“Which way, lad?” Uncle Thulu asked quietly.
Grasping the clay flask that hung about his neck, Dani bowed his head. Sunlight, he knew. Haomane’s Wrath could be terrible and impersonal, but he knew it. He was Yarru, and he understood. Darkness was another matter. Darkness, in which the Sunderer awaited; Satoris Banewreaker, who had slain his people, who wanted nothing more than for Dani to die so he could spill the Water of Life upon barren ground.
And more than anything else, Dani did not want to enter the shadow of those mountains. But he was the Bearer, and the burden of choice was upon him.
“Darkhaven,” he said. “We go toward Darkhaven.”
Uncle Thulu nodded. “So be it.”
They set out at a steady walk, the sun at their backs, trampling their shadows into the sweet-smelling grass. They did not speak of how entrance might be gained into the Vale of Gorgantum. For the moment, the journey alone sufficed.
Hours later, the mountains scarcely seemed closer. Distances were as deceiving on the plains as they were in the desert. What it was that made Dani glance over his shoulder toward the eastern horizon, he could not have said. Regret, perhaps, or simple longing. It had crossed his mind that if the plains were not so immense, they might find Malthus in the east; Malthus, whose wisdom could guide him.
What he saw made him shudder.
“Uncle.” His nails bit into Thulu’s arm. “Look.”
Ravens; a flock of ravens. A long way off, a smudge of darkness against the bright sky, but coming fast. Dani remembered how a trio of ravens had found them in the marshy land on the outskirts of Vedasia, circling high above them. How Malthus’ voice had risen like thunder, giving warning. The eyes of the Sunderer are upon us! How Fianna had leapt from the saddle; the Archer of Arduan, the longbow singing in her hands. One, two, three, and her arrows had streaked skyward, striking down the Sunderer’s spying eyes.
Not here.
“Run,” said Thulu, and they ran without thought, sprinting over the plains, the long grass lashing their legs. There was no cover, not so much as a shrub. Nowhere to hide. Once the ravens spotted them, there would be Fjeltroll; hundreds of them. Thousands. And the Slayer, the man on the black horse, who had drawn his black blade to kill Malthus in the Marasoumië. Dani’s heart pounded in his chest In the forests of Pelmar, he had watched mice scurry beneath the shadow of a hunting owl’s wings. Perhaps it was a swifter death than being swallowed by a snake, but the terror was worse.
If there was any chance he survived this ordeal, he decided, he would never hunt hopping-mice again.
The thought made him careless; his foot struck something hard and stony, hidden by the thick grass, and he fell headlong. Both hands rose instinctively to protect the clay vial as he struck the ground hard, the impact jarring the breath from him. He fumbled at the vial. It was unbroken, but the cork stopper had been knocked partially loose, and moisture gleamed on its exposed surface. With frantic fingers, Dani shoved it back in place. Only then did the constriction in his chest ease, and his breath returned in a sobbing gasp. He could smell the Water of Life in the air, its clean, mineral essence rising like a beacon.
“Are you all right?” Uncle Thulu’s voice was taut.
“Aye.” Dani glanced down at the object that had tripped him. It was the lip of a ventilation shaft. He felt for the grass rope he had woven, coiled in his pack. “Uncle. Surely we must have cleared the blockage.”
Their eyes met, a spark of hope leaping between them; then Thulu shook his head. “Without the rockpile beneath us, the rope’s too short,” he said wearily. “The fall from the shaft would kill us. Even if it wasn’t”—he gestured around—“there’s naught to anchor the rope, lad.”
Dani bowed his head, stroking the rope’s plaited length. A trace of moisture glistened on his fingertips. His pulse quickened, and he began to chant the Song of Being under his breath.
“Lad,” Thulu began, then fell silent as the rope began to grow beneath Dani’s fingertips, stalks seeding and sprouting, stretching and growing in ever-lengthening plaits, young and strong and green. One end sprouted roots, pale tendrils questing in the open air.
Still chanting, Dani risked a glance toward the east. The ravens were coming; no longer a smudge, but a wedgeshaped cloud, soaring and wheeling, mighty enough to cast a shadow on the plains. It rode before them on the grass, darkness moving over the waves, veering in their direction. Something had caught their attention; perhaps movement, perhaps the scent of the Water of Life itself, faint and rising.
His voice faltered, then continued. There was no other avenue of escape. In one swift gesture, he stabbed the rope’s end into the cold soil, feeling the tendrils take root, sending their shoots into the dark earth. The plaited stalks continued to lengthen and twine, whispering like a snake’s coils between his palms. He tugged once, experimentally. The rope was firmly rooted.
“It will never hold us,” Uncle Thulu said flatly.
“It will,” Dani said. “It has to.”
He did not offer this time, but simply went, clearing away the overgrown grass and clambering into the shaft. The rope felt sturdy in his hands, though he could hear the hoarse, dry rustle of its growth echoing in the shaft.
Hand over hand, Dani lowered himself into darkness.
It was a narrower shaft than the other. His elbows scraped the sides, and he prayed Uncle Thulu would fit. It was a relief when he cleared the shaft, dangling in the empty darkness. Ignoring his aching shoulder for the hundredth time, he went as quickly as he dared, fearful despite his assurance that the rope would end before his feet touched the floor of the tunnel.
It didn’t.
“Uncle!” he called. “Hurry!”
What faint light the shaft admitted was blocked by Thulu’s body. Muffled sounds of scraping and banging ensued, accompanied by a muttered stream of Yarru invective. Dani clutched the rope to hold it steady, his heart in his throat until he saw daylight once more and, at the apex of the tunnel, his uncle’s battered figure clinging to the rope, lowering himself at a dangerous pace.
Then he was down, a broad grin visible on his dark face. “Think I left half my skin on that damned rock, lad!”
“Did they see us?” Dani asked anxiously.
Thulu shook his head. “I don’t think so. Uru-Alat, boy! You were as quick as a rabbit. I followed as best I could.” He touched Dani’s shoulder. “Well done, Bearer.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.” He hugged Uncle Thulu, wrapping both arms around his solid warmth, feeling his embrace returned. For a moment, the world was a familiar place, safe and loving.
“So am I, Dani.” Thulu’s breath stirred his hair. “So am I.” Squeezing Dani’s arms, he released him. “You know it only gets harder, don’t you?” His expression had turned somber. “We left the torches in the other tunnel. In a dozen paces, we’ll be traveling blind into Darkhaven. And I do not know the way, or what branchings lie along it.”
“I know. And I am afraid. But you are my guide, and I trust you to guide me.” Dani laughed softly, stroking the grass-plaited rope that hung beside him. “I have been traveling blind from the beginning, Uncle. It is only now I begin to see, at least a little bit.”
The plaited rope shivered beneath his touch. It was dwindling, the sere grass stalks crackling as they returned to their natural length. There had not been enough of the Water of Life to sustain its impossible growth, not with winter’s breath at their necks. Dani released it, and the Yarru watched in silence as it shrank, the loose end retreating into the dimly lit shaft high above their heads.