"Here lies Thran, Son of Light, first Lord of the Caverns, and his lady
Thrala, Dweller in the Light. So have they lain a thousand thousand
years, and so will they lie until this planet rots to dust beneath them.
They led the Folk out of the slime and made Tav. Such as they we shall
never see again."

They passed silently down the aisles of the dead. Once Garin caught
sight of another fair-haired man, perhaps another outlander, since the
Ancient Ones were all dark of hair. Urg paused once more before they
left the hall. He stood by the couch of a man, wrapped in a long robe,
whose face was ravaged with marks of agony.

Urg spoke a single name: "Thran."

So this was the last Lord of the Caverns. Garin leaned closer to study
the dead face but Urg seemed to have lost his patience. He hurried his
charge on to a panel door.

"This is the southern portal of the Caverns," he explained. "Trust to
the Ana to guide you and beware of the boiling mud. Should the morgels
scent you, kill quickly, they are the servants of the Black Ones. May
fortune favor you, outlander."

The door was open and Garin looked out upon Tav. The soft blue light was
as strong as it had been when he had first seen it. With the Ana perched
on his shoulder, the green rod and the bag of food in his hands, he
stepped out onto the moss sod.

Urg raised his hand in salute and the door clicked into place. Garin
stood alone, pledged to bring the Daughter out of the Caves of Darkness.

There is no night or day in Tav since the blue light is steady. But the
Folk divide their time by artificial means. However Garin, being newly
come from the rays of healing, felt no fatigue. As he hesitated, the Ana
chattered and pointed confidently ahead.

Before them was a dense wood of fern trees. It was quiet in the forest
as Garin made his way into its gloom and for the first time he noted a
peculiarity of Tav. There were no birds.

The portion of the woodland they had to traverse was but a spur of the
forest to the west. After an hour of travel they came out upon the bank
of a sluggish river. The turbid waters of the stream were a dull saffron
color. This, thought Garin, must be the River of Gold, the boundary of
the lands of the Black Ones.

He rounded a bend to come upon a bridge, so old that time itself had
worn its stone angles into curves. The bridge gave on a wide plain
where tall grass grew sere and yellow. To the left was a hissing and
bubbling, and a hug