Banewreaker

FIFTEEN

“They’re coming.”

Lilias frowned at her Ward Commander. “How soon?”

“Thirty days.” He paused. “Less, if the winds blow fair from Port Eurus”

The weight of the Soumanië made her head ache. Strange, how something so light could weigh so heavy! And yet, how not, when she had had been shifting a mountain with it. Lilias grimaced, pressing her fingertips to her temples. The Beshtanagi sunlight seemed cursedly bright. “And the Pelmarans?”

“Assembling at Kranac, to await the Allies’ arrival.” Gergon cleared his throat. “Regent Heurich has agreed to send a force.”

“How long can we hold them?”

“It depends upon their numbers, among other things.” He nodded at the southernmost passage, where workers piled boulders on either side of the opening. “How fast can you seal that breach, my lady?”

Lilias considered the gap in the high granite wall that enfolded the base of Beshtanag Mountain. Beyond lay the forest, spreading its dense apron of dark green. It was through those trees that her enemies would come, in greater numbers than she had reckoned. “Can we not seal it now and be done with it?”

“No.” Gergon looked regretful. “We’ve too many men to feed and water, and too few resources on the mountain. Our stores would not last. After ten days’ time, we would begin to starve. If the …” He cleared his throat again. “ … if the Were give ample warning, you will have a day’s notice.”

“They will,” Lilias said, pacing a length of the Soumanië erected wall, her fingertips trailing along its smooth surface. “And I will. What the Were do not tell me, Calandor will. We are prepared, Ward Commander. If the raw materials are there, the breaches will be sealed, the gaps closed. In the space of a day, no less. So how long, Gergon, will this wall hold off Haomane’s Allies?”

He squinted at the fortress, perched atop the mountain. “Three days.”

“Three days?” She stared at him.

“My lady.” Gergon shrugged, spreading his hands. “You have always demanded truth. So my father said, and his father’s father before him. We are speaking of the concerted might of over half of Pelmar, augmented by Vedasian knights, the Host of the Ellylon and Midlander troops under the command of the last scion of Altorus. If we cannot hold the forest—and we cannot, without the Were—they will come against the wall. And they will ransack the forest and build ladders and siege engines, and they will breach the wall.”

“No.” Lilias set her jaw, ignoring the ache in her head. “They will not breach it, Ward Commander. I have Shaped this wall myself from the raw stone of Beshtanag, and it will hold against their siege engines. I shall will it so.”

Gergon sighed. “Then they’ll come over the top, my lady. They’ve no shortage of men, nor of wood for ladders and towers, unless you can close the very forest itself to them.”

“No.” She shook her head, gazing at the dark carpet of pines. “Not for so many. It is harder to shift forest than stone, and we must leave an avenue open for Lord Satoris’ troops. Order more stone brought, and I will raise the wall higher. A foot or more.”

“As you wish.” He bowed, his eyes wary. “It will delay them, by a few hours. Our enemies will still have ample resources if it comes to it.”

“All right. Three days,” she repeated, gesturing at the grey expanse of loose scree at the mountain’s base. “Let us say it is so, Gergon. And then, if it came to it, we would engage them here?”

“Will it come to it, my lady?”

She met his honest gaze. “No. But we must plan as if it would. So what happens, if we engage them here?”

“It’s poor footing.” Gergon sucked his teeth, considering. “Knights a-horse would be at a disadvantage, here. They’ll come in with infantry. I’d place archers there,” he said, pointing to overhangs, “there and there, to cover our retreat.”

“Retreat?” Lilias raised her brows.

“Aye.” Her Ward Commander nodded his grizzled head. “Once the wall is surmounted, my lady, we’ve nothing to fall back upon but Beshtanag itself.”

“They will come, Gergon.” Lilias held his gaze. “It won’t come to it.”

“As you say, my lady.” He glanced at the Soumanië on her brow, and some of the tension left his stocky frame. He nodded again, smiling. “As you say! I’ll have the lads in the quarry work overtime. You’ll have as much stone as you need, and more.”

