Aboveground once more, he made his way to the great entrance, where the Havenguard admitted him passage through the tall doors. It was another cold, clear night. Standing in the courtyard, he moved Fetch to his forearm and stood for a moment, thinking about the oncoming army, about a length of plaited rope, old Ngurra’s face beneath the shadow of his sword, and the dark-skinned boy he had seen in the Ways, the questioning look on his face. He thought about Cerelinde in her chambers, praying for rescue, and his Lordship’s strange mood, and about Fetch.

“Whose thoughts have you been thinking?” he asked the raven, stroking him with one finger. Fetch ducked his head, shifting from foot to foot. “What happened to you before you found me in the desert?”

For an instant, Tanaros saw himself once more through the raven’s vision: a stark, noble figure with haunted eyes, mantled in passions that flickered like dark fire around the edges of his being, a doom he carried like embers in his cupped hands. Scarred hands and a scarred heart, capable of tenderness or violence, and behind him stars falling endlessly, lovely and dying.

Somewhere, a dragon roared.

“So be it,” Tanaros whispered. “Go, little brother, and find shelter from the coming storm.” Lifting his arm, he watched the raven take flight, black wings glossy in the starlight. “Good-bye, Fetch.”

A small kindness.

His eyes stung; touching them, he found them wet with tears. Hyrgolf was right, he would feel better once the battle was joined. Gathering himself, Tanaros went to rouse Speros and give him new orders.

IN THE SMALL HOURS OF the night, Malthus the Wise Counselor sat silently on a narrow folding stool in a corner of Aracus Altorus’ tent, watching the pupil he had taught for so many years pace its confines, restless and unable to sleep.

“Out with it,” he said at last. “You cannot afford to ride into battle already weary, Aracus.”

Aracus’ gaze lit, as it had many times that night, on the coffer that held the tourmaline stone linked to the Bearer of the Water of Life. “It was dimmer,” he said. “Not by much, but a little. Others did not notice, but I did. I saw it, Malthus.”

“Yes.” The Counselor folded his hands in his sleeves. “I know.”

“Does it mean the Bearer is failing?” His tone was harsh. “Dying?”

“I cannot say, Aracus,” Malthus replied quietly. “No more than I could before. I lack the knowledge, for this is a thing that has never been done. But if you would ask what thought is in my heart, it is that the Water of Life dwindles as the Bearer perseveres. Dani used it in Malumdoorn to answer the Dwarfs’ challenge of the Greening. He knows its power.”