When it was done, he knelt beside the shaft and lowered the rope. Wedged between the walls, Uncle Thulu braced himself in place with his legs and lashed the rope around his waist, tying it securely.

“Ready?” Dani called.

Thulu nodded. “Ready.”

Dani got to his feet. He could feel the words of the Song of Being beneath his hands, chanting in his veins. As he hauled, slowly and steadily, hand over hand, he listened to them. There was wisdom in them, old Ngurra had said; the secrets of Life and Death, twined together in the death of Uru-Alat the World God and the birth of the world. Dani was not wise enough to understand them. But he was trying.

It was part of the Bearer’s burden.

Arahila’s moon was riding low when Thulu clambered clear of the shaft. As Dani had done, he could do no more than roll onto the grass and stare at the stars. For his part, Dani dropped where he stood and sat heavily in the grass. He felt as though his limbs were made of stone. It was a long time before he could summon the strength to speak. “Where are we, Uncle?”

Thulu sat up with an effort, rubbing the aching, cramped muscles of his legs and glanced around him. “The plains of Curonan, lad.”

“And Darkhaven?”

Thulu pointed westward across the plains, toward the distant mountains that rose, black and jagged, blotting out the stars. “There.”

THE CANDLES BURNED LOW IN Hyrgolf’s chamber, until the rocky niches held little more than blue flames dancing above puddles of tallow. For long hours, they had conferred on matters regarding the defense of Darkhaven; the posting of sentries, scouting parties of Gulnagel, inspections of the tunnels, manning of the fortifications, battletactics useful against Men and Ellylon and Dwarfs. The night was already old when Hyrgolf rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a half-empty skin of svartblod.

“General,” he said, holding it forth in one enormous hand. “Drink.”

Tanaros hesitated, then accepted it. Uncorking the skin, he took a deep swig. It burned all the way down to his belly, and the foul taste made his eyes water. “My thanks!” he gasped, handing it back.

The Tungskulder Fjel studied him. “I have never smelled fear on you before.”

“Fear.” Tanaros gave a harsh laugh, his throat seared by the svartblod’s heat. “Hyrgolf, my skin crawls with it. There is too much I mislike afoot in this place.”

“The Dreamspinner’s betrayal troubles you,” Hyrgolf said.

“Yes.” Tanaros met his eyes; the Fjel’s familiar gaze, small as a boar’s and steady as a rock. “More than I can say, for I fear there is reason in his madness. Would you do such a thing, Hyrgolf? Would you defy his Lordship’s will and betray his wishes if it would avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single stroke?”