Banewreaker

THIRTY-TWO

It was due to the raven that no one else had yet died in the Unknown Desert.

Tanaros didn’t count the days; none of them did. What would be the point? None of them knew how long it would take to cross the desert on their meandering, uncharted course. When they could find shade, they rested by day and traveled by night. When there was no shade, which was most of the time, they marched beneath the white-hot sun. He put his trust in Fetch, in the gift of the Grey Dam Sorash, and led them staggering onward. Better, he reckoned, to walk toward death than let it find them waiting.

It didn’t.

Again and again, Fetch guided them to safety; to shade, to water. Hidden water-holes, drought-eaters, rocky ledges that cast deep shade, anthills, basking lizards, nests of mice: all these things the raven found. Tanaros followed his shadow across the parched earth, the raven’s squawk echoing in his ears, until they reached the place where the raven alighted. Again and again, Fetch preened with satisfaction upon their arrival, as they found themselves in a place where sustenance was to be had.

“How do you know?” Tanaros mused on one occasion, studying the raven where it perched on his forearm. “No raven ever traveled this desert, nor any Were. How do you know?”

The bright eyes gleamed. “Kaugh!”

It was a jumbled impression of thoughts that the raven projected; water, beetles and a tall palodus tree, a dragon’s head, rearing above the treetop. Over and over, the dragon’s head, ancient and iron-grey, dripping with swamp-water and vegetation, its jaws parted to speak or breathe flame.

“I don’t understand,” Tanaros told him.

Hopping onto a thorn-branch, Fetch settled and rattled his feathers.

“And why?” he asked the raven.

One bright eye cracked open a slit, showing him his quarters in Darkhaven, customary order giving way to mess and disarray. An injured nestling. A pair of hands, strong and capable, made to grip a sword-hilt, shaping themselves to cup feather and hollow bone with an unaccustomed tenderness.

“For that?” He swallowed. “It was a whim. A small kindness.”

“Kaugh.” The raven closed both eyes and slept.

In the end, he supposed, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they survived, step by step, day by day. But it opened a chink in his heart, that might have sealed itself like stone against the thought of love. When the somber faces of Ngurra and the Yarru-yami haunted his dreams, it gave him a tiny brand to hold the darkness at bay.

A small kindness, a confluence of compassion, had saved his life. Was that strength, or a weakness?

Tanaros could not say. If there had been compassion in his heart the day he learned Calista and Roscus had betrayed him, perhaps he would have found the strength to walk away. What brought them together? Passion? Compassion? They had lacked the strength to resist desire. And yet that thought, too, was anathema. In their hearts, they had already made a cuckold of him. Had they been stronger, he would have spent his life living an unwitting lie, and the world would be a different place.

He did not know if it would be a better one.

Nothing was simple.

“Lord General?” Another day without shade, another day’s trek. If there were a chink in the wall of his heart, it was Speros who thrust a wedge into it. Recovered from the ravages of dehydration, the Midlander had shown surprising and stubborn resilience, regaining sufficient strength to place one foot in front of the other, day after day, refusing the aid of the Gulnagel. Now he turned a sunburnt face in Tanaros’ direction, his voice wistful. “What’s the Lady of the Ellylon like?”

“Like a woman,” he said shortly. “An Ellyl woman.”

“Oh.” Speros returned his gaze to the desert floor, watching his feet trudge across the sand. It crunched rhythmically under their boots, under the taloned feet of the Gulnagel, who traded glances over their heads. “I’ve never seen an Ellyl,” he said eventually. “I just wondered …”

“Yes.” Tanaros took a deep breath, the desert’s heat searing his lungs. “They’re very beautiful. She is very beautiful. Do you want to know how much?” He remembered Cerelinde in her chamber, the night he had bade her farewell, and how she had shone like a candle-flame, pale hair shining like a river against her jeweled robes as she turned away from him. Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. “So much that it hurts,” he said harshly. “So much it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us. We’re rough-hewn clay, Speros, a poor second next to her Elder Brother’s creation. So much it makes you despise Arahila for trying and falling so short, yet giving us the wit to know it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Speros glanced wryly at him. “Not exactly, my lord.”

“Well.” Despite himself, Tanaros smiled. The unfamiliar movement made the skin of his dry lips split. “You’ve seen Ushahin Dreamspinner.”

“No.” Speros shook his head. “I’ve only heard tales.”

“Ah.” Tanaros licked his split lip, tasting blood. “Well, he is a paltry, cracked mirror through which to behold the beauty of the Ellylon, but I imagine you’ll see him in time. And if the Dreamspinner isn’t Ellyl enough for you, unless I am much mistaken, you’ll encounter Ellylon aplenty on the battlefield, and be sorry you did, for they’re doughty fighters beneath their pretty hides.”

“Aye, Lord General.” For a few moments, the Midlander was silent. “I would like to see the Lady, though,” he mused. “Just to see her.”

Tanaros made no reply.

Speros glanced at him again. “Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?”

“No.” The word leapt too quickly from his cracked lips. Tanaros halted, rubbing his hands over his face. It felt gritty with sand and grime. His head ached from the effort of walking, from Speros’ questions, from too little food, and too much light. Once, in Beshtanag, he had welcomed the sight of it. Now he yearned for the dim, soothing light of Darkhaven, for the familiarity of its gleaming black walls and corridors. After the endless sunlight of the Unknown Desert, he wouldn’t be sorry if he never left the cloud-shrouded Vale of Gorgantum for another mortal lifespan. “Speros, save your breath. We’ve a long way to go yet today.”

“Aye, Lord General.”

This time the Midlander was properly subdued, and his silence lasted what Tanaros gauged to be the better part of a league. He set as brisk a pace as he dared, rendering further speech impossible. He wished he could outpace his own thoughts. There were too many words etched into his memory, chasing themselves around and around in his mind. Cerelinde’s voice, his Lordship’s, Ngurra’s … and now Speros’, his voice with its broad Midlands accent, asking a question in innocent curiosity.

Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?

The thought of it made his palms itch and bile rise in his throat. He remembered altogether too well how his wife’s face had looked in death; blind eyes staring, all her lively beauty turned to cold clay. Even in his fury it had sickened him. The thought of seeing Cerelinde thusly was unbearable.

