Banewreaker

TWELVE

The garrison had turned out for their return, rank upon rank of Fjel flanking the approach to Darkhaven, holding formation with military discipline, issuing crisp salutes.

It was an imposing sight. It was meant to be.

All the tribes were represented; Tungskulder, Mørkhar, Gulnagel, Tordenstem, Nåltannen, Kaldjager. Tanaros gazed over a sea of Fjel, with thick hides of smooth grey, of a pebbled greenish-brown, or black with bristles. His troops, his men. They wore their armor with pride, pounding the butts of their spears in steady rhythm. They kept their shields raised.

“So many!” Cerelinde whispered.

Tanaros bowed from the saddle. “Welcome to Darkhaven, Lady.”

Before them loomed the edifice itself, twin towers rearing against an overcast sky, dwarfing the entrance until they drew near enough to see that the portal itself was massive; thrice the height of any Fjel. The bar had been raised and the brass-bound inner doors flung open.

In the entrance stood Vorax of Staccia, gleaming in ceremonial armor.

“Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost!” he called. “Lord Satoris welcomes you.”

At his words, a stream of madlings spewed forth from the interior of the fortress, surging into their midst to lay hands on the bridles of their horses. Tanaros dismounted, and helped the Lady down. He felt her trembling underneath his touch.

Her gaze was locked with the Staccian’s. “This hospitality is a gift unwanted, Lord Glutton.”

Vorax shrugged. “It is a gift nonetheless, Lady. Do not disdain it. Hey! Dreamspinner!” He clapped Ushahin on the shoulder. “Still sky-gazing? I hear you did well in the Dale, wielding the Helm of Shadows.”

The half-breed muttered some reply, moving away from the Staccian’s touch, the helm’s case clutched under his arm. Tanaros frowned. Why were the ravens circling? He spared a thought for Fetch as he approached the entrance, hoping the scapegrace was unharmed.

“Blacksword.” The Staccian clasped his forearm.

“Vorax. Your men did well. Commend them for me.”

“I’ll do that.” Vorax paused, lowering his voice. “His Lordship awaits you, Blacksword; you and the Ellyl. Come see me when he’s done.”

“The captive?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll be there.” An escort of Mørkhar Fjel stood waiting just inside the vast doors; four brethren all of a height, the silver inlay on their weapons-harnesses contrasting with their dark, bristling hides. “Dreamspinner?”

“You go, cousin.” Ushahin thrust the helm’s case into his unready arms. “You took the risks, not I. Tell Lord Satoris … tell him I am in the rookery. I will make my report anon.”

“All right.” Tanaros frowned again. It should have been a glorious homecoming, this moment; it was a glorious homecoming. The Prophecy had been averted, and the Lady of the Ellylon was theirs. She didn’t look it, though. As frightened as Cerelinde was—and she was frightened, he’d felt it in his fingertips—she held herself with dignity. “Lady. Are you ready?”

Wide, her eyes; wide and grey, luminous as mist. “I do not fear the Sunderer.”

“Then come,” Tanaros said grimly, “and meet him.”

The sedge grass appeared to bow at their approach, flattening as if a great wind preceded them. Carfax, sword in hand, found a Staccian battle-song on his lips as he rode. He sang it aloud, heard other voices echoing the words.

To battle, to battle, to battle! What a glorious thing it was! The horses of Darkhaven, who had borne them so faithfully, were bred to this purpose. His mount sensed it, nostrils flaring, the broad chest swelling with air as its hooves battered the marshy plains.

And there, ahead: The Enemy.

Malthus’ Company had heard their approach, the hooves drumming like thunder. They prepared, as best they could, making a stand on the open sedge. Carfax watched them encircle the Charred Ones, back to back to back.

“Fan out!” he cried, seeking to pick his target.

The Staccian riders divided, two wings opening to encompass the tight-knit company, which they outnumbered nearly three to one. Which one, which one? The old Counselor, staff in hand? The Vedasian, glaring defiance? The Archer, coolly nocking arrows? The Ellyl lordling with his bright eyes, sword braced over his shoulder?