“I will hold the wall, Gergon.”

“You will.” He nodded at her brow, smiled. “Yes, you will, my lady.”

Lilias sighed as he left on his errand, her skin itching beneath her clothes in the heat. Where was Pietre with the cool sponge to soothe her temples? He should have been here by now. There he was, hurrying down the pathway from the fortress and lugging a bucket of well-water, Sarika behind him struggling with a half-opened parasol. The collars of their servitude glinted in the Beshtanagi sunlight, evoking an echoing throb from the Soumanië. Her mouth curved in a tender smile. So sweet, her pretty ones!

She wondered if they understood what was at stake.

She wondered if she did.

Calandor?

Yes, Lilias?

Satoris will keep his word, won’t he?

There was a silence, then, a longer pause than she cared to endure.

Yes, Lilias, the dragon said, and there was sorrow in it. He will.

Why sorrow? She did not know, and her blood ran cold at it. Teams of grunting men moved boulders into place. Granite, the grey granite of Beshtanag, mica-flecked and solid. The raw bones of the mountain; her home for so many long years, the bulwark that sheltered her people. Now that events had been set irrevocably in motion, the thought of risking Beshtanag made her want to weep for the folly of it.

Beshtanag was her haven, and she was responsible for preserving it, and for the safety of her people. All she could do was pledge everything to its defense. Lilias closed her eyes, entered the raw stone and Shaped it, feeling granite flow like water. Upward, upward it flowed, melding with its kinstone. A handspan of wall—two handspans, five—rose another foot, settled into smoothness.

Doubling over, Lilias panted. Despite the patting sponge, the Soumanië was like a boulder on her brow, and there was so much, so much to be done!

And where were Lord Satoris’ messengers?

The tracker was right, Turin discovered when he relented. The mud did help. It itched as it dried, though, forming a crackling veneer on his face and arms. Best to keep it wet, easily enough done as they slogged through water ankle-deep at the best of times, and waist-deep more often than not. Easiest to strip to the skin to do it, and more comfortable in the Delta’s heat. Turin kept his short-breeches for modesty’s sake. Little else, save the pack on his back and his waterlogged boots. At night, whether they perched in mangrove branches or found a dry hummock of land, he had to peel the soft, slick leather from his calves and feet, fearful of what rot festered inside.

It stank, of mud and sweat and rotting vegetation.

And the worst of it … the worst of it was the desire.

It made no sense, no sense at all. Why here, amid the muck and squalor? And yet, there it was. Desire, fecund and insistent. It beat in his pulse like a drum, it swelled and hardened his flesh, it made the hair at the back of his neck tingle.

“This is his birthing-place.” Hunric turned back to him and grinned, his teeth very white in the mud-smeared mask of his face. He spread his arms wide. “Do you feel it, Turin? His Gift lingers, here!”

“You’ve swamp-fever, man.” Turin shoved his hair back from his brow, streaking it with muck. “Lord Satoris’ Gift was lost when Oronin Last-Born plunged Godslayer into his thigh.”

“Was it?” The tracker turned slowly, arms outspread. “This was the place, Turin. It all began here! Look.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he reached for his crude spear with the tip hardened by fire. “A slow-lizard.”

Turin watched, fighting despair and desire as Hunric the tracker stalked and killed one of the meaty, slow-moving denizens of the Delta. They were good eating, the slow-lizards. Mantuas, whooping and shouting in the chase, had been the first to suggest it, roasting the white meat over a fire that had taken ages to kindle. It was all different, now.

“What?” Hunric, gnawing at his prey, stared at him.

“Beshtanag,” Turin whispered. “Hunric, we have to get to Beshtanag!”

“Do we?” For a moment, the tracker looked confused. “Oh, right!” The febrile light in his eyes cleared and he lowered the slow-lizard’s carcass, blinking. “Beshtanag. It lies east, northward and east. We’re on the route, Turin.”