He was glad when the landscape made one of its dull, inhospitable shifts from rippled sand to barren red earth, dotted here and there with thorn-brush. Loose rocks and scattered boulders made the footing tricky, and it was a relief to have to concentrate on the task of walking. Fetch’s shadow wavered on the uneven ground, then vanished as the raven veered westward, becoming a tiny black dot in the unbroken blue sky, then disappearing altogether. Tanaros led his company in the direction the raven had taken, keeping its flight-path fixed in his mind and placing his feet with care. There was little else to relieve the tedium. Once, a hopping-mouse broke cover under a thorn-brush, bounding into the open in unexpected panic.

With a grunt, one of the three remaining Gulnagel dropped his burden and gave chase, returning triumphant with a furry morsel clutched in his talons. Despite the fact that he was panting with the effort, he offered it to his general.

“No, Krolgun,” Tanaros said, remembering Freg, and how he had offered him a handful of termites. “It’s yours.” He looked away as the Fjel devoured it whole, hoping the scant nourishment was worth the effort.

Another hour, and another. Tanaros slowed their pace, scanning the skies with growing concern. He forgot to watch his steps, fixing his gaze on the sky. Had he kept their path true to the trajectory of Fetch’s flight? He thought so, but it was hard to tell in the featureless desert. They had been too long on the march, and their waterskins were dwindling toward empty. Nearby he could hear Krolgun still panting, his steps beginning to drag. The others were little better and, crane his neck though he would, there was no sign of the raven.

Only the empty blue skies, filled with the glare of Haomane’s Wrath.

“Lord General?” Speros’ voice, cracked and faint.

“Not now, Speros,” he said impatiently.

“Lord General!” The Midlander’s hand clutched his arm, dragging his attention from the empty skies. Speros’ mouth was working, though no further words emerged. With his other hand, he pointed westward, where a line of twisted forms broke the horizon. “Look!” he managed at length.

Frowning, Tanaros followed his pointing finger. “Are those … trees?”

“Aye!” Releasing his arm, Speros broke into a mad, capering dance. “Jack pines, Lord General!” he shouted. “Good old Midlands jack pines! General!” There were tears glistening in his eyes, running down his sunburnt face. “We’ve reached the edge!”

It was the Gulnagel who broke ranks with an exuberant roar, abandoning his command to race toward the distant treeline. What sparse reserves of energy the Lowland Fjel had hoarded, they expended all at once. Their packs bounced and clanked as they ran, powerful haunches propelling their massive bodies in swift bounds. With a wordless shout, Speros discarded his near-empty waterskins and followed them at a dead run, whooping in his cracked voice.

Four figures, three large and one small, raced across the barren landscape.

Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of Darkhaven, shook his head and hoped his army of four would not expire before reaching the desert’s edge. He gathered up Speros’ waterskins and settled them over his shoulder, then touched the hilt of the black sword that hung from his belt. It was still there, the echo of his Lordship’s blood whispering to his fingertips. Back on course, the compass of his branded heart contracted.

Westward.

He set out at a steady jog, watching the treeline draw nearer, watching the racing figures ahead of him stagger, faltering and slowing. It was farther than they thought, at least another league. Such was always the case. Though his feet were blistered and his boots were cracking at the heels, he wound his way across the stony soil and kept a steady pace, drawing abreast of them in time. He dispensed waterskins and an acerbic word of reprimand, accepted with chagrin. They kept walking.

Their steps grew heavier as they walked, all energy spent. Heavy, but alive.

Tanaros’ steps grew lighter, the nearer they drew.

Jack pines, stunted and twisted, marked the western boundary of the Unknown Desert. Beyond, sparse grass grew, an indication that the content of the soil was changing, scorched desert slowly giving way to the fertile territories of the Midlands.

In the shadow of the jack pines, Fetch perched on a needled branch, bobbing his head in triumphant welcome. His black eyes were bright, as bright as the reflection of sunlight on the trickling creek that fed the pines.

A small kindness.

Crouched upon the back of the blood-bay stallion, Ushahin Dreamspinner floated above the horse’s churning stride, borne aloft like a crippled vessel on the waves of a wind-tossed sea. And yet, there was power in him, far beyond the strength of his twisted limbs. Riding, he cast the net of his mind adrift over the whole of Urulat, and rode the pathways between waking and dreaming.

It was a thing he alone knew to do.

The Were had taught it to him; so many believed. It was true, and not true. The Grey Dam Sorash had taught him the ways of the Were, in whose blood ran the call of Oronin’s Horn. Because there was Death in their Shaping, there were doors open to them that were closed to the other races of Lesser Shapers.

Ushahin had heard Oronin’s Horn. It had blown for him when he was a child and his broken body had lain bleeding in the forests of Pelmar. Somewhere, there was a death waiting for him. But the Grey Dam had claimed him, grieving for her lost cubs, and whispered, not yet.

So she had claimed him, and taught him. Yet he was not Were, and their magic twisted in his usage. The Were, like the Fjeltroll, could smell Men’s fear; unlike the Fjel, they could hear a Man’s heart beat at a hundred paces and taste the pulse of his fear. Ushahin, in whose veins ran the blood of Haomane’s Children, could sense Men’s thoughts. And it was their thoughts—their dreams, their unspoken terrors and wordless joys—that formed the pathways along which he traveled. It was a network as vast and intricate as the Marasoumië, yet infinitely more subtle. He had walked it many a time. This was the first time he had ridden it.

Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn.

Thus had the Grey Dam Sorash named him in the tongue of the Were, who had no other words for what he was. It was his name, the one he had borne for many times the length of a mortal lifespan. Although the Were reviled him and the Grey Dam Vashuka had repudiated his claim upon their kinship, it was the name he would keep.

It had been given him in love.

Once, he had had another name; a Pelmaran name, given him by one long dead. His father’s mother, he thought; there was some vague memory there. A widow of middle years, with hair gone early to grey, a lined face and a sharp tongue. After all, we’ve got to call him something. His father, a tall shadow, turning away with averted face. The Pelmaran lordling, his life ruined for a moment’s passion, did not care what his son was called. He retreated into memory, reliving the moment. It was something few Men could claim, to have expended a lifetime of desire on Ellylon flesh.

