It was a spacious tent, wrought of silk rendered proof against the elements by Ellylon arts. Three banners flew from its peak, and lowest of all was the argent scroll of the House of Ingolin. Above it fluttered the gilt-eyed sword of Altorus Farseer. And above that, the Crown and Souma of the House of Elterrion flew, in defiant tribute to the Lady Cerelinde, in the defiant belief that she yet lived.

Inside, it was quiet, dimly lit by Ellylon lamps.

Those who were present gathered around the table, eyeing the closed coffer. It was inlaid with gold, worked with the device of the Crown and Souma. The gnarled hands of Malthus the Counselor rested on its lid. So they had done at every gathering, since the first in Meronil. Soon, he would open it.

Within the coffer lay a tourmaline stone. Once, it had been tuned to the pitch of Malthus’ Soumanië. Now, it was tuned to the Bearer and his burden. It had been one of Malthus’ final acts when he had thrust the lad and his uncle into the Marasoumië, binding them under a spell of concealment.

Malthus the Counselor had wrought his spell with skill; with his Soumanië altered, not even he could break it. But the gem would tell them whether the Bearer yet lived.

“Haomane grant it be so,” Malthus said, opening the coffer.

Pale blue light spilled forth into the tent There on the velvet lining of the coffer, the tourmaline yet shone, shedding illumination from deep within its blue-green core. The cool light like water in the desert, and those gathered drank it in as though they thirsted. For a moment, no one spoke, the atmosphere still taut Ingolin’s gaze lifted to meet Malthus’. The Counselor shook his head, the lines on his face growing deeper.

Aracus Altorus broke the silence, abrupt and direct. “It’s grown dimmer.” He glanced around the tent, gauging the brightness. “Half again as much as yesterday eve.”

“I fear it is so,” Malthus replied somberly.

“who?”

Malthus sighed. “Would that I knew, Aracus.”

“I was supposed to protect him.” Blaise’s voice was harsh. “Even that old man among the Yarru said it. Guardian, he called me.” He stared at the shard of tourmaline, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What does it mean?” He looked to Malthus for an answer. “Does it mean Dani is injured? Dying?”

Malthus and Ingolin exchanged a glance, and the Lord of the Rivenlost answered, “We do not know, Blaise Caveros. No Bearer has ever carried the Water of Life outside the Unknown Desert before.” Ingolin’s silvery hair rustled as he shook his head. “What link binds him to that which he Bears? That is a thing only the Yarru may know, and even they may not. We cannot say.”

“That poor boy,” Fianna the Archer murmured. “Ah, Haomane!”