“Good.” Turin nodded. “We have a message to deliver. Remember, Hunric?”

“A message, right.” Hunric grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. “We won, didn’t we? Got the princess, the Lady of the Ellylon. Did you see her, Turin? You’re a poor substitute! Limbs like alabaster, throat like a swan. I could swallow her whole!”

“Don’t say that.” Turin shook himself. “The other message, Hunric! About Malthus’ Company?”

“Malthus.” It settled the tracker, and he pointed. “We need to go that way.”

“Good.” Turin sloshed alongside him. “Hunric,” he said, grasping the tracker’s forearm. “It’s important. We need to deliver this news to the Sorceress of the East. You do remember, don’t you?”

“Of course.” The tracker blinked. “It’s that way.”

He hoped so. He fervently hoped so. Because it was obvious, now, that no one had entered the Delta after them. No doubt lingered. They’d been here too long for it.

They’d been here altogether too long.

Turin was no tracker, to hold a place in his mind and chart a path through it unerring, but he’d seen a map of the Delta in Lord Satoris’ Warchamber. It wasn’t that large. Even on foot, even at this pace, they should have reached the far edge. Following Hunric, he counted on his fingers. How many days had it been? At least eight since Mantuas had died.

That was too many.

Had they been walking in circles? It was hard to tell, here. One had to follow the waterways, winding around mangroves. It was impossible to keep in a fixed location relative to the sun’s course, and there were no landmarks by which to chart one’s progress, only endless swamp. Hunric was the best, of course. But Hunric … Hunric was changed, and Turin was afraid. Reaching behind him, he groped at his pack, feeling for the pouch containing Lord Vorax’s gold coins. Still there, solid and real. It was enough to buy them lodging in Pelmar, enough to purchase a pair of swift horses, enough to bribe their way to Beshtanag if need be.

All they had to do was make their way out of this cursed swamp.

A bright-green snake looped along a branch lifted its head to stare at him with lidless eyes. Turin fought down a rush of fear, splashing doggedly past it. By all the Shapers, it stank here! Ahead of him, Hunric hummed, deep and tuneless. The sound worked on his nerves. There was a leech clinging to his thigh and his sodden short-breeches chafed. Why this desire? If he’d had a woman, any woman, he would have coupled in the muck with her. Even the thought of it filled his mouth with a salty rush of taste. Any woman. One of Vorax’s handmaids or the withered flesh of the Dreamspinner’s oldest madling, it didn’t matter.

Or his own sister, Turin thought, remembering how he had seen her last, yellow braids pinned in a coronet, bidding him farewell. Or—oh, Haomane help him!—the Lady of the Ellylon. Ah, Shapers! Slung over the General’s pommel, her pale hair trailing. Sprawled on the greensward, helpless and unaware, her white limbs stirring as the General removed her cloak. He had worn that cloak himself, still warm and scented by her body.

Unable to suppress himself, Turin groaned aloud.

“You feel it.” Hunric glanced over his shoulder, eyes shining. “We’re near the heart of it, Turin. The heart of the Delta! I told you Lord Satoris’ Gift lived in this place.”

“No.” He swallowed with an effort. His tongue felt thick. “This isn’t right. It’s tainted. It shouldn’t be like this.”

The tracker shrugged. “Oh, there’s death in it, all right. What do you expect? Godslayer struck him to the quick. Nothing could be the same. But it’s still here.”

“Hunric.” Turin, itching and aching and scared, tightened his throat at the sudden sting of tears. “I don’t care, do you understand? If there were power in this place that Lord Satoris could use, he would be here, not in Darkhaven. I’m tired, sodden and miserable. All I want to do is find a dry place to make camp, and press on to Pelmar.”

All around them, the lowering sun washed the Delta with ruddy gold, glimmering on the standing water. Hunric watched it with awe, fingering his handmade spear. Where was his sword? “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

“Hunric!” It was all he could do not to cry.

