Banewreaker

THIRTY

For the first time, Skragdal of the Tungskulder Fjel was ill at ease underground.

It was a short journey through the Vesdarlig Passage, one he had made before. All of them had. It was the oldest route through the tunnels to southwestern Staccia. It was a good tunnel, broad and straight. The walls were wide, the ceiling was high. The floor had been worn smooth by the passing tread of countless generations of Fjel. The Kaldjager patrolled it ruthlessly, ensuring that its egresses remained hidden, that its safety remained inviolate, that its ventilation shafts remained clear. It should have been a haven of comfort. It would have been, before.

It was Blågen, one of the Kaldjager who noticed it, loping back from a scouting excursion. His broad nostrils flared and his yellow eyes gave Skragdal an assessing glance. “You have the reek.”

Skragdal grunted. “I was in the Marasoumië.”

Blågen shrugged. “Ah.”

The Men had it too, but Men often reeked of fear, except for General Tanaros. It didn’t seem to bother the Nåltannen or the Gulnagel, and the Kaldjager hadn’t been there for the terrible moment when the world had gone away in a rush of red light and stone had closed in upon them all. And now all that was gone, too, and the old wizard trapped inside it. The Men were talking about it, had been talking about it since they entered the tunnels, talking without cease, talking over one another, releasing nervous energy.

“ … tell you, I’d rather be above ground, where you can see what’s coming at you. Who knows what’s down here now?”

“Yah! What, are you afraid the wizard’s gonna get you?”

“ … keep telling you, he’s not dead, not with a Soumanië on him. He’ll be back.”

“ … love of his Lordship’s weeping wound, they’re not even the same tunnels, the Ways aren’t the same as our tunnels!”

“Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t.”

“ … Kaldjager would catch him a mile away!”

“ … even hear what happened? The old bugger’s got a Soumanië, he can come out of nowhere and turn our arses to stone!”

“ … Godslayer!”

“ … back in the marrow-fire, where it belongs.”

“And a right lot of good it’ll do us there.”

“Shut it, Einar.” Osric, delivering an order. “That’s treason you’re talking.”

“Lieutenant, I’m just saying—”

“Shut it!”

Skragdal wished Men wouldn’t talk so much. Their restless minds grasped at thoughts like squirrels at nuts, gnawing and stuffing, dashing here and there, burying some and discarding others. And then words. Words! An endless stream, spewing from their lips, wasted with careless ease. It stemmed from Haomane’s Gift, he supposed, and he ought to envy it. That’s what Men and Ellylon said.

Only Lord Satoris had ever said otherwise.

They made camp in a vast cavern that night, a day’s ride away from the Vesdarlig Door. Countless thousands had camped there before; Skragdal had done it himself, as an eager young pup on the way to honor the Fjel oath. The sleeping-places were worn smooth, broad grooves in the cavern floor, with suitable rough spots left untrammeled. He took comfort in seeing his fellows situated, freed from their cumbersome armor, rumbling and grumbling, working backs and shoulders against the stone. There was comfort in the evidence of countless members of the tribes who had done the same, leaving faint traces of their scent. It felt good to scratch itching hides against the rock.

Osric’s Men took the southern quadrant, as was tradition.

They scratched the rock, too; only differently. Marks, etched with shards onto the cavern walls. Men lit fires, huddling under the ventilation shafts, sharing their fears and dreams, griping about the journey’s hardship. Ruddy flames danced on the walls, showing the marks clearly. Scritching lines, narrow and perplexing. Sometimes they formed characters; sometimes, only shapes. Always, the lines shifted and changed, taunting him with elusive meaning.

Skragdal studied them, blinking.

“You can’t read, can you?”

He glanced down at the Staccian commander. “I am Fjel,” he said simply. “We do not share Haomane’s Gift.”

Osric’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve tried, then?”

“No, lieutenant.” He did not tell the story. None of the Fjel did; not to Men, not to anyone. Only to their pups. A long time ago they had wanted to learn. Neheris’ Children had wanted it badly enough to plead with the wounded Shaper who had fled to their lands. And during the long years of his recuperation from Haomane’s Wrath, Lord Satoris had tried to teach his people. In the end, it came to naught. The meaning of scratched lines—on stone, on parchment—was too evasive. How could a handful of symbols, which bore no intrinsic meaning, represent all the myriad things in the world? What relationship did they bear to the thing itself? It was a pointless endeavor.

Osric glanced at the scratchings. “Well, you’re not missing much. Lads’ folly for the most part, writing their names to let the ones who come after know they were here. That, and empty boasts. You’ll have the Kaldjager stand watch again tonight?”

“Aye, lieutenant.”

“Good man. Get some sleep.”

He tried. Others slept, rumbling and snoring, comforted by stone’s solid presence. It did not bother them that they had seen stone turn to an engulfing enemy in the red flash of a Soumanië’s power. It should not bother him. Fjel had the gift of living in the present. Only important things were carried in the heart; only sacred memories, passed from generation to generation. All that was not worth carrying—fear, envy, hatred—was left to be washed away and forgotten in the flowing rivers of time.

