ebbing to be replaced by profound sorrow. Somehow, the boy knew. The knowledge lay there between them. In the roaring marrow-fire, it seemed Tanaros heard anew the pleas and cries of the dying Yarru, the sound of Fjel maces crunching. And he knew, then, that whatever conversation he might have hoped to hold with the lad, it was too late.

�Did you kill them yourself?� Dani asked quietly.

�Yes,� Tanaros said. �I did.�

The dark eyes watched him. �Why? Because Satoris bid you to do so?�

�No.� Gritting his teeth, Tanaros drew his sword and drew within reach of the boy. �I begged him. Old Ngurra, the old man. Give me a reason! Do you understand, lad? A reason to spare his life, his people; a reason, any reason! Do you know what he said?�

Dani smiled through the tears that spilled from his eyes, glittering on his brown skin. �Aye,� he whispered. �Choose.�

�Even so.� Tanaros nodded. �And I am sorry for it, as I am sorry for this, but his Lordship did not ask for this battle and I have a duty to do. Now remove the flask, and lay it gently upon the stone, Dani. Gently.�

The boy watched the rising arc of the black sword and his dark eyes were like the eyes of Ngurra, filled with knowledge and regret. �I will ask you what you asked my grandfather,� he said. �Give me a reason.�

�Damn you, I don�t want to do this!� Tanaros shouted at him. �Is your life not reason enough? Relinquish the flask!�

�No,� Dani said simply.

With a bitter curse, Tanaros struck at him. The black blade cut a swathe of darkness through the blinding light. Loosing his grip on the flask, Dani flung himself backward, teetering on the very edge of the Source, almost out of reach. The tip of Tanaros� sword shattered the clay vessel tied around the lad�s throat, scoring the flesh beneath it.

Fragments of pit-fired clay flew asunder.

Water, clear and heavy, spilled from the shattered flask; spilled, glistening, in a miniature torrent, only to be caught in the Bearer�s cupped palms.

The Water of Life.

Its scent filled the air, clear and clean, heavy and mineral-rich, filled with the promise of green, growing things.

There was nothing else for it; no other option, no other choice. Only the slight figure of the Bearer silhouetted against the blazing column of blue-white fire with the Water of Life in his hands, his pale, scarred palms cupped together, holding the Water, the radiating lines joining to form a drowned star.

�I�m sorry,� Tanaros whispered, and struck again.

And Dani the Bearer took another step backward, into the Source itself.

Entering the chamber of the Font at a dead run, Tanaros halted, brought up short by the sight before him. �No,� he said, uttering the word without thinking, willing it to be true, willing his denial to change what had happened and render it undone. �Ah, my Lord, no!�

It didn�t change. Nothing changed.

Where the Font had burned for century upon century, there was nothing save a ring of scorched stone blocks surrounding an aperture in the floor of the Chamber. It seemed a small opening to have admitted such a gout of marrow-fire. Without the Font, the Chamber was dim-lit, the fading veins of marrow-fire that laced its walls filling it with a vague, subterranean twilight.

Lord Satoris lay supine upon the floor of the Chamber; shadows clustered the length of his awesome form. It seemed impossible, and yet it was so. Even fallen, he filled the space until it seemed little else could exist within it. The scent of blood that was not blood, of sweet, coppery ichor, was thick in the air.

The rough-hewn haft of Godslayer pulsed faintly, a ruby star, where it protruded from the bulwark of the Shaper�s chest.

It moved, ever so slightly.

She stood in the far corner of the Chamber, beyond the ashen pit of the Font, shrinking away from it; from the Shaper, from her deed. Her eyes were stretched wide with horror, her hands upraised, sliding over her mouth as though to stifle a cry.

�Cerelinde,� Tanaros said. The black sword was loose in his grip. �Why?�

Unable to answer, she shook her head.

Ignoring her, Tanaros went to his Lord. In the dying light of the marrow-fire, he knelt beside him. The flagstones were hard beneath his knees, tilted askew by the tremors that had shaken Darkhaven. Ichor puddled, soaking his breeches.