“All right.” The tracker smiled at him. “But you’re wrong, you know. There is power here. Rebirth, generation. It’s all here, Turin. Here, at the beginning. Lord Satoris thinks too much on his brother Haomane, and not enough on his own origin. The Souma is not the only power on Urulat, you know.”

Shadows lengthened, cast eastward across the swamp. Turin let out his breath in a final plea. “Hunric …”

“There.” The tracker turned, pointing north. Through the dense mangroves, something was visible in the distance; a vast hummock rising above the stagnant waters under the spreading shelter of a tall palodus tree. “Do you see it? Dry land, Turin, here at the heart of the Delta. We’ll camp there tonight, and make for the border in the morning. Does that please you?”

Dry land, a chance to build a fire, eat roasted slow-lizard, nibble the last crumbs of bannock-cake, to remove his rotting footwear and pluck the leeches from his legs. Turin gauged the distance as no more than an hour’s slog and sighed.

“Yes.”

“My lady?” Tanaros paused, his fist poised to knock again, when the door was flung open. Meara.

The madling tossed her tangled hair and sized him up and down. “What brings you here, Lord General?”

“Meara,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see you well. I’ve come to invite the Lady Cerelinde to view the moon-garden.”

Her mouth stretched into a grimace. “Oh, you have, have you?”

“Meara?” A voice from another room, silvery and clear. “What is it? Does Lord Satoris summon me again?”

Tanaros shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his collar as Cerelinde entered the foyer. “My lady. Arahila’s moon shines full this evening. I thought it might please you to view the garden of Darkhaven.”

“At night?” Her fine brows rose a fraction.

“It is a moon-garden, my lady.” A slight flush warmed his face.

“Ah.” She regarded him, grave and beautiful, clad in a robe of pale blue. “So you would permit me a glimpse of sky.”

“I would.”

“Thank you.” Cerelinde inclined her head. “I would like that.”

Meara hissed through her teeth, stamping into the quarters beyond and returning with a pearl-white shawl, woven fine as gossamer. “Here,” she muttered, thrusting it at Cerelinde. “You’ll take a chill, Lady.”

“Thank you, Meara.” The Lady of the Ellylon smiled at the madling.

“Don’t.” She bit her lip, drawing a bead of blood, then whirled on Tanaros. “I told you it was a mistake to bring her, with all her beauty and kindness! Did you not think it would make it that much harder for the rest of us to endure ourselves?”

He blinked in perplexity, watching her storm away, doors slamming in her wake. “I thought she had taken kindly to you, my lady.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Cerelinde glanced at him with pity.

“No:” Tanaros shook his head, extending his arm. “I don’t.”

He led her through the gleaming halls of Darkhaven, acutely aware of her white fingers resting on his forearm, of the hem of her silk robe sweeping along the black marble floors. There were shadows beneath her luminous eyes, but captivity had only refined her beauty, leavening it with sorrow. Haomane’s Child. The Havenguard on duty saluted as they passed, faces impassive, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

“Here, my lady.” A narrow hallway, ending in a wooden door polished smooth as silk, with hinges and locks of tarnished silver. Tanaros unlocked the door and pushed it ajar, admitting a waft of subtle fragrances. He stepped back, bowing. “The garden.”

Cerelinde passed him.

“Oh, Haomane!”

The mingled joy and grief in her tone made a knot in his belly. Tanaros entered the garden, closing the door carefully behind him. Only then did he dare look at her. The Lady of the Ellylon stood very still, and there were no words in the common tongue to describe her expression. The air was warm and balmy, rich with the scent of strange blossoms. Overhead, Arahila’s moon hung full and bright off the left side of the Tower of Ravens, drenching the garden in silvery light.

It was very beautiful.

She hadn’t expected that, Tanaros thought.

Tainted water, feeding tainted earth, saturated with the seeping ichor of Lord Satoris’ wound. Such was the garden of Darkhaven, and such flowers as grew here grew nowhere else on Urulat. By daylight, they shrank. Only at night did they bloom, stretching tendrils and leaves toward the kindly light of Arahila’s moon and stars, extending pale blossoms.