Do not mourn for the Gift Haomane withheld from you. Did Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters not Shape her Children well? This I tell you, for I know: One day Men will covet your gifts. Treasure them, and rejoice.

Lord Satoris’ words.

Those were the words that had restored Fjel pride and faith, the ones they passed on to their offspring. Those were the words that had inspired their ancient oath. Skragdal had heard them as a pup. He had carried them in his heart with pride, but he had never understood them as he did now, lying sleepless beneath the earth. Could such gifts be lost? Could the nature of the Fjel change, tainted by long exposure to the ways of Men? Was it the burden of command that weighed upon him, shaping his thoughts into fearful forms? Would he, if he could, scratch his name upon the wall?

No, he thought. No.

Reaching into a pouch that hung from his belt, Skragdal withdrew a half-carved lump of green chalcedony and examined it in the dim light of the cavern. There were flaws in the stone, but the fluid form of the rhios was beginning to emerge, a sprite as blithe as water flowing through a river bend. This is a thing that is not the thing itself, he thought. Yet it has a shape. I can hold it in my hands, and I can coax a truer shape from it. It is a stone, a real thing. It is a green stone that looks like water. These things I understand. He cupped the rhios in his hands and whispered a prayer to Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters. “Mother of us all, wash away my fear!”

There was an ease in saying the words. Words held power when they were spent with care. He felt a measure of fear ebb. The surrounding stone became a kinder companion. The memory of the Marasoumië faded, taking with it the image of the wizard with his terrible, glaring eyes, his lips working in the thicket of his white beard as he spoke the words to command the Ways, the red gem of the Soumanië ablaze on his chest. He would not forget, but neither would he carry it with him.

Skragdal sighed.

It was a gift.

Lord Satoris was right, had always been right. How wise were the Elders who had seen it! Did the Fjel not slumber in peace while Men whimpered in their dreams?

It was so, it had always been so.

“Are we going to die here, Lord General?” Speros’ voice cracked on the question, and his eyes rolled in his head, showing dry white crescents below the brown iris. The noonday sun stood motionless overhead. His footsteps had begun to stagger, leaving a meandering trail in the sand. Their water supply had been gone since last night, and hours of trekking had taken their toll.

“No.” Tanaros gritted his teeth, grabbing the Midlander’s arm and hauling it across his shoulders. Lowering his head, he trudged onward, taking up the weight that sagged against him. “Come on, lad. Just a little way further.”

Speros’ breath was hot and ragged against his ear. “You said that before.”

“And I will again,” he retorted, still trudging.

“General!” one of the Gulnagel shouted. “Water-hole!”

The staggering cavalcade made its way across the wasteland of the Unknown Desert. They fell to their knees and dug by hand in the scrubby underbrush, marking the signs the Yarru had taught them. There, where thorn-brush grew and the termites built their mounds. There was life, ounce by precious ounce. Moisture darkened the sand and collected, gleaming, where they dug. An inch of water, perhaps more. Sand flew as the Fjel widened the hole, then scooped assiduously at the gathering moisture with Tanaros’ helmet, husbanding every drop. They had carried the general’s armor on their backs, reckoning it too precious to leave.

A lucky thing, since it made a good bucket.

“Sir?” A Gulnagel held out his helmet. It looked small in his massive hands. An inch of water shone at the bottom. “Drink.”

Tanaros licked his dry lips, squinting at the sky. It was blue and unforgiving, the white sun blazing in it like Haomane’s Wrath. “Let him have it,” he said, nodding at Speros, whom he had laid gently in what scant shade the thorn-brush afforded. “What is left, take for yourselves.”

“All right, boss.” The Fjel squatted on the parched earth, cradling Speros’ head in his lap and tilting the helmet. “Drink,” he said, coaxing.

The Midlander drank, his throat working, then sighed.

What was left, the Gulnagel shared. It amounted to no more than a sip apiece. One of them approached the largest termite mound and thrust a thorny branch into the opening at the top, stirring and teasing. The others gathered around the dry tower as indignant insects emerged in a marching line, pinching with deft talons and popping them into their mouths, crunching antennae and legs and swollen thoraxes with relish.

“Eat, General.” Freg, grinning through his chipped eyetusks, approached him. His horny hands were cupped and filled with squirming bounty. “They’re good.”

Tanaros shook his head. “You have them, Freg. You’ve earned them.”

“You’re sure?” The Gulnagel seemed anxious.

“Aye.” He nodded.

Better that the Fjel should eat, and imbibe whatever moisture the termites held. It was not that Tanaros disdained the meal: They needed it; as much as Speros, though they reckoned it less. He knew. He knew Fjel. They were Neheris’ Children, born to a land of mountains and leaping rivers, not made for desert travel. The hides of the Gulnagel had grown desiccated and stark on this journey; leeched of color, dry and cracking.