�My Lord,� he said tenderly. �What must I do?�

At first there was no response, and he feared it was too late, that his Lordship was gone. And then the Shaper�s head moved, as though his gaze sought the western horizon beyond the stone walls of his Chamber. �Arahila,� he whispered, almost inaudible. �O my sister. What happens to us when we die?�

�My Lord, no!� Tanaros reached, touching the Shaper�s vast breast, pressing the immortal flesh pierced by the glittering dagger, feeling ichor seep beneath his fingers. �Please, my Lord, what must I do to save you?�

Slowly, Satoris lifted one dragging hand, covering Tanaros�, forcing his grip onto the dagger�s burning hilt. �Draw it,� he said with difficulty. �Let it be done.�

Tanaros wept. �My Lord, no!�

In the corner, the Lady Cerelinde made an inarticulate sound.

�So it is not you, my General.� With an effort, the Shaper turned his head. His eyes were dark and clear; clear as a child�s, but far, far older. The red light of rage had faded in them, as though it had been extinguished with the marrow-fire. So they must have looked long ago, before the world was Sundered, when Satoris Third-Born walked in the deep places of the earth and spoke with dragons. His mouth moved in the faintest hint of a smile. �Not you, at the end.�

With a crash, one of the threefold doors at the top of the spiral stair opened; the left-hand door, Ushahin�s door. Even as he entered, wild-eyed, Tanaros was on his feet, the black sword in his hand.

�Dreamspinner,� he said.

�Tanaros,� At the top of the stair, Ushahin swayed and caught himself. �They are at the Gate.� He gazed blankly around the Chamber. �My Lord,� he said, his voice sounding strange and hollow. �Ah, my poor Lord!�

�He yet lives,� Tanaros said roughly. �He bid me draw the dagger and end it.�

Ushahin laughed, a terrible, mirthless sound. It held all the bitterness of his mad, useless knowledge, of the ending he had failed to prevent. �Are you not sworn to obey him in all things, cousin? Are you not Tanaros Blacksword, his loyal General?�

�Aye,� Tanaros said. �But I think this task is yours, Dreamspinner.�

They exchanged a long glance. For a moment, they might have been alone in the Chamber. The Shaper�s words lay unspoken between them. They were of the Three, and some things did not need to be spoken aloud. �And her?� Ushahin asked at length, jerking his head toward Cerelinde. �Whose task is she?�

Tanaros raised his black sword. �Mine.�

�So be it.� Ushahin bowed his head briefly, then sheathed his blade and descended the stair. He crossed the crooked flagstones, dropping to his knees beside the Shaper�s form, laying the leather case containing the broken Helm gently beside him.

�I am here, my Lord,� he murmured. �I am here.�

Sword in hand, Tanaros watched.

In the dusky light, the Shaper�s body seemed wrought of darkness made manifest. Ushahin felt small and fragile beside him, his ill-formed figure a sorry mockery of the Shaper�s fallen splendor; all save his right arm, so beautifully and cruelly remade.

It fell to him, this hardest of tasks. Somehow it seemed he had always known it would. When all was said and done, in some ways his lot had always been the hardest. He had seen the pattern closing upon them. He had spoken with Calanthrag the Eldest. It was fitting. Kneeling on the flagstones, Ushahin leaned close, the ends of his moon-pale hair trailing in pools of black ichor.

�What is your will, my Lord?� he asked.

The Shaper�s lips parted. A terrible clarity was in his eyes, dark and sane, filled with knowledge and compassion. �Take it,� he breathed in reply, his words almost inaudible. �And make an end. The beginning falls to you, Dreamspinner. I give you my blessing.�

Ushahin�s shoulders shook. �Are you certain?�

The Shaper�s eyes closed. �Seek the Delta. You know the way.�

With a curse, Ushahin raised his right hand. It had been Shaped for this task. It was strong and steady. He placed it on the Shard�s crude knob of a hilt. Red light pulsed, shining between his fingers, illuminating his flesh.

It held the power to Shape the world anew, and he did not want it.

Even so, it was his.

�Farewell, my Lord,� Ushahin whispered, and withdrew Godslayer.

Darkness seethed through the Chamber. The Shaper�s form dwindled, vanishing as its essence coalesced slowly into shadow, into smoke, into a drift of obsidian ash. There was no outcry, no trembling of the earth, only a stirring in the air like a long-held sigh released and a profound sense of passage, as though between the space of one heartbeat and the next, the very foundation of existence had shifted.

Quietly, uneventfully, the world was forever changed.

Ushahin climbed to his feet, holding Godslayer. �Your turn, cousin,� he said, hoarse and weary.

