"He sought to kill Malthus."
"Aye." His uncle nodded. "Aye, that I believe he did."
He held the vial, pondering its heft. "Well," he said at length. "It is a long way to Darkhaven. We will see."
"Aye," his uncle said softly. "That we will."
THE MARASOUMIE WAS LOOSENING ITS grip on Tanaros.
The terrible will he exerted was only part of it. In truth, he should not have been able to prevail against Malthus; not with the wizard wielding the Soumanië. Once he regained a measure of his depleted strength, Malthus should have been able to wrest himself into the Ways, sealing Tanaros in the Marasoumië.
He hadn't, though. Foolish wizard. It seemed his priorities lay with his Companions. Even now he struggled like a fly caught in amber, sending his strength elsewhere to shore up a fading spell, using the dregs of his exhausted power to cast a pall of protection over those who had none. Sensing it, Tanaros grinned without knowing it, the memory of his face shaping a rictus. With his right hand clenched on his sword-hilt, feeling the annealing power of a Shaper's blood temper his will, he fought for mastery of the Ways.
Fought, and won.
It came all of a rush, a node-point opening to his command. Gathering himself and his will, Tanaros scrambled for selfhood, wresting his shape out of the molten nowhere of the Marasoumië, reclaiming the mortal form he had worn for more than a thousand years. If there was a hand to grip a sword-hilt, there must be an arm to wield it. If there was a mouth to grin, there must be a face to wear it. If there was a heart to beat, there must be a breast to contain it. Bit by bit, Tanaros gathered himself until he was a man, standing, his feet beneath him.
There.
His lungs opened, drawing in a sobbing breath. Without a second thought, he hurled himself into the Ways, into the constricting passage. One step, two, three; my Lord, I am coming, he thought, an ecstatic rush surging into his palm, fueling his veins. The black blade trembled, keening its own song. Stone rushed past him, disorienting.
Crimson light pulsed.
Tanaros stumbled, staggering, into open air.
It was a cavern. That much he saw, as his mastery of the Marasoumië faded. He set his feet and turned slowly in a circle, his sword extended. The sound of his breathing filled the empty space. The node-light went grey and lifeless, and darkness reclaimed the cavern. Somewhere in the Marasoumië, Malthus the Counselor had realized his error and managed to close the Ways at last.
Wherever Tanaros was, he was trapped.
He gave a short laugh at the irony of it. The cavern lay within the Ways, so there must be tunnels—but he was deep, deep below the surface, with no idea in which direction an egress might lie. No food, no water. There was air, for the moment. How long could he endure without them? What would become of his immortal flesh? Tanaros closed his eyes, remembering another journey beneath the earth, and beauty and terror commingled. "Cerelinde," he mused aloud. "Have I found the death you feared?"
His voice echoed in the vaulted space, punctuated by the sound of a drop of water falling; amplified, louder than any drip should be.
Tanaros opened his eyes.
It was dark in the cavern, but not wholly so. And it smelled of water; of the essence of water, of something that was to water as the Shaper's ichor was to mortal blood. Like water, only sweeter.
With dark-adjusted eyes he saw it—there, on the far side, a pool of water and a tiny point of light upon it, refracting a distant glitter of sun. Putting up his sword, Tanaros approached it. Deep, that cistern; unknowably deep. A single stalactite overhung it, glistening with gathering moisture. Leaning over the pool and craning his neck, he saw fresh marks gouged into the wall of the cistern. He knew those gouges. Deep and plunging, taking bites from stone as if from a hunk of stale bread; that was the work of a Fjeltroll's talons. A man could climb using those handholds, if he were strong enough to hoist himself up there.
Far, far above was sky, a blue disk no larger than a teacup.
Sheathing his sword, Tanaros reached out into the air above the cistern. The narrow shaft of sunlight illuminated his hand. It was warm on his skin; hot and dry. He rotated his hand. Sunlight lay cupped in his calloused palm. On the underside, the air that kissed his knuckles was cooler and moist, rising from the pool below. He could almost taste it.
"The Well of the World," he whispered.
It seemed impossible… and yet. What other water was so still, so motionless? Surely this must be the very navel of Urulat. He crouched beside the pool and watched the motionless water. It was folly to be here, and folly to linger. Still, he could not leave. If it was true, this water was old. It had been old when the world was Sundered; it had been old when the world was Shaped. With the utmost care he extended his arm and dipped the tip of one finger into the water, which didn't even ripple.