They scratched the rock, too; only differently. Marks, etched with shards onto the cavern walls. Men lit fires, huddling under the ventilation shafts, sharing their fears and dreams, griping about the journey’s hardship. Ruddy flames danced on the walls, showing the marks clearly. Scritching lines, narrow and perplexing. Sometimes they formed characters; sometimes, only shapes. Always, the lines shifted and changed, taunting him with elusive meaning.

Skragdal studied them, blinking.

“You can’t read, can you?”

He glanced down at the Staccian commander. “I am Fjel,” he said simply. “We do not share Haomane’s Gift.”

Osric’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve tried, then?”

“No, lieutenant.” He did not tell the story. None of the Fjel did; not to Men, not to anyone. Only to their pups. A long time ago they had wanted to learn. Neheris’ Children had wanted it badly enough to plead with the wounded Shaper who had fled to their lands. And during the long years of his recuperation from Haomane’s Wrath, Lord Satoris had tried to teach his people. In the end, it came to naught. The meaning of scratched lines—on stone, on parchment—was too evasive. How could a handful of symbols, which bore no intrinsic meaning, represent all the myriad things in the world? What relationship did they bear to the thing itself? It was a pointless endeavor.

Osric glanced at the scratchings. “Well, you’re not missing much. Lads’ folly for the most part, writing their names to let the ones who come after know they were here. That, and empty boasts. You’ll have the Kaldjager stand watch again tonight?”

“Aye, lieutenant.”

“Good man. Get some sleep.”

He tried. Others slept, rumbling and snoring, comforted by stone’s solid presence. It did not bother them that they had seen stone turn to an engulfing enemy in the red flash of a Soumanië’s power. It should not bother him. Fjel had the gift of living in the present. Only important things were carried in the heart; only sacred memories, passed from generation to generation. All that was not worth carrying—fear, envy, hatred—was left to be washed away and forgotten in the flowing rivers of time.

Do not mourn for the Gift Haomane withheld from you. Did Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters not Shape her Children well? This I tell you, for I know: One day Men will covet your gifts. Treasure them, and rejoice.

Lord Satoris’ words.