Banewreaker

TWENTY-SEVEN

Tanaros’ boots crunched in the sand as he walked away from the Stone Grove encampment. With every step his scabbard brushed his thigh in reminder, unwanted and unneeded. His Lord’s words echoed over and over in his head, and the sun blazing in his face made his ringing head ache.

Kill them. Kill them ALL!

“Lord General?”

“Go away, Speros,” he said without looking.

“It’s just … did Lord Satoris give us orders? Is he going to open the Ways and bring us home? Because I could have the lads back at the node—”

“Go away, Speros!”

There was a pause. “Aye, General. We’ll be at the campsite when you’re ready.”

When he was ready; there was a bitter jest! Lifting his head, Tanaros stared at the blinding face of the sun. He remembered how good it had felt in Beshtanag to see the sun’s rays gilding the forest after long years of Darkhaven’s eternal gloom. Did the sun still shine in Beshtanag? He supposed it did, despite what had befallen there. It seemed closer, here, where Haomane’s wrath had scorched the earth in pursuit of Satoris. What was it like, living with this surfeit of light?

Bare feet made no sound on the desert floor. “Slayer.”

“Ngurra.” Tanaros regarded the sun. “What do you want?”

“Truth.” One simple word, spoken in the common tongue. Tanaros sighed and turned. Ngurra squatted on the desert floor, squinting up at him, his brown face a map of wrinkles in the sun’s unforgiving light. “It’s your choosing-time, isn’t it?”

After a day in the Yarru’s company, Tanaros didn’t bother lying to the old man. “Why?” he asked instead, resting one hand on the black sword’s hilt. “Why did you do it? Why did you send this boy, this Bearer—”

“Dani.”

“—this Dani to extinguish the marrow-fire?” Tanaros’ voice rose. “Why, Ngurra? Has Haomane been so good to your people? Did he have a care for your welfare when he scorched the earth? Look at this place!” He gestured at the desert. “It’s barely enough to sustain life! We would have perished here if you’d not shown us how to survive! For this, you seek to thank Haomane First-Born by destroying my Lord?”

“No, Slayer.” Ngurra shook his head. “This is Birru-Uru-Alat. Here, where the Well of the World abides, is the center, the choosing-place. We are the Yarru-yami, and that is the trust we preserve.”

“Haomane’s trust,” Tanaros said bitterly.

The old man gave a weary chuckle. “When did the Lord-of-Thought ever hold choice to be a sacred trust? No, Slayer. He gave us no choice when he brought the sun’s wrath upon us, no more than your Lord Satoris did when he fled to this place. Together, they drove us into hiding. This wisdom comes from the deep places in Uru-Alat, from a time when the world was newly Sundered.” He held up his empty hands, palms marked with ordinary, mortal lines. “Such is the burden we carry. That, and the promise that one among us would be born to Bear a greater one.”

“Aye.” The words came hard, sticking in his throat. “To extinguish the marrow-fire, freeing Godslayer. To fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy and destroy my Lord.”

Ngurra nodded. “That is one choice.”

“It’s the choice he made!” With an effort, Tanaros controlled his anger. It would do no good to shout at the old man. If nothing else, a day among the Yarru had taught him that much. “Why, Ngurra? Why that choice?”

Tilting his head, the old Yarru regarded the sky. “Where were you, to offer another? There are things I could say, Slayer, and the simplest one of all is that it is the choice he was offered. Was Dani’s choice right?” He shook his head again. “I do not know. I only know he is the Bearer, and it was his to choose.”

Tanaros gritted his teeth. “That’s not good enough, old one.”

“Isn’t it?” Ngurra’s eyes shone with sympathy in his wrinkled face. “And yet here you are at the choosing-place.” With a grunt he straightened his legs and rose, turning back toward the camp. “Think on it, Slayer,” he said over his shoulder. “We are ready. We have been waiting for you. You have a choice to make.”

He watched the old man’s steady progress across the sand. At the encampment, the Yarru elders hailed his return under the benign gaze of the Gulnagel Fjel on guard. He could hear white-haired Warabi, the old man’s wife, scolding him for his folly.

We have been expecting you.

If Ngurra had not greeted him with those words, he might have ordered them slain. Why not? It was true, they were the ones who had sent forth the Bearer to extinguish the marrow-fire. But instead, he had stayed his hand out of curiosity. He had ordered Speros and the Fjel to accept the Yarru’s hospitality. And a good thing, too. They would be half dead of thirst if the Yarru hadn’t shown them how to find water-holes in the Unknown Desert, how to catch basking lizards, how chewing gamal heightened the senses and moistened parched tissues. The Yarru had shown them kindness. Whatever they were, whatever strange beliefs they held, these Charred Ones were not foes.