That, Ushahin remembered.

Not what they had called him.

When he tried, he saw light; bright light, the light of Haomane’s sun. It had stood high above the marketplace in Pelmar City the day the other children had run him down and held him at bay. He’d stood his ground for a long time, but in the end there had been too many of them. The children of Pelmar City did not like his bright eyes, that saw too keenly their squalid thoughts; they did not like his pale hair, the way his limbs moved or his sharp cheekbones; slanted, strange and unfamiliar. It made them afraid, and they knew, in the way children know things, that his father’s guilt would keep his lips sealed, and his mother’s people had gone far, far away.

Better none of it had ever happened.

So, with cobblestones wrenched from the market square, they had set out to make it so. The first few were thrown, and he had dodged them. If they had not cornered him, he would have dodged them all; but they had. They had run him to ground.

He remembered the first blow, an errant stone. It had grazed his cheek, raising a lump and a blueish graze, breaking his fair skin. Had it cracked the bone? Perhaps. It didn’t matter. Worse had come later. They had closed in, stones in fists. There had been many blows, then. Ushahin did not remember the ones that had broken his hands, raised in futile defense. He had curled into a ball; they had pounced upon him, swarming, hauling his limbs straight. A trader’s shadow had darkened the alley, and withdrawn. There would be no intervention in the quarrels of children. Someone—he did not remember who had done it, had never even seen their face—had stomped gleefully on his outstretched arms and legs, until the bones had broken with sounds like dry sticks snapping in half.

The last blow, he remembered.

There had been a boy, some twelve years of age. Kneeling on the cobblestones, a mortal boy on scabbed knees. A rock in his fist, crashing down upon Ushahin’s temple. At that blow, bone had shattered, a dent caving the orbit of his eye. The boy had spat upon his broken face and whispered a name. What it was, he didn’t remember. Only the long crawl afterward, moving his broken limbs like a swimmer on dry land, and the trail of blood it left behind him in the marketplace; the gentle succor of the forest’s pine mast floor, and then the Grey Dam, giving him a new name.

Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn.

The blood-bay’s muscles surged beneath him, compressing and lengthening, stride after stride. It should have grown weary, but there was no weariness in dreams. Somewhere, distantly, Ushahin felt its astonishment. His power had grown during his sojourn in the Delta. He wondered why Satoris had never returned to the source of his birth, if his Lordship had ceded it to Calanthrag the Eldest as the price for the dragons’ aid during the Shapers’ War. Whatever regenerative mystery remained, it had infused him with strength. Even now he felt it course through his veins. The bay’s nostrils flared, revealing the scarlet lining; still, it ran, its strides consuming the leagues. Beneath the dim starlight the marshes of outer Vedasia fell behind them, and they continued onward.

They ran as swift as rumor, following the curve of Harrington Inlet. The road was pale dust under their hooves, and before them flew ravens in a wedge. To their left and to their right ran a riderless horse; one ghost-grey, and one night-black. In their wake, they left nightmares, and along the coast the Free Fishermen of Harrington Inlet tossed in their beds, waking upon sweat-dampened pallets to their wives’ worried faces and the cries of fretful children.

It made Ushahin smile.

But there was bigger game afoot. Casting his nets, he caught Men’s dreams in a seine, sifting through them. Behind him, yes. Behind him was that which was known, Aracus Altorus and his company, riding hot toward the west. Ellylon blood and Ellylon pride ran high and hot, as did that of the Men of Curonan. Still, they would not dare to cross the Delta. Their thoughts veered away from it, filled with fear. They would lose time crossing open water rather than chance the Delta. Thinking of Calanthrag the Eldest, who dwelled in its heart, Ushahin smiled again. He spared a moment’s hate for Aracus Altorus, who had won a bitter victory from the Were. He spared a moment’s pity for the Sorceress of Beshtanag, doomed to rot in mortal flesh. He spared a moment’s curiosity for Blaise Caveros, who so resembled his ancestor, Tanaros.

Then, he gazed ahead.

To Meronil, he did not dare look. Ingolin the Wise kept its boundaries with care, maintaining all that remained of the old Ellyl magics, and even Ushahin Dreamspinner dared not walk the dreams of the Ellylon who dwelt within. But before Meronil was Seahold, a keep of Men, and north of Seahold lay the fertile territories of the Midlands.

There, rumor stalked.

It came from the north; from the mountains of Staccia, winding its way in a whisper of thought, passed from lip to ear. Curious, Ushahin followed it to its source, tracing its path through the mountains, back to the ancient battlefield of Neherinach, where a node-point of the Marasoumië lay dead and buried. Dead, yes, but no longer buried. The node-point lay raw and exposed, granite cooling in the northern sun. Something had disturbed it, blasting it from the very earth.

The Galäinridder.

Such was the word in the Staccian tongue; such was the image that disturbed their dreams, filtering its way from the mountains to the plains, distant as a dream. A rider, a warrior; the Shining Paladin, who rode upon a horse as white as the foam on the crest of a wave. Although his hands were empty, brightness blazed from his robes and the clear gem upon his breast, which shone like a star. His beard crackled with lightning, and power hung in every syllable of the terrible words he spoke, catching their consciences and playing on their fears of Haomane’s Wrath.

Ushahin frowned.

What he had found, he did not like; what he had failed to find, he liked less. Where, in all of this, was the Bearer? A little Charred lad, accompanied only by his mortal kin. He should have been easy to find, his terrors setting the world of dreams ablaze. Only Malthus’ power had protected him, enfolding him in a veil. If the Counselor were truly trapped in the dying Marasoumië, his power should be failing, exposing the Bearer. Yet … it was not.

“Malthus,” Ushahin whispered. “Galäinridder.”

East of Seahold, his thoughts turned. Was it Haomane’s Counselor they feared? He would give them something better to fear, the grief of their mortal guilt, come back to turn their dreams into nightmares. Ushahin’s lips twisted into the bitter semblance of a smile. Were Arahila’s Children so sure of right and wrong? So. Let their nights be filled with mismatched eyes and shattered bone, the terrible sight of a rock held in a child’s fist, descending in a crushing blow.

