There were a thousand things he could have said; how Cerelinde’s beauty put the stars to shame, how her courage made him curse his inadequacy. How he understood the sacrifice she had made for the Rivenlost, and how terrible the cost would be. Aracus Altorus said none of them, and yet all were present in his simple, blunt words, in his wideset, demanding gaze. He was a warrior; oh, yes.

One who loved the Lady of the Ellylon.

“Well, then.” Lilias opened her hand, letting him steer it away, deflecting her touch harmlessly. “You had no choice, did you?”

He stared at her. “You trouble me, Sorceress.”

“Good.” She smiled through her tears. “You should be troubled, my lord Altorus.” Wrenching her hand free, she took a stumbling step away from him. “Thank you for sharing your vision of Meronin’s Children with me. Whether or not it was true, it was a pleasant dream.”

The disinterested Dwarfs watched her progress, and Aracus’ stare followed her back to her cabin, until she closed the door onto stifling darkness and the Archer snoring in the second bunk.

Lilias closed the door, and wept.

TWO

TWO

FOR DAYS, THEIR PATH HAD taken them westward on an arid course through the Northern Harrow, following an underground branch of the Spume River.

Thulu led the way, probing with his digging-stick and listening, listening to the lifeblood coursing through Uru-Alat’s veins, deep below the surface. Dani did not question his uncle’s guidance. All children of the Yarru-yami were taught to follow the deep veins of Uru-Alat, but the skill was honed by age and practice, and this was a task for which the Yarru elders had trained his uncle for many years.

Although it was a hardship, at least it was one to which the Yarru were suited. Dani and his uncle sipped sparingly from their waterskins, their bodies accustomed to eking the most from every precious drop. When ordinary folk would have faltered, the Yarru pressed onward with only a touch of discomfort.

They kept to low ground, to dry gorges and valleys. Away from the leaping rivers there was scant sign of any other living thing, save the tall spruce that dotted the mountainsides. It was a mercy, for it meant they saw no sign of Fjeltroll. Here and there, Uncle Thulu found a tiny spring, like an unexpected gift of Neheris, a sparkling trickle of water darkening a narrow cleft amid the rocks.

Where there were springs, there was small game; hare and ptarmigan. Using Yarru-style slings Thulu had made with strips of hide, both of them took turns shooting for the pot. It was harder to get a clean shot than it was in the open desert, but to his pleasure, Dani found his keen eye held him in good stead as a marksman.