Still, they would go and go and go, obedient to his orders, legs churning, never a complaint among them.

They ate until there were no more termites.

“We’re ready, General.” Freg stooped over the Midlander’s supine form. “You want I should carry him? I’ve strength enough for it.”

“Aye.” Tanaros drew a deep breath, feeling the arid air burn in his lungs. If his eyes had not been so dry, he might have wept. The lad had followed him out of a sense of belonging. He should never have been allowed to pledge his loyalty; he did not deserve to be left. “Aye, Freg. Carry him while you can.”

The Gulnagel did, hoisting Speros onto his own back. The Midlander’s limbs dangled, jostled by each wayward step. Onward they staggered, over the parched earth. Tanaros led the way. He knew it; knew it as the migrating swallow knows its way. His branded heart served as compass. There. There it was before him. Darkhaven. Home, where Lord Satoris sat on his Throne and Godslayer hung blazing in the marrow-fire. It exerted its own pull, guiding his faltering steps across the shortest route possible, no matter how inhospitable the land.

Alas, in the Unknown Desert, the shortest route was not always the best. The Yarru had known as much. The Unknown was crossed one water-hole at a time, one place of sustenance after another. They knew the way of it. If he had let them live, they might have guided him.

Better not to think about it.

Thus did they sojourn, onward and onward. The sun moved in immeasurably small increments across the sky. If there were shade, they would have traveled by night; but they had found no shade, not enough to shelter them. The Gulnagel panted like dogs, with open mouths and labored breathing. Even so, none would lay down his burden.

Tanaros forced his legs to move. One step, then another and another. After all, what did it cost him? He would not die in this place. It was like the Marasoumië. It might kill him, in time; it would take a long time. He could lie on the desert floor, dying of thirst, for ages. He had time. Let him set an example, instead. The black blade of his sword banged against his hip as he trudged onward through the empty desert, leading his staggering band.

The burning sun sank its leading edge below the horizon. Night would follow, with no water in sight. No chance of finding it by starlight; the signs were too subtle. He wondered, grimly, how many would live to see the dawn.

“Lord General!” One of the Gulnagel flung out a rough-hewn hand, pointing.

Wings, the shadow of wings, beating. They were cast large upon the parched earth and there was something familiar in the sound. Tanaros lifted a head grown heavy with exhaustion, raising an arm.

“Fetch!” he cried.

A familiar weight, settling. Talons pricked his arm, and a tufted head bobbed, cocking a beady eye at him. “Kaugh!”

“Fetch,” Tanaros murmured. A feeling in his heart swelled, painful and overlarge. It was foolish. It didn’t matter. He stroked the raven’s feathers with one forefinger, overwhelmed with gratitude. “How did you find me?”

Something nudged at his thoughts, a scrabbling sensation.

Surprised, he opened his mind.

A patchwork of images flooded his vision; sky, more sky, other ravens. A fecund swamp, leaves and bark and beetles. Ushahin Dreamspinner standing in the prow of a small boat, squinting through mismatched eyes. A dragon’s head reared against the sky, ancient and dripping. Darkness; darkness and light. The world seen from on high in all its vastness. Laughter. A dragon’s jaws, parting to breathe living fire.

“You saw this?” Tanaros asked.

“Kaugh!”

A green blur of passing swamp, bronze waters gleaming. Wings beating in a flying wedge; a pause, a caesura. Ushahin wiping sweat from his brow. A lofting, the downbeat of wings. Aloneness. Tilting earth, marsh and fertile plains, a shadow cast small below. It wavered, growing larger, then smaller. A blur of night and stars, pauses and launches. Blue, blue sky, and the desert floor.

The shadow held its size, held and held and held.

Greenness.

A drought-eater, no, three! Thick stalks, succulent leaves. Green-rinded fruits hung low, ripe with water. The shadow veered, growing large, then veered away again.

Desert, parched desert, beneath the lowering sun.

Tanaros and his company seen from above.

“Oh, Fetch!” His dry eyes stung. “Have you seen this? Can you show me?”

“Kaugh!” Bobbing and chuckling, the raven launched itself from Tanaros’ arm, setting a northward trajectory.

“Follow him!” Marshaling his strength, Tanaros forced himself in the direction of the raven’s flight, departing from his heart’s compass. With mighty groans and dragging steps, the Gulnagel followed. Speros, unconscious, jounced on Freg’s back, ungainly as a sack of millet and thrice as heavy.

It was not a long journey, as Men reckon such things. How long does it take for the sun to set once the outermost rim of its disk has touched the horizon? A thousand beats of a straining heart; three thousand, perhaps, here where the desert lay flat and measureless. With the distance halfclosed, Tanaros saw the silhouettes of the drought-eaters, stark and black against the burning sky. Hope surged in his heart. He set a steady pace, exhorting the Gulnagel with praise and curses. If they had stuck to their course, they would have passed them by to the south, unseen.

But there was water ahead, water! The plants held it in abundance.

