In his heart, he feared it had not.

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

TANAROS STRODE THROUGH DARKHAVEN LIKE a black wind.

The shock of his arrival rippled through the fortress with a palpable effect. The Havenguard hurried from far-flung quarters of Darkhaven to meet him, falling over one another in their haste. His abrupt, awful news shocked them into momentary silence, and he had to shout at them twice before they were able to tell him what had transpired in his absence.

Two Men, Charred Folk, madlings caught one …

He wasted precious minutes hurrying into the dungeon, clattering down the slippery stair, hoping against hope to see the Man the madlings had caught. It gave him an unpleasant echo of the memory of Speros, hanging in chains, grinning crookedly with his split lips. Not Speros, no; not the Bearer, either. It was the other Yarru, his protector. Manacled to the wall, scratched and beaten and bloodied, he hung limp, lacking the strength to even stir. The Fjel had not been gentle. Only the slight rise and fall of his scarred torso suggested he lived.

“Where’s the boy?” Tanaros asked, prodding him. “Where’s the boy?”

Unable to lift his head, the prisoner made a choked sound. “Slayer,” he said in a slow, thick voice. “Where do you think?”

Tanaros cursed and ran from the dungeon, taking the stairs two at a time.

He made his way behind the walls, through the winding passages, through the rising heat, to the chasm. To the place he had known he must go. The madlings had scattered, abandoning the places behind the walls, hiding from his fury, from the terrible news. There was only the heat, the light-shot darkness, and the chasm like a gaping wound.

There, he gazed over the edge.

Far below, a small, dark figure was descending laboriously.

Straightening, Tanaros shed his gauntlets. With deft fingers, he unbuckled the remainder of his armor, removing it piece by piece. When he had stripped to his undertunic, he replaced his swordbelt, then lowered himself into the chasm and began to climb.

It was hot. It was scorchingly, horribly hot. The air seared his lungs, the blue-white glare blinding him. Narrowing his eyes to slits, Tanaros willed himself to ignore the heat. It could be done. He had done it in the Unknown Desert. He was one of the Three, and it could be done.

Fear lent his limbs speed. Hands and feet moved swift and sure, finding holds. He took risks, careless risks, tearing and bruising his flesh. The worst thing would be to fail for being too slow, to be halfway down and find the marrow-fire suddenly extinguished.

It did not happen.

Reaching the bottom, Tanaros saw why.

The Source, the true Source, lay some paces beyond the chasm itself. It was not so large, no larger than the circumference of the Well of the World. Indeed, it was similar in shape and size; a rounded hole in the foundation of the earth itself.