“Listen,” he said to them. “There is no time.” He pointed toward the tapestried door. “The Lady of the Ellylon has passed behind the wall, and even now her kindred attempt a rescue.” He paused, drawing his sword. “I go now in pursuit, for her death is our last hope, our only hope. My madlings, I charge you, all of you, with infiltrating every passage, every hidden egress in the fortress of Darkhaven. Do you come upon the Lady, halt her; kill her if you may. Any consequence that comes, I will accept. Do you understand?”

The madlings shouted their assent, leaping to their feet.

“Good.” Ushahin pointed at the Havenguard with the tip of his blade. “Hold the Gate,” he said grimly. “There is no other order I can give. Tell the lads they must resist if Malthus seeks to wield his Soumanië against them and sway their spirits. Bid them to cling to the thought of his Lordship’s long suffering, bid them think of their fallen comrades. It may lend them strength. If it does not …” He glanced at Meara. “Bid them make ready to slay any comrade who seeks to betray us.”

“Aye, boss!” Relieved to have orders, the Havenguard whirled to depart. The madlings went with him, surging out the door in a roiling, shouting mass. Ushahin watched them go.

Meara remained. “Will you not punish me?” she asked plaintively.

“What punishment will suit?” Ushahin asked. “Your penitence comes too late to aid his Lordship. I will deal with you anon, Meara of Darkhaven. Now go, and serve while you may.”

Bowing her head, she went.

With a sword-blade naked in his strong right hand and the case containing the broken Helm tucked beneath his aching left arm, Ushahin thrust aside the tapestry and plunged into the passageways.

FOR A MOMENT, THE SOURCE continued to surge upward in a blazing column.

The Bearer, Dani the Bearer with his cupped hands, stood within it; stood, and lived. Through the sheets of blue-white flame, his gaze met Tanaros’. His lips, cracked and parched, whispered a word.

“Uru-Alat!”

And then his hands parted and the Water of Life fell, splashing, slow and glistening. The scent of water filled the cavern, sweet and clean and unbearable, as though all the water in the world was gathered in the Bearer’s hands.

A handful; not even that, a scant mouthful.

It was enough.

The Source of the marrow-fire, the vast, roaring column of blue-white fire, winked out of existence. Tanaros, gaping, sword in hand, caught a final glimpse of the Bearer’s figure crumpling to the ground.

And then he was trapped in darkness beneath the bowels of Darkhaven.

The Source was gone.

The marrow-fire had been extinguished.