Ah, no, Carfax thought. You, Borderguardsman. You, in your dun cloak and false modesty. Unless I am much mistaken, I think you are charged with the protection of this Company, Blaise Caveros, my General’s kinsman. We are of an age, you and I; but I am Tanaros’ disciple, and you are Altorus’ dog. Let us cross steel, shall we?

He swung close, close enough to exchange blows. His round Pelmaran shield rang with the force of the Borderguard’s strength; rang, and held true. Carfax kneed his mount and swung away, exultant. In the center of their circle, the Charred lad looked wild-eyed, clutching a flask at his throat. Only his kinsman, the fat one, stood at his side, wielding a digging-stick like a quarterstaff, huffing as he did.

Carfax laughed aloud.

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

Arrows, flying level as a bee to clover. Two Staccians cried out, fell. The Archer of Arduan had dismounted, kneeling on the marshy soil; the Vedasian knight protected her, swinging his father’s sword with ferocious blows.

“Take the Archer!” Carfax cried, readying for another pass at the Borderguard.

He was aware, distantly, of his men closing in on Malthus’ Company, overwhelming them by sheer force; surging past the old Counselor, peeling the Vedasian away from the Archer and surrounding her, penetrating the silvery circle of defense the Ellyl wove with the point of his blade. A surprise, there on the inside, how deftly the fat one wielded his digging-stick, protecting his young kinsman.

It didn’t matter, though. They were too few, and Carfax’s men too many. He watched Blaise Caveros angle for position, setting his sword a touch too high. A good trick, that, good for luring in an overconfident enemy. General Tanaros had devised it a thousand years ago and taught it to his troops, as well as how to evade it.

All those hours on the practice-field paid a reward.

Carfax shifted his grip on his sword, digging his heels into his mount’s sides. Let him believe, he thought, bearing down on his dun-cloaked opponent. Let him believe I have taken the gambit, and at the last moment, I shall strike high where he looks for low …

“Enough!”

It was Malthus who spoke, and the Counselor spread his arms, his staff in his right hand. There, gleaming through the parted strands of his beard, was the Soumanië. Red, it was, like a star, and it shone upon his breast, until no one could look away. A ruddy glow rippled in the air and a force struck like a hammer.

And the world … changed.

Carfax felt it, felt his mount’s knees buckle beneath him, shifting and … changing. He hit the ground, hard, flung from the saddle. Like a vast wave, the might of the Souma overtook them all. Horses fell, and Men. The Counselor closed his eyes as if in pain, wielding the Soumanië. In the space of a shrieked breath, Staccian and equine flesh crumbled to loam, fingers sprouted tendrils and strands of hair sank rootlets into the earth. Shaped from their bodies, hummocks arose on the flat marshes, marking the territory forevermore.

Where they fell, sedge grass grew.

Except for Carfax.

He tried to move, the cheek-plates of his Pelmaran helmet scraping the rich loam. No more could he do; the strength had left his limbs. Only his senses worked. Through helpless eyes, he watched as the Borderguardsman’s booted feet approached. Ungentle hands rolled him onto his back and patted him down, taking his belt-knife. His sword had been lost when he fell. Lying on his back, Carfax stared helpless at a circle of empty sky.

“Is he … dead?” A soft voice, an unplaceable accent.

“No.”

A face hovered above him; young and dark, rough-hewn, with wide-set eyes. Sunlight made a nimbus of his coarse black hair and an earthenware flask dangled around his neck, swinging in the air above Carfax.

“Stand back, Dani.” It was a weary shadow of the Counselor’s voice. “It may yet be a trap.”

The face withdrew. A boot-tip prodded his side. “Shall I finish him?”

“No.” Unseen, Malthus the Counselor drew a deep breath. “We’ll bring him with us. Let me regain a measure of strength, and I’ll place a binding upon him. There may be aught to learn from this one.”