Old men. Old women.

“I don’t want to kill them,” Tanaros whispered. Unaccountable tears stung his eyes, and he covered his face with both hands. “Oh, my Lord! Must it be so?”

Distant power flickered as if in answer, and pain seared his scarred breast, so acute it was almost unbearable. So. It had begun as his Lordship had said it would. In the west, in Darkhaven, Satoris was wielding Godslayer with the full might of a Shaper’s power, a thing he had not dared since Darkhaven was raised. Tanaros felt his teeth begin to chatter. He dropped to his knees in the sand and pressed his fingertips hard against his temples, willing his flesh to obedience. All across the world, it was as though a thousand doors had been slammed at once. Everywhere, light flared and died, a vast network of connections turning to ash.

The Marasoumië was closed.

That was that, then. The thing was done. His Lordship had no intention of changing his orders. Tanaros waited for his pounding heartbeat to subside, then climbed heavily to his feet and brushed the sand off his knees.

You have a choice to make.

There was no point in waiting. The task was onerous; the journey afterward would be grueling. Trudging across the desert toward the encampment, he drew his sword. It glinted dully in the sun, a length of black steel laying a black bar of shadow on the desert floor. Where would he go if he disobeyed Satoris’ orders? What would he do? He was General Tanaros Blacksword, one of the Three, and he had made his choice a long, long time ago.

Speros sprang alert at his approach, whistling for the attention of the Gulnagel. “Lord General! What was that happened just now? Is it time to—” He stopped, eyeing the drawn sword. “What are you doing?”

“They know.” Tanaros gestured wearily at the Yarru, who had gathered in a circle. Old men and old women, linked by age-knotted hands clasped tight together. There were tears in the creases of Warabi’s dark cheeks as she clung to Ngurra’s hand.

“You mean to kill them all?” Speros swallowed, turning pale. “Ah, but Lord General, they’re harmless. They’re—”

“—old,” Tanaros finished for him. “I know.” He rubbed his brow with his free hand. “Listen, lads. Beshtanag has fallen, and Lord Satoris has closed the Ways. We’re going home the hard way. But we’ve got business to attend to here first. We’re going to bury that cursed well, that no one else may find it. And … he drew a deep breath, pointing his sword at the Yarru, “ … we leave no survivors to tell of it.”

With stoic shrugs, the Gulnagel took up positions around the ring of Yarru elders, who shrank closer together, murmuring in their tongue. Ngurra gently freed his hand from his wife’s and stepped forward. There was fear in his face; and courage, too.

“Slayer,” he said. “You do not have to choose this.”

“Give me a reason, Ngurra.” Rage and bleak despair stirred in Tanaros’ heart, and he tightened his grip on his sword-hilt, raising it with both hands to strike. “Give me a reason! Tell me you’re wrong, tell me you’re sorry, tell me the Bearer made a bad choice! Send a delegation to bring him back! Can you do that, old man? Is that so much to ask? I didn’t ask for this choice! Give me a reason not to make it!”

The Yarru elder shook his head, profound regret in his eyes. “I can give you only the choice, Slayer,” he said sadly. “Choose.”

“So be it,” Tanaros whispered. Sick at heart, he swung the blade.

His sword cut clean, cleaving the old man’s scrawny chest in a mortal blow. Dark flesh, cleaved by a black blade. There was a single agonized cry from Ngurra’s wife, a collective whimper from the other Yarru. The old man went down without a sound, bleeding onto the desert floor as silently as he’d walked upon it. Turning away, Tanaros nodded to Speros and the four Gulnagel Fjel. “See it finished.”

Meaty thuds filled the air as the Gulnagel went to work with their maces. There were cries of fear and pain; though not many, no. Hunting Fjel preferred to kill with one blow, and the Gulnagel were swift. Tanaros sat on an outcropping of rock, wiping Ngurra’s blood from the black blade. He didn’t glance up from his labors until he heard footsteps approaching. “Is it done?”

“Aye, Lord General.” It was Speros, looking ill and abashed. “The Fjel have finished.” He glanced at the ground, then blurted, “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t do it. I’ve got a grandmam at home.”

“A grandmam.” Tanaros laid his sword across his knees and rubbed his aching temples, not sure whether to laugh or weep. He’d had a grandmother, once. She was long-dead bones, and had died cursing his name. “Ah, Speros of Haimhault! What are you doing here? Why in the name of the Seven Shapers did you come here?”

