After all these years, she was as spirited as the day he had met her. He smiled into his beard. “I do, old woman. If you’ll not let be, then join me.”

With a snort of disapproval, she clambered up the rock to squat at his side, groaning a little as her hipbones popped and creaked. He shifted to make room for her, digging into the worn pouch that hung at his waist and passing her a pinch of gamal. Her jaws worked, softening the dried fibers, working her mouth’s moisture into them. Eighty-three years old, and her teeth still strong, working the gamal into a moist wad to tuck into her cheek.

Side by side, they squatted and watched the stars.

Especially the red one low on the western horizon.

Her voice, when she spoke, was sombre. “It’s the choosing-time, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Coming fast.”

“The poor boy.” She shook her head. “Poor boy! There’s no fairness in it. He’s not fit to make such a choice. Who is?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t stop it from coming.”

She eyed him acerbically. “And how would you choose, old one?”

“Me?” He turned his hands over, examining his palms. Paler than the rest of his skin, they were leathery and creased, tanned like an old hide. Age had marked them, and wear, and the lines of mortality. Nothing else. “It’s not mine to choose.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Poor boy! I pray he chooses aright.”

The old man squatted and listened to the sounds of the desert, while the stars wheeled slowly overhead. He felt the slow, steady beat of his heart, winding down to its inevitable faltering, the blood coursing through his veins, as water coursed through the earth far, far below them. In the heart of the Unknown Desert, there was water, water from the deepest place, the oldest place.

Birru-Uru-Alat, the Navel, the Well of the World.

It had been forgotten by all save the Yarru, who had cause to remember. Long ago, Haomane’s Wrath had driven them beneath the earth, where they fled for shelter and in turn were given a trust. The Elders had kept the wisdom of Uru-Alat. When the boy was born with the markings on his hands, they had known. He was the Bearer, one who could carry the Water of Life, though it weighed heavier than stone or steel, as heavy as the burden of choice itself.

The Water of Life, which could extinguish the marrow-fire.

It would not be forgotten forever. A red star had risen and the Bearer was nearing manhood. The choosing-time would be upon him.

It was coming.

TANAROS CHOKED BACK A GASP as he emerged in the Chamber of the Marasoumië beneath Darkhaven, his heart constricting with a sharp pain as the node-point closed, hurling his form back into the framework of mortality, stumbling and shaken, his senses blurred with the speed of his passage.