Unable even to blink, Carfax knew despair.

Madlings skittered along the Halls of Darkhaven, their soft voices echoing in counterpoint to the steady tramp of the Fjel escort’s feet. Old and young, male and female, they crept almost near enough to touch the hem of the Lady Cerelinde’s cloak before dashing away in an ecstasy of terror.

It had been a long time, Tanaros realized, since he’d seen Darkhaven through an outsider’s eyes. It must seem strange and fearful.

Inward and inward wound their course, through hallways that spiraled like the inner workings of a nautilus shell. There were other passageways, of course; secret ones, doors hidden in alcoves, behind tapestries, in cunning reliefs. Some were in common usage, like those that led to the kitchens. Some were half-forgotten, and others existed only as rumor. Madlings used many, of course, taking care not to be seen. Vorax disdained them, and Ushahin preferred them. Tanaros used them at need. The Fjel used them not at all, for the passages were too winding and narrow to admit them. No one knew all their secrets.

Only Lord Satoris, who conceived them—or their beginnings.

And so the main halls spiraled, vast curving expanses of polished black marble, lit only by the veins of marrow-fire along the walls. It was a winding trap for would-be invaders, Fjel guards posted at regular intervals like hideous statues. It should have awed even the Lady of the Ellylon.

Tanaros stole a sidelong glance at her to see if it did.

There were tears in her luminous eyes. “So many!” she whispered, and he thought she meant the Fjel again; then he saw how her gaze fell on the madlings. She paused, one hand extended, letting them draw near enough to touch and turning a reproachful look upon him. “Merciful Arahila! What manner of cruelty is this, Tanaros? What has been done to these folk?”

“Done?” He stared at her. “They sought sanctuary here.”

“Sanctuary?” Her brows, shaped like birds’ wings, rose. “From what?”

“From the world’s cruelty, which drove them to madness.” Tanaros reached out, grabbing the arm of the nearest madling; by chance, it was one he knew. A woman, young when she came to Darkhaven, elderly now, with a birthmark like a dark stain that covered half her wrinkled face. “This, my Lady, is Sharit. Her parents sold her into marriage to a man who was ashamed of her, and beat her for his shame. Do you see, here?” He touched her skull beneath wispy hair, tracing a dent. “He flung her against a doorjamb. Here, no one will harm her, on pain of death. Is that cruelty?”

“You’re frightening her,” Cerelinde said softly.

It was true. Repentant, he released the madling. Sharit keened, creeping to crouch at Cerelinde’s skirts, fingers plucking. The Mørkhar escort waited, eyeing Tanaros. “I didn’t mean to,” he said.

“I know.” She smiled kindly at the madling, laying a gentle hand on the withered cheek, then glanced at Tanaros. “Very well. I do not deny the world’s cruelty, General. But your Lord, were he compassionate, could have healed her suffering. You said as much; he offered to heal the half-breed.” Her delicate fingers stroked Sharit’s birthmark, and the madling leaned into her touch. “He could have made her beautiful.”

“Like you?” Tanaros asked quietly.

Cerelinde’s hands fell still. “No,” she said. “Like you.”

“Like Arahila’s Children. Not Haomane’s.” Shifting the Helm of Shadows under one arm, Tanaros stooped, meeting the old woman’s eyes. They were milky with cataracts, blinking under his regard. “You don’t understand,” he said to Cerelinde, gazing at Sharit. “To Lord Satoris, she is beautiful.”

There was magic in the words, enough to summon a smile that broke like dawn across the withered face. Taking his hand, she rose, proceeding down the hall with upright dignity.

Tanaros bowed to Cerelinde.

Her chin lifted a notch. “It would still be kinder to heal her. Do you deny it?”

“You have charged my Lord with Sundering the world,” he said. “Will you charge him now with healing it?”

One of the Mørkhar shifted position, coughing conspicuously into a taloned fist.