Let them awake in the cold sweat of terror, and wonder why.

The flying wedge of ravens altered its course, forging a new path through the twilight, in the borderlands between waking and sleeping. One heel nudged his mount’s flank, the rope rein of the hackamore lying against a foam-flecked neck. Obedient, the blood-bay swerved; obedient, the riderless horses followed, shadowing his course.

Together, they plunged into the Midlands.

“They are coming, Vorax.”

“Very good, my Lord.” If he had thought it hot in the Throne Hall, it was nothing to the Chamber of the Font. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging the half-healed blisters he had sustained in the burning rain. Vorax swiped at it with a gauntleted hand, which only made it worse.

“Do you hear me?” Lord Satoris, pacing the perimeter of the Font, gave him a deep look. “Ushahin Dreamspinner comes. Tanaros Blacksword comes. It is only a matter of time. My Three shall be together once more, and then my Elder Brother’s Allies shall tremble.”

“Aye, my Lord.” He tugged his jeweled gorget, wishing he were not wearing ceremonial armor. It would have been better to meet in the Throne Hall. At least his Lordship had not donned the Helm of Shadows. It sat in its niche on the wall, the empty eyeholes measuring his fear. He was glad nothing worse filled it, and glad he had not had to wear it himself since the day Satoris had destroyed the Marasoumië. Still, it stank of his Lordship’s unhealing wound in the Chamber, a copper-sweet tang, thick and cloying, and Vorax wished he were elsewhere. “As you say. I welcome their return. Is there something you wish me to do in preparation?”

“No.” Lord Satoris halted, staring into the coruscating heart of the Font. His massive hands, hanging empty at his sides, twitched as if to pluck Godslayer from its blue-white fire. “What news,” he asked, “from Staccia?”

Vorax shook his head, droplets of sweat flying. “No news.”

“So,” the Shaper said. His head bowed and his fingertips twitched. But for that, he stood motionless, contemplating the Shard. Dark ichor gleaming on one thigh, seeping downward in a slow rill to pool on the flagstones. “No news.”

“No news,” Vorax echoed, feeling a strange twinge in his branded heart. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but I’m sure naught is amiss. It will take some time, finding a pair of errant mortals in all of the northlands. We expected no less.” He paused. “Shall I send another company? Do you wish me to lead one myself? I am willing, of course.”

“ … no.” Lord Satoris shook his head, frowning. “I cannot spare you, Vorax. Not now. When Tanaros returns … perhaps. And yet, I am disturbed. There is … something. A bright mist clouds my vision. I do not know what it means.”

Vorax scratched at his beard. “Have you … ?” He nodded at Godslayer.

“Yes.” The Shaper’s frown deepened, and he continued to gaze fixedly at the dagger, hanging pulsing and rubescent in the midst of the blazing Font. “to no avail. If something has passed elsewhere in Urulat, it is a thing not even the Souma may show me. And I am troubled by this. Godslayer has never failed me, when I dared invoke its powers in full. Not upon Urulat’s soil.”

“Break it,” Vorax shrugged. “Maybe it’s time. It would solve a lot of problems.”

The words were out of his mouth before he knew he meant to speak them. In the brief, shocked silence that ensued, he knew it for a mistake. Certain things that might be thought should never be spoken aloud, not even by one of the Three.

“What?” Lord Satoris’ head rose, and he seemed to gather height and mass in the sweltering Chamber. He took a step forward, hands clenching. The flagstones shuddered under his feet. Overhead, massive beams creaked. Shadows roiled around Satoris’ shoulders and red fury lit his eyes. “WHAT?”

“My Lord!” He backed across the Chamber and raised his gauntleted hands; half pleading, half placating. “Forgive me! I am thinking of us, of all of us … of you, my Lord! If Godslayer were shattered, if it were rendered into harmless pieces … why, it would no longer be a threat, and … and the Prophecy itself couldn’t be fulfilled!”

“Do you think so?” The Shaper advanced, step by thunderous step.

“I, no … aye, my Lord!” Vorax felt the edge of a stair against his heel, and retreated up one spiraling step, then another, and another. He was sweating under his armor, sweat running in rivulets. “It could be like the Soumanië!” he breathed, clutching at the idea. “A piece for each of us, for each of the Three, and we could wield them in your defense, aye; and the largest one for you, of course! We would have more than they, yet no piece keen nor large enough, no dagger left to, to …” His words trailed off as Lord Satoris reached the base of the stair, leaning forward and planting his enormous hands on either side of it. His dark face was on a level with Vorax’s, eyes blazing like embers. The reek of his blood hung heavy in the close air.

“To slay a Shaper,” Lord Satoris said. “Is that it? Only pieces, broken pieces of the Souma. Is that what you propose, my Staccian?”

“Aye!” Vorax almost laughed with relief, wiping his brow. “Aye,my Lord.”

“Fool!”

For a long moment, his Lordship’s eyes glared into his, measuring the breadth and depth of his loyalty. A miasma of heat emanated from his body, as if Haomane’s Wrath still scorched him. It seemed like an eternity before the Shaper turned away, pacing back toward the Font. When he did, Vorax sagged on the spiral stairway, damp and exhausted.

“It is Godslayer that keeps my Elder Brother at bay,” Satoris said without looking at him. “Have you never grasped that, Staccian? Because it is capable of slaying a Shaper. That which renders me vulnerable is the shield that protects all of Darkhaven. Without it, Haomane would have no need to work through Prophecy, using mortal hands as his weapons.” His voice held a grim tone. “Do you think the gap that Sunders our world is so vast? It is nothing. The Lord-of-Thought could abandon Torath and cross it in an instant, bringing all of my siblings with him onto Urulat’s soil. But he will not,” he added, reaching one open hand into the Font to let the blue-white flames of the marrow-fire caress it, “nor will they, while I hold this.”

His hand closed on Godslayer’s hilt. Vorax’s heart convulsed within its brand, sending a shock of ecstatic pain through his flesh. Halfway up the winding stair, he went heavily to one knee, feeling the bruising impact through his armor. “Aye, my Lord,” he said dully. “I am a fool.”

