Those were the words that had restored Fjel pride and faith, the ones they passed on to their offspring. Those were the words that had inspired their ancient oath. Skragdal had heard them as a pup. He had carried them in his heart with pride, but he had never understood them as he did now, lying sleepless beneath the earth. Could such gifts be lost? Could the nature of the Fjel change, tainted by long exposure to the ways of Men? Was it the burden of command that weighed upon him, shaping his thoughts into fearful forms? Would he, if he could, scratch his name upon the wall?

No, he thought. No.

Reaching into a pouch that hung from his belt, Skragdal withdrew a half-carved lump of green chalcedony and examined it in the dim light of the cavern. There were flaws in the stone, but the fluid form of the rhios was beginning to emerge, a sprite as blithe as water flowing through a river bend. This is a thing that is not the thing itself, he thought. Yet it has a shape. I can hold it in my hands, and I can coax a truer shape from it. It is a stone, a real thing. It is a green stone that looks like water. These things I understand. He cupped the rhios in his hands and whispered a prayer to Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters. “Mother of us all, wash away my fear!”

There was an ease in saying the words. Words held power when they were spent with care. He felt a measure of fear ebb. The surrounding stone became a kinder companion. The memory of the Marasoumië faded, taking with it the image of the wizard with his terrible, glaring eyes, his lips working in the thicket of his white beard as he spoke the words to command the Ways, the red gem of the Soumanië ablaze on his chest. He would not forget, but neither would he carry it with him.

Skragdal sighed.

It was a gift.

Lord Satoris was right, had always been right. How wise were the Elders who had seen it! Did the Fjel not slumber in peace while Men whimpered in their dreams?

It was so, it had always been so.

“ARE WE GOING TO DIE here, Lord General?” Speros’ voice cracked on the question, and his eyes rolled in his head, showing dry white crescents below the brown iris. The noonday sun stood motionless overhead. His footsteps had begun to stagger, leaving a meandering trail in the sand. Their water supply had been gone since last night, and hours of trekking had taken their toll.

“No.” Tanaros gritted his teeth, grabbing the Midlander’s arm and hauling it across his shoulders. Lowering his head, he trudged onward, taking up the weight that sagged against him. “Come on, lad. Just a little way further.”

Speros’ breath was hot and ragged against his ear. “You said that before.”

“And I will again,” he retorted, still trudging.