“It’s in his power, Tanaros.” Passion and a light like hope lit Cerelinde’s eyes. “It is, you know! Did he but surrender to Haomane and abide his will—”

Tanaros laughed aloud. “And Haomane’s Children accuse his Lordship of pride! Be sure to tell him that, Lady.”

She drew her cloak around her. “I shall.”

Ushahin Dreamspinner stepped as lightly as any Ellyl under the canopy of beech leaves, grown thicker and darker with the advent of summer. Setting loose his awareness, he let it float amid the trunks and branches, using the ancient magic the Grey Dam Sorash had taught him so long ago.

Ah, mother!

Tiny sparks of mind were caught in his net; feathered thoughts, bright-eyed and darting. One, two, three … five. Folding his legs, Ushahin sat in the beech loam, asking and waiting. What is it, little brothers? What has befallen your kin?

A raven landed on a nearby branch, wiped its beak twice.

Another sidled close.

Three perched on the verge of an abandoned nest.

Thoughts, passed from mind to mind, flickered through his awareness. Not a thing seen, no; none who had seen lived to show what had happened in the dark shimmering of the Ravensmirror. Only these traces remained, drifting like down in the flock’s awareness. Marshes, an endless plain of sedge grass. A high draft, warm under outspread wings. A target found, a goal attained. One two three four seven, circling lower, a good draft, good to catch, wings tilting, still high, so high, only close enough to see—

Arrow!

Arrow!

Arrow!

And death, sharp-pointed and shining, arcing from an impossible distance; the thump of death, a sharp blow to the breast, a shaft transfixed, wings failing, a useless plummet, down and down and down, blue sky fading to darkness, down and down and down—

Earthward.

Death.

The memory of the impact made his bones ache. Ushahin opened his eyes. The living ravens watched him, carrying the memories of their fallen brethren, waiting and wondering. I am sorry, little ones. It was dangerous, more dangerous than I reckoned. Malthus was clever to bring an Archer.

What was the Company of Malthus doing in the Vedasian marshes?

Ushahin stared at the cloud-heavy sky, seen in glimpses through the beech canopy. It was early yet, too early for the dreams of Men to be abroad. He sighed, flexing his crippled hands. Tonight, then. When the moon rode high over the Vale of Gorgantum, darkness would be encroaching on the marshes.

Time to walk in their dreams.

The doors to the Throne Hall stood three times higher than a tall man, wrought of hammered iron. On them was depicted the War of the Shapers.

The left-hand door bore the Six: Haomane, chiefest of all; Arahila, his gentle sister; Meronin, lord of the seas; Neheris of the north; Yrinna the fruitful; and Oronin, the Glad Hunter. Haomane had raised his hand in wrath, and before him was the Souma—an uncut ruby as big as a sheep’s heart, glinting dully in a rough iron bezel.

On the right-hand door were Lord Satoris, and dragons. And they were glorious, the dragons depicted in lengths of coiling scales, necks arching, vaned wings outreaching, the mighty jaws parted to issue gouts of sculpted flame. At the center of it all stood the wounded Satoris, a glittering fragment of ruby representing Godslayer held in both hands like a prayer-offering.

“General!” The Fjeltroll on guard saluted. “His Lordship awaits.”

“Krognar. You may admit us.”

As ever, Tanaros’ heart constricted as the massive doors were opened, parting Torath from Urulat, mimicking the Sundering itself; constricted, then blazed with pride. Beyond was his Lord, who had given him reason to live. The Throne Hall lay open before them, a vast expanse. Unnatural torches burned on the walls—marrow-fire, tamed to the Shaper’s whim, casting long, crisscrossing shadows across the polished floor. A carpet of deepest black ran the length of the Hall, a tongue of shadow stretching from the open maw of the iron doors to the base of the Throne. It was carved of a massive carnelian, that Throne, the blood-red stone muted in the monochromatic light.

There, enthroned, sat a being Shaped of darkness with glowing eyes.

“Tanaros.” Cerelinde’s voice, small and dry.

