His hands were tied behind him, and he could not stop his fall. A sharp black stone raked across his face as he pitched into the forest floor. Tammet stifled a cry, unwilling to give even that to his captors.

She did not answer. All of her concentration was on the barbarian. He did not doubt that she was exerting much of her power just to keep his mind intact, nor that these efforts alone stayed off the things that waited above him.

This noise was not rain, nor trickling water. But it was wet. It was disturbingly wet.

[H]e remembered the gaping mouth that came out of the ocean, and the look of the water as it cascaded down its throat, rolling over rings of jagged teeth that spiraled down its dark gullet, like a stairway to hell. The teeth always stayed with him. They were an obscenity; all of different sizes and shapes, having no common theme but death. These lands were like them.

A narrow and more jagged trail snaked down from the left, intersected the highway, then continued south until it bore into the canyon wall to their right. That opening seemed to gape at them, inviting unpleasant considerations about where it led.

There was an oppressive feeling in the air that made him want to open his pack, and put his sword in his hand. He swore he could hear the Péistghrá pacing just beyond the walls.

The cold from the lake whipped up, assaulting Tammet’s eyes and cheeks. Yet he thanked the wind, for it made him vigilant, and cleared his head. After what seemed ages, they reached the bottom. A barge sat on the water, and a single lamp hung within it.

And beyond that, he thought, you can expect no more. After all, he was of Smaragd. His father’s kingdom lay outside the borders of Talahm-lár. She was not his empress, nor the boy his emperor.

He saw his mother, and ran to her. The two clutched each other, and looked with awe upon a tall man. The warrior’s hair was red; his sword, a deep, unnatural black, and twisted near the point.

At the mountain’s crest, the black trees pulled back, as if they feared White Rock. Gray pebbles littered the floor here, and Mac Brón’s dragging sword left a jagged path behind him as he made for the peak.