The passageway was long and winding, and the marrow-fire that lit it grew dim, so dim that she had to feel her way by touch. But Tanaros had not lied; the passage was empty. Neither madlings nor Fjel traversed it. At the end, there was a single door.

Cerelinde fumbled for the handle and found it began to whisper a prayer to Haomane and found that the words would not come. The image of Satoris Banewreaker hung before her, stopping her tongue.

Still, the handle turned.

Golden lamplight spilled into the passage. The door opened onto palatial quarters filled with glittering treasure. Clearly, these were Vorax�s quarters, unlike any other portion of Darkhaven. Within, three mortal women leapt to their feet, staring. They were fair-haired northerners, young and comely after the fashion of Arahila�s Children.

�Vas leggis?� one asked, bewildered. And then, slowly, in the common tongue: �Who are you? What happens? Where is Lord Vorax?�

Tanaros had not lied.

It made her want to weep, but the Ellylon could not weep for their own sorrows. �Lord Vorax is no more,� Cerelinde said gently, entering the room. �And the reign of the Sunderer has ended in Urulat. I am Cerelinde of the House of Elterrion.�

�Ellyl!� The youngest turned pale. She spoke to the others in Staccian, then turned to Cerelinde. �He is dead? It is ended?�

�Yes,� she said. �I am sorry.�

And strangely, the words were true. Even more strangely, the three women were weeping. She did not know for whom they wept, Satoris Banewreaker or Vorax the Glutton. She had not imagined anyone could weep for either.

The oldest of the three dried her eyes on the hem of her mantle. �What is to become of us?�

There was a throne in the center of the room, a massive ironwood seat carved in the shape of a roaring bear. Cerelinde sank wearily into it. �Haomane�s Allies will find us,� she said. �Be not afraid. They will show mercy. Whatever you have done here, Arahila the Fair will forgive it.�

Her words seemed to hearten them. It should have gladdened her, for it meant that there was hope, that not all who dwelled within the Sunderer�s shadow were beyond redemption. And yet it did not.

What will you do?

What do you think? I will die, Cerelinde.

A great victory would be won here today. She would take no joy in it.

A shadow passed through the Defile, disturbing the shroud of webbing that hung from the Weavers� Gulch in tattered veils. The little grey weavers chittered in dismay, scuttling furiously, setting about their endless work of rebuilding and repair.

No one else noticed.

Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn rode the pathways between one thing and another; between waking and dreaming, between life and death, between the races of Lesser Shapers, between a dying Age and one being born.

He rode a blood-bay stallion, its coat the hue of drying gore, its mane and tail as black as the spaces between the stars. Lashed to his saddle was a leather case that contained a broken Helm, its empty eye-sockets gazing onto darkness.

And at his belt he bore a dagger wrought from a single Shard of the Souma, the Eye in the Brow of Uru-Alat. It was red, pulsing with its own inner light, and it would have betrayed his presence had he not wrapped it in shadow, in a cloak of the vague ambiguities that lay between victory and defeat, between pride and humility, between right and wrong.

Between all things.

He kept his thoughts shrouded as he rode, and no one challenged him as he passed beyond the Vale of Gorgantum.

Beyond him, the plains of Curonan stretched toward the east. He set out upon them, picking his way among the dead.

Overhead, there was a sound.

Glancing up, Ushahin-who-walks-between saw the raven circling and understood that it saw him in turn. He paused, waiting. It descended to land on his left shoulder, talons pricking. He sensed its sadness and looked into its thoughts as the Grey Dam of the Were had taught him long ago.

He saw death and knew he was the last of the Three.

The raven made a keening sound in its throat. He stroked its head, its errant tuft of feathers, with one crooked finger.

Soothed, the raven settled.

Ushahin-who-walks-between resumed his journey. He was pleased to have the raven�s company. Later, he would give thought to vengeance, to the new pattern taking shape in the world, to the role that had befallen him, to the promise he had made to Lord Satoris, to the memory of the nameless child he had once been, before a rock in a stranger�s fist had shattered his world.

Today, there was comfort in the simple communion of shared sorrow.

There would be time for the rest.

With his back to Darkhaven, Ushahin rode toward the Delta, where Calanthrag the Eldest awaited him.

In the Sundered World of Urulat, the sun set on an Age.

Tomorrow, a new one would dawn.