For a hundred steps, two hundred, the drought-eaters appeared to recede, taunting, ever out of reach. And then they were there, and Fetch settled atop a thick trunk, making a contented sound. The raven ruffled his feathers. A dwindling sliver of flame lit the western horizon and the scent of moisture seeped into the arid air. With rekindled strength, Tanaros strode ahead, drawing his sword to sever a greenripe fruit from its fibrous mooring and holding it aloft.

“Here!” he cried in triumph. “Water!”

One by one the Gulnagel staggered into his presence, each burdened with a piece of his armor. Each laid his burden on the sand with reverence; all save the last.

With heavy steps, Freg of the Gulnagel Fjel entered the stand of drought-eaters, a loose-limbed Speros draped over his back like a pelt. Freg’s taloned hands held the Midlander’s arms in place where they were clasped about his neck. His dragging tread gouged crumbling furrows in the dry earth. One step, then another and another, following Tanaros’ example. The drought-eaters cast long shadows across his path. Freg’s face split in a proud, weary smile.

“General,” he croaked, pitching forward.

“Freg!”

In the dying wash of light, Tanaros crouched beside the Gulnagel and rolled him onto his back. He spread his hands on the broad expanse of the Fjel’s torso, feeling for the beat of his sturdy heart. There was nothing. Only dry hide, harsh and rough to the touch. The heart that beat beneath it had failed. Freg’s chipped grin and empty eyes stared at the desert sky. Tanaros bowed his head. The other Gulnagel murmured in tones of quiet respect, and Fetch ducked his head to preen, picking at his breast-feathers.

Thrown free by Freg’s fall, Speros stirred his limbs and made a faint noise.

“Water,” Tanaros murmured, extending one hand without looking. A severed drought-fruit was placed in it. He tipped it and drank; one swallow, two, three. Enough. He placed it to the Midlander’s parched lips. “Drink.” Water spilled into Speros’ mouth, dribbled out of the corners to puddle on the dry earth. Tanaros lifted his head and gazed at the watching Gulnagel. “What are you waiting for?” he asked them, blinking against the inexplicable burn of tears. “It’s water. Drink! As you love his Lordship, drink.”

Stripping the plants, they hoisted drought-fruit and drank.

It was a mighty stand, and an old one. The plants seldom grew in pairs, let alone three at once. The Yarru must have told stories about such a thing. There was enough water here to quench their thirst, enough water here to carry. Tanaros fed it in slow sips to Speros until the Midlander’s eyes opened and consciousness returned, and he shivered and winced at the cramps that gripped his gut. Under starlight he scanned the remaining Fjel with a fevered gaze, and asked about Freg. His voice sounded like something brought up from the bottom of a well.

Tanaros told him.

The Midlander bent over with a dry, retching sob.

Tanaros left him alone, then, and walked under the stars. This time he did not brood on the red one that rose in the west, but on the thousands upon thousands that outnumbered it. There were so many visible, here in the Unknown Desert! Arahila’s Gift against the darkness, flung like diamonds across the black canopy of night. Nowhere else was it so evident. There was a terrible beauty in it.

It made him think of Ngurra’s calm voice.

It made him think of Cerelinde, and her terrible, luminous beauty.

It made him think of his wife.

Alone, he pressed the heels of his hands against his closed lids. Her eyes had shone like that at the babe’s birth. Like stars; like diamonds. Her eyes had shone like that when he killed her, too, glistening with terror as his hands closed about her throat. And yet … and yet. When he sought her face in his memory, it was that of the Lady of the Ellylon he saw instead. And there was no terror in her eyes, only a bright and deadly compassion.

“My Lord!” he cried aloud. “Guide me!”

Something rustled, and a familiar weight settled on his shoulder, talons pricking through his undertunic. A horny beak swiped at his cheek; once, twice. “Kaugh?”

“Fetch.” It was not the answer he sought, but it was an answer. Tanaros’ thoughts calmed as he stroked the raven’s feathers; calmed, and spiraled outward. “How did you know to find me, my friend? How did you penetrate the barrier of my thoughts? Was it the Dreamspinner who taught you thusly?”

“Kaugh,” the raven said apologetically, shuffling from foot to foot.

An image seeped into Tanaros’ mind; a grey, shadowy figure, lunging, jaws open, to avenge an ancient debt. Always, there were her slain cubs, weltering in their blood. A sword upraised between them, and Aracus Altorus’ face, weeping with futile rage as her weight bore him down, halfglimpsed as Tanaros wheeled his mount to flee and the Lady Cerelinde’s hair spilled like cornsilk over his thighs. The Grey Dam of the Were had died that day, spending her life for a greater gain.

“Ah.”

Ushahin’s words rang in his memory. Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? You will know it, one day.

