The dragon lifted his massive head and stared westward, eyes slitting in the sun. “We aided Sssatoriss when the Sssouma was shattered, because he was a friend. Many of usss died for it, and Haomane became our Enemy. No more, we sssaid. But it was too late, and we too few, and I, I am one of the lasst. Do you asssk me now to die, Ssoldier?”

“No,” Tanaros said. “No! Eldest Brother, we will lay a trail to the doorstep of Beshtanag, yes. And when the Ellylon follow it, and the sons of Altorus and whatever allies they might gather, we will fall upon them from behind, the army of Darkhaven in all its strength, and it shall be ended. This I swear to you. Do you doubt it?”

Why, Lilias wondered, did she want to weep?

Calandor blinked, slowly. “I am not the Eldessst, Kingsslayer.”

“Nonetheless.” Tanaros’ voice hardened. “My lord Calandor, Dergail’s Soumanië has risen, and the signs of the Prophecy have begun. In a week’s time, Cerelinde of the Ellylon will plight her troth with Aracus Altorus, and across the land, Urulat prepares for war. Haomane himself only knows what mission Malthus the Counselor has undertaken. Where will you be, if Darkhaven falls? If Godslayer falls into the Counselor’s hands, if Urulat is made whole on Haomane’s terms? Do you think one mortal sorceress with a chip of the Souma can resist the Six Shapers? Where will you be then, Elder Brother?”

“Enough!” Lilias clapped her hands over her ears.

But the dragon only sighed.

“Then let them come, Kingssslayer,” he said. “You sspeak the truth. If I will not ssserve your cause, neither will I oppose it. Lay your falssse trail. Let them come, and make of uss the anvil on which your hammer may ssstrike. Does this please you?”

“My lord Calandor,” Tanaros said. “I am grateful. My Lord is grateful.”

“Yesss,” the dragon said. “Now go.”

FIVE

FIVE

THE OLD MAN SQUATTED ON his haunches, gazing at the stars.

Even in the small hours of night, the rock held enough sun-captured heat to warm his buttocks, though the naked soles of his feet were calloused and immune to warmth or cold. He watched the stars wheel slowly through their nocturnal circuit, counting through the long telling of his ancestors. There was a smell of water in his nostrils, iron-rich and heavy. Something scrabbled in the spiny thorn-brush. It might have been a hopping-mouse or a hunting lizard, though it was not. He was an Elder of the Yarru-yami, and he knew every sound in the Unknown Desert.

“Can you not leave me in peace, old woman?” the old man grumbled.

“Peace!” She emerged from the night to place herself before his rock, folding arms over withered dugs, her long, grey-white hair illuminated by starlight. “You would squat on this rock all night, old man, chewing gamal and watching the stars. You call that peace?”