Turin was no tracker, to hold a place in his mind and chart a path through it unerring, but he’d seen a map of the Delta in Lord Satoris’ Warchamber. It wasn’t that large. Even on foot, even at this pace, they should have reached the far edge. Following Hunric, he counted on his fingers. How many days had it been? At least eight since Mantuas had died.

That was too many.

Had they been walking in circles? It was hard to tell, here. One had to follow the waterways, winding around mangroves. It was impossible to keep in a fixed location relative to the sun’s course, and there were no landmarks by which to chart one’s progress, only endless swamp. Hunric was the best, of course. But Hunric … Hunric was changed, and Turin was afraid. Reaching behind him, he groped at his pack, feeling for the pouch containing Lord Vorax’s gold coins. Still there, solid and real. It was enough to buy them lodging in Pelmar, enough to purchase a pair of swift horses, enough to bribe their way to Beshtanag if need be.

All they had to do was make their way out of this cursed swamp.

A bright-green snake looped along a branch lifted its head to stare at him with lidless eyes. Turin fought down a rush of fear, splashing doggedly past it. By all the Shapers, it stank here! Ahead of him, Hunric hummed, deep and tuneless. The sound worked on his nerves. There was a leech clinging to his thigh and his sodden short-breeches chafed. Why this desire? If he’d had a woman, any woman, he would have coupled in the muck with her. Even the thought of it filled his mouth with a salty rush of taste. Any woman. One of Vorax’s handmaids or the withered flesh of the Dreamspinner’s oldest madling, it didn’t matter.

Or his own sister, Turin thought, remembering how he had seen her last, yellow braids pinned in a coronet, bidding him farewell. Or—oh, Haomane help him!—the Lady of the Ellylon. Ah, Shapers! Slung over the General’s pommel, her pale hair trailing. Sprawled on the greensward, helpless and unaware, her white limbs stirring as the General removed her cloak. He had worn that cloak himself, still warm and scented by her body.

Unable to suppress himself, Turin groaned aloud.

“You feel it.” Hunric glanced over his shoulder, eyes shining. “We’re near the heart of it, Turin. The heart of the Delta! I told you Lord Satoris’ Gift lived in this place.”

“No.” He swallowed with an effort. His tongue felt thick. “This isn’t right. It’s tainted. It shouldn’t be like this.”

The tracker shrugged. “Oh, there’s death in it, all right. What do you expect? Godslayer struck him to the quick. Nothing could be the same. But it’s still here.”