But from it, the marrow-fire roared upward in a solid blue-white column. High above, at its core, a spit of flame vanished through an egress in the ceiling. The Font, Tanaros thought, realizing he was beneath his Lordship’s very chambers. Elsewhere, the marrow-fire fanned outward in a blue-white inferno, flames illuminating the chasm, licking the walls, sinking into them and vanishing in a tracery of glowing veins.

And at the edge of the Source stood the Bearer.

It was the boy, the Charred lad he had seen in the Marasoumië. He had one hand on the clay vial strung about his throat and a look of sheer terror on his face. Even as Tanaros approached, he flung out his other hand.

“Stay back!” he warned.

“Dani,” Tanaros said softly. He remembered; he had always been good with names, and Malthus the Counselor had spoken the boy’s. So had Ngurra, whom he had slain. “What is it you think to do here, lad?”

Despite the heat, the boy was shivering. His eyes were enormous in his worn face. “Haomane’s will.”

“Why?” Tanaros took a step closer. The heat of the column was like a forge-blast against his skin. “Because Malthus bid you to do so?”

“In the beginning.” The boy’s voice trembled, barely audible above the roaring of the marrow-fire. “But it’s not that simple, is it?”

“No.” Something in the lad’s words made Tanaros’ heart ache, longing for what-might-have-been. In a strange way, it was comforting to hear them spoken by an enemy. It was true, after all was said and done, they were not so different. “No, lad, it’s not.” He drew a deep breath, taking another step. “Dani, listen. You need not do this. What has Haomane done that the Yarru should love him for it and do his bidding?”

The boy edged closer to the Source. “What has Satoris the Sunderer done that I should heed his will instead?”

“He left you in peace!” Tanaros said sharply. “Was it not enough? Until-” His voice trailed off as he watched the boy’s expression change, terror ebbing to be replaced by profound sorrow. Somehow, the boy knew. The knowledge lay there between them. In the roaring marrow-fire, it seemed Tanaros heard anew the pleas and cries of the dying Yarru, the sound of Fjel maces crunching. And he knew, then, that whatever conversation he might have hoped to hold with the lad, it was too late.

“Did you kill them yourself?” Dani asked quietly.

“Yes,” Tanaros said. “I did.”

The dark eyes watched him. “Why? Because Satoris bid you to do so?”

“No.” Gritting his teeth, Tanaros drew his sword and drew within reach of the boy. “I begged him. Old Ngurra, the old man. Give me a reason! Do you understand, lad? A reason to spare his life, his people; a reason, any reason! Do you know what he said?”