“Yes,” Satoris murmured, contemplating the dagger. “But a loyal one, or so I judge.” He released the hilt, leaving the Shard in the Font. “Ah, Haomane!” he mused. “Would I slay you if I had the chance? Or would I sue for peace, if I held the dagger at your throat? It has been so long, so long. I do not even know myself.” Remembering Vorax, he glanced over his shoulder. “Begone,” he said. “I will speak to you anon, my Staccian. When my Three are united.”

“Aye, my Lord.” He clambered to his feet with difficulty, and bowed. “I will await your pleasure.” There was no response. Vorax grunted with relief and turned around, making his way up the spiral stair. He kept one gauntleted hand on the glimmering onyx wall, steadying himself until he reached the three-fold door at the top of the stair.

Which way? The Staccian hesitated. The door to the right was his door, leading through the back passages of Darkhaven to his own quarters. He thought of them with longing ; of their rich appointments, booty gained by right of spoil over the centuries. All his things were there, all his luxuries.

No. It was too soon. He stank of fear and dripped with sweat under his armor, and he did not want to bring it into his quarters. That had been a bad misstep in the Chamber. He needed to walk the back ways, to clear his mind and temper his heat.

There was the middle door; Tanaros’ door.

No. He did not wish to meet Tanaros Blacksword’s Fjel guards upon emergence, and watch their nostrils widen at his stink. Not now.

Vorax laid his gauntleted hand upon the left door, Ushahin’s door. Recognizing his touch as one of the Three, the veins of marrow-fire within it brightened. It swung open, then closed behind him as he stepped through it, sealing without a trace.

The air was markedly cooler, and he breathed it in with gratitude, letting his eyes adjust to new darkness. Only a faint trace of the marrow-fire lit his way, veins buried deep in the walls. Sounds filled the dark corridors; Ushahin’s madlings, scratching, babbling, scrambling. Vorax smiled, setting out in the direction of the sounds.

The Dreamspinner’s folk understood fear. They would forgive.

How many years had it been since he had ventured into Ushahin’s passageways? He could not remember. Ten? More like fifty, or a hundred even. There had been no cause, during the long years of peace; or neutrality, which passed for peace. While Haomane’s Allies sulked and left Lord Satoris unmolested, the Three tended to their separate ways, keeping Darkhaven’s affairs in order. Vorax limped on his bruised knee and counted his strides, one hand hovering over his hilt. At a hundred paces, the corridor forked. He paused, listening, then took the right fork.

It forked, again and again.

Vorax followed the voices.

It was the Fjel who had built Darkhaven, in accordance with his Lordship’s design; but these passages were not built to a Fjel’s scale. They were behind the walls, the province of rats and scuttling madlings. Rats, Vorax had expected. He was amazed at the progress Ushahin’s madlings had made; widening breaches in the masonry to open connections between passages where none were meant to exist, forging exits and entrances where none were intended. There was no danger to his Lordship, of course; no madling would touch dare the three-fold door and risk his wrath. Still, it made him uneasy to think how extensively they had penetrated the fortress. He wondered if Ushahin knew.

At one point he encountered a deep chasm in a passageway, and had to sidle across the verge of it on his heels, both hands outflung to grasp the dimly veined walls, toes hanging out over empty nothingness. His knees creaked with the effort of balancing. Pausing to steady his nerves, Vorax looked down, gazing past his boot-tips. Dry heat blasted upward in a column.

The chasm went down and down, deeper than a mineshaft. Somewhere, far below, was a flickering light cast by blue-white flames and a roar like that of a distant forest fire, or dragons. Vorax shuddered, and edged clear of the chasm, back onto solid ground. That was no work of madlings. He wondered what fault in Darkhaven’s foundation had permitted the chasm to open. It was as close as any man should get to the Source; and a far sight closer than any Staccian ought. He’d had enough infernal heat to last him an immortal lifetime. It was cool in Staccia.

Betimes, he missed it.

Perhaps, when this latest threat had passed, it would be time to consider passing on his mantle. To retire to a pleasant estate, where the sun shone in a blue sky over a white, wintery landscape, and the wolf tracked the hare through new-fallen snow. He could continue his duties in Staccia, binding the earls and barons in fealty, negotiating lines of supply and men for Darkhaven, negotiating the companionship of their pretty younger daughters for himself, spinning out his days in soft, blissful comfort, freed from the constraints of his vow-branded flesh to age his way into easeful death, pillowing his head in the laps of Staccian maidens. It was not a bad idea, after all, to have a presence in Staccia. It had been too long since he had made himself known there.

The path took an upward turn. Trudging doggedly up the steep incline, he tried to imagine if his Lordship would ever agree to such a thing. He rather thought not. After all, Staccia’s very peace and prosperity were dependent upon the bargain Vorax had struck with his Lordship so many years ago. He had not imagined, then, that there could ever come a day when immortality would become burdensome.

Ah, well. It was a pleasant thought.

Ahead, voices echoed; a madlings’ clamor, but with something else running through it, a single voice like a silver thread. The incline had ended at last, the path level beneath his feet. Frowning, Vorax quickened his stride. There was light ahead; not marrow-fire, but candlelight, warm and golden. Through a narrowing passage, he glimpsed it. He picked his way with care, easing shoulder-first into the gap. His armor scraped along the rocks, getting scratched and dented in the process.

Unexpectedly, the passage widened.

Vorax stumbled into open space, catching himself. It was a rough-hewn chamber, a natural space vastened by the efforts of a hundred generations chipping at the stone walls. Everywhere, butt-ends of tallow candles burned, wedged into every available niche and crevice. Scraps and oddments of carpet covered the floor, and the walls were covered with scratched messages; some legible, most a garble of words. There must have been a dozen madlings gathered, light glimmering from their eyes. All of them whispered, hissing and muttering to one another.

One was kneeling before the figure who stood in the center of the chamber, grimy fingers plucking at the hem of her blue robe as he raised a face filled with hope. “Me?” he said. “Me? Lady see me?”

The Lady Cerelinde bent her head, cupping the madling’s face with both hands. Her hair spilled forward, shimmering in the candlelight, veiling her features. “Ludo,” she said softly, her silvery voice ringing. “You were a wheelwright’s son. I see you, Ludo. I see what might have been. I see you with a plump wife, smiling, and laughing children chasing one another in your father’s yard.”

