Aram, Makasa, Murky, Hackle, and Drella spent the next day aboard Rendow’s boat. They passed between high canyon walls and tall, rocky plateaus. Enthralled, Aram spent much of his time sketching, inspired to attempt something he had never tried before: to sketch from a point of view other than his own. He sketched those canyon walls and a couple of the spires, then placed the entire boat upon the water (not just what he could see of the vessel from where he sat upon it). Then he sketched in his four companions. Finally, he added himself. This last part was the most difficult for Aramar. He had no looking glass with which to study his own face. He’d look down at his clothes—and their ragged condition—and occasionally he’d try to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the water. But the boat’s own movement disturbed or distorted any view of himself. So, resignedly, he did the best he could. He tightened up the pencils last and, in the end, was fairly satisfied with the result. He did wish he could do better justice to the scene by using color, that is, by painting what he beheld in all its subtle shades. And he still felt his attempt at Aramar Thorne was feeble, but it didn’t seem right not to include himself on the voyage. He showed the sketch to the others. Murky, Drella, and Hackle were all very impressed.

Makasa scowled and said, “It’s good.”

Aram scowled and asked, “Then why are you scowling?”

She lowered her head to whisper in his ear, “Because there are too blasted many of us on this blasted boat.”

Aram whispered back, “Haven’t they all proven themselves useful now and again?”

“And all proven themselves trouble now and again, too.”

Aram was certain that Makasa didn’t dislike any of their companions, at least not anymore. It was just that she hated relying on them. And the more of them there were, the more complications tended to arise, and the more she then needed the others to help solve them. For the Mighty Flintwill, it was a vicious circle.

She sighed quietly, nostalgic for the days when she only had herself and Aram to worry about. Perhaps, he thought (without really believing it), nostalgic for the days when she only had Makasa Flintwill to worry about.

Thus Aram passed his time, while Makasa passed hers—small surprise—on the alert for trouble. Hackle, taking his cues from her as usual, was likewise watchful as he rowed them down the canyon. Drella conversed with Murky in his native tongue. Makasa frowned over what she perceived as their babbling, but it made Aram smile. It reminded him of the exchanges Murky used to have with Drella’s former keeper, Thalyss Greyoak, who had somehow managed to teach the murloc language to the dryad’s acorn simply by periodically whispering to her in that tongue. When Drella talked to Murky, Aram felt to some small degree that Thalyss was still with them. That he was alive in Taryndrella, that some of her quirks were Thalyss’s quirks.

“What’s he saying?” Aram asked the dryad.

“He talks about many things. Well, no, actually. He talks about two things. He talks about his friendship with the four of us. And he talks about his nets. Mostly, he talks about his nets. He is in some mourning for his nets.”

“Yes,” Aram said. He patted Murky on the murloc’s oily head, then wiped his hand on his breeches. “He has twice made a great sacrifice in giving up his nets to help our band.”

Murky nodded. “Mrgle, mrgle.”

Come late afternoon, with the sun still fairly high, Aram had put away his sketchbook and was splashing cool water onto his face. He leaned back in the boat to let the warm summer breeze dry his skin. He shut his eyes. He felt a tug on the front of his tunic as Hackle called out, “There! Look!”

They all turned. The canyons had opened up into the Shimmering Deep, revealing before them what could only be the Speedbarge—Fizzle and Pozzik’s Speedbarge—which came into view a mile farther down the canyon. Rendow had said they wouldn’t be able to miss it, and it seemed she hadn’t been joking. The Speedbarge looked like a cross between a city-size ship and an artificial island, with its own set of docks on either side and a warren of buildings—or perhaps machines—built atop it.

“That must be it,” Makasa said.

“Mrgle, mrgle!” Murky said.

Aram thought the Speedbarge was surrounded by more boats than he’d ever seen in any one place—including Stormwind Harbor. Someone was still tugging on his shirt, as if trying to get him to look at what he was already observing. He glanced down to see who was doing the tugging. But it wasn’t a hand tugging from without. It was the compass pushing from within!

The compass! He hadn’t checked it in … how long? It seemed like days, though really it had been less than twenty-four hours. Nevertheless, he hadn’t thought about it since before they’d recovered Drella, and now that they were traveling by boat rather than on foot, they were advancing at a greatly accelerated rate. He pulled it out. Even with the sun shining down on its face, he could tell that the needle was glowing brightly. He leaned forward over the water, and the enchanted device yanked hard downward with enough force to all but pull him off the boat. The needle was spinning wildly, and Aram knew exactly what that meant. “Stop,” he called out. “Stop the boat.”

Hackle pulled the oars out of the water. All eyes turned toward Aram.

“There’s a crystal shard here,” Aram said in a tense whisper (as if Malus might have spies listening from beneath the surface).

“Where?” Makasa asked.

“Right here. The compass says—I mean, it’s telling me there’s a shard right beneath us now.” With a tight grip on the compass, he leaned over the side again to look down. The others all did the same. Unsurprisingly, nobody saw anything but shimmering water. Deep shimmering water. (Hence, the name of the place.)

