A faint splash in the night.
"Water," said Peldras the Haomane-gaali, lying prone above the opening. His ears were sharper than those of Men. "The bucket has struck water, Counselor."
One after another, they tried it. Blaise, the appointed guardian, tried it first, grunting in the moonlight, muscles straining as he sought to raise the bucket. Then the Haomane-gaali Peldras tried, and fared no better. The wizard tried, too, muttering spells that availed him naught, but earned a silent chuckle from the watching Yarru. In the end, they all tried, the whole of Malthus' Company, even the thirsting Archer and the bone-weary Knight, laying hands on the rope together and hauling as one. Yet, even as a whole, bone and muscle and sinew cracking, they failed.
The laden bucket was too heavy to raise.
"Enough," whispered their old one, their wizard. "We have tried, one and all, and fulfilled the letter of the Prophecy." Laying down his staff, he cupped the Soumanie in both hands. His voice grew strong as he spoke the words of the choosing, and the ruddy glow of the chip of the Souma grew, spilling from between his cupped hands to illuminate the Stone Grove. "Yarru-yami! Charred Ones! Children of Haomane's wrath! I call upon you now in his name. Lend us your aid!"
"Time and gone he asked," Warabi muttered.
"Hush, old woman!" Ngurra glared at her. She wouldn't understand the common tongue if he hadn't taught it to her himself. "Kindle the torch."
Still muttering, she obeyed, striking flint to iron. The oil-rich fibers of the bugy-stick sputtered and lit, sending a signal. All around the perimeter of the Stone Grove, bugy-stick torches caught and kindled as, one by one, members of the Six Clans of the Yarru revealed themselves.
Ngurra stepped before the torches, gazing down at the small figures gathered around the Birru-Uru-Alat, their shadows stark on the sand. "The Yarru are here," he called in the common tongue, the language his grandmother had taught him. "As we have always been, since before the earth was scorched. What do you seek?"
Malthus the Counselor opened his arms, showing himself weaponless, offering himself as surety. The Soumanie shone like a red star upon his breast. "Speaker of the Yarru, I greet you. We come seeking the Bearer."
In the night, someone gasped.
FOR TWO MORE DAYS, THEY traveled through the tunnels.
Truth be told, Tanaros had never been comfortable in them. They reminded him, too acutely, that Urulat was old, older than his lifespan, unnatural as it was, could reckon. Dragons had carved them, it was said; whether or not it was true, dragons did not acknowledge. Still, they served their purpose for the armies of Darkhaven.
It was harder, with the Lady of the Ellylon.
Vast as they were—broad enough at all times for two horses to ride abreast, and sometimes three—the tunnels were dark and stifling, a mass of earth pressing above at all times. At times, when it was far between vents, the air grew thick and the torches guttered, burning low. Then it was worse, and even Tanaros fought panic, his chest working to draw air into his lungs.
The Fjel, rock-delvers by nature of their Shaping, were untroubled. Their eyes were well suited to darkness and they could slow the very beat of their hearts at need, breathing slow and deep, moving unhurried at a steady pace, carrying heavy packs of supplies. Brute wisdom, mindless and physical, attuned to survival. Even the horses, bred in the Vale of Gorgantum to fear no darkness, endured without panic.
It was different for Men, who thought overmuch.
It was worst of all for the Ellyl.
Tanaros saw, and sympathized against his will. It was simpler, much simpler, to despise her. Ushahin Dreamspinner managed it without effort, his face twisted with pure and absolute despite when he deigned glance her way. By all rights, the Dreamspinner should have hated the tunnels, being human and Ellyl, a creature of open skies. But he was a child of the Were as well, and at home underground.
Not so the Lady Cerelinde.
Her face, by torchlight, was pale, too pale. Skin stretched taut over bones Shaped like lines of poetry, searing and gorgeous. Haomane's Child. Even here, her beauty made the heart ache. Her eyes were wide, swallowed up by darkness. From time to time her pale fingers scrabbled at her throat, seeking to loosen the clasp of a rough-spun wool cloak someone had loaned her on the first day; Hyrgolf, at a guess.
On the second day, Tanaros could bear it no longer.
An escort of marching Fjel surrounded her as she rode, seated on one of the fallen Staccian's mounts. Tungskulder Fjel, Hyrgolf's best lads, their horny heads at a level with her shoulder even as she rode astride. She bore it well, Cerelinde of the Ellylon, only a faint tremor giving evidence to her fear, until the air grew thick once more and she clutched her throat, gasping.