“Lady!” He gasped the word, face shining and distorted with tears, and rocked back and forth, wringing the hem of her robe. “Lady, Lady, yes!”

Cerelinde released him with a gentle smile, lifted her head—and froze.

The madlings wailed in chorus.

“Lady.” Vorax took a further step into the chamber, his sword rasping free of its scabbard. He met her oddly fearless gaze, and the blood seemed to sing in his veins, a high-pitched tone ringing in his head. He raised the blade, angling it for a solid blow, watching her expose the vulnerable column of her throat as her gaze followed the sword. His voice, when he spoke, sounded strange to his ears. “What is it you do in this place?”

“I might ask you the same,” she said calmly. “Do you desire a glimpse of what might have been, Lord Vorax? It is a small magic, one of the few which the Rivenlost are afforded, but I am willing to share it. All you must do is consent in your heart to know.”

He gritted his teeth. “That, I do not.”

“So.” She watched the candlelight reflecting on the edge of his sword. “I do not blame you, given what you have chosen. They do. It gives them comfort to know, poor broken creatures that they are. Is there harm in it, my Lord? Have I trespassed? I was brought to this place.”

“Who—?”

“Get out!” From the shadows a figure flung itself at him, wild-eyed, arms windmilling. Astonished, Vorax put up his sword, taking a step backward. He had a brief impression of sallow features beneath a mat of tangled hair. “Get out!” the madling shrilled, flailing at him. “You brought her here, but this is our place! Ours! Get out!”

Catching her thin wrists in one gauntleted hand, he held her at bay. It took a moment to put a name to her, but he had seen her before; one of Tanaros’ favorites, or one who favored him. There was no telling, with madlings. “Meara,” he said. “What do you do here? Why?”

She sagged in his grasp, then twisted to scowl at him through her dark, matted hair. “We batter our hearts, my lord, against the specter of what might have been. Don’t you see?” There were tears in her eyes, at odds with her expression. “I warned him, my lord,” she said. “I did. I tried to tell him. But he didn’t want to know, so he left, and Ushahin left, and we were left alone. Isn’t it clear?”

“No.” Vorax released his grasp, letting her crumple on the chamber floor. “No,” he said again, “it’s not.” He eyed them; Meara, her face averted, the lad Ludo, weeping. Others wept, too. Only the Lady Cerelinde stood, dry-eyed. “Listen,” he said to the madlings. “This place, all places, belong to Lord Satoris. What might have been … is not. Do you understand?”

Wails of assent arose in answer. One of the madlings was banging his head against an outcropping of rock, bloodying his forehead. “His blood!” he moaned. “His Lordship’s blood!”

“Aye.” Vorax gave them a hard look. “That which he shed to defend us all, and sheds every minute of every day in suffering. Do you disdain it?” They wailed denial. “Good,” he said. “Because Ushahin Dreamspinner, who is your master, returns anon. And, too, there will come Tanaros Blacksword, who makes his way home even now. Do you wish them to find you weeping over what might have been?”

Perhaps it was the right thing to say; who could tell, with madlings? They dispersed, wailing, into the passageways of Darkhaven. Only Meara and the Ellyl woman were left, the one still huddled, the other still standing.

Vorax exhaled hard, dragging his arm across his brow, and sheathed his sword. “Meara,” he said conversationally, “I suggest you return the Lady to her chambers, and do not allow her to venture out again unless his Lordship summons her. If I find you here again, I will not hesitate to strike. And if you think my mercy is cruel, remember what Ushahin Dreamspinner might do to her. He has no love for her kind:”

“Aye, my lord:” Meara stood sullenly, plucking at Cerelinde’s sleeve.

The Lady of the Ellylon stood unmoving. “General Tanaros is coming?”

“Aye.”

There was a change; a subtle one. She did not move, and even her lids did not flicker. Yet beneath her fair skin, a faint blush arose, tinting her cheeks. Something knotted in Vorax’s belly, and he stepped into her space, crowding her with his bulk.

“Lady,” he said softly. “Leave him be.”

Her chin rose a fraction. “You were the one to offer me Lord Satoris’ hospitality, my lord Glutton. Will you break it and be foresworn?”

“I would have slain you the instant Beshtanag fell.” He watched fear seep into her luminous gaze, and favored her with a grim smile. “Make no mistake, Lady. Neither hatred nor madness drives me, and I know where the margin of profit lies. If his Lordship heeded me, you would be dead.” He drew his sword a few inches clear of the scabbard, adding, “I may do it yet.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Her eyes blazed with terrible beauty. “Aracus—”

“Aracus!” Vorax laughed, shoving the hilt back in place. “Oh, Lady, whatever happens, we’ve ages of time here behind the walls of Darkhaven before the Son of Altorus becomes a problem. No, if you want to invoke a protector, I suggest you stick with his Lordship. And mind, if I find you plying Tanaros with Ellylon glamours and magics, I will see you dead.”

The Lady Cerelinde made no answer.

“Good.” Vorax nodded. “Get her out of here, Meara, and do not bring her again. Mind, I will be speaking to the Dreamspinner.”

He watched them go, the madling leading, tugging at the Ellyl’s sleeve. The sight did nothing to dispel the knotted, sinking feeling in his belly. It was providence that had made him choose the left-hand door, alerting him to untold danger. On the morrow he would assemble a patrol of his own men to scour the passages behind the walls, sealing off the madlings’ secret corridors, or as many as they could find. Something was wrong within the edifice of Darkhaven, crumbling even as the chasm had opened in the floor under his feet. He remembered the moon-garden by half-light, a shining figure beneath the stars, the heady scent of vulnus-blossom mingling with sulfur in the damp air, evoking painful memory.

Lord Vorax, what do you see?

Vorax shook his head and blew out the candle-butts. By the glimmer of the marrow-fire he pressed onward, leaving the chamber behind and picking his path through the tangled maze of narrow passages until he reached an egress. It was a sanctioned door, opening to his touch behind a niche in one of Darkhaven’s major hallways. One of the Havenguard snapped to attention as he emerged; a Mørkhar Fjel, axe springing into one hand, shield raising, dark bristles prickling erect. “Lord Vorax, sir!”

