The Source, the true Source, lay some paces beyond the chasm itself. It was not so large, no larger than the circumference of the Well of the World. Indeed, it was similar in shape and size; a rounded hole in the foundation of the earth itself.
But from it, the marrow-fire roared upward in a solid blue-white column. High above, at its core, a spit of flame vanished through an egress in the ceiling. The Font, Tanaros thought, realizing he was beneath his Lordship’s very chambers. Elsewhere, the marrow-fire fanned outward in a blue-white inferno, flames illuminating the chasm, licking the walls, sinking into them and vanishing in a tracery of glowing veins.
And at the edge of the Source stood the Bearer.
It was the boy, the Charred lad he had seen in the Marasoumië. He had one hand on the clay vial strung about his throat and a look of sheer terror on his face. Even as Tanaros approached, he flung out his other hand.
“Stay back!” he warned.
“Dani,” Tanaros said softly. He remembered; he had always been good with names, and Malthus the Counselor had spoken the boy’s. So had Ngurra, whom he had slain. “What is it you think to do here, lad?”
Despite the heat, the boy was shivering. His eyes were enormous in his worn face. “Haomane’s will.”
“Why?” Tanaros took a step closer. The heat of the column was like a forge-blast against his skin. “Because Malthus bid you to do so?”
“In the beginning.” The boy’s voice trembled, barely audible above the roaring of the marrow-fire. “But it’s not that simple, is it?”
“No.” Something in the lad’s words made Tanaros’ heart ache, longing for what-might-have-been. In a strange way, it was comforting to hear them spoken by an enemy. It was true, after all was said and done, they were not so different. “No, lad, it’s not.” He drew a deep breath, taking another step. “Dani, listen. You need not do this. What has Haomane done that the Yarru should love him for it and do his bidding?”
The boy edged closer to the Source. “What has Satoris the Sunderer done that I should heed his will instead?”
“He left you in peace!” Tanaros said sharply. “Was it not enough? Until-” His voice trailed off as he watched the boy’s expression change, terror ebbing to be replaced by profound sorrow. Somehow, the boy knew. The knowledge lay there between them. In the roaring marrow-fire, it seemed Tanaros heard anew the pleas and cries of the dying Yarru, the sound of Fjel maces crunching. And he knew, then, that whatever conversation he might have hoped to hold with the lad, it was too late.
“Did you kill them yourself?” Dani asked quietly.
“Yes,” Tanaros said. “I did.”
The dark eyes watched him. “Why? Because Satoris bid you to do so?”
“No.” Gritting his teeth, Tanaros drew his sword and drew within reach of the boy. “I begged him. Old Ngurra, the old man. Give me a reason! Do you understand, lad? A reason to spare his life, his people; a reason, any reason! Do you know what he said?”
Dani smiled through the tears that spilled from his eyes, glittering on his brown skin. “Aye,” he whispered. “Choose.”
“Even so.” Tanaros nodded. “And I am sorry for it, as I am sorry for this, but his Lordship did not ask for this battle and I have a duty to do. Now remove the flask, and lay it gently upon the stone, Dani. Gently.”
The boy watched the rising arc of the black sword and his dark eyes were like the eyes of Ngurra, filled with knowledge and regret. “I will ask you what you asked my grandfather,” he said. “Give me a reason.”
“Damn you, I don’t want to do this!” Tanaros shouted at him. “Is your life not reason enough? Relinquish the flask!”
“No,” Dani said simply.
With a bitter curse, Tanaros struck at him. The black blade cut a swathe of darkness through the blinding light. Loosing his grip on the flask, Dani flung himself backward, teetering on the very edge of the Source, almost out of reach. The tip of Tanaros’ sword shattered the clay vessel tied around the lad’s throat, scoring the flesh beneath it.
Fragments of pit-fired clay flew asunder.
Water, clear and heavy, spilled from the shattered flask; spilled, glistening, in a miniature torrent, only to be caught in the Bearer’s cupped palms.
The Water of Life.
Its scent filled the air, clear and clean, heavy and mineral-rich, filled with the promise of green, growing things.
There was nothing else for it; no other option, no other choice. Only the slight figure of the Bearer silhouetted against the blazing column of blue-white fire with the Water of Life in his hands, his pale, scarred palms cupped together, holding the Water, the radiating lines joining to form a drowned star.
“I’m sorry,” Tanaros whispered, and struck again.
And Dani the Bearer took another step backward, into the Source itself.
He felt them die, all of them.
So many! It should not have mattered, not after so long; and yet, he had imbued so much of himself in this place. This place, these folk, this conflict. An infinite number of subtle threads bound him to them all; threads of fate, threads of power, threads of his very dwindling essence.
Godslayer hung in the Font of the marrow-fire, pulsing.
It tempted him. It tempted him well nigh unto madness, which was a cruel jest, for he had been losing that battle for many a century.
One of the first blows had been the hardest. Vorax of Staccia, his Glutton. One of his Three, lost. Oh, he had roared at that blow. The power that had stretched the Chain of Being to encompass the Staccian was broken, lost, bleeding into nothingness. Ah, he would miss Vorax! He was all the best and worst of Arahila’s Children combined; tirelessly venal, curiously loyal. Once, long ago, Vorax of Staccia had amused him greatly.
He would miss him.
He would miss them all.
Their lives, the brief lives—Men and Fjel—blinked out like candles. So they did, so they had always done. Never so many at once. Many of them cried his name as they died. It made him smile, alone in his darkness, and it made him gnash his teeth with fury, too.
Godslayer.
He remembered the feel of it in his palm when he’d taken to the battlefield ages ago. Striding, cloaked in shadow, blotting out the sky. Pitting its might against Haomane’s Weapons, his vile Counselors with their bloodred pebbles of Souma. There had been no Three, then; only the Fjel, the blessed Fjel.
And they had triumphed. Yet it had been a near thing, so near. Already, then, he had endured many long ages sundered from the Souma, wounded and bleeding. An Ellyl sword, stabbing him from behind. He had dropped the Shard. If the courage of Men had not faltered, if a Son of Altorus had not sounded the retreat too soon …
His hand was reaching for Godslayer. He made himself withdraw it.
It was the one thing he dared not do, the one thing he must not do. He was weaker now, far weaker, than he had been. If he risked it, it would be lost. The Counselor would reclaim it in his brother’s name, and Haomane would Shape the world in his image. That was the single thread of sanity to which he clung. He made himself remember what had gone before. The Souma, shattering. Oronin’s face as he lunged, the Shard glittering in his fist.
A gift for his Gift.
He had called the dragons, and they had come. Ah, the glory of them! All the brightness in the world, filling the sky with gouts of flame and winged glory. No wonder Haomane had Sundered the earth to put an end to it. But what a price, what a terrible price they had all paid for the respite.
There would be no dragons, not this time.