“Nor do I suggest it,” Ingolin said gently. “Son of Altorus, did I not say there were glad tidings among the sorrowful?” Turning in his chair, the Lord of the Rivenlost beckoned to an attendant, who came forward to set a gilded coffer on the table before him. It was inlaid with gems, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma.
“That is the casket Elterrion the Bold gave to Ardrath, Haomane’s Counselor, is it not?” the Lady Nerinil inquired.”
“Yes.” Ingolin nodded. “And it passed to Malthus, who gave it to me. ‘Ward it well, old friend,’ he told me, ‘for I have attuned the humble stone within it to the Gem I bear. If it kindles, you may know we have succeeded.’”
And so saying, he opened the casket.
It blazed.
It blazed with light, a rough shard of tourmaline, spilling pale blue light across the polished surface of the table like water in the desert. Incontrovertible and undeniable, the signal of Malthus the Counselor shone like a beacon.
“The Unknown,” said Ingolin, “is made Known.”
And he told them of the Water of Life.
Stripped to their breeches and sweating, the riders straggled along the riverbank, each picking his path through sedge grass. Insects rose in buzzing clouds at their passage, and even the horses of Darkhaven shuddered, flicking their tails without cease. Little else lived along the lower reaches of the Verdine River, which flowed torpid and sluggish out of the stagnant heart of the Delta itself.
“Sweet Arahila have mercy! I’d give my left stone for a good, hard frost.”
Snicker, snicker. “Might as well, Vilbar. It’s no use to you.”
“A sodding lot you know! I’ve had girls wouldn’t give you a drink in the desert”
“Wishing don’t make it so.”
“Wish we were in the desert. At least it would be dry.”
“Wish I had a girl right now. This heat makes me pricklish.”
“Have a go at Turin, why don’t you? He’s near pretty enough.”
“Sod you all!”
“Quiet!” At the head of their ragged column, Carfax turned to glare at his men. They drew rein and fell into muttering silence. “Right,” he said. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. If you think this is bad, wait until we get into the Delta. In the meantime, save your breath and keep your flapping jaws shut.”
“Who’s going to hear us out here, lieutenant?” Mantuas gestured, indicating the broad expanse of sedge grass, the open sky. “The local frog-hunters? There’s not a living soul in shouting distance! Vedasian patrols wouldn’t bother getting their gear muddy this close to the stinking Verdine. Look around you, there’s …” He stopped, staring.
To the west, three specks in the sky.
“Ravens,” someone breathed.
“Hey!” Turin dragged the Lady Cerelinde’s cloak from his saddlebag, waving it in the air. “The Dreamspinner must have sent them to find us, lieutenant. Mayhap they carry a message. Here!” he shouted, waving the white cloak. Gilt embroidery and tiny rubies flashed in the sun. “We’re over here!”
High above, a half league to the west, the ravens paused, circling.
“Over here!” Turin shouted. “Here!”
“Idiot!” Carfax jammed his heels into his mount’s sides, plowing through the sedge grass to snatch the cloak away. “They’re not looking for us.”
“Then what” Turin shoved his fist against his teeth. “Ah, no!”
A faint streak, tipped with a spark of sunlit steel; one, two, three. Arrows, shot into the sky, arcing impossibly high, impossibly accurate. A burst of feathers, small bundles of darkness plummeting; one, two, three.
“Haomane’s Allies.” Mantuas swallowed. “You think they found the ship, lieutenant? Are they after us?”
“They couldn’t have found the damned ship.” It had been near dusk on the second day at sea when Carfax had dispatched the captain of the Ilona’s Gull, planting a dagger in the side of his throat. An ignoble death, but a swift one. His men had seen to the crew, and together, under cover of darkness, they’d gotten the ship headed north, making landfall the next day at the fetid, uninhabited mouth of the Verdine. “Why would they look there?”
Turin retrieved the Ellyl cloak and folded it away, not meeting his eyes. “We were seen crossing the Traders’ Road, lieutenant.”
“We were supposed to be seen. Heading north, overland to Pelmar.” Carfax passed a hand over his face, found it oily with sweat. If he looked anything like his men, he looked a mess, the walnut dye darkening his skin to a Pelmaran hue streaking in the humid heat. That had been the last effort of their pretense, crossing the old overland trade route that ran between Seahold and Vedasia. Since then, they’d seen no other travelers and had let their guises fail. “We’ve made good time. They couldn’t have followed that quickly.”
“Well, someone did.”
They watched him, waiting; waiting on him, Carfax of Staccia. His comrades, his countrymen. There was no one else in command in this desolate, humid wasteland. What, Carfax thought, would General Tanaros do if he were here?
“Right,” he said smartly. “Someone did. Let’s find out who.”
They had reached the Defile’s Maw.
It was aptly named, a dark, gaping mouth in the center of the jagged peaks that reared out of the plains, surrounding and protecting the Vale of Gorgantum. They looked to have been forced out of the raw earth by violent hands, those mountains; in a sense, it was true, for Lord Satoris had raised them. It was his last mighty act as a Shaper, drawing on the power of Godslayer before he placed the shard of the Souma in the flames of the marrow-fire. It had nearly taken the last reserves of his strength, but it had made Darkhaven into an unassailable fortress.
Tanaros breathed deep, filling his lungs with the air of home. All around him, he saw the Fjel do the same, hideous faces breaking into smiles. The Staccians relaxed, sitting easier in the saddle. Even Ushahin Dreamspinner gave a crooked smile.
“We are bound there?”
He studied the Lady Cerelinde, noting the apprehension in her wide-set eyes. They were not grey, exactly. Hidden colors whispered at the edges of her pleated irises; a misty violet, luminous as the inner edge of a rainbow. “It is safe, Lady. Hyrgolf’s Fjel will not let us fall.”
She clutched the neck of her rough-spun cloak and made no answer.
Kaldjager Fjel ran ahead up the narrow path, bodies canted forward and loping on knuckled forelimbs, pausing to raise their heads and sniff the wind with broad nostrils. They climbed the steep path effortlessly, beckoning for their comrades to follow.
“Lady,” Hyrgolf rumbled, gesturing.
One by one, they followed, alternating Fjel and riders. The horses of Darkhaven picked their way with care, untroubled by the sheer drops, the steep precipice that bordered the pathway. Below them, growing more distant at each step, lay the empty bed of the Gorgantus River. Only a trickle of water coursed its bottom, acrid and tainted.
At the top of the first bend, one of the Kaldjager gave a sharp, guttural call.
A pause, and it was answered.
It came from the highest peaks, a wordless roar, deep and deafening. Thunder might make such a sound, or rocks, cascading in avalanche. It rattled bones and thrummed in the pits of bellies, and Tanaros laughed aloud to hear it.
“Tordenstem Fjel,” he shouted in response to the panicked glance Cerelinde threw him over her shoulder. “Have no fear! They are friends!”