“Wizards cannot resist respecting her kind of talent,” Galloran answered. “Not only is her innate Edomic aptitude rare and precious, it reflects the abilities Orruck most admired about himself. Her Edomic skill will add legitimacy to our cause in his eyes. It could help us secure what we need without having to test the efficacy of the Word.”

“I’ll go,” Rachel said.

“I don’t like it,” Jason replied. “Just tell me the syllables. I’ll go hit him with the Word.”

“It might not work,” Rachel countered. “I know you’re just being protective, but it doesn’t make sense here. If the Word fails, you die and we lose the globes. This orantium might make a huge difference for the rebellion. The safest bet is for me and Galloran to go.”

“We’ll bring Dorsio,” Galloran said. “The rest of you should wait here in the skiff. Dorsio has some globes. If we fail, we’ll make sure to detonate some orantium as a signal. If you hear an explosion, get away from here.”

“Not that I lack confidence in the outcome,” Ferrin said, “but would you consider entrusting the piece of my neck to somebody who is not about to confront one of the most deadly beings in the world?”

“Fair enough,” Galloran said. “Dorsio, please lend the fragment to Jason.”

After the chunk of flesh changed hands, Ferrin and Tark came aboard the skiff while Galloran, Dorsio, and Rachel moved to the canoe. She and Dorsio used the paddles to propel the canoe beyond the towers. Galloran raised a hand in farewell. “If we do not return by nightfall, we will not return.”

Rachel glanced back at Jason. He looked worried. She understood how he must feel. He had risked everything to come protect her, and now she was heading into danger, leaving him behind. She tried to concentrate on paddling. Only a few sparse trees projected from the water up ahead. There were plentiful lily pads the size of tabletops, many supporting basket-shaped fungi. For the first time since entering the swamp, branches were not constantly interlaced overhead. Even screened by the hazy atmosphere, it was nice to be under sunlight. “How do we know where to go?” she asked.

“The water is deep in this part of the city,” Galloran said. “We’ll cross the empty parts and watch for a round tower, the top of a graven obelisk, or the head of a tremendous statue.”

“What happened here?” Rachel asked. “Who would build a city in a swamp?”

“These lands were not always sunken,” Galloran said. “Darvis Kur was once the oldest continually inhabited city in all of Lyrian. And arguably the most splendid. Many wizards made their homes here. The great wizards of Darvis Kur belonged to an order called the Custodians of the Mended Chain. They incurred the wrath of a rival order known as the Twenty Magi.

“The Twenty Magi attacked Darvis Kur, and the battle went poorly for the Custodians. They sought help from a wizard hermit known as Pothan the Slow. He seldom came into Darvis Kur, preferring the solitude of the surrounding wilderness. He was described as large and bald and somewhat misshapen, slow of speech and odd of manner. But when the Custodians of the Mended Chain begged him to help save their city, he answered the call.

“Eldrin and Zokar are considered the greatest masters of Edomic. But perhaps no wizard in history could rival Pothan the Slow when it came to sheer power. By the might of his Edomic, Pothan singlehandedly crushed the Twenty Magi. None survived to carry the order forward. The tale tells that they were swallowed by the earth.

“The Custodians were frightened when they discovered just how much power this peculiar wanderer wielded. After his impressive victory, they invited him to become an honorary member of their order, and then tried to poison him.”

“How awful!” Rachel said. “After he saved them.”

“How foolish,” Galloran said. “They succeeded in poisoning him, but not in slaying him. Furious after the betrayal, Pothan sank this entire region, forcing it downward by the devastating might of his Edomic, while raising hills and mountains round about. Surrounding lakes and rivers drained into this realm in an unprecedented flood. The monumental effort cost Pothan his life and created the Sunken Lands. Tens of thousands perished.”

“Wow,” Rachel said. “What a story.”

“Interestingly, the wizard Orruck was a young member of the Custodians of the Mended Chain at the time, one of the few to survive. Centuries later, Zokar chose to make his boyhood home into his nightmare prison.”

Rachel and Dorsio piloted the boat around a stone spire jutting up from the water. A few grimy patches of gold suggested it once was gilded. The slime on the stonework glistened more than the precious metal.

“Is Orruck still a person?”

“He looks nothing like a man. His mutation left him speechless, and his mind has grown clouded. With each passing year, he becomes less human. When I last saw him, he retained enough self-possession to hold a mental conversation … and to crave vengeance against a former rival.”

“Do you think he’ll still be human enough to communicate?” Rachel asked.

“He has existed in this state for centuries,” Galloran said. “It has hardly been twenty years since I met him. Barring dreadful luck, Orruck should be in a similar state to when I last encountered him.”

Dorsio pointed diagonally.

Following the line he had indicated, Rachel saw the merlons of an ancient wall protruding from the water, like broken teeth. Behind the partially exposed battlements rose a rounded tower scaled with lichen, empty windows and loopholes offering glimpses of the darkness inside.

Rachel described the tower.

“Bear to the left,” Galloran said. “We are nearing our destination.”

“Why does Orruck hold a grudge against Maldor?” Rachel mused. “It was Zokar who did this to him.”

“The apprentices of Zokar each desired to replace him one day,” Galloran said. “Only one could have survived to do so. Orruck and Maldor would have slighted and betrayed each other whenever possible over the years. Zokar is no more. But Orruck has never forgotten his rivalry with Maldor. Hateful emotions consume him as he patrols the Drowned City, unable to exact revenge on his old adversaries, incapable of wielding the Edomic power he once controlled. As long as he believes he can use us to harm Maldor, we stand a good chance of winning his aid.”

Across a broad span of water, a marble head rose above the surface of the swamp. Part of one nostril had broken away, deep cracks diverged across the chin, and one ear was netted with webs, but the imperfections could not disguise the artistic quality of the regal countenance. Some distance from the enormous head, a stone fist broke the surface of the water, positioned as if it had once gripped a weapon.