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.”
The wall was like a dragon’s spine, coiled and sinuous. It stretched for league upon league around Darkhaven, clinging with determination to every sinking valley and rising ridge in the Vale that surrounded Lord Satoris’ fortress.