“At ease,” he sighed.

The Mørkhar stared straight ahead. Ignoring him, Vorax made his way down the towering halls, limping steadily back to his own quarters. It was a blessed relief to reach the tall ironwood doors, carved with the twin likenesses of a roaring Staccian bear, and a pair of his own Staccian guardsmen lounging against them. The fear-sweat had dried to a rime beneath his armor, and he was only tired, now. Beyond those doors lay comfort and easement. His belly rumbled at the thought of it.

“Let me in, Eadric.”

“Aye, sir!” The senior guardsman grinned, fumbling at his belt for a key. “Good ease to you, sir!”

The tall ironwood doors swung open, and Vorax entered his quarters. Within, it was another world, rich and luxuriant, far removed from everything in Darkhaven; the stark grandeur of its halls, the fearful heat of the Chamber of the Font, the scrabbling mysteries behind its walls. Lamplight warmed rich tapestries, gleamed upon gilded statuary, sparkled on jewel-encrusted surfaces. He had had ten mortal lifetimes to amass the treasures contained within his quarters. Somewhere, music was playing. It paused as he entered, then resumed, the harpist bowing her head over the ivory-inlaid curve of her instrument, fingers caressing the strings. Three Staccian handmaids rose to their feet, surrounding him with solicitous care, their deft fingers unbuckling his ceremonial armor.

“My lord, you are weary!”

“My lord, you must rest!”

“My lord, you must eat!”

It was not, after all, so much to ask. For a thousand years he had guaranteed the safety of their nation. In the bathingroom, Vorax let them strip him and stood while they brought warm water and sponged the stink of sweat and fear from his skin. Water ran in rivulets, coursing through the ruddy hair on his chest, over the bulge of his stomach, down the thick columns of his legs. Their hands were gentle. They understood his needs and were paid well for their terms of service, their families recompensed in titles, lands and money. Did a man deserve any less, after a thousand years?

They robed him and led him, gently, to his great ironwood chair. It, too, was carved in the likeness of a bear. That had been his family’s insignia, once. Now it was his, and his alone. He sank into it, into the familiar curves, the ironwood having conformed over long centuries of wear to his own shape. One of his handmaids fetched a pitcher of Vedasian wine, pouring him a brimming goblet. He quaffed half at a gulp, while another handmaid hurried to the door, her soft voice ordering a message relayed to the kitchen. A meal in nine courses, including soup to whet his appetite, a brace of pigeon, a whole rack of lamb, grilled turbot, a cheese course and sweets to follow. His belly growled plaintively at the prospect. This day called for sustenance on a grand scale. He drank off the rest of the goblet’s contents, held it out to be refilled, and drank again. Warmth spread throughout him from within. The wine began to ease his stiff joints, rendering the throbbing bruise on his knee a distant ache. His free arm lay in magisterial repose over the top of the chair’s, fingers curling into the bear’s paws. His feet were propped on soft cushions. He groaned as another of his handmaids knelt, kneading his stockinged soles with her thumbs.

“Is it good, my lord?” Her blue-grey eyes gazed up at him. There was a spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. They would have been innocent, those eyes, save for a reflection of gold coin held cunning in their depths. The youngest daughter of a Staccian lordling, she knew where her family’s margin of profit lay. “Your supper will arrive anon.”

“Aye,” he said gently, thinking of the Lady Cerelinde’s blush, of her terrible beauty, and the scent of vulnus-blossom. Some things were better measured in coin. “’Tis good, sweetling.”

A scratch at the door announced the arrival of his supper. Vorax inhaled deeply as the dishes were uncovered and the savory aroma of food filled his quarters. His Staccian handmaids helped him to the table, filled to groaning with his repast. They brought the wine-pitcher, placing his goblet in easy reach. Eyeing the repast, he selected a bowl of consommé and raised it to his lips with both hands.

It would take a mountain of food to ease the memory of his misstep in the Chamber, of Lord Satoris’ anger, of the silence out of Staccia, of the madlings’ gathering, of the Lady of the Ellylon’s presence among them, and above all, of that gaping chasm in the secret heart of Darkhaven.

Drinking deep from the bowl, Vorax began.

“Go, lady, go!” Meara actually shoved her from behind, then snatched her hands back as if the touch burned. Caught unawares, Cerelinde stumbled over the threshold of the hidden door, pushing the heavy tapestry aside to enter her quarters.

It was blessedly quiet within.

She sat on the edge of her bed, willing her heartbeat to slow, remembering candlelight reflecting from the edge of Vorax’s sword and meditating upon the nearness of death. This must be, she thought, the way warriors felt in the aftermath of battle; a strange mix of latent terror and exhilaration. Meara paced the boundaries of the room, peering anxiously into every corner. Where she trod upon the soft carpets, the scent of bruised heart-grass followed in a ghostly reminder of the Ellylon weavers who had woven them long ago.

“It is safe,” she pronounced at length. “No one is here.”

“That is well.” Her calm restored, Cerelinde inclined her head. “Forgive me, Meara. Perhaps the venture was illadvised. I would not wish any of you to be placed in danger.”

The madling shot her a glance. “He’s right, you know. Lord Vorax is. You should leave the Lord General alone. There’s nothing but death in it, death and blood and more madness. You should leave us alone. Why don’t you? Why did he have to bring you here?”

“Meara.” She spread her hands, helpless. “To that, I cannot speak. You know I am a hostage here. It is a small gift, a small kindness. You asked me to share it. Since it is all I have to offer, I did.”

“I know.” Meara hunkered at the foot of the bed. “Aye, I know, I did. We are the broken ones, we who want to know. They should not have left us, and they should not have brought you. They should have known better, and you should never have shown me kindness, no.” She gnawed on her thumbnail, then asked abruptly, “Lady, what would you have seen for Lord Vorax? Would you have shown him what the shape of Urulat would be if he had chosen elsewise?”

“No.” Cerelinde shook her head. “A glimpse of the life he might have had, nothing more; a life that would have ended long, long ago. More than that, I cannot say. We are only afforded a faint glimpse, Meara, beyond the greatest of branchings in a single life. It is a small gift, truly.”

