“Lord Ingolin, we know where they are bound. All signs point to Beshtanag.” Aracus Altorus flattened his hands in a patch of blue light atop the table. “The question is whether or not the Rivenlost and our allies dare to challenge the Sorceress of the East.” His face was hard with resolve. “Ingolin, I fear the Sorceress and the Soumanië she wields, that we must face without the aid of Malthus the Counselor. I fear the Dragon of Beshtanag in his ancient lair. But I fear more hearing you say, ‘hope dwindles.” He raised his chin an inch, sunlight making a brightness of his red-gold hair. “Cerelinde lives, Ingolin. The Prophecy lives, and where there is life, there is hope. The Borderguard of Curonan will not despair.”

“Nor do I suggest it,” Ingolin said gently. “Son of Altorus, did I not say there were glad tidings among the sorrowful?” Turning in his chair, the Lord of the Rivenlost beckoned to an attendant, who came forward to set a gilded coffer on the table before him. It was inlaid with gems, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma.

“That is the casket Elterrion the Bold gave to Ardrath, Haomane’s Counselor, is it not?” the Lady Nerinil inquired.”

“Yes.” Ingolin nodded. “And it passed to Malthus, who gave it to me. ‘Ward it well, old friend,’ he told me, ‘for I have attuned the humble stone within it to the Gem I bear. If it kindles, you may know we have succeeded.’”

And so saying, he opened the casket.

It blazed.

It blazed with light, a rough shard of tourmaline, spilling pale blue light across the polished surface of the table like water in the desert. Incontrovertible and undeniable, the signal of Malthus the Counselor shone like a beacon.

“The Unknown,” said Ingolin, “is made Known.”

And he told them of the Water of Life.

STRIPPED TO THEIR BREECHES AND sweating, the riders straggled along the riverbank, each picking his path through sedge grass. Insects rose in buzzing clouds at their passage, and even the horses of Darkhaven shuddered, flicking their tails without cease. Little else lived along the lower reaches of the Verdine River, which flowed torpid and sluggish out of the stagnant heart of the Delta itself.

“Sweet Arahila have mercy! I’d give my left stone for a good, hard frost.”

Snicker, snicker. “Might as well, Vilbar. It’s no use to you.”

“A sodding lot you know! I’ve had girls wouldn’t give you a drink in the desert”

“Wishing don’t make it so.”

“Wish we were in the desert. At least it would be dry.”

“Wish I had a girl right now. This heat makes me pricklish.”

“Have a go at Turin, why don’t you? He’s near pretty enough.”

“Sod you all!”