Deciding he would walk until morning he continued on course. As the light grew his spirits fell: every increase in brightness revealed more seabed. Nothing else. When the sun finally pushed free of the horizon, it was tempting to carry on walking—put in some distance while he could. For a while he sprinted, aware as he did so that he was making a lot of noise. Each footfall echoed like the chunk of a chopped log.

Finally out of breath, he halted. Hot-faced and sweating, he put a hand on each knee as he waited for the hammering in his heart to subside. Peering through the gap between his legs he saw the path he had taken outlined with clouds of salt dust: one for each step. The sky was a piercing blue and the sun rode pale and low, like the moon. Looking ahead he realized that the long run had got him nowhere. All he could see was the flat chalk-colored plain of the seabed. Not even a boulder in sight.

"Only in darkness can we find a way through." Recalling Tallal's words, Raif sat. No point looking for cover or a suitable place to camp. Although he didn't much feel like it, he pulled out his bedroll and set about making preparations for sleep. He had no fuel for a fire and wondered if that was good or bad. Clan had no rules to govern sleeping by day. Deciding he probably wouldn't sleep anyway, he lay down and covered himself with the lamb brothers' blanket.

Aware of his vulnerability, he rolled and circled, straining his neck to keep watch in all directions. Hours passed. The sun shone. Nothing moved. Of all the empty places in the Want this seemed the emptiest. Nothing even pretended to grow here. There were no mountains on the horizon, no ice lenses to refract the light, nothing except shimmering air and seabed. Raif stared at the shimmers. He was sure that he would not sleep.

When he woke it was dusk and the final slice of sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Feeing vaguely stupid, he checked the seabed for changes. If the landscape had changed it was in subtle ways he could not discern. Kneeling, he stowed his supplies and ate a light meal of dried fruit, bread and nuts. The water tasted of the lamb brothers' spices and charred wood. After he'd taken his fill he cupped some in his hand and let it trickle over his face. Hoping it-was a luxury he would not come to regret, he broke camp and headed out.

This night would be different, he could tell that straightaway.

Warmer and darker, insulated by clouds swiftly moving across the sky from Want-north. Within an hour it was full dark and he could barely see his feet— Raif walked cautiously at first, gradually moving faster as the ground beneath him remained unchanged. Soon he was jogging in short steps, his waterskin, daypack and longbow thumping against his back. He had to get off the seabed. It was a good night for mist, but this was not a good place to find it. The salt would suck it right back. He ran faster. Hours passed and he covered leagues. Twice he stopped to drink and catch his breath. Both times he studied the sky. Clouds were consolidating into a mass in the Want-north and it was getting difficult to spot even the brightest stars. He hurried on. The visual world was shrinking. He couldn't even see his fists as he ran.

When the ground dropped beneath him, he felt a moment of indignant surprise—there was no place to land his foot—and then went plunging into the black.

He lost time. Pain roused him and he opened his eyes, blinked, and then opened them again. The difference between eyes open and eyes closed was nonexistent. The blackness on both sides was absolute. He was lying on his back, with his left leg twisted at the ankle beneath him. Something jagged and stony lay beneath his thighs and buttocks. Beneath his back the waterskin was slowly deflating; he could feel its water soaking his cloak and sealskins. It had probably saved his spine.

A breeze was blowing gently against his face, and he wondered how long he had been unconscious. If he'd had to guess he would have said less than a minute, yet his perceptions couldn't be right for even in the Want the weather didn't change that quickly. The air had been still and now it was moving.

Rolling onto his side, he removed the pressure from his bent ankle. Pain made him woozy. Gods, may it not be broken. Grasping his booted shin with both hands he straightened his knee and foot. Once both legs were laid flat he sat for a moment and thought, unwilling to test the ankle just yet. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own breath. If the sky was still overhead he could no longer see it. He had no visual way of telling how far he'd fallen, but the fact that he was alive and could move his back and hips had to be a sign that the drop couldn't have been more than ten feet.

He checked his weapons next. The longbow had been loosely cross-strung against his back and had ridden up during the fall. The string was now around his neck and the bow was on top of the ledge created by daypack and waterskin. It was sound. He exhaled, relieved.

The Forsworn sword had been suspended from his gearbelt by a G-shaped brainhook and had landed beneath his right leg. Inadequately holstered in uncured sealskin, the sword hadn't fared as well as the bow. His weight must have come down hard on the flat, for the blade was bent at the midsection. As he ran a hand along the badly warped steel, the old clan joke shot through his mind. What do you call a man without a sword?

Bait.

Raif stood. Splinters of pain exploded in his ankle as his foot accepted weight. Inhaling sharply, he bit back a cry. Tears welled in his eyes as he pushed his left foot into the correct position beneath his hipbone. He'd heard somewhere that if you could wiggle your toes then your foot wasn't broken. Concentrating hard, he forced messages along his nerves. He'd be damned if they weren't going to wiggle.

It was hard to tell, but he thought his toes were moving. Something down there was responding—he couldn't see what—but he thought it might be the toebox of his boot. To test the foot, he applied more pressure. At about seventy pounds the ankle gave, bucking like a horse refusing a jump. It was probably the ankle then, not the foot. That was good.

That was very good. What next?

For a few second after that he blanked. He was awake and conscious, aware that he should marshal his thoughts but temporarily incapable of doing so. Think, he ordered himself, pushing a hand through his hair. Think.

The hand came away damp. Inanely, he turned his palm toward his face and looked. Pure darkness stared back. Frowning, anxious about the sword, he tried to formulate a plan. He was in a hole. Did he need to get out or was he better staying put? He could probably walk as long as he didn't put too much weight on his ankle, whereas climbing one-footed in the dark was a skill he'd never mastered. That was settled then: he had no choice but to stay here until daylight. If it was a ravine he could navigate it using his bow as a stick, and there was always a chance it could lead to something deeper where the mist river flowed.

Raif shivered. The cold down here was different, more penetrating. The breeze kept forcing it against his skin. Reaching behind his shoulder, he unhooked the Sull bow. The familiar glassiness of the lacquered horn calmed him as he untied the string and let the bent stick rest in his hand. Shifting his weight onto his good right ankle, he sent his left foot sliding across the ground. Stones and uneven rock pushed against the side of his boot. It was rough, but seemed walkable.

Come to us.

Raif's head shot round, tracking the noise. Every hair on his skin swayed as if his body were floating in water. He listened, but could hear nothing except silence buzzing in his ears. "Who's there?" he challenged. Detecting a break in his voice he didn't like, he tried again. Harder. "Who goes there?"