“Yes, cousin,” Tanaros whispered. “I know it.” And he stroked the raven’s feathers until Fetch sidled alongside his neck, sheltering beneath his dark hair, and remembered the broken-winged fledgling he had raised; the mess in his quarters, all the small, bright objects gone missing. And yet, never had he known the raven’s thoughts. A small gift, but it had saved lives. On his shoulder, Fetch gave a sleepy chortle. Tanaros clenched his fist and pressed it to his heart in the old manner, saluting the Grey Dam Sorash. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “Thank you, old mother.”

Vengeance. Loyalty. Sacrifice.

Such were the lodestones by which his existence was charted, and if it was not the answer he sought, it was answer enough. Thrusting away the thoughts that plagued him, Tanaros turned back toward the drought-eaters, walking slowly, the raven huddled on his shoulder.

There were not enough stones to build a cairn, so the Fjel were digging. Shadows gathered in the mouth of the grave. Dim figures looming in the starlight, the Gulnagel glanced up as he entered the encampment, continuing without cease to shift mounds of dry sand and pebbles. Tanaros nodded acknowledgment. No need for speech; he knew their ways.

The unsteady figure of Speros of Haimhault labored alongside them. “Lord General,” he rasped, straightening at Tanaros’ approach.

“Speros.” He looked at the fever-bright eyes in the gaunt face, the trembling hands with dirt caked under broken nails. “Enough. You need to rest.”

The Midlander wavered stubbornly on his feet. “So do they. And he died carrying me.”

“Aye.” Tanaros sighed. The raven roused and shook its feathers, launching itself from its perch to land on the nearest drought-eater. “Aye, he did.” Casting about, he spotted his helmet amid the rest of his armor. It would hold sand as well as water, and serve death as well as life. One of the Gulnagel grunted, moving to make room for him. “Come on, then, lads,” Tanaros said, scooping at the grave, filling his helmet and tossing a load of sand over his shoulder. “Let’s lay poor Freg to rest.”

Side by side, Man and Fjeltroll, they labored beneath Arahila’s stars.

It was on the verges of Pelmar, a half day’s ride outside Kranac, that the Were was sighted. Until then, the journey had been uneventful.

The forest was scarce less dense near one of the capital cities, but the mounted vanguard had been moving with speed since leaving Martinek’s foot-soldiers behind, weaving in single-file columns among the trees. If she had not despised them, Lilias would have been impressed at the woodcraft of the Borderguardsmen. Plains-bred they might be, but they were at ease in the forest. The Ellylon, of course, were at home anywhere; Haomane’s Children, Shaped to rule over all Lesser Shapers. Although they acknowledged him as kin-in-waiting and King of the West, even Aracus Altorus treated them with a certain respect. Always, there was an otherness to their presence. Grime that worked its way into the clothing and skin of Men seemed not to touch them. The shine on their armor never dimmed and an ever-willing breeze kept their pennants aloft, revealing the delicate devices wrought thereon. Under the command of Lorenlasse of Valmaré, the company of Rivenlost rode without tiring, sat light in the saddle, clad in shining armor, guiding their mounts with gentle touches and gazing about them with fiercely luminous eyes, as if assessing the world of Urulat and finding it lacking.

In some ways, she despised them most of all.

And it was an Ellyl, of course, who spotted the scout.

“Anlaith cysgoddyn!” It was like an Ellylon curse, only sung, in his musical voice. He stood in the stirrups, one finely shaped hand outflung, pointing. “Were!”

She saw; they all did. A grey, slinking figure, ears flattened to its head, ducking behind a thick pine trunk. Once sighted, it moved in a blur, dropping low to the earth, fleeing in swift, leaping bounds. Patches of sunlight dappled the fur on its gaunt flanks as it lunged for deeper shadow.

Aracus Altorus gave a single, terse order. “Shoot it!”

“Wait!” Lilias cried out in instinctive protest, too late.

A half dozen bowstrings twanged in chorus. Most were Ellylon; one was not. Oronin’s Bow sounded a deep, anguished note, belling like a beast at bay. This time, it shot true against its maker’s Children. The same fierce light that suffused the eyes of the Rivenlost lit the Archer’s face as she turned sideways in the saddle, following her arrow’s flight with her gaze. Its path ended in a howl of pain, cut short in a whimper. The underbrush rustled where its victim writhed.

“Blaise,”Aracus said implacably. “See what we have caught.”

“Stay here,” Blaise muttered to Lilias, relinquishing the reins of her mount and dismounting in haste.

Since there was nowhere to go, she did. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she watched as he beckoned to other Borderguardsmen, as their dun cloaks faded into the underbrush. And, sitting in the saddle, she watched as they tracked down their prey and brought him back.

He was slung between them like a hunter’s quarry, a Borderguardsman attached to each outspread limb. It was a pathetic sight, a Were stripped of all his shifting glamour. The haft of a yellow-fletched arrow protruded from the right side of his narrow, hairy breast. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, the wound burbling. Where they passed, crimson droplets of blood clung to the pineneedles.

“Phraotes!” Lilias whispered.

The one-time Were ambassador was panting. He hung in his captors’ grip, jaws agape. His amber eyes, meeting hers, rolled. There were foam and blood on his muzzle. “Sorceress,” he gasped. “It seems, perhaps, I should not have fled.”