“Sir?” The Midlander gave him a quizzical look.

“Never mind.” He rose to his feet, sheathing his sword. There was a taste of bile in his throat and he knew, with utter and horrible certitude, that he would never remember this day’s work without cringing in his soul. “Gather the Fjel, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Ushahin Dreamspinner was in Arduan when the Marasoumië was sealed.

He was grateful for Lord Satoris’ warning. It had been unexpected; the reaching tendrils of Godslayer’s power making his scar itch and burn, and suddenly Satoris was there, touching his mind, sifting through his thoughts. So it must feel to mortals when he used his Were-taught skills to walk in their dreams.

“I understand, my Lord,” he said when the Shaper had finished, bowing to the empty air. A pair of Arduans strolling in the marketplace gave him a wide berth. “I will come as I may.”

There was a banyan tree growing on the eastern side of the square. Ushahin found space amid its roots and sat cross-legged in its shade, waiting. He bowed his head, drawing the hood of a cloak he had stolen from a sleeping hunter down to hide his features. It was hot and humid here along the fringe of the Delta; still, better to be uncomfortable than to be recognized.

Arduans were a polite folk, their tiny nation founded on respect for individual rights, including that to privacy. No one would disturb him if he claimed it; no, not unless he showed his face. That, he suspected, would invoke the other great passion of Arduan. There was only one misshapen Ellyl half-breed in Urulat. Even Arduans would require no further justification than his face to nock an arrow and fire.

Ushahin waited.

A part of the world died.

It hurt. He felt the passing of each node-point as it flared and died. Little deaths, each and every one, a shock to his flesh where a shard of the Souma had branded it. He made himself breathe slowly, enduring it. He wondered if it took Vorax and Tanaros the same way. He thought about Malthus the Counselor trapped in the Ways, and smiled through his pain.

It was done.

“Are you all right, mister? Something funny happened just now.”

A high voice; a child’s voice. Ushahin opened his eyes to see a young girl stooping under the banyan tree to peer at him. She had a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a child’s bow clutched in one grimy hand. The children who had set upon him so long ago in Pelmar, breaking his bones and rending his flesh, had been scarce older. Neither had he, then.

“Aye, lass,” he said, slipping behind her eyes and into her thoughts without an effort, twisting them to his own ends. “I’m fine, and so are you. I need to purchase a boat; a skiff, such as fishermen use in the Delta. Surely a clever girl like you would know where I might find such a thing.”

“Oh, aye, you need to see Caitlin’s Da!” She beamed with pride, happy to have an answer. Whatever she had sensed of the death of the Marasoumië was forgotten. “He’s a boatwright, mister. He’ll sell you a skiff!”

“Well done, lass.” Ushahin unfolded his legs, rising. He adjusted the hood of his cloak, then extended a hand, suppressing a smile as she took his crooked fingers into her trusting, grubby grip. “Take me to him.”

She had no privacy left.

That was one of the worst aspects of the occupation of Beshtanag. It had been hard to watch when Gergon was led through the fortress in chains, shooting her an agonized glance of apology and regret. It had been painful to behold the gratitude with which her Beshtanagi people welcomed the intervention of Haomane’s Allies, the alacrity with which they surrendered, eager for a handful of grain, a plate of mutton. Blaise Caveros, Aracus Altorus’ second-in-command, took quiet control of the situation. Despite the injury he had sustained on the battlefield, he was calm and competent, seeing to the housing of their troops, ordering supply-trains into the fortress.

Only her Ward Commander and his lieutenants were taken into custody; the rest of her wardsmen were confined to barracks under the eye of Regent Martinek’s forces. Members of her household staff were pardoned in exchange for a pledge of loyalty to the Southeastern Pelmaran Regent. A few wept, but what of it? It was only a few. Most helped them search the fortress, scouring it from top to bottom, lest it transpire that the Lady Cerelinde was housed there after all. Haomane’s Allies were thorough.

These things, Lilias had expected. The vast numbness that filled her, the void in her heart left by Calandor’s death and the Soumanië’s loss, insulated her. And in truth, she could not blame her people. She had lied. She had erred. She had failed to protect them. Left to her own devices, she would have begged leave to retire to her chambers, to turn her back upon the world and eschew all sustenance, letting her newly mortal flesh dwindle until Oronin’s Horn made good its claim on her spirit. What else was left for her? At least on the far side of death, she might find Calandor’s spirit awaiting her.

But Aracus Altorus did not leave her to her own devices.

