“I’m smaller and lighter,” Dani said. “I’ll go first.”
Thulu nodded, fidgeting with his pack. “You know, lad, a drop of the Water—”
“No.” Dani shook his head, touching the flask. “We can’t, Uncle. I don’t dare. I don’t even know if there’s enough left for … for what I’m supposed to do. Will you at least try? If I can do it, you can.”
Uncle Thulu sighed. “Go on, then.”
There was only one way to do it. Squirming under the opening, Dani stood up inside the ventilation shaft. If he craned his head, he could see the stars. It seemed a longer way up than it had at first glance. Setting his back firmly against one wall of the shaft, he braced his legs on the opposite wall and began to inch his way upward.
It was torturous going. He had underestimated; underestimated the distance, the difficulty, the sheer exhaustion of his muscles. Within minutes, his legs were cramping and his breath was coming hard. It made him thirsty, and he could not help but think about the Water of Life and the scent of it, the scent of all life and green growing things. Three drops, and Uncle Thulu had healed almost as completely as though he had never been injured, had gained the energy to run and run and run without tiring, carrying Dani on his back. It wouldn’t take that much to make this climb infinitely easier.
One drop. How much harm would it do to take one drop of the Water? To restore vigor to his weary body, to uncramp his painful muscles, to quench his parched tissues, to erase the plaguing ache near his collarbone.
The temptation was almost overwhelming. Gritting his teeth, Dani remembered how much had spilled in Neherinach, where the Fjeltroll had caught them. Rivulets of water, gleaming silver in the sunlight, trickling over the Fjel’s horny palm. If it hadn’t … perhaps. But it had, and there was too little left to waste; not unless it was a matter of life or death. It wasn’t, not yet.
He forced himself to keep inching upward, to remember instead the look of stark disbelief in the eyes of the last Fjel to die, the one who had spoken to him. The Water of Life was not to be taken lightly; never, ever. Old Ngurra had told him that many times. In the womb of the world, Life and Death were twins. To invoke one was to summon the other’s shadow.
Inch by inch, Dani of the Yarru resisted temptation and climbed.
He had not known his eyes were clenched shut until he felt the tickle of grass upon his face and a cold wind stirring his hair and realized he had reached the top of the shaft. An involuntary cry escaped him as he opened his eyes.
“Dani!” Uncle Thulu’s voice sounded ghostly far below. “Are you all right?”
“Aye!” He shouted down between his braced legs. “Uncle, it’s beautiful!”
In a final surge of strength, he wriggled upward a few more inches and got his arms free of the shaft, levering his body out and onto solid earth. For a moment, Dani simply lay on his back, willing his muscles to uncramp. The sky overhead seemed enormous, a vast black vault spangled with a million stars, and Arahila’s moon floating in it like a pale and lovely ship. In the distance there were mountains, tall and jagged, but all around there was nothing but grass; a sea of grass, sweet-smelling, silvery in the moonlight, swaying in waves.
“All right, lad!” Thulu’s words echoed faintly from the shaft “My turn.”
Dani rolled onto his belly and peered down. “One inch at a time, Uncle.” Reaching to one side, he tore out a handful of grass. “Just keep moving.”
It was impossible, of course. He had known that before he’d made it halfway up the shaft. Uncle Thulu, he suspected, had known it all along. He was thin enough to fit in the shaft, but too big to make the climb. His longer limbs would be too cramped. His muscles, supporting his greater weight, would begin to quiver. He would be forced to give up and tell Dani to continue on his own. Dani should have given him a drop of the Water of Life. Now, it was too late.
Sitting upright, Dani began plaiting grass.
It was not as sturdy as thukka-vine, but it was strong and pliant. Head bowed, he worked feverishly. Over and under, fingers flying. It was one of the earliest skills the Yarru learned. From time to time he paused, wrenching up more handfuls of the tough, sweet-smelling plains grass, weaving new stalks into his pattern. Arahila’s moon continued to sail serenely across the sky, and a length of plaited rope emerged steadily beneath his hands.
“Dani.” Uncle Thulu’s voice, low and exhausted, emerged from the shaft. “Dani, lad.”
“I know.” He peered over the edge and saw his uncle’s figure lodged in place. Thulu had not quite made it halfway. “Stay where you are.” Kneeling, he paid out the rope, hand over hand. It dangled, a few inches too short. “Can you hold on a little while longer?”
“Dani, listen to me …” Angling his head, Thulu saw the rope and fell silent. Moonlight caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “Ah, lad!”
“Hold on,” Dani repeated, coiling the rope. “A little while.”
The words of the Song of Being whispered through his mind as he worked. Although his lips were silent, he spoke them with his fingertips, plaiting grass into rope; each strand, each loop, each growing inch a prayer to Uru-Alat. He did not measure a second time. The rope was a prayer. It would be as long as the prayer. That was the length that was needed.
When it was done, he knelt beside the shaft and lowered the rope. Wedged between the walls, Uncle Thulu braced himself in place with his legs and lashed the rope around his waist, tying it securely.
“Ready?” Dani called.
Thulu nodded. “Ready.”
Dani got to his feet. He could feel the words of the Song of Being beneath his hands, chanting in his veins. As he hauled, slowly and steadily, hand over hand, he listened to them. There was wisdom in them, old Ngurra had said; the secrets of Life and Death, twined together in the death of Uru-Alat the World God and the birth of the world. Dani was not wise enough to understand them. But he was trying.
It was part of the Bearer’s burden.
Arahila’s moon was riding low when Thulu clambered clear of the shaft. As Dani had done, he could do no more than roll onto the grass and stare at the stars. For his part, Dani dropped where he stood and sat heavily in the grass. He felt as though his limbs were made of stone. It was a long time before he could summon the strength to speak. “Where are we, Uncle?”
