He was not at all what she had expected.
The white sliver of the new moon was bright enough to cast shadows.
The old man shook his head, watching the strangers stumble into the Stone Grove. Half dead, most of them, past caring that they entered a sacred place. One crumpled, unable to walk another step; another knelt beside her, breathing hard through his mouth. Foolish, wasting his breath’s moisture in the desert, but what else were they to do with those tiny nostrils?
One stayed upright through sheer will, glancing at the tall rocks surrounding the empty circle, eyes suspicious by moonlight. The old man smiled. Stubborn, that one. He must be the appointed guardian. And the others …
“Ngurra!” His wife’s whisper tickled his ear with delight. “Look! One of the Haomane-gaali.”
And so it was, tall and fair, wrought with such grace that thirst and hunger only stripped him to a translucent beauty, his Shaper’s intended essence. Ngurra clicked his tongue. Fair, yes, but could Haomane’s Children find water in the desert? No.
One of the strangers could, though; their old one—or at least, where he could not find it, he could compel it. And he’d done so, the old wizard. From Dry Basin to Lizard Rock, across the Basking Flats, he’d done it, calling drought-eaters from barren sand. The desert was leached where they had passed, struggling for survival. The old man felt it, himself; there, above his third rib, a dull ache where Thornbrake Bore had run dry.
“Did you see—?” his wife whispered.
“Shhh.” He hushed her. “Watch. They have found it.”
It was their old one, their wizard. He leaned on his staff, bowing his head. One hand fumbled beneath the moonlit spill of his beard, drawing forth the Soumanië. It shone like a red star in his hand. The wizard raised his head, gazing at the pile of rocks in the center of the Stone Grove. “It is here,” he said softly. “Ah, Haomane! The Unknown made Known. Blaise, Peldras, come.”
Together, they clambered over the rocks. What they found there, every member of the Yarru knew full well. A cleft, ringed round with rocks, opening onto unfathomable depths, and from it emerging a breath of water, heavy, with a strong mineral tang. A battered tin bucket, sitting atop an endless coil of rope. A faint sigh whispered around the Stone Grove.
“Is it … ?” asked the one called Blaise.
“It is the Well of the World and the Navel of Uru-Alat” The wizard’s voice held awe. “‘Try though they may, one and all, by no hand save the appointed Bearer …’” He halted his recitation. “Let us try, then, and see.”
Among the rocks surrounding Stone Grove, the Yarru chuckled, a soft, soughing sound, like the shifting of desert sands. Ngurra rested on his haunches, watching as the strangers fed the tin bucket into Birru-Uru-Alat, the hole at the center of the world. Down and down and down it went, on a coiling rope of thukka-vine. He counted the heartbeats, waiting as the rope uncoiled.
Down …
Down …
Down.
Almost, the strangers gave up after long minutes, for there seemed no end to the coiling rope. Ngurra knew how long it was. He had measured it, cubit by cubit, all the days of his life. That was his charge, as chieftain of the Stone Grove Clan. His grandmother, who had been chieftainess before him, had passed it to him, along with her knowledge. Maintain the rope, inch by inch. It was one of his charges.
A faint splash in the night.
“Water,” said Peldras the Haomane-gaali, lying prone above the opening. His ears were sharper than those of Men. “The bucket has struck water, Counselor.”
One after another, they tried it. Blaise, the appointed guardian, tried it first, grunting in the moonlight, muscles straining as he sought to raise the bucket. Then the Haomane-gaali Peldras tried, and fared no better. The wizard tried, too, muttering spells that availed him naught, but earned a silent chuckle from the watching Yarru. In the end, they all tried, the whole of Malthus’ Company, even the thirsting Archer and the bone-weary Knight, laying hands on the rope together and hauling as one. Yet, even as a whole, bone and muscle and sinew cracking, they failed.
The laden bucket was too heavy to raise.
“Enough,” whispered their old one, their wizard. “We have tried, one and all, and fulfilled the letter of the Prophecy.” Laying down his staff, he cupped the Soumanië in both hands. His voice grew strong as he spoke the words of the choosing, and the ruddy glow of the chip of the Souma grew, spilling from between his cupped hands to illuminate the Stone Grove. “Yarru-yami! Charred Ones! Children of Haomane’s wrath! I call upon you now in his name. Lend us your aid!”
“Time and gone he asked,” Warabi muttered.
“Hush, old woman!” Ngurra glared at her. She wouldn’t understand the common tongue if he hadn’t taught it to her himself. “Kindle the torch.”
Still muttering, she obeyed, striking flint to iron. The oil-rich fibers of the bugy-stick sputtered and lit, sending a signal. All around the perimeter of the Stone Grove, bugy-stick torches caught and kindled as, one by one, members of the Six Clans of the Yarru revealed themselves.
Ngurra stepped before the torches, gazing down at the small figures gathered around the Birru-Uru-Alat, their shadows stark on the sand. “The Yarru are here,” he called in the common tongue, the language his grandmother had taught him. “As we have always been, since before the earth was scorched. What do you seek?”
Malthus the Counselor opened his arms, showing himself weaponless, offering himself as surety. The Soumanië shone like a red star upon his breast. “Speaker of the Yarru, I greet you. We come seeking the Bearer.”
In the night, someone gasped.
For two more days, they traveled through the tunnels.
Truth be told, Tanaros had never been comfortable in them. They reminded him, too acutely, that Urulat was old, older than his lifespan, unnatural as it was, could reckon. Dragons had carved them, it was said; whether or not it was true, dragons did not acknowledge. Still, they served their purpose for the armies of Darkhaven.
It was harder, with the Lady of the Ellylon.
Vast as they were—broad enough at all times for two horses to ride abreast, and sometimes three-the tunnels. were dark and stifling, a mass of earth pressing above at all times. At times, when it was far between vents, the air grew thick and the torches guttered, burning low. Then it was worse, and even Tanaros fought panic, his chest working to draw air into his lungs.
The Fjel, rock-delvers by nature of their Shaping, were untroubled. Their eyes were well suited to darkness and they could slow the very beat of their hearts at need, breathing slow and deep, moving unhurried at a steady pace, carrying heavy packs of supplies. Brute wisdom, mindless and physical, attuned to survival. Even the horses, bred in the Vale of Gorgantum to fear no darkness, endured without panic.
It was different for Men, who thought overmuch.
It was worst of all for the Ellyl.
Tanaros saw, and sympathized against his will. It was simpler, much simpler, to despise her. Ushahin Dreamspinner managed it without effort, his face twisted with pure and absolute despite when he deigned glance her way. By all rights, the Dreamspinner should have hated the tunnels, being human and Ellyl, a creature of open skies. But he was a child of the Were as well, and at home underground.
Not so the Lady Cerelinde.
Her face, by torchlight, was pale, too pale. Skin stretched taut over bones Shaped like lines of poetry, searing and gorgeous. Haomane’s Child. Even here, her beauty made the heart ache. Her eyes were wide, swallowed up by darkness. From time to time her pale fingers scrabbled at her throat, seeking to loosen the clasp of a rough-spun wool cloak someone had loaned her on the first day; Hyrgolf, at a guess.