He didn’t know how to use the Soumanië, and there was no one else to tell him. Even the Ellylon shook their heads, saying it was a thing only Ingolin the Wise might know. It afforded her a grim amusement. They were fools to think the Soumanië would be so easily claimed. And so, far from letting her retire in solitude and turn her face to the wall, Aracus kept her at his side, and Lilias kept her silence. He sought to woo her with sweet reason, he bullied her, he chivvied her, he offered her bargains she refused. He would not stoop to torture—there was that much, at least, to be said for Haomane’s Allies—but neither would he let her out of his sight. He dragged her into the Cavern of the Marasoumië beneath Beshtanag Mountain, where he made an ill-guided attempt to use the gem to summon Malthus the Counselor.

Even if he had known its secret, he would have failed that day.

Lilias had laughed, close to hysteria, as the foundations of the world shifted and the node-point of the Marasoumië turned dull and inert, a dead hunk of grey granite. The bundled fibers of light that had traced the Ways went dead, leaving empty tunnels through solid rock. Aracus had cried aloud in pain, scrabbling at his forehead, removing the fillet from his brow and clutching it in his hand. As the Soumanië shone like a red star in his grasp, answering to the distant power of Godslayer, she knew what it was that the Sunderer had done, and that the Counselor was trapped within the Ways.

“Tell me how to reach him!” Aracus had raged. “Tell me how to use this!”

Lilias had shrugged. “Give me the Soumanië.”

He didn’t, of course; he wasn’t a fool. He had merely glared at her, while the Ellylon spoke to him in hushed tones of what had transpired, explaining that not even one of the Soumanië could undo Godslayer’s work. If they could not tap the Soumanië’s power themselves, still, there were things they knew; things they understood, Haomane’s Children. A death at the heart of Urulat was one such. They explained it to the would-be King of the West, their perfect faces strained and bone-white. The Ellylon did not love the deep places of the earth.

In the end, they trooped back to her warchamber, where Lilias was not allowed to leave. She was a piece of excess baggage, but one too valuable to discard. Dignity, along with privacy, was a thing from another life. She sat in the corner, covering her face with both hands, while Haomane’s Allies spoke in portentous tones of assailing Darkhaven. They let her hear their plans, so little did they fear her. A bitter irony, that.

“My lady,” a voice whispered. “Is there aught I can bring you?”

Lilias gazed upward through the lank curtain of her hair. “Pietre!” It was appalling, the gratitude in her acknowledgment. Tears welled in her eyes. “Are you well? Have they treated you kindly?”

“Aye, my lady, well enough. It is as you said, they show us mercy.” Stooping on one knee, Pietre offered the tray he held; a silver salver from her own cupboards, laden with cheese and dark Pelmaran bread. There was concern in his gaze. “Will you not eat? A bit of bread, at least? I can ask the cooks to sop it in wine, make a posset …”

“No,” Lilias began, then paused. “Would you do this for me?”

“Anything.”

She told him, whispering, her lips close to his ear. Pietre shook his head vehemently, his brown hair brushing her cheek. Only when one of the Ellylon glanced over in idle curiosity did he relent. Even then, his willingness was fitful. “Are you sure?” he asked, begging her with his eyes to say no.

“Yes.” Lilias almost smiled. “I am sure.”

It gave her reason to live, at least for a little while longer, and that, too, was a bitter irony. She huddled in her corner, arms wrapped around her knees, half-listening to the council of Haomane’s Allies while awaiting Pietre’s return. In time he came, carrying the silver platter. It made her proud to see the straight line of his back, the pride with which he performed his duties. Aracus Altorus and his peers accepted his service without thinking, reaching for a bite of bread and cheese, a cup of wine. Only Blaise remained on guard, distrustful, making certain Pietre was willing to taste aught he served to Haomane’s Allies.

And he was, of course. All save the posset; that was reserved for her.

Pietre knelt to serve it to her, steadying the tray with one hand. There were tears in his eyes now, liquid and shining. “It is what you asked for,” he murmured. “Sarika knew where it was kept. But, oh, please my lady! Both of us beg you …”

“You have my thanks, Pietre. And my blessing, for what it is worth.” Lilias reached eagerly for the cup. Cradling it between her hands, she inhaled deeply of its aroma. Wine and hoarded spices, and an underlying bitterness. It was a fit drink for the occasion. “Both of you,” she added. “Are you sure there is enough?”

“Yes, my lady.” Swallowing tears, he nodded. “Enough for a whole colony of rats. It will suffice.”

Lilias did smile, then, lifting the cup in toast. “You’ve done a noble deed. Farewell, Pietre.”