Thulu sat up with an effort, rubbing the aching, cramped muscles of his legs and glanced around him. “The plains of Curonan, lad.”
“And Darkhaven?”
Thulu pointed westward across the plains, toward the distant mountains that rose, black and jagged, blotting out the stars. “There.”
THE CANDLES BURNED LOW IN Hyrgolf’s chamber, until the rocky niches held little more than blue flames dancing above puddles of tallow. For long hours, they had conferred on matters regarding the defense of Darkhaven; the posting of sentries, scouting parties of Gulnagel, inspections of the tunnels, manning of the fortifications, battletactics useful against Men and Ellylon and Dwarfs. The night was already old when Hyrgolf rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a half-empty skin of svartblod.
“General,” he said, holding it forth in one enormous hand. “Drink.”
Tanaros hesitated, then accepted it. Uncorking the skin, he took a deep swig. It burned all the way down to his belly, and the foul taste made his eyes water. “My thanks!” he gasped, handing it back.
The Tungskulder Fjel studied him. “I have never smelled fear on you before.”
“Fear.” Tanaros gave a harsh laugh, his throat seared by the svartblod’s heat. “Hyrgolf, my skin crawls with it. There is too much I mislike afoot in this place.”
“The Dreamspinner’s betrayal troubles you,” Hyrgolf said.
“Yes.” Tanaros met his eyes; the Fjel’s familiar gaze, small as a boar’s and steady as a rock. “More than I can say, for I fear there is reason in his madness. Would you do such a thing, Hyrgolf? Would you defy his Lordship’s will and betray his wishes if it would avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single
stroke?”
“No,” Hyrgolf said simply. “I do not have the wisdom to meddle in the affairs of Shapers. The Fjel made their choice long ago, General. Haomane’s Prophecy binds us to it.” He smiled with hideous gentleness. “How did you tell me it went? The Fjeltroll shall fall.”
“Yet you do not fear,” Tanaros murmured.
“Death in battle?” Hyrgolf shook his massive head. “No, not that. Lord Satoris …” He paused, raising the skin to drink. “He made us a promise, once. He said one day Men would covet our gifts.” Lowering the skin, he handed it back to Tanaros. “He said Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped us well.”
“She did.” Tanaros took another scalding swig. “She did at that, Marshal.” He wiped his lips and sighed. “Do you think we are so different in the end, Hyrgolf? You and I, Haomane’s Allies?”
“No.” The Fjel shrugged his heavy shoulders, gazing past Tanaros at the crudely carved rhios in a niche behind one of the dwindling candles. His boy’s first effort. Not bad for a mere pup, eh? “Not in the end, General.” He smiled ruefully, a shadow beneath the dense ridge of his brow. “Problem is, we seem to be somewhere in the middle, don’t we?”
“Aye.” Tanaros got unsteadily to his feet, returning the skin to Hyrgolf. He clapped one hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, reassured by the solid warmth of it, the unwavering loyalty. “His Lordship has the right of it, Hyrgolf. Even now, I envy you.”
“General.” Hyrgolf heaved his massive body upright. His taloned hands were surprisingly delicate as they closed around Tanaros’ arm. “Go, and sleep. You have need of it. His Lordship has need of you.”
“He entrusted me with his honor,” Tanaros whispered.
“Aye.” Hyrgolf nodded. “He is wise that way. And you entrust us with yours.”
Tanaros shivered. “At what price, Hyrgolf?”
The Fjel smiled one last time, sad and slow. “I do not think that is ever given to us to know, General. We rejoice in it, for it is all we have, all we have chosen.” He gave Tanaros a gentle shove, and the advice given to the rawest of recruits. “Go now, and sleep. You will feel better once the battle is joined.”
Tanaros went, stumbling slightly. Outside, the cold air struck like a blow, diminishing the intoxicating effects of the svartblod he had drunk. He gazed at the horizon, where Arahila’s moon swam low, a tarnished silver coin, and remembered the night his Lordship had first called them to the tower to see the red star that had arisen. His soft words, the pain in his voice.
Oh, Arahila!
“Why didn’t you stay at his side?” Tanaros, wavering on his feet, addressed the moon. “You, any of you! Neheris, whom the Fjel still worship! Were you frightened? Is that it? Was Haomane Lord-of-Thought that powerful? What did you know that his Lordship did not?”
There was no answer, only a pair of Mørkhar Fjel on patrol, confirming his identity and giving him a wide berth.
Tanaros laughed softly. The air was cold, but the svartblod in his veins insulated him from it. Although he was not drunk, his flesh felt warm. “Or what did he know that Haomane First-Born did not?” he asked the moon. “Tell me that, O my Shaper!”
Light, only light; the light of the Souma, a lesser light, but no less lovely for it. It shed its silent benison. Things grew by it; things that blossomed in his Lordship’s gardens. Tanaros sighed and set his feet on a homeward course.
“He loves you still,” he informed the moon, glancing over his shoulder. “But he has made his choices. As I have made mine, as the Fjel have made theirs. The difference is, we made them freely. And he allowed us to do it. The Lord-of-Thought would not have done as much.”
The moon, the beautiful moon, made no reply.
FOURTEEN
DAWN BROKE OVER THE PLAINS of Curonan, a glorious and terrifying sight. The sun’s red orb crept slowly over the eastern horizon, staining the waving grass until it resembled a sea of blood. To the west, the mountains of Gorgantum threw up a defiant challenge, their implacable peaks shrouded in darkness.
At night, drenched in silvery moonlight, the plains had been a safe and magical place. It was different by daylight, with the eye of Haomane’s Wrath opening in the east and the baleful shadow of Gorgantum to the west. Caught between the two on the vast, open space of the plains, Dani felt horribly conspicuous.
“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 t
he 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.