“Don’t be afraid.” There was more, so much more he wanted to tell her, but words fell short and his heart burned within him, drowning out thought. Settling the Helm of Shadows under his left arm, he offered the right in a gesture half-remembered from the Altorian courts. “Come, Lady. Lord Satoris awaits us.”

How long? Ten paces, twenty, fifty.

Thrice a hundred.

The torches burned brighter as they traversed the hall, gouts of blue-white flame reaching upward. The Mørkhar Fjel paced two by two on either side of them, splendid in their inlaid weapons-harnesses that glittered like quicksilver.

Always, the Throne, looming larger as they drew near, Darkness seated in it. Fair, once; passing fair. No longer. A smell in the air, the thick coppery reek of blood, only sweeter. The brand that circumscribed Tanaros’ heart blazed; Cerelinde’s fingertips trembled on his forearm, setting his nerves ablaze. Directly beneath the Throne Hall lay the Chamber of the Font, and below it, the Source itself. In the dazzling light, she might have been carved of ivory.

“Tanaros.”

He drew a deep breath, feeling his tight-strung nerves ease at the Shaper’s rumbling voice. Home. “My Lord Satoris!” The bow came easily, smoothly, a pleasing obeisance. He relinquished Cerelinde’s arm, placing the Helm’s case atop the dais. “Victory is ours. I restore to you the Helm of Shadows, and present the Lady Cerelinde of the

Rivenlost, the betrothed of Aracus Altorus.”

Gleaming eyes blinked, once, in the darkness of the Shaper’s face; one massive hand shifted on the arm of the Throne. His voice emerged, deep and silken-soft. “Be welcome to Darkhaven, Elterrion’s granddaughter, daughter of Erilonde. Your mother was known to me.”

Her chin jerked; whatever Cerelinde had expected, it was not that. “Lord Satoris, I think it is not so. Your hospitality has been forced upon me at the point of a sword, and as for my mother … my mother died in the bearing of me.”

“Yes.” A single word, solemn and bone-tremblingly deep. “Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion, wife of Celendril. I recall it well, Cerelinde. In the First Age of the Sundered World, she died. She prayed to me ere her death. It is how I knew her.”

“No.” Delicate hands, clenched into fists. “I will not be tricked, Sunderer!”

Laughter, booming and sardonic. The rafters of the Throne Hall rattled. The Mørkhar Fjel eyed them with pragmatic wariness. “Is it so hard to believe, Haomane’s Child? After all, it was my Gift … once. The quickening of the flesh. Generation.” The air thickened, rife with the sweet scent of blood, of desire. Satoris’ eyes shone like spear-points. “Do you blame her? Many women have prayed to me in childbirth. I would have saved her if I could.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The words were flung, an accusation. Tanaros shifted uneasily between his beloved Lord and his hostage. The Shaper merely sighed, disturbing the shadows.

“My Gift was torn from me, pierced to the heart by Oronin Last-Born, who drove a shard of the Souma into my thigh. I had nothing to offer your mother. I am sorry. If Haomane had not disdained my Gift when I had it, it might have been otherwise. I grieve that it was not. Your people will dwindle for it, and die, until you pass forevermore from Urulat’s memory.”

Cerelinde eyed him uncertainly. “You lie, Lord Sunderer.”

“Do the Ellylon not dwindle in number?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze, a thing few mortals could do unflinching. “And so we shall, until you relent or the Prophecy is fulfilled. Haomane has pledged it.”

“Haomane,” the Shaper mused, plucking the case that held the Helm of Shadows from the dais. “My Elder Brother, the Lord-of-Thought. Do you not find him an absent parent to his children, Lady Cerelinde?”

“No.” She stared, transfixed, as his dark fingers undid the case’s clasps.