“Why?”

She gazed at the madling with sorrow and compassion. “We are Rivenlost, Meara. We were left behind upon the shores of Urulat, while the Bright Ones, those among his Children whom Haomane held dearest, dwell beside him upon the crown of Torath. In curiosity, in innocent desire, those of us who are the Rivenlost wandered too far from Haomane’s side, and we were stranded when the world was Sundered. This small gift was won in bitter hours, when the eldest among us wondered and sought to pierce the veil. What if we had been more diligent? What if we had stood at the Lord-of-Thought’s side during the Sundering? It has been passed down, this gift. We, too, batter our hearts against what might have been.”

“What do you see?” Meara whispered.

“Brightness.” Cerelinde smiled, glancing westward. “Brightness, and joy.”

“So.” Squatting, Meara wrapped both arms about her knees and tucked her chin into her chest, hiding her face. “You cannot see the small might-haves.”

“No.” She thought, with regret, of a myriad small mighthave-beens. What if she had consented to wed Aracus in the sturdy mortal confines of Seahold? What if Aracus had consented to their wedding vows being held in the warded halls of Meronil, under the aegis of Ingolin the Wise? What if … what if … she had never agreed to wed him at all? “I would that I could, Meara. But, no. The tapestry is too vast, and there are too many threads woven into it. Pluck at a small one, and others unravel. Only Haomane the Lord-of-Thought is vouchsafed that knowledge.”

Meara tilted her head. Her eyes, peering through a thicket of hair, held a cunning gleam. “What about his Lordship?”

“Lord … Satoris?” Without thinking, Cerelinde stiffened. In memory’s eye, she saw the Shaper’s form blotting out the stars, the shadow of his extended hand lying stark and black on the desiccated grass of the moon-garden, patiently proffered for her inevitable refusal.

“Aye.” Meara nodded sharply.

Cerelinde shook her head. “He is a Shaper. He is beyond my ken.”

“There was a … what do you call it? A great branching.” Studying the floor, Meara plucked at the carpet, then sniffed at the sweet odor of heart-grass on her fingertips. “When he refused, three times, to withdraw his Gift from Arahila’s Children.” Her sharp chin pointed upward, eyes glancing. “What might have been, had he not? You could see that for him.”

A chill ran the length of Cerelinde’s spine. “I do not think,” she said gently,“his Lordship would consent to seek this knowledge.”

“You could ask.” Meara straightened abruptly, tossing back her hair. “It would be interesting to know, since some of Arahila’s Children disdain it. His Lordship’s Gift, that is. Which is odd, since it is all they have that you do not; and all I do, too. I do, you know.” Placing her hands on her hips, she fixed the Lady of the Ellylon with a disconcerting stare. “I will go now. Thank you, for what you did. It meant very much to some people. I am sorry to have placed you in danger, but I do not think Lord Vorax will kill you. Not yet, anyway”

“Good,” Cerelinde said simply, staring back.

When the madling had gone, Cerelinde buried her face in her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. When all was said and done, there was too much here beyond her comprehension. She had been grateful for Meara’s request. She had hoped, in sharing this small gift, to bring a measure of compassion to the stark halls of Darkhaven, to the meager lives of those who dwelled within its walls. It had seemed a kindness, a simple kindness, to offer comfort in lieu of the healing she could not effect.

Now, she was not so sure.

Seeking comfort of her own, she thought of Aracus, and tried to imagine his understanding. There was nothing there, only the memory of his gaze, wide-set and demanding, stirring her blood in unaccustomed ways, filling her with hope and pride and the dream of the Prophecy fulfilled.

In this place, it seemed very far away.

She thought of Tanaros instead, and remembered the old madling woman Sharit they had met in the halls of Darkhaven, and how gently he had taken her hand; how proudly she had stood, gripping it tight. Whatever had passed here this day, Tanaros would understand it.

He was not what she would have expected him to be, at once both less and more. Less terrifying; a Man, not a monster. And yet he was more than a Man. Immortal, as Aracus was not. Like the Ellylon, he understood the scope of ages.

Cerelinde wondered what he had been like, so long ago, as a mortal Man. Not so different, perhaps, from Aracus. After all, Tanaros was related by ties of distant kinship and fosterage to the House of Altorus. He must have been as close to his liege-lord as Blaise Caveros was to Aracus. Had he been as fiercely loyal? Yes, she thought, he must have been. The betrayal would not have wounded him so deeply if he were not.

He must have loved his wife, too. What manner of passion had led her to commit such a grievous betrayal? She thought about Aracus, and the quick, hot drive that blazed within him. And she thought about Tanaros, steady and calm, despite the ancient, aching grief that lay behind his dark gaze. Though he was her enemy, he treated her with unfailing courtesy. She did not know the answer.

He was coming.

They were all coming. Vorax the Glutton’s words had confirmed it. Somewhere, in the world beyond Darkhaven’s walls, the tides of fate had shifted. Beshtanag had fallen. Tanaros Kingslayer and Ushahin the Misbegotten were on their way, soon to reunite the Three. And on their heels would be Aracus Altorus, the Borderguard and her kinsmen in his train, intent on storming Darkhaven.

She was the Lady of the Ellylon and his betrothed, the key to fulfilling Haomane’s Prophecy. They would not relent until she was freed or the plains of Curonan were churned to red mud with the last of their dying blood.

And Lord Satoris in his immortal pride and folly would revel in it.

Death was the only certainty. Whatever else transpired, the ravens of Darkhaven would feast on the flesh of foes and allies alike. The thought of it made her shudder to the bone. The hand of Haomane’s Prophecy hovered over her, a bright and terrible shadow, filled with the twinned promise of hope and bloodshed. Although she wished it otherwise, she could see, now, how they were intertwined.

All things were as they must be. Light and dark, bound together in an inextricable battle. The paths that led them here were beginning to narrow. Soon, it would not matter what might have been. Only what was.

She was afraid, and weary of being alone with her fear.

Hurry, Cerelinde prayed. Oh, hurry!

And she was no longer sure, in that moment, to whom or for what she prayed.

Of all the things that had befallen her in Darkhaven, this was surely the most fearful.