Bowing his head, he turned away without answering, unable to watch. Still, it gladdened her heart to have him there, loyal to the end. It hadn’t all been the Soumanië’s power, not all of it. She had loved them well, her pretty ones; as she had loved Beshtanag. Its grey crags, its green forests; hers, all hers. From the sheep grazing in mountain pastures to the Were skulking in the shadow of the pines, she had known it, more truly and deeply than anyone else ever would.

And now it was lost to her, all lost. Would it have been different if she had refused Satoris’ emissary? A war to prevent a war, she thought, gazing at the cup’s contents. So Tanaros Blacksword called it. He had been wrong; but he had been right, too. Ever since Dergail’s Soumanië had risen in the West, she had known it; for what Calandor had known, she had shared.

All things must be as they are, little sssisster.

It was a glorious haven they had made in Beshtanag, but the dragon’s wisdom held true. Sooner or later, they would have come for her. Better, perhaps, that it was Haomane’s Allies than the Lord-of-Thought himself. If Haomane First-Born was coming, Lilias did not intend to wait for him.

“Farewell,” she whispered, raising the cup to her lips.

A man’s hand dashed it away, hard and swift.

Crockery shattered, and Lilias shrank backward Into her corner beneath a sudden shadow. Blaise Caveros stood over her, having shoved Pietre out of his way. “Sorceress.” He sighed, rumpling his dark hair. The bandage was gone from his brow and the gash on his temple was knitting cleanly, but he still looked tired and drawn. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

A wine-sodden piece of bread sat on the stone floor, while dark liquid pooled in the cracks between the flagstones. A pair of flies buzzed, sampling the dregs. As Lilias watched, one twitched in midair and fell. Its wings beat feebly, then went still. “You deny me a clean death,” she said in a low voice. “Would you do so if I were a man?”

Blaise nodded at the spilled wine. “Poison? You call that a clean death?”

“It is what is allotted to me!” Lilias shouted, lifting her head. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. “Must I meet you on the battlefield? I’m no warrior, Borderguardsman! I don’t want to wield a sword! You have won; why can you not let me die?”

Her words rang in a warchamber gone abruptly silent. They were staring, now; all of them, Aracus Altorus and the others, leaving off their poring over maps and plans. She hated them for it. The Ellylon were the worst, with their smug compassion, their eternal condescension toward all things mortal.

No; worst was the Archer, the Arduan woman, who stared aghast and uncomprehending. She wouldn’t mind dying on a battlefield.

“You,” Lilias said to her. “Do you think you would be here if you hadn’t proved yourself with a sharp, pointy weapon?” Her voice broke as grief rose up to overwhelm her. “Ah, by all the Shapers! Do you even know what you destroyed?”

“Sorceress.” Blaise moved wearily to block her view, interposing his tall figure between her and the rest of the room. Behind him, the Arduan Archer’s voice rose in anxious query, swiftly hushed by others. Haomane’s Allies resumed their council in more subdued tones. “We are sorry for your grief. Believe me, we are all of us well acquainted with the emotion. But we cannot allow you to take your life.”

Defeated, Lilias let the back of her head rest against the stone wall, gazing up at him. “I have lived too long already, Borderguardsman. If you were truly an honorable man, you’d let me die.” A short laugh escaped her. “And if you were a wise one, you’d do the same. I promise you, this is an action you will regret.”

“If you were an honorable woman,” Blaise said quietly, “you would not have conspired with the Sunderer to deceive and destroy us.”

“All I wanted was to be left in peace,” Lilias murmured. “To live, unmolested, in Beshtanag, as I have done for so long. Satoris himself in his fortress of Darkhaven desires nothing more. Is it so much to ask? We require so little space upon the face of Urulat. And yet it seems even that is too much for Haomane’s pride to endure. Lord Satoris afforded an opportunity, and I seized it. In the end, it is still Haomane’s Allies who raised the specter of war. Did you not seek to fulfill his Prophecy?”

Blaise frowned at her, uncomprehending. “We are neither cruel nor unreasonable, Lilias of Beshtanag. If you give us a chance, you may come to see it. If that is not your will … You know full well, lady, that you may have your freedom—to do whatever you wish with your life, including end it—for one simple price. Tell us how the powers of the Soumanie may be wielded. Give us the dragon’s lore.”

Lilias shook her head, aware of the solid wall behind her. Her home, her fortress. Her prison, now. Still, it stood, a testament to what she had achieved. A monument to Calandor’s death. The irony in what had passed seemed no longer bitter, but fitting. “No, Borderguardsman. Whatever else you may accuse me of, that is one trust I will never betray, and one death I will never forgive.”

He sighed. “Then you remain with us.”