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moon—drifted
to the movement of some unknowable tide.
    The Great Want could not be [garbled] or
explained. Ancient sorceries had scarred it, time had worn away its
boundaries, and cataclysmic disasters had scoured it clean of life.
The Want was no longer bound by physical laws. To attempt to traverse
it was folly. The best you could hope for was a rite of passage.
Somehow Bear knew this, knew that relinquishing—not
asserting—control would carry one farther in this place.
    Every night since they had left the fortress the
pony had stumbled upon a suitable place to set camp. She found
islands elevated above the vast mist rivers that flowed across the
Want at sunset, sniffed out caves sunk deep into cliff faces, and
hollows protected from the harsh morning winds. She'd even located a
riverbed where ancient bushes had been sucked so dry of life juice
that they burned as smokeless as the purest fuel. The hill pony
hadn't found drinkable water yet, but Raif knew that out of the two
of them she had the best chance of discovering it.
    That, and the way out.
    Frowning, Raif scanned the horizon. A constant
bitter wind blew against his face, scouring his cheeks with ice
crystals and filling his nose with the smell of ozone and lead; the
scent of faraway storms. Part of him was content simply to drift. As
long as he was here, at the Want's mercy, he need make no decisions
about the future. Questions about whether to return to the Maimed Men
or head south in search of Ash had little meaning. In a way it was a
kind of relief. The past three days were the most peaceful he had
known since that morning in the Badlands when his da and Dagro
Blackhail had died.
    That sense of peace would not last for long. Mor
Drakka, Watcher of the Dead, Oathbreaker, Twelve Kill: a man
possessing such names could not expect to live a peaceful life.
    Kneeling on his bedroll, Raif reached for the
sword given to him by the Listener of the Ice Trappers. The once
perfectly tempered blade was warped and blackened, its edges blunted
and untrue. Plunged into shadowflesh up to its crossguard, the sword
had been irrevocably changed. It would never be more than a
knock-around now, the kind of blade a father let his son train with
until the boy developed a proper degree of skill. Raif began to grind
the blade regardless, using a soft shammy and a makeshift paste of
limestone grit and horse lard. The rock crystal mounted on the pommel
flashed brilliantly in the rising sun, and Raif found himself
recalling what the Listener had said when he handed over the sword.
    It should serve you well enough until you find a
better one.
    Strange how he hadn't given the words much thought
until now. This sword had once been the weapon of a Forsworn knight,
its blade forged from the purest steel, its edge honed by a master
swordsmith. To most clansmen it would be a prize to be treasured;
oiled lovingly every tenday, drawn with silent pride for the
inspection of honored guests, passed through the generations from
father to son. Yet the Listener had hinted that for Raif there would
be more.
    Abruptly Raif resheathed the sword. It was time to
move on.
    Today was a good day in the Want. A sun rose,
traveling at a constant speed and arc, and banks of low-lying clouds
moved in the same direction as prevailing winds. Well, almost. Raif
shrugged as he hiked along a limestone bluff. He'd take small
discrepancies over big ones any day.
    The bluff was rocky and hard going, riven with
cracks and undermined with softer, lighter chalkstone that was
crumbling to dust. Gray weeds poked through holes in the rock. They
may have been alive; it was hard to tell. In the distance Raif could
see a range of low-lying mountains, spinebacks, laid out in a course
that fishtailed into the bluff. Realizing he was in for a steady
climb, he reached for the water-skin.
    Straightaway he knew it was a mistake. His mouth
and stomach were anticipating water, his throat muscles were
contracting in