“I know.” Dani tested the spliced thong’s strength and gauged that it would hold. Raising his good arm, he slipped the vial around his neck, feeling it nestle into place against his chest. “I have given them reason.”

“You know, lad.” Uncle Thulu nodded at Dani’s left arm, bound in its sling. “I know what I said before. But we’ve a long way to go, and Fjeltroll to outrun. Whatever questions you might ask, it’s not going to alter their orders; not here and now. A single drop from that flask—”

“No.” Dani shook his head. Fear had passed from him; in its wake, he felt tired and resigned. “You were right, Uncle. It is too precious to waste. And how terrible might we become if the Bearer chose to use it thusly? No,” he said again. “It was my choice to use it to save your life. It is enough.” He glanced behind him, surveying the horizon. There was no glint of sunlight on steel; the moving smudge had gone. “Shall we go?”

“Aye, lad.” Uncle Thulu sprang to his feet, then paused. He fumbled at his chest with blunt fingertips, finding no wound, but only the pale ridges of long-healed scars. An expression of perplexity crossed his broad face. “What was I saying? It was a folly of some sort, I fear. Something has changed here, Dani, has it not? I should be dead, and yet I live. And you, you …”

“I am the Bearer,” Dani finished softly. For the first time, he had a glimmering of what the words meant, and it made him feel very, very alone. With an effort, he used his good arm as a lever, clambering upright. Once standing, he touched the clay vial at his throat, aware of his burden. “Will you be my guide, Uncle?”

“I will,” said his uncle. And he bowed, low. “Aye, lad, I will.”

THE WALL WAS LIKE A dragon’s spine, coiled and sinuous. It stretched for league upon league around Darkhaven, clinging with determination to every sinking valley and rising ridge in the Vale that surrounded Lord Satoris’ fortress.

It was taller than the height of three men, and broad enough for four horsemen to ride astride atop it; or four Fjel to run at a trot. Within its confines lay all that Darkhaven encompassed. There, to the north, were the mines where the Fjeltroll labored, digging iron from the earth. There, closer, were the furnaces where it was smelted, the forges where it was beaten into steel. The Gorgantus River made its sluggish way beneath a pall of grey-black smoke, tapped by the cunning of Speros of Haimhault, who had built a waterwheel and made it serve Darkhaven’s purposes.