Aracus Altorus raised his eyebrows. “You know this creature?”

“Yes.” A tide of anger rose in her. “Yes!” she spat. “I know him, and I know he has done you no harm! He is the Grey Dam’s ambassador to Beshtanag, O King of the West, and he brought to me the news that his folk would do nothing to oppose your passage. Nothing.” Lilias drew a breath. “What harm has he done you now, that you would slay him out of hand? Nothing!”

“Lilias,” Blaise said. One of four, he maintained a cruel grip on Phraotes’ right foreleg, keeping the Were’s hairy limbs stretched taut. “Enough.”

“What?” she asked sharply. “No, I will speak! For a thousand years the Were dwelled in Beshtanag in peace. What do I care for your old quarrels?” She stared at the faces of her captors, one by one. “What did he care? Is there to be no end to it?” Against her will, her voice broke. “Will Haomane order you to slay everything that lives and does not obey his command?”

For a moment, they stared back at her. The Ellylon were expressionless. Blaise’s face was grim. Fianna, the Archer of Arduan, turned away with a choked sound. Aracus Altorus sighed, rumpling his red-gold hair. “Sorceress—” he began.

“We were attacked,” a soft voice interjected; an Ellyl voice. It was Peldras, of Malthus’ Company, who alone among his kind traveled in worn attire. He gazed at her with deep sorrow. “I am sorry, Lady of Beshtanag, but it is so. Blaise and Fianna will attest to it. On the outskirts of Pelmar, in deepest night, the Were fell upon us. Thus was Malthus lost, and the Bearer, fleeing into the Ways of the Marasoumië. Thus did one of our number fall, giving his life so that we might flee.”

“Hobard of Malumdoorn,” Blaise murmured. “Let his name not be forgotten.”

“Even so.” Peldras bowed his head.

“Phraotes?” Lilias asked in a small voice. “Is it true?”

“What is truth?” The Were bared his bloodstained teeth. “A long time ago, we made a choice. Perhaps it was a bad one. This time, we were forced into a bad bargain. Yet, what else was offered us? Perhaps you made a bad bargain. I am only an ambassador. I would be one to this Son of Altorus did he will it.”

Aracus frowned. “Do you gainsay the testimony of my comrades? Your people attacked Malthus’ Company under cover of night, unprovoked. A valiant companion was slain, the wisest of our counselors was lost, the greatest of our hopes has vanished. You have shown no honor here, no remorse. Why should I hear your suit?”

“Why not?” The Were’s head lolled, eyes rolling to fix his gaze on him. “It was a favor extracted by threat, nothing more. We failed; it is finished. We did not make war upon you in Beshtanag, Arahila’s Child. The Grey Dam fears the wrath of Satoris Third-Born, but Haomane’s is more dire. We seek only to be exempted from the Shapers’ War. Yea, I feared to approach in good faith, and I have paid a price for it. Will you not listen before it is paid in full?”

Angry voices rose in reply; in the saddle, Aracus Altorus held up one hand. “Set him down.” He waited while Blaise and the others obeyed. Phraotes curled into a tight ball and lay panting on the pine mast. His ears were flat against his skull and the shaft of the arrow jerked with each breath, slow blood trickling down his grey fur, but his visible eye was watchful. The Were did not die easily. Aracus gazed down at him, his expression somber. “There remain many scores between us, not the least of which is Lindanen Dale. And yet you say you are an ambassador. What terms do you offer, Oronin’s Child?”

With a sound that was half laugh, Phraotes coughed blood. His muzzle scraped the loam. “The Grey Dam is dead; the Grey Dam lives. Though she carries her memories, the Grey Dam Vashuka is not the Grey Dam Sorash.” One amber eye squinted through his pain. “What terms would you accept, King of the West?”

“Son of Altorus!” There was a stir in the ranks, and the gilded bee of Valmaré fluttered on its pennant as Lorenlasse rode forward, glittering in his armor, to place a peremptory hand on Aracus’ arm. “Dergail the Wise Counselor died through the treachery of Oronin’s Children,” he hissed, “and Cerion the Navigator was lost! The Lady Cerelinde would be your bride if they were not faithless. You may forget, but we remember. Will you treat with them and be a fool?”

Plain steel sang as Blaise Caveros unsheathed his sword. “Unhand him.”

Finely chiseled Ellyl nostrils flared. “What manner of villain do you take me for, traitor-kin?” Lorenlasse asked in contempt. “Our way is not yours. We do not slay out of misguided passion.”

“Enough!” Aracus raised his voice. “Blaise, put up your sword. My lord Lorenlasse, abide.” He sighed again and rubbed his temples, aching beneath the Soumanië’s weight. “Would that Malthus was here,” he muttered. “Sorceress!”

Lilias glanced up, startled. “My lord Altorus?”

