Tanaros raised his brows. "Thus you hold him accountable for his birth?"
"Not his birth, but what he has made of the ill-conceived life he was given," Cerelinde said evenly. "And my folk gave him into the care of yours, Tanaros Kingslayer. We are not to blame for the cruelty wrought by the children of Men."
"No." He looked away from her, gazing at Ushahin. "And yet you were quicker to abandon him than the children of Men were to assail him. Only Oronin's Children rose above such pettiness. The Were took him in when none other would." His gaze returned to hers. "Leave him be. He lost more than any of us in Lindanen Dale."
She remembered the grey forms in their midst, Aracus engaged in combat. Her breath was quick and shallow. "The one who attacked my betrothed…"
"The Dreamspinner called her 'mother,'" Tanaros said quietly. "Remember that, when you condemn us in Haomane's name, Lady. You have my word as surety: No harm will come to you here."
Bowing stiffly, he took his leave.
Cerelinde watched him go. A part of her heart soared, for if his words were true, it meant that Aracus lived. As dire as her prospects appeared, while they both drew breath, hope must not be abandoned. Haomane's Prophecy might yet be fulfilled, and Satoris Banewreaker destroyed through his own folly.
And yet she was troubled.
Tanaros moved through the encampment, greeting the Fjel, checking on his injured Men, making his way to Ushahin's side. There he squatted on his heels, speaking in low tones, one hand on the Misbegotten's shoulder.
He was her enemy, one of the Three. He had killed his wife and slain his King. He was the servant of Satoris Banewreaker.
He was not at all what she had expected.
THE WHITE SLIVER OF THE new moon was bright enough to cast shadows.
The old man shook his head, watching the strangers stumble into the Stone Grove. Half dead, most of them, past caring that they entered a sacred place. One crumpled, unable to walk another step; another knelt beside her, breathing hard through his mouth. Foolish, wasting his breath's moisture in the desert, but what else were they to do with those tiny nostrils?
One stayed upright through sheer will, glancing at the tall rocks surrounding the empty circle, eyes suspicious by moonlight. The old man smiled. Stubborn, that one. He must be the appointed guardian. And the others…
"Ngurra!" His wife's whisper tickled his ear with delight. "Look! One of the Haomane-gaali."
And so it was, tall and fair, wrought with such grace that thirst and hunger only stripped him to a translucent beauty, his Shaper's intended essence. Ngurra clicked his tongue. Fair, yes, but could Haomane's Children find water in the desert? No.
One of the strangers could, though; their old one—or at least, where he could not find it, he could compel it. And he'd done so, the old wizard. From Dry Basin to Lizard Rock, across the Basking Flats, he'd done it, calling drought-eaters from barren sand. The desert was leached where they had passed, struggling for survival. The old man felt it, himself; there, above his third rib, a dull ache where Thornbrake Bore had run dry.
"Did you see—?" his wife whispered.
"Shhh." He hushed her. "Watch. They have found it."
It was their old one, their wizard. He leaned on his staff, bowing his head. One hand fumbled beneath the moonlit spill of his beard, drawing forth the Soumanie. It shone like a red star in his hand. The wizard raised his head, gazing at the pile of rocks in the center of the Stone Grove. "It is here," he said softly. "Ah, Haomane! The Unknown made Known. Blaise, Peldras, come."
Together, they clambered over the rocks. What they found there, every member of the Yarru knew full well. A cleft, ringed round with rocks, opening onto unfathomable depths, and from it emerging a breath of water, heavy, with a strong mineral tang. A battered tin bucket, sitting atop an endless coil of rope. A faint sigh whispered around the Stone Grove.
"Is it… ?" asked the one called Blaise.
"It is the Well of the World and the Navel of Uru-Alat." The wizard's voice held awe. " 'Try though they may, one and all, by no hand save the appointed Bearer… '"He halted his recitation. "Let us try, then, and see."
Among the rocks surrounding Stone Grove, the Yarru chuckled, a soft, soughing sound, like the shifting of desert sands. Ngurra rested on his haunches, watching as the strangers fed the tin bucket into Birru-Uru-Alat, the hole at the center of the world. Down and down and down it went, on a coiling rope of thukka-vine. He counted the heartbeats, waiting as the rope uncoiled.
Down…
Down…
Down.
Almost, the strangers gave up after long minutes, for there seemed no end to the coiling rope. Ngurra knew how long it was. He had measured it, cubit by cubit, all the days of his life. That was his charge, as chieftain of the Stone Grove Clan. His grandmother, who had been chieftainess before him, had passed it to him, along with her knowledge. Maintain the rope, inch by inch. It was one of his charges.