“I reckon it took that long to reach the breaking point.” Speros stamped on the stony floor. “This is hard rock, Lord General. Or it may be …” He hesitated. “Hyrgolf said there was a rain that fell while we were away, a rain like sulfur.”

“Aye,” Tanaros said quietly. “So I heard.”

“Well.” The Midlander gave another shrug. “Rain sinks into the earth. It may have weakened the stone itself.” He glanced at Tanaros. “Begging your pardon, Lord General, but why is it that Lord Satoris chose to erect Darkhaven above the marrow-fire?”

“Gorgantum, the Throat, the Pulse of Uru-Alat.” Tanaros favored him with a grim smile. “You have heard of the dagger Godslayer, have you not, Speros of Haimhault? The Shard of the Souma?”

“General Tanaros!” Speros sounded wounded. “What manner of ignorant fool do you take me for? I know the stories well.”

“I know what they say in the Midlands,” Tanaros said. “I am telling you that the legends are true, lad. It is Godslayer that wounded his Lordship. It is Godslayer, and Godslayer alone, that holds the power to destroy him. And it is that”—he pointed into the flickering depths—“which protects it.”

“From whom?” Speros gazed into the bright void.

“Anyone,” Tanaros said harshly. “Everyone. Godslayer hangs in the marrow-fire in the Chamber of the Font because his Lordship placed it there. And there, no mortal hand may touch it; no, nor immortal, either. Believe me, lad, for I know it well. Your flesh would be burned to the bone simply for making the attempt, and your bones would crumble ere they grasped its hilt. So would any flesh among the Lesser Shapers.”

“Even yours?” Speros asked curiously. “Being one of the Three and all?”

“Even mine,” Tanaros said. “Mine, aye; and Lord Vorax’s, and Ushahin Dreamspinner’s. Godslayer’s brand does not protect us from the marrow-fire.” His scar burned with new ferocity at the searing memory. “Even the Lady Cerelinde, lest you ask it. Not the Three, not the Rivenlost. Another Shaper, perhaps, or one of the Eldest, the dragons.” He shook his head. “Elsewise, no one.”

“Ah, well.” The Midlander tore his gaze away from the marrow-fire. “I can’t imagine anyone being fool enough to try. I wouldn’t, not if I had a hundred buckets of that cursed water.”

“The Water of Life.” Tanaros remembered the taste of the Water in his mouth; water, the essence of water, infusing him with vigor. If the Well of the World were before him now, he would dip his finger into it and sooth the burning tissue of his brand. “Did you taste it?”

“Are you mad?” Speros’ eyes widened. “The cursed stuff nearly killed me. I wouldn’t put it in my mouth for love nor money!” He laughed. “I can’t imagine what those poor little Yarru folk think to do with it. Haomane’s Prophecy doesn’t exactly say how they’re to use it, does it?”