The dragon scented the air through nostrils the size of dinner-plates. “Sheep,” he said, sounding satisfied. “In the northeast meadow. Three have lambed this day. I am hungry, Liliasss.”
“Then you shall feed, Calandor.”
“At nightfall,” the dragon said. “I will take wing. Two ewes, and one lamb.”
“It shall be so, Calandor.” Lilias had conferred with her head herdsman, as she did each spring. They knew, to a lamb, what losses the flock could sustain. The dragon knew it, too. She wondered at what game he played.
Calandor’s head swung around, swiveling on that sinuous neck, green eyes fixing on the Soldier. “You were to have been my rightful prey, Man! You whose numbers have overrun the earth.”
Tanaros shuddered and held fast. “I represent my Lord, not my race, Calandor.”
Twin jets of smoke emerged in a laugh. “The Shaper.”
“Yes,” Tanaros said. “The Shaper.”
The dragon lifted his massive head and stared westward, eyes slitting in the sun. “We aided Sssatoriss when the Sssouma was shattered, because he was a friend. Many of usss died for it, and Haomane became our Enemy. No more, we sssaid. But it was too late, and we too few, and I, I am one of the lasst. Do you asssk me now to die, Ssoldier?”
“No,” Tanaros said. “No! Eldest Brother, we will lay a trail to the doorstep of Beshtanag, yes. And when the Ellylon follow it, and the sons of Altorus and whatever allies they might gather, we will fall upon them from behind, the army of Darkhaven in all its strength, and it shall be ended. This I swear to you. Do you doubt it?”
Why, Lilias wondered, did she want to weep?
Calandor blinked, slowly. “I am not the Eldessst, Kingsslayer.”
“Nonetheless.” Tanaros’ voice hardened. “My lord Calandor, Dergail’s Soumanië has risen, and the signs of the Prophecy have begun. In a week’s time, Cerelinde of the Ellylon will plight her troth with Aracus Altorus, and across the land, Urulat prepares for war. Haomane himself only knows what mission Malthus the Counselor has undertaken. Where will you be, if Darkhaven falls? If Godslayer falls into the Counselor’s hands, if Urulat is made whole on Haomane’s terms? Do you think one mortal sorceress with a chip of the Souma can resist the Six Shapers? Where will you be then, Elder Brother?”
“Enough!” Lilias clapped her hands over her ears.
But the dragon only sighed.
“Then let them come, Kingssslayer,” he said. “You sspeak the truth. If I will not ssserve your cause, neither will I oppose it. Lay your falssse trail. Let them come, and make of uss the anvil on which your hammer may ssstrike. Does this please you?”
“My lord Calandor,” Tanaros said. “I am grateful. My Lord is grateful.”
“Yesss,” the dragon said. “Now go.”
FIVE
The old man squatted on his haunches, gazing at the stars.
Even in the small hours of night, the rock held enough sun-captured heat to warm his buttocks, though the naked soles of his feet were calloused and immune to warmth or cold. He watched the stars wheel slowly through their nocturnal circuit, counting through the long telling of his ancestors. There was a smell of water in his nostrils, iron-rich and heavy. Something scrabbled in the spiny thorn-brush. It might have been a hopping-mouse or a hunting lizard, though it was not. He was an Elder of the Yarru-yami, and he knew every sound in the Unknown Desert.
“Can you not leave me in peace, old woman?” the old man grumbled.
“Peace!” She emerged from the night to place herself before his rock, folding arms over withered dugs, her long, grey-white hair illuminated by starlight. “You would squat on this rock all night, old man, chewing gamal and watching the stars. You call that peace?”
After all these years, she was as spirited as the day he had met her. He smiled into his beard. “I do, old woman. If you’ll not let be, then join me.”
With a snort of disapproval, she clambered up the rock to squat at his side, groaning a little as her hipbones popped and creaked. He shifted to make room for her, digging into the worn pouch that hung at his waist and passing her a pinch of gamal. Her jaws worked, softening the dried fibers, working her mouth’s moisture into them. Eighty-three years old, and her teeth still strong, working the gamal into a moist wad to tuck into her cheek.
Side by side, they squatted and watched the stars.
Especially the red one low on the western horizon.
Her voice, when she spoke, was sombre. “It’s the choosing-time, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Coming fast.”
“The poor boy.” She shook her head. “Poor boy! There’s no fairness in it. He’s not fit to make such a choice. Who is?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t stop it from coming.”
She eyed him acerbically. “And how would you choose, old one?”
“Me?” He turned his hands over, examining his palms. Paler than the rest of his skin, they were leathery and creased, tanned like an old hide. Age had marked them, and wear, and the lines of mortality. Nothing else. “It’s not mine to choose.”
“I know,” she whispered. “Poor boy! I pray he chooses aright.”
The old man squatted and listened to the sounds of the desert, while the stars wheeled slowly overhead. He felt the slow, steady beat of his heart, winding down to its inevitable faltering, the blood coursing through his veins, as water coursed through the earth far, far below them. In the heart of the Unknown Desert, there was water, water from the deepest place, the oldest place.
Birru-Uru-Alat, the Navel, the Well of the World.
It had been forgotten by all save the Yarru, who had cause to remember. Long ago, Haomane’s Wrath had driven them beneath the earth, where they fled for shelter and in turn were given a trust. The Elders had kept the wisdom of Uru-Alat. When the boy was born with the markings on his hands, they had known. He was the Bearer, one who could carry the Water of Life, though it weighed heavier than stone or steel, as heavy as the burden of choice itself.
The Water of Life, which could extinguish the marrow-fire.
It would not be forgotten forever. A red star had risen and the Bearer was nearing manhood. The choosing-time would be upon him.
It was coming.
Tanaros choked back a gasp as he emerged in the Chamber of the Marasoumië beneath Darkhaven, his heart constricting with a sharp pain as the node-point closed, hurling his form back into the framework of mortality, stumbling and shaken, his senses blurred with the speed of his passage.
“Steady, cousin.” Vorax’s deep voice reassured him, a solid hand on his elbow, anchoring him in time and place. Tanaros blinked, waiting for his vision to clear, every bone in his body aching at the abrupt transition. The world seemed preternaturally slow after traveling the Ways. He stared at the Staccian’s beard, feeling he could number each auburn hair of it while the fleshy lips formed their next sentence. “Did the Sorceress consent?”
“Aye.” Seizing upon the question, he managed an answer. His chest loosened, normal breathing returning. “The lady and the dragon consented alike.”
“Well done.” Forgetting himself, Vorax thumped his shoulder with a proud grin. “Well done, indeed! His Lordship will be pleased.”
Tanaros winced as the edge of his spaulder bruised his flesh. “My thanks. What has transpired here, cousin?”