“Advise me.” He brought his mount alongside hers and looked hard at her. “You know them; you have made pacts with them, and lived. I do not forget anything, but I have erred once in mistaking my true enemy, and innocent folk have died. I do not wish to err twice. Are the Were my enemy?”

“No.” She shook her head. “They wish only to be let alone.”

“Whence Lindanen Dale?”

He was close, too close. Their horses’ flanks were brushing. His presence crowded her, yet there was no room to shrink away on the narrow path. Lilias swallowed. “It was your kinsmen slew her cubs. Do you not remember?”

“I was not born.” His face was implacable.

“Faranol,” Phraotes rasped. “Prince Faranol.”

“Yes.” Lilias drew a shallow breath, wishing Aracus would give her space to draw a deeper one. He was close enough that she could smell him, the tang of metal and the sharp odor of human sweat. This urgency, the exigencies of mortal flesh, pressed too close, reminded her too keenly of the limits that circumscribed her win existence, of her own aching, aging body. “Faranol of Altoria slew the offspring of the Grey Dam Sorash. A hunting party in Pelmar. Surely you must know.”

“Yes.” Because he did not need to, he did not say that Faranol was a hero to the House of Altorus. “I know the story.”

“Hence, Lindanen Dale,” she said simply.

“So.” Aracus’ fingertips pressed his temples. “It is a cycle of vengeance, and I am caught up in it by accident of birth.” With a final sigh he dropped his hands and cast his gaze upon the Were. “You are dying, Oronin’s Child. What power have you to make treaties? Why should I believe you?”

Lying curled upon the ground, Phraotes bared his bloody teeth. “We have walked between life and death since the Glad Hunter Shaped us, blowing his horn all the while. Death walked in his train as it does in yours. We are a pack, son of Altorus, and our Shaper’s Gift lies in those dark corridors. Though Oronin’s Horn now blows for me, the Grey Dam hears me; I speak with her voice. Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is banned from our company. The fetters of old oaths are broken, we are despised in Urulat, and Oronin has raised his hand against us this day. New oaths may be made and honored. What will you, King of the West?”

“Sorceress?”

His eyes were wide, demanding. Demanding, and trusting. For the first time, Lilias understood why they had followed him; Man and Ellyl alike. The knowledge made her inexplicably weary. “For so long as the Grey Dam Vashuka endures,” she said, speaking true words to him, “the Were will abide by what bargain you strike. I have no other counsel.”

“It is enough.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

Something in her heart stirred at his thanks. The mere fact of it made bile rise in her throat. Lilias looked away, not watching as Aracus left her side. He dismounted, walking away a small distance. Others followed, raising voices in argument: gilded Ellylon voices, the deeper tones of the Borderguard, the pleading voice of the woman Archer. Lilias glanced across the backs of milling, riderless horses. Aracus listened to the arguments without speaking, his broad shoulders set, his head bowed under the useless weight of the Soumanië. She wondered if they would regret having sworn their fealty to him this day. There was a twisted satisfaction in the thought.

“He’ll do it, you know.”

Glancing down, she saw Blaise standing beside her mount, gathering its reins in his capable hands. “Do what?”

“Forge a truce.” He handed the reins up to her, his fingers brushing hers. Blaise’s eyes were dark and intent. Her chestnut mare snuffled his hair, and he stroked its neck absently, still watching her. “He’s big enough for it, Lilias, despite their fears. I ought to know.”

Lilias shook her head, unsettled in the pit of her stomach. What did it matter that Aracus Altorus had forgiven Blaise Caveros his immortal ancestor’s betrayal? Calandor, her beloved Calandor, was no less dead for it. On the ground, Phraotes coiled tight around a knot of pain and waited. Only the wrinkled, foam-flecked lips of his muzzle gave evidence to his slow death throes. He met her gaze with a glint of irony in his amber eye. He was the only creature here she understood. “It’s easy to be magnanimous in victory, Borderguardsman,” she said.

“No.” Sighing, Blaise straightened. “No, it’s not. That’s the thing.”

In time, the arguments fell silent and Aracus returned, retracing his path with heavy steps. The Rivenlost were amassed behind him, a quiet, glittering threat. A concord had been reached. Aracus Altorus stood above the dying Were, gazing downward, his face in shadow. His voice, when he spoke, sounded weary. “Will you hear my terms, Oronin’s Child? They are twofold.”

Phraotes’ sharp muzzle dipped and lifted. “Speak.”

“One.” Aracus raised a finger. “You will foreswear violence against all the Shapers’ Children, in thought and deed, in property and in person. Only such simple prey as you find in the forest shall be yours. You shall not conspire upon the soil of Urulat in any manner. You will disdain Satoris the Sunderer and all his workings.”

The Were ambassador exhaled, crimson blood bubbling through his nostrils. It might have been a bitter laugh; the arrow in his breast jerked at the movement. “The Grey Dam Vashuka accedes. So it shall be. Do you swear us peace, we will retreat unto the deepest forests to trouble the Lesser Shapers no more, and be forgotten.”

