There was no answer, only a pair of Mørkhar Fjel on patrol, confirming his identity and giving him a wide berth.

Tanaros laughed softly. The air was cold, but the svartblod in his veins insulated him from it. Although he was not drunk, his flesh felt warm. “Or what did he know that Haomane First-Born did not?” he asked the moon. “Tell me that, O my Shaper!”

Light, only light; the light of the Souma, a lesser light, but no less lovely for it. It shed its silent benison. Things grew by it; things that blossomed in his Lordship’s gardens. Tanaros sighed and set his feet on a homeward course.

“He loves you still,” he informed the moon, glancing over his shoulder. “But he has made his choices. As I have made mine, as the Fjel have made theirs. The difference is, we made them freely. And he allowed us to do it. The Lord-of-Thought would not have done as much.”

The moon, the beautiful moon, made no reply.

FOURTEEN

FOURTEEN

DAWN BROKE OVER THE PLAINS of Curonan, a glorious and terrifying sight. The sun’s red orb crept slowly over the eastern horizon, staining the waving grass until it resembled a sea of blood. To the west, the mountains of Gorgantum threw up a defiant challenge, their implacable peaks shrouded in darkness.

At night, drenched in silvery moonlight, the plains had been a safe and magical place. It was different by daylight, with the eye of Haomane’s Wrath opening in the east and the baleful shadow of Gorgantum to the west. Caught between the two on the vast, open space of the plains, Dani felt horribly conspicuous.

“Which way, lad?” Uncle Thulu asked quietly.

Grasping the clay flask that hung about his neck, Dani bowed his head. Sunlight, he knew. Haomane’s Wrath could be terrible and impersonal, but he knew it. He was Yarru, and he understood. Darkness was another matter. Darkness, in which the Sunderer awaited; Satoris Banewreaker, who had slain his people, who wanted nothing more than for Dani to die so he could spill the Water of Life upon barren ground.

And more than anything else, Dani did not want to enter the shadow of those mountains. But he was the Bearer, and the burden of choice was upon him.

“Darkhaven,” he said. “We go toward Darkhaven.”

Uncle Thulu nodded. “So be it.”

They set out at a steady walk, the sun at their backs, trampling their shadows into the sweet-smelling grass. They did not speak of how entrance might be gained into the Vale of Gorgantum. For the moment, the journey alone sufficed.