“This was his weapon, once.” Satoris lifted the Helm and held it before him, its empty eye-sockets gazing the length of the hall. “It contained in its visage the darkness of Haomane’s absence, the darkness that lies in the deepest cracks of the shattered Souma, those things which all the Children of Uru-Alat fear most to look upon. To Ardrath the Counselor my Elder Brother gave it, and Ardrath called me out upon the plains of war.” He smiled, caressing the worn, pitted bronze of the Helm. “I prevailed, and now it is mine. And I have Shaped into it my own darkness, of truth twisted and the shadow cast by a bright, shining lie, of flesh charred to blackness by the wrath of merciless light. Will you gaze upon it, Haomane’s Child?”

So saying, he placed the Helm upon his head.

Cerelinde cried out and looked away.

“My Lord,” Tanaros whispered, stretching his hands helplessly toward the Throne. Pain, so much pain! “Oh, my Lord!”

“It is enough.” Satoris removed the Helm and regarded it. “Send for Lord Vorax,” he said to the Mørkhar Fjel, “that he might conduct the Lady to the quarters prepared for her. I will speak more with her anon. General Tanaros.” The gleaming eyes fixed him. “Tell me of Lindanen Dale, and what transpired thereafter.”

A sullen campfire burned. Armfuls of dried sedge grass were thrown upon it, sending sparks into the starry skies. Carfax watched them rise. He was able, now, to move his eyes. He could move his limbs, too, so long as he did not contemplate violence against his companions. The mere thought of it brought retching nausea.

“You are safe, here.” It was the Counselor who spoke, his voice calm and soothing. He pointed around the perimeter of an invisible circle with the butt-end of his staff. “Inside this ring, nothing can harm you; not even Lord Satoris. Do you understand?”

He did. All too well, he understood. He had failed.

“It is dangerous to keep him.” Firelight played over Blaise Caveros’ face; spare features, like the General’s, yet somehow stirring.

“He is no danger to us now.”

It was true. Carfax’s tongue was sealed, stuck to the roof of his mouth by force of will and the oath he had sworn. Silence was his only protection, his only weapon. His hands lay limp, upturned upon his thighs. Yet if he had the chance …

“Who are you? Why were you sent?”

He could have laughed; he would have laughed, if the binding had permitted it. Faces, arrayed around the campfire. Such a tiny company, to threaten the foundations of Darkhaven! He knew their names, now. Not just the Counselor and the Borderguardsman, but the others. Fianna, the Archer; a tenderness there despite the lean sinews of her arms. He saw it when she looked at Blaise. Peldras, the Ellyl; of the Rivenlost, Ingolin’s kindred, young and ancient at once. Hobard, proud and angry in his hand-me-down armor, his every thought writ on his face.

You were the one, weren’t you? The Dreamspinner found you and sent his ravens …

But not the boy, ah, Arahila! What was his role? Fingering the flask that hung about his neck on corded twine. Dani, they called him. A cruel fate, to summon one so young. If he’d been Staccian, Carfax would have sent him back to gain another summer’s age. Small wonder his uncle had accompanied him. Thulu, that one was called. Unkempt black hair, thick and coarse. A broad belly, spilling over his crude breechclout. Lord Vorax would have understood this one, whose eyes were like raisins in the dark pudding of his face.

“Why were you sent?”

Why? Why, indeed? To secure the world against your machinations, Haomane’s tool! Carfax suffocated his laughter, biting his tongue. Red foam spilled from the corners of his mouth. Why? Why are you here, in these Shaperforsaken marshes? What do you want in Vedasia? What does the boy Dani carry in his flask, that you guard so fearfully?

“Why doesn’t he answer?”

“He is afraid, Dani.” It was Peldras the Ellyl who answered in gentle tones. “He has served a cruel master. Give him time, and he will come to see we mean him no harm.”

“Can you not compel him, wizard?” Hobard challenged the Counselor.

“No.” Malthus shook his head wearily, taking a seat on a grassy tussock. “Satoris’ minions swear an oath bound by the force of Godslayer itself. I can compel his flesh, but not his loyalty. Not even the Soumanië can undo that which is bound to a shard of the Souma.” His deep-set gaze rested on Carfax. “That, he must choose himself.”

