Almost, the strangers gave up after long minutes, for there seemed no end to the coiling rope. Ngurra knew how long it was. He had measured it, cubit by cubit, all the days of his life. That was his charge, as chieftain of the Stone Grove Clan. His grandmother, who had been chieftainess before him, had passed it to him, along with her knowledge. Maintain the rope, inch by inch. It was one of his charges.

A faint splash in the night.

“Water,” said Peldras the Haomane-gaali, lying prone above the opening. His ears were sharper than those of Men. “The bucket has struck water, Counselor.”

One after another, they tried it. Blaise, the appointed guardian, tried it first, grunting in the moonlight, muscles straining as he sought to raise the bucket. Then the Haomane-gaali Peldras tried, and fared no better. The wizard tried, too, muttering spells that availed him naught, but earned a silent chuckle from the watching Yarru. In the end, they all tried, the whole of Malthus’ Company, even the thirsting Archer and the bone-weary Knight, laying hands on the rope together and hauling as one. Yet, even as a whole, bone and muscle and sinew cracking, they failed.

The laden bucket was too heavy to raise.

“Enough,” whispered their old one, their wizard. “We have tried, one and all, and fulfilled the letter of the Prophecy.” Laying down his staff, he cupped the Soumanië in both hands. His voice grew strong as he spoke the words of the choosing, and the ruddy glow of the chip of the Souma grew, spilling from between his cupped hands to illuminate the Stone Grove. “Yarru-yami! Charred Ones! Children of Haomane’s wrath! I call upon you now in his name. Lend us your aid!”

“Time and gone he asked,” Warabi muttered.

“Hush, old woman!” Ngurra glared at her. She wouldn’t understand the common tongue if he hadn’t taught it to her himself. “Kindle the torch.”

Still muttering, she obeyed, striking flint to iron. The oil-rich fibers of the bugy-stick sputtered and lit, sending a signal. All around the perimeter of the Stone Grove, bugy-stick torches caught and kindled as, one by one, members of the Six Clans of the Yarru revealed themselves.

Ngurra stepped before the torches, gazing down at the small figures gathered around the Birru-Uru-Alat, their shadows stark on the sand. “The Yarru are here,” he called in the common tongue, the language his grandmother had taught him. “As we have always been, since before the earth was scorched. What do you seek?”

Malthus the Counselor opened his arms, showing himself weaponless, offering himself as surety. The Soumanië shone like a red star upon his breast. “Speaker of the Yarru, I greet you. We come seeking the Bearer.”

In the night, someone gasped.

FOR TWO MORE DAYS, THEY traveled through the tunnels.