Something nudged at his thoughts, a scrabbling sensation.

Surprised, he opened his mind.

A patchwork of images flooded his vision; sky, more sky, other ravens. A fecund swamp, leaves and bark and beetles. Ushahin Dreamspinner standing in the prow of a small boat, squinting through mismatched eyes. A dragon’s head reared against the sky, ancient and dripping. Darkness; darkness and light. The world seen from on high in all its vastness. Laughter. A dragon’s jaws, parting to breathe living fire.

“You saw this?” Tanaros asked.

“Kaugh!”

A green blur of passing swamp, bronze waters gleaming. Wings beating in a flying wedge; a pause, a caesura. Ushahin wiping sweat from his brow. A lofting, the downbeat of wings. Aloneness. Tilting earth, marsh and fertile plains, a shadow cast small below. It wavered, growing larger, then smaller. A blur of night and stars, pauses and launches. Blue, blue sky, and the desert floor.

The shadow held its size, held and held and held.

Greenness.

A drought-eater, no, three! Thick stalks, succulent leaves. Green-rinded fruits hung low, ripe with water. The shadow veered, growing large, then veered away again.

Desert, parched desert, beneath the lowering sun.

Tanaros and his company seen from above.

“Oh, Fetch!” His dry eyes stung. “Have you seen this? Can you show me?”

“Kaugh!” Bobbing and chuckling, the raven launched itself from Tanaros’ arm, setting a northward trajectory.

“Follow him!” Marshaling his strength, Tanaros forced himself in the direction of the raven’s flight, departing from his heart’s compass. With mighty groans and dragging steps, the Gulnagel followed. Speros, unconscious, jounced on Freg’s back, ungainly as a sack of millet and thrice as heavy.

It was not a long journey, as Men reckon such things. How long does it take for the sun to set once the outermost rim of its disk has touched the horizon? A thousand beats of a straining heart; three thousand, perhaps, here where the desert lay flat and measureless. With the distance halfclosed, Tanaros saw the silhouettes of the drought-eaters, stark and black against the burning sky. Hope surged in his heart. He set a steady pace, exhorting the Gulnagel with praise and curses. If they had stuck to their course, they would have passed them by to the south, unseen.

But there was water ahead, water! The plants held it in abundance.

For a hundred steps, two hundred, the drought-eaters appeared to recede, taunting, ever out of reach. And then they were there, and Fetch settled atop a thick trunk, making a contented sound. The raven ruffled his feathers. A dwindling sliver of flame lit the western horizon and the scent of moisture seeped into the arid air. With rekindled strength, Tanaros strode ahead, drawing his sword to sever a greenripe fruit from its fibrous mooring and holding it aloft.

“Here!” he cried in triumph. “Water!”