“He’s bleeding.” The boy poured water from a skin into a tin cup, approaching Carfax and squatting to proffer the cup. In the firelight, the tin shone like a ruddy star between his palms. “Would you like a drink to rinse your mouth?” he asked.

Carfax reached for it with both hands.

“Dani,” Blaise cautioned. “Don’t go near him.”

“Let him be, swordsman.” Fat Thulu spun his digging-stick with deceptive ease. “’He’s the Bearer, and that’s water he bears. Let him do it.”

Cool tin, sweet water. It stung his tongue and turned salty in his mouth. Carfax spat pink-tinged water onto the marshy soil, then drank, his throat working. Water, cool and soothing, tasting of minerals and hidden places deep in the earth. “Thank you,” he whispered, returning the cup.

The boy smiled, an unexpected slice of white in his dark face.

“Malthus.” Blaise raised his brows.

The Counselor, watching, shook his head. “Thulu is right, Blaise. Whether he knows it or not, the boy does Haomane’s work in ways deeper than we may fathom. Let it abide. Mayhap his kindness will accomplish what the Soumanië cannot. Any mind, I have spent too deeply of myself to pursue it further this night.” Yawning with weariness, he let his chin sink onto his chest, mumbling through his beard. “In the morning, we will continue on toward Malumdoorn. Peldras, the first watch is yours.”

Overhead, the stars wheeled through their courses.

One wouldn’t expect a wizard to snore, but he did. One might expect it to loosen his bindings, but it didn’t. Carfax struggled against them, testing of his circumscribed thoughts and constrained flesh. The Ellyl watched him, not without pity, an unsheathed blade across his knees. All around them, starlight shone on the hummocks and knolls that had been Carfax’s companions when dawn had risen on that day. Now it was night and they were earth and grass, nourished by his bloody spittle, glimmering beneath the stars and a crescent moon.

“She Shaped them, you know.” The Ellyl tilted his perfect chin, gazing at the night sky. “Arahila the Merciful took pity on night’s blackness and beseeched Haomane to allow her to lay hands upon the Souma, the Eye of Uru-Alat that she might Shape a lesser light to illume the darkness.” He smiled compassionately at Carfax’s struggle. “It is said among the Rivenlost that there is no sin so great that Arahila will not forgive it.”

It was dangerous to match words with an Ellyl; nonetheless, Carfax left off his efforts and replied, the words grating in his throat. “Will she forgive Malthus what he did to my men?”

“It does not please him to do so, Staccian.” The Ellyl’s voice held sorrow. “Malthus the Wise Counselor would harm no living thing by his own choice. You sought to slay us out of hand.”

“What do you seek, Rivenlost?”

“Life.” The Ellyl’s hands rested lightly on his naked blade. “Hope.”

Carfax bared his bloodstained teeth. “And Lord Satoris’ death.”

Peldras regarded the stars. “We are Haomane’s Children, Staccian. It is the Sunderer’s choice to oppose him and it is the Rivenlost, above all, who will die for this choice if we do not take it from him.” He looked back at Carfax, his gaze bright and direct. “Torath is lost to us and, without the Souma to sustain us, we diminish. Our numbers lessen, our magics fading. If Satoris Banewreaker conquers Urulat, it will be our end. What would you have us do?”

Dangerous, indeed, to match words with an Ellyl. This time, Carfax held his bitten tongue. Better to keep silent and hope against hope for rescue or a clean death that would place him beyond his enemies’ reach.

If either could find him here.

On and on the night sank into darkness, the fire settling to embers. Carfax dozed in exhaustion. A mind, borne on dark wings, beat desperately at the outskirts of the Counselor’s circle; beat and beat, skittering helpless away. The Vedasian groaned in his sleep, untouchable. In the sedge grass, a saddle sat empty, three dead ravens tied by their feet. Waking, dimly aware, Carfax strained against the Counselor’s binding.

Dreamspinner, I am here, here!

Nothing.