Jorah had made it across the desert. He Soot, his horse. Of a hundred men and women who had started out across the Anvil, only he and his horse had survived. And he was a squire!
Ser Telessa was the Knight who had gathered the expedition. It was she and the Circle who had found the map in crumbling temple of Xai’hun. She had faced the archangiel, Matrahiel, she and her companions had one from it’s dying hands the map that led here. To the tabernacle of the Eternal. To the fountain of eternal life.
He was just a squire. He had been the least of the Knight-Generals followers, and he had been the only one to survive.
He looked at the statue of the three angiel floating before him. They were cherubhim, not the greater seraphim such as Ser Telessa had faced. But he was not deceived. Here lay they rested, trapped in stone, melded as one to form one of the eight pillars of the world.
And the waters of the fountain flowed from their hands into the bowl beneath them, and then to the channel that was set into the cracked stone tiles of this ancient place, and then into… he looked around. He didn’t know where.
He didn’t know why he had lived these last five days, staggering across the hard packed earth toward the shimmering haze that was this holy place. He didn’t know why he had been chosen. But chosen he had been. His ma had always said he was lucky, that he’d been born under Alastael’s Hand. He’d never really believed her.
Had the others survived he doubted he’d have even seen the inside of this place, let alone been about to drink of the waters. This water was holy, the blood of the angiels. It offered eternal life. If he drank of it, he’d be trapped here.
But if he didn’t, he’d die.
Surely eternity could give him the time he need to think of someway to get back across the Anvil with no supplies?
Leaning forward, he let his lips touch the glowing water and he drank.