— Brother! Hear me! Help me!

And from the vastness of the depths came the image of huge dark wings slowly opening and closing over titanic bodies. And then a voice like a hundred bells tolling at once:

— I hear, little land-brother.

It was the water-king Maazmoorn who spoke. Faraataa knew them all by the music of their minds: Maazmoorn the bells, Girouz the singing thunder, Sheitoon the slow sad drums. There were dozens of the great kings, and the voice of each was unmistakable.

— Carry me, O King Maazmoorn!

— Come upon me, O land-brother.

Faraataa felt the pull, and yielded himself to it, and was lifted upward and out, leaving his body behind. In an instant he was at the sea, an instant more and he entered it; and then he and Maazmoorn were one.

Ecstasy overwhelmed him: that joining, that communion, was so potent that it could easily be an end in itself, a delight that fulfilled all yearnings, if he would allow it. But he never would allow it.

The seat of the water-king's towering intelligence was itself like an ocean—limitless, all-enfolding, infinitely deep. Faraataa, sinking down and down and down, lost himself in it. But never did he lose awareness of his task. Through the strength of the water-king he would achieve what he never could have done unaided. Gathering himself, he brought his powerful mind to its finest focus and from his place at the core of that warm cradling vastness he sent forth the messages he had come here to transmit:

— Saarekkin?

— I am here.

— What is the report?

— The lusavender is altogether destroyed throughout the eastern Rift. We have established the fungus beyond hope of eradication, and it is spreading on its own.

— What action is the government taking?

— The burning of infected crops. It will be futile.

— Victory is ours, Saarekkin!

— Victory is ours, Faraataa!

— Tii-haanimak?

— I hear you, Faraataa.

— What news?

— The poison traveled upon the rain, and the niyk-trees are destroyed in all Dulorn. It leaches now through the soil, and will ruin the glein and the stajja. We are preparing the next attack.

Victory is ours, Faraataa!

— Victory is ours! Iniriis?

— I am Iniriis. The root-weevils thrive and spread in the fields of Zimroel. They will devour the ricca and the milaile.

— When will the effects be visible?

— They are visible now. Victory is ours, Faraataa!

— We have won Zimroel. The battle now must shift to Alhanroel, Iniriis. Begin shipping your weevils across the Inner Sea.

— It will be done.

— Victory is ours, Iniriis! Y-Uulisaan?

— This is Y-Uulisaan, Faraataa.

— You follow the Coronal still?

— I do. He has left Ebersinul and makes for Treymone.

— Does he know what is happening in Zimroel?

— He knows nothing. The grand processional absorbs his energies completely.

— Bring him the report, then. Tell him of weevils in the valley of the Zimr, of lusavender blight in the Rift, of the death of niyk and glein and stajja west of Dulorn.