He made his way through the fortress, following his Lordship’s path. To his surprise, Fetch remained with him, riding his shoulder with familiar comfort. Where the Shaper had passed, his presence hung in the air, the copper-sweet tang of his blood mixed with the lowering sense of thunder. Approaching the threefold doors to the Chamber of the Font, Tanaros felt as though he were swimming in it, and his branded heart ached with love and sorrow. Through the door, he heard his Lordship’s summons.

“Come, Blacksword.”

The Font’s brilliance hurt his eyes. Facing away from it and squinting, he told Lord Satoris what he had sensed in Fetch’s thoughts. In the Tower, it had seemed a fearful concern with which to burden his Lordship, but as he spoke the words, they began to sound foolish.

“A scent,” the Shaper said thoughtfully. “A rope.”

“My Lord, I believe it was the odor of the Water of Life,” Tanaros said, remembering the Well of the World. “And the rope … the rope was of Yarru making. I have seen its like before.” He was grateful for the slight weight of the raven on his shoulder, steadying him. “My Lord, I fear the Bearer is making his way toward Darkhaven.”

“Yes.” In the darkness beyond the Font, the Shaper sighed and the shadows seemed to sigh with him. “He is coming, Tanaros Blacksword. They are all coming, all my Elder Brother’s little puppets.”

“My Lord?”

“They are always coming, and they have always been coming, since long before the world was Sundered, since before there was a world to dream of Sundering. I have always known. It is only the when of it that remains uncertain; even here, even now. But they are mistaken if they believe this is the end. This time, or any other time. There is no end, save in beginning. Even the Lord-of-Thought cannot change this pattern.” The Shaper drew near, waves of power emanating from him. “Curious little raven,” he said to Fetch. “Whose thoughts have you been thinking?”

Fetch chuckled.

“Ah.” A long, silent moment passed between them. The dark ghost of a smile crossed Lord Satoris’ ruined visage. “Thank you, loyal Tanaros, for bringing me this small guest.” He inclined his head. “For this small kindness.”

“My Lord?” Tanaros repeated, confused and fearful that his Lordship was succumbing to madness after all.

“It comes and goes, my general, the way of all things.” The Shaper raised one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “As you, now, shall go.”

“What of the Bearer, my Lord?”

“Malthus’ spell hides him even from the eyes of the Souma.” Lord Satoris shook his head. “There is nothing I can do. Would you have me tell you your business, Blacksword? Double your patrols in the tunnels between here and the blockage.”

“My Lord.” Bowing carefully, mindful of Fetch, Tanaros took his leave.