Aram started to take off his boots, burying his fear of drowning beneath the responsibility he felt toward his father’s quest. “I guess I’ll have to dive in.”

Murky said, “Nk, nk.”

Makasa said, “He’s right, Aram. It’s too deep.”

Murky then began speaking very fast. Too fast for Aram to follow a word he was saying. So Aram looked to Drella for help. She met his gaze, smiled back at him—but said nothing.

Aram said, “What’s Murky saying, Drella?”

“Oh. He does have a new topic of conversation, which is of some note in and of itself. He speaks of your compass and its crystals. Things I still am not sure I understand. Can you tell me anything more about this compass? Can you tell me anything more about these crystals? I do not believe you have been entirely clear on the subject.”

Murky started up again.

Drella stiffened. “Now he says that you can tell me more later. He seems very impatient with me, actually. I do not believe Murky has ever been impatient with me before. I do not believe that I like it.”

Murky said, “Drhla!” and Aram said, “Drella!” at virtually the same moment.

“Now you are both impatient,” she pouted. “Fine. Murky says he can take the compass and dive down and recover the crystal.”

“That actually makes some sense,” Makasa said.

Aram nodded slowly but found himself reluctant to comply. He didn’t like turning the compass over—to anyone. Maybe because Malus and his minions were constantly trying to take it from him, or maybe because his father’s last act was to trust the device to Aram’s care alone. Whatever the reason, he had to force himself to see the logic in what Murky was offering. Slowly, he removed the compass chain from around his neck. Murky held out his hand. But Aram still hesitated.

Finally, he handed the compass to the murloc and closed Murky’s oily fingers around it. “Hold it tight,” Aram said.

Murky grinned, stood, and dove down into the Shimmering Deep …

Murky positively loved to be of actual use to his frunds. He knew he wasn’t much of a fighter. Not like Mrksa or Ukle. And he knew from his uncle Murrgly that he wasn’t even particularly clever, like Urum or Drhla. But he was loyal. That much he could be for them all. So this opportunity to help, truly help, kept a grin on his face the whole way down to the bottom of the Deep.

The Shimmering Deep was dark and, well, murky. But the little murloc had excellent underwater vision and could see in near pitch blackness. Even so, he wouldn’t have needed such a gift to see the compass, which he checked every few seconds. Its crystal needle glowed brightly—the more brightly the deeper he swam. If it spun in a circle, he knew he was right on top of the crystal. If the needle stopped spinning, it would point him back in the right direction. So he made swift progress, taking barely a moment to appreciate how nice it was to be swimming freely, without his nets wrapped tightly around his torso. (He felt a bit guilty about this, however. He knew—again from his uncle—that a murloc without nets was not a true murloc at all.)

He also resisted any temptation to eat. There were many tasty delicacies swimming within view—almost within reach. But he was helping Urum find his crystal. He would not let a simple thing like his gnawing, unending hunger divert him from his course. (All right, fine. There was that one tiny perch that he grabbed and stuffed in his mouth. But that wasn’t his fault; it had practically swum right up to him.)

A whale shark—gargantuan and potentially quite dangerous—swam lazily past, sluggish from the summer sun heating the water. She ignored Murky, so Murky ignored her.

Finally, he reached the bottom. What had once—before the Cataclysm’s flood—been called the Shimmering Flats lay open and revealed to the murloc. There were stone houses scattered about, and over a hundred … well, Murky wasn’t sure what they were. Some kind of metal tubes. They had padded seats inside them for sitting, one seat each, occasionally two. Each had an odd wheel inside that faced the seat and had nowhere to roll. But there were wheels on the outside of the tubes, as well, like the wheels of a mule cart, only smaller and more compact. Murky, ever curious, sat down in one of the tubes and grabbed the interior wheel with one two-fingered hand. He couldn’t budge it. And he couldn’t use both hands because of the compass he held in the other.

The compass! Murky cursed himself aloud as a selfish fool (and the bitter words sounded crisper underwater, as that was where his language was meant to be spoken). He swam out of the tube and immediately checked the compass. It pointed just toward his right, toward a pile of stones that had once been some kind of structure—but that likely collapsed when the floodwater of the Cataclysm came rushing in.

The little murloc swam among the stones until the swiftly rotating crystal needle glowed brightly enough to fill the gloom below. Murky placed his free hand over the face of the compass to block its light, allowing him to see a matching glow emerging from beneath the wreckage. The crystal!

He put the compass chain around his neck, or at least he tried to. But his head was too big, so he wore the thing like a headband, with the compass sitting like a third eye in his forehead, its glow lighting the work he set himself to. He moved a small stone here, and a small stone there. He tried to move a bigger slab but couldn’t lift it. He tried to push it sideways across another slab that lay underneath it. It wouldn’t budge. He put his back to it, digging his webbed feet into the silty bottom, but even working every single muscle in his little body, he couldn’t shift it an inch.

So he swam down beneath the lowest slab and tried to dig it out. But that was no good, either. He could dig his way beneath the slabs, but the crystal wasn’t there. It was between the two heaviest slabs, and Murky just wasn’t strong enough to move them.

He was going to need some help …