Cerelinde wandered, the hem of her robe leaving a dark trail where it disturbed the dewy grass. “What is this called?” She paused beneath the graceful, drooping branches of a flowering tree, its delicate blossoms, pale-pink as a bloodshot eye, weeping clear drops upon the ground.

“A mourning-tree.” Tanaros watched her. “It grieves for the slain.”

“And these?” She examined a vine twining round the trunk, bearing waxy, trumpet-shaped flowers that emitted a pallid glow.

“Corpse-flowers, my lady.” He saw her lift her head, startled. “At the dark of the moon, they utter the cries of the dead, or so it is said.”

Cerelinde shuddered, stepping back from the vines. “This is a dire beauty, General Tanaros.”

“Yes,” Tanaros said simply, taking her arm. Stars winked overhead like a thousand eyes as he led her to another bed, where blossoms opened like eyes underfoot, five-pointed petals streaked with pale violet. “Have you seen these?” A faint, sweet fragrance hung in the air, tantalizing. His eyes, unbidden, filled with tears.

… her face, his wife Calista, her eyes huge and fearful as she lay upon the birthing-bed, watching him hold the infant in his arms …

“No!” Cerelinde struggled out of his grip, eyeing him and breathing hard. “What manner of flower is this, Tanaros?”

“Vulnus-blossom.” His smile was taut. “What did you see?”

“You,” she said softly. “I saw you, in Lindanen Dale, your sword stained with my kinsmen’s blood.”

Tanaros nodded, once. “Their scent evokes memory. Painful memory.”

Cerelinde closed her eyes. “What do you see, Tanaros?”

“I see my wife.” The words came harsher than he intended. He watched her eyelids, raising like shutters, the sweep of lashes lifting to reveal the luminous grey.

“Poor Tanaros,” she murmured.

“Come.” He dragged at her arm, hauled her to another flowerbed, where bell-shaped blossoms bent on slender stalks, shivering in the moonlight with a pale, fretful sound. “Do you know what these are?”

She shook her head.

“Clamitus atroxis,” Tanaros said shortly. “Sorrow-bells. They sound for every senseless act of cruelty that takes place in the Sundered World. Do you wonder that they are seldom silent?”

“No.” Tears clung to her lashes. “Why, Tanaros?”

“Look.” He fell to his knees, parting the dense, green leaves of the clamitus. Another flower blossomed there, low to the ground, pure white and starry, shimmering in its bed of shadows. “Touch it.”

She did, kneeling beside him, stroking the petals with one fingertip.

The flower shuddered, its petals folding into limpness.

“What have I done?” Cerelinde’s expression was perturbed.

“Nothing.” Tanaros shook his head. “It is the mortexigus, Lady; the little-death flower. That is its nature, to mimic death at a touch. Thus does it loose its pollen.”

Cerelinde knelt, head bowed, watching the plant stir. “Why do you show this to me, Tanaros?” she asked quietly.

A soft breeze blew in the garden, redolent with the odor of memory, making the clamitus sound their fitful chimes. Tanaros stood, his knees popping. He walked some distance from her. “Lord Satoris has summoned you to speak with him.”

“Yes.” She did not move.

“What does he say?”

“Many things.” Cerelinde watched him. “He says that the Prophecy is a lie.”

“Do you believe him?” Tanaros turned back to her.

“No.” A simple truth, simply spoken.

“You should.” A harsh note entered his voice. “He speaks the truth, you know.”

Her face was calm. “Then why do you fear it, Tanaros? Why am I here, if the Prophecy is a lie? Why not let me wed Aracus Altorus in peace?”

“Is that what you would bring us here in Darkhaven?” he asked her. “Peace?”

At that, she looked away. “The Lord-of-Thought knows the will of Uru-Alat.”

