“Hunric.” Turin, itching and aching and scared, tightened his throat at the sudden sting of tears. “I don’t care, do you understand? If there were power in this place that Lord Satoris could use, he would be here, not in Darkhaven. I’m tired, sodden and miserable. All I want to do is find a dry place to make camp, and press on to Pelmar.”

All around them, the lowering sun washed the Delta with ruddy gold, glimmering on the standing water. Hunric watched it with awe, fingering his handmade spear. Where was his sword? “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

“Hunric!” It was all he could do not to cry.

“All right.” The tracker smiled at him. “But you’re wrong, you know. There is power here. Rebirth, generation. It’s all here, Turin. Here, at the beginning. Lord Satoris thinks too much on his brother Haomane, and not enough on his own origin. The Souma is not the only power on Urulat, you know.”

Shadows lengthened, cast eastward across the swamp. Turin let out his breath in a final plea. “Hunric …”

“There.” The tracker turned, pointing north. Through the dense mangroves, something was visible in the distance; a vast hummock rising above the stagnant waters under the spreading shelter of a tall palodus tree. “Do you see it? Dry land, Turin, here at the heart of the Delta. We’ll camp there tonight, and make for the border in the morning. Does that please you?”

Dry land, a chance to build a fire, eat roasted slow-lizard, nibble the last crumbs of bannock-cake, to remove his rotting footwear and pluck the leeches from his legs. Turin gauged the distance as no more than an hour’s slog and sighed.

“Yes.”

“MY LADY?” TANAROS PAUSED, HIS fist poised to knock again, when the door was flung open. Meara.

The madling tossed her tangled hair and sized him up and down. “What brings you here, Lord General?”

“Meara,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see you well. I’ve come to invite the Lady Cerelinde to view the moon-garden.”

Her mouth stretched into a grimace. “Oh, you have, have you?”

“Meara?” A voice from another room, silvery and clear. “What is it? Does Lord Satoris summon me again?”

Tanaros shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his collar as Cerelinde entered the foyer. “My lady. Arahila’s moon shines full this evening. I thought it might please you to view the garden of Darkhaven.”

“At night?” Her fine brows rose a fraction.

“It is a moon-garden, my lady.” A slight flush warmed his face.

“Ah.” She regarded him, grave and beautiful, clad in a robe of pale blue. “So you would permit me a glimpse of sky.”

“I would.”

“Thank you.” Cerelinde inclined her head. “I would like that.”