“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.”
By the second day, it seemed to Dani that his entire life had consisted of running, stumbling and exhausted, across a barren grey landscape. It was hard to remember there had ever been anything else. The sun, rising in the east and moving westward, meant nothing. Time was measured by the rasp of air in his dry throat, by one foot placed in front of another.
He would never have made it without Uncle Thulu. What vigor the Water of Life had imparted, his uncle was determined not to waste. He was Yarru-yami, and he knew the virtue of making the most of water. His desert-born flesh, accustomed to privation, hoarded the Water of Life. When Dani flagged, Uncle Thulu cajoled and exhorted him. When his strength gave way altogether, Thulu gathered moss while Dani rested, grinding it to a paste and making him eat until he found the will to continue.
On they went, on and on and on.
The terrain was unforgiving. Each footfall was jarring, setting off a new ache in every bone of Dani’s body, every weary joint. His half-healed collarbone throbbed unceasingly, every step sending a jolt of pain down his left arm. On those patches of ground where the moss cushioned his steps, it also concealed sharp rocks that bruised the tough soles of his feet.
When darkness fell, they slept for a few precious hours; then there was Uncle Thulu, shaking him awake.
“Come on, lad.” Rueful compassion was in his voice, coupled with a reserve of energy that made Dani want to curl up and weep for envy. “You can sleep when you’re dead! And if we wait, the Fjeltroll will see to it for you.”
So he rose and stumbled through the darkness, clutching a hank of his uncle’s shirt and following blindly, trusting Thulu to guide him, praying that no Fjel would find them. Not until the sky began to pale in the east could Dani be sure they were traveling in the right direction.
On the third day, it rained.
The rain came from the west, sluicing out of the sky in driving grey veils. And while it let them fill their bellies and drink to their heart’s content, it chilled them to the bone. It was a cold rain, an autumn rain. It rained seldom in the reach, but when it did, it rained hard. Water ran across the stony terrain, rendering moss slippery underfoot, finding no place to drain in a barren land. And there was nothing, not hare nor ptarmigan nor elk, to be found abroad in the downpour.
“Here, lad.” Uncle Thulu passed him a handful of spongy moss. They had found shelter of a sort; a shallow overhang. They stood with their backs pressed to the rock behind them. Rain dripped steadily from the overhang, a scant inch past the end of their noses. “Go on, eat.”
Dani thrust a wad of moss into his mouth and chewed. The more he chewed, the more it seemed to expand; perversely, the rainwater he had drunk made the moss seem all the drier, a thick, unwieldy wad. The effort of swallowing, of forcing the lump down his throat, made the clay vial swing on its spliced thong, banging at the hollow of his throat.
Uncle Thulu eyed it. “You know, Dani—”
“No.” Out of sheer weariness, he closed his eyes. With his right hand, he felt for the vial. “It’s not for that, Uncle. Anyway, there’s too little left.” Though his lids felt heavy as stones, Dani pried his eyes open. “Will you guide me?”
“Aye, lad,” Thulu said gruffly. “Until the bitter end.”
“Let’s go, then.” Still clutching the clay vial, Dani stumbled into the rain and Uncle Thulu followed, taking the lead.
After that, it was one step, one step, then another. Dani kept his head down and clung to his uncle’s shirt. The rain, far from relenting, fell with violent intent. It plastered his black hair to his head and dripped into his eyes. Overhead, clouds continued to gather and roil, heaping one upon another, building to something fearful. The dull grey sky turned ominous and dark.