“No!” Tanaros clenched his fist against his thigh, forced himself to breathe evenly. “No, he doesn’t. Haomane knows the power of thought, that’s all. The leap of water in the stream, of blood in the vein, of seed in the loins … these things are Uru-Alat too, and these things Haomane First-Born knows not. That is the core of truth he has Shaped into the lie of the Prophecy.”

Cerelinde composed herself. “The other Shapers disagree, General.”

“Do they?” Tanaros caught a bitter laugh in his throat and pointed to the moon. “See there, my lady. Arahila’s moon sheds its blessing on Lord Satoris’ garden.”

Her gaze was filled with compassion. “What would you have me say? Arahila the Fair is a Shaper, Tanaros. Not even the Sunderer is beyond redemption in her eyes.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Oh, Cerelinde! Don’t you understand ? Any of the Shapers, any of the Six, could leave Torath and cross the Sundered divide. They will not.” He raised his chin, gazing at the stars. “They will not,” he said, “because they fear. They fear Haomane’s wrath, and they fear their own mortality. Even Shapers can die, Cerelinde. And they fear to tread the same earth where Godslayer abides.”

“Is that the lesson of the garden?” Her grey eyes were cool, disbelieving.

“No.” Tanaros pointed to the mortexigus flower. “That is. Lady, any Son of Man would do to serve your need. In our very mortality, we hold the keys to life. We hold the Gift Lord Satoris can no longer bestow, the key to the survival of the Rivenlost. Your people and mine conjoined. That is the truth of the Prophecy, the deeper truth.”

She frowned and it was as though a cloud passed over the moon’s bright face. “I do not understand.”

“Do the numbers of the Ellylon not dwindle while those of Men increase?” he asked her. “So it has been since the world was Shaped. Without Lord Satoris’ Gift, in time the Ellylon will vanish from the face of Urulat.”

“Now it is you who lies,” Cerelinde said softly. “For the Lord-of-Thought would not allow his Children to be subsumed, not even by fair Arahila’s.”

Tanaros held her gaze. “Why, then, does Haomane’s Prophecy bid you to wed one?”

Her winged brows rose. “To unite our people in peace, Tanaros. Aracus Altorus is no ordinary Man.”

“Aye, Cerelinde, he is. As I am.” Tanaros sighed, and the sorrow-bells murmured in mournful reply. “The difference is that the House of Altorus has never faltered in its loyalty to Haomane First-Born.”

She stood and touched his face with light fingertips, a touch that burned like cool fire. “A vast difference, Tanaros. And yet it is not too late for you.”

He shuddered, removing her hand. “Believe as you will, Lady, but the sons of Altorus Farseer were chosen to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy that in their loyalty they might bring down Lord Satoris. The truth is otherwise. It need not be a daughter of Elterrion, nor a son of Altorus. You and I would serve. Our seed holds the key to your perpetuation.”

“You!” She recoiled, a little.

“Our people. Any two of us. We hold within ourselves the Gifts of all the Seven Shapers and the ability to Shape a world of our choosing.” He spread his hands. “That’s all, Cerelinde, no more.”

“No.” She was silent a moment. “No, it is another of the Sunderer’s lies, Tanaros. If it were so simple, why would Haomane not so bid us?”

“Because he requires the Prophecy to destroy Lord Satoris,” he said. “We are all pawns in the Shapers’ War, Cerelinde. The difference is that some of us know it, and some do not.” Something in his heart ached at the naked disbelief on her face. “Forgive me, Lady. I had no intent of troubling you. I thought you would like the garden.”

“I do. And I am grateful for a glimpse of sky.” She drew Meara’s shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Tanaros. I am sorry for your pain, and I do not doubt that you have taken the Sunderer’s lies for truths. But Haomane First-Born is chief among Shapers, and I am his child. Your Lord need only bow to His will, and the Sundered World will be made whole. Can you ask me to believe aught else?”

“Yes,” Tanaros said helplessly.

Her voice was gentle. “I cannot.”