“Two.” Aracus raised a second finger. “You will abjure the Sunderer’s Gift.”

Behind him, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré smiled.

So, Lilias thought; it comes to this. That offering, which Haomane disdained for his Children, he cannot bear another’s to possess. The Shapers’ War continues unending, and we are but pawns within it. Silent atop her mount, she thought of the things Calandor had shown her in his cavern atop Beshtanag Mountain, the things that filled her heart with fear. One day, he had said, when his own are gone, Haomane will adopt Arahila’s Children as his own. Until then, he will eliminate all others.

She wondered if Oronin Last-Born would protest, or if he were willing to sacrifice his Children on the altar of Haomane’s pride for the sin of having aided Satoris Banewreaker. In the silence that followed Aracus’ pronouncement, it seemed that it must be so. Like Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, the Glad Hunter would abide.

“No cubs?” Phraotes rasped. “No offspring?”

Aracus Altorus shook his head. “None.”

It took longer to obtain an answer. The Were’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body writhing upon the loam. Whatever path his thoughts traveled, it was a difficult one. Phraotes gnashed his teeth, blood and foam sputtering. His body went rigid, then thrashed, the protruding arrow jerking this way and that, his clawed hands digging hard and scoring deep gouges in the pine mast.

“Lord Aracus,” Peldras the Ellyl whispered. “Such a request, whether you will it or no, embroils the Were in the Shapers’ War …”

Aracus raised one hand, intent. “Such are my terms.”

Say no, Lilias thought, concentrating her fierce will. Say no, say no, say NO!

“Yea!” Phraotes, panting, opened slitted eyes. “The Grey Dam Vashuka accedes. Do you leave us in peace, Oronin’s Children will abjure the Gift of Satoris Third-Born, and procreate no more in her lifetime. Like Yrinna’s Children, we shall not increase; nor shall we remain. We shall dwindle, and pass into legend. Like—” his amber gaze fell upon Lorenlasse, “—like Haomane’s Children, in all their pride.” Head lolling, he gave his bloody grin. “Is it a bargain, King of the West? Will you swear to leave us in peace, and guarantee the word of all who are sworn to your allegiance?”

“I will,” Aracus said simply. “I do.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of horses shifting, stamping restless hooves, cropping at foliage. It didn’t seem right, Lilias thought. There should have been a vast noise; a shuddering crash such as there had been when Calandor fell, an endless keening wail of Oronin’s Horn. Not this simple quietude. She wanted to weep, but there were no tears left in her, only a dry wasteland of grief.

“So be it.” Phraotes closed his eyes. “Oronin has wrought this and the Were consent. With my death, it is sealed. Draw out the arrow, King of the West.”

Aracus knelt on one knee beside the crumpled figure, placing his left hand on the Were’s narrow chest. With his right, he grasped the arrow’s shaft. Murmuring a prayer to Haomane, he pulled, tearing out the arrow in one hard yank. Blood flowed, dark and red, from the hole left by the sharp barbs. Phraotes hissed, tried to cough, and failed. His lids flickered once and, with a long shudder, he died.

“All right.” Aracus Altorus climbed to his feet, looking weary. He rubbed at his brow with one hand, leaving a smear of blood alongside the Soumanië. “Give him … give him a proper burial,” he said, nodding at the still figure. “If the Were keep their word, we’ll owe him that much, at least.”

There was grumbling among the Borderguard; the Ellylon made no complaint, assuming that the order was not intended for them. But it was Lilias who found her voice and said, “No.”

Aracus stared at her. “Why?”

“The Were do not bury their dead,” she said harshly. “Leave him for the scavengers of the forest if you would do him honor. It is their way.”

He stared at her some more. “All right.” Turning away, he accepted his reins from a waiting Borderguardsman and swung into the saddle. “Blaise, send a rider to Kranac to notify Martinek of this bargain. Tell him I mean to keep my word, and do any of the Regents of Pelmar break it, I will consider it an act of enmity. By the same token, do the Were break it, they will be hunted like dogs, until the last is slain. Let it be known.”

“Aye, sir.” Blaise moved to obey. In a few short minutes a rider was dispatched and the remainder of the company was remounted, preparing to depart. There was barely time for Lilias to take one last glance at Phraotes. It was hard to remember the Were ambassador as he had been; a keen-eyed grey shadow, gliding like smoke into the halls of Beshtanag. Dead, he was diminished, shrunken and hairy. His eyes were half slitted, gazing blankly at the trees. His muzzle was frozen in the rictus of death, wrinkled as if at a bad scent or a bad joke. Phraotes did not look like what he had been, one of the direst hunters ever to touch the soil of Urulat.

We shall dwindle, and pass into legend.

Lilias shuddered. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, horribly aware that if she had not given counsel to Aracus, the bargain might never have been struck. “I didn’t know what he would ask. Phraotes, I’m sorry!”

There was no answer, only the Were’s dead, sharp-toothed grin.

If it were a bad joke, she hoped it was on Haomane’s Allies.