Godslayer

FOUR

The valley in which the Rivenlost haven of Meronil lay was a green cleft shrouded in mist. By all appearances, it filled the valley to the brim, moving in gentle eddies, sunshot and lovely, a veil of rainbow droplets.

Lilias caught her breath at the sight of it.

Blaise Caveros glanced at her. “I felt the same when I first saw it.”

She made no reply, watching as Aracus Altorus and Malthus the Counselor rode to the valley’s edge, peering into the mists. There, they conferred. Aracus inclined his head, the Soumanië dull on his brow. Mist dampened his red-gold hair, making it curl into ringlets at the nape of his neck.

He needs a haircut, Lilias thought.

Aracus didn’t look at her. She wished that he would, but he hadn’t. Not since the day the Counselor had appeared before them, pointing his gnarled finger at her, and spoken those fateful words.

Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.

It was Aracus Altorus who had placed his hand on the Counselor’s forearm, lowering his pointing finger. It was Aracus who had raised his voice in a fierce shout, bidding Fianna the Archer to lower her bow. And it was Aracus who had brought his mount alongside hers, fixing her with his wide-set gaze. All the words that had passed between them were in that gaze. He was not a bad man, nor a cruel one. He had extended trust to her, and mercy, too.

“Will you not release your claim upon it, Lilias?” he had asked her simply.

In the back of her mind there arose the image of Calandor as she had seen him last; a vast mound of grey stone, the crumpled shape of one broken wing pinned beneath him, the sinuous neck stretched out in death. To join him in death was one thing; to relinquish the Soumanië willingly? It would be a betrayal of that memory. While she lived, she could not do it. Tears had filled her eyes as she shook her head. “I cannot,” she whispered. “You should have let me die when you had the chance.”

Aracus had turned away from her then, giving a curt order to Blaise to ensure her safety. There had been dissent—not from Blaise, but among the others, and the Archer foremost among them. Arguing voices had arisen, calling for her death. In the end, Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West, had shouted them down.

“I will not become like our Enemy!”

Throughout it all, Malthus the Counselor had said nothing; only listened and watched. A horrible compassion was in his gaze, and Lilias flinched when it touched her. It had done so all too much since he had rejoined them. She wished he would turn his gaze elsewhere.

Now, on the edge of the valley, Malthus turned in the saddle, beckoning to the commander of the Rivenlost, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré. The clear gem at Malthus’ breast flashed as he did so, making the mist that filled the valley sparkle.

Lorenlasse rode forward, placing the mouthpiece of a silver horn to his lips.

A single call issued forth, silvery and unsubstantial.

For a moment, nothing happened; then an echoing call arose from the valley’s depths, and the mists parted like a veil, revealing that the paved road continued onward in descent Below them lay the cleft green valley, divided by a gleaming river that widened as it flowed toward the sea harbor, spanned by an intricate series of bridges that joined fanciful towers spiring on either side. It was white, white as a gull’s wing. White walls curved to surround both hemispheres, and the city itself was wrought of white marble, structures more delicate than Men’s arts could compass.

Through it all ran the Aven River, toward the silvery sea. Sunlight gilded its surface, broken into arrowing ripples by the low, elegant boats being poled here and there. And on an island in the center of the river stood the Hall of Ingolin the Wise, his pennant flying from the highest tower, depicting the argent scroll of knowledge on a field of sage green. A trio of white-headed sea eagles circled the spire in a lazy gyre, borne aloft on broad wings.

“Meronil.” There was deep satisfaction in Blaise’s voice. “Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”

Lilias remembered Calandor alive and the majesty of his presence. How he had looked perched on the cliff’s edge; sunlight glittering on his bronze scales, the glint of his green-gilt eyes, filled with knowledge. Love. A trickle of smoke, twin plumes arising in the clear air. The moment when he launched his mighty form into flight, the gold vanes of his outspread pinions defying the void below. So impossible; so beautiful.

“Perhaps,” she murmured.

In the valley below, a company of Ellylon warriors emerged from the eastern gate, riding forth to meet them. They wore Ingolin’s livery over their armor, sage-green tunics with his argent scroll on the breast. Their horses were caparisoned in sage and silver, and their hooves beat a rhythmic tattoo on the paving stones as they drew near.

The leader inclined his head. “Lord Aracus, Lorenlasse of Valmaré,” he said, then inclined his head toward Malthus. “Wise Counselor. Be welcome to Meronil. My Lord Ingolin awaits you.”

With a gesture, he turned his mount and his men fell into two lines, flanking their guests to form an escort. With Aracus, Lorenlasse, and Malthus at the head, the company began the descent.

Lilias found herself in the middle of the column; behind the Rivenlost, but at the forefront of the Borderguard of Curonan. She twisted in the saddle to look behind her, and Blaise, ever mindful, leaned over to claim her mount’s reins. Riding at her immediate rear, Fianna the Archer gazed at her with smoldering distrust. Lilias ignored her, watching what transpired. As the last Borderguardsman cleared the lip of the valley, the pearly mist arose. Dense as a shroud, it closed behind the last man. Once again, the green valley was curtained; and yet, overhead the sky was clear and blue, the sun shining upon Meronil.

There was magic at work here she did not understand; Ellylon magic. What was true Shaping, and what was illusion? She could not tell, only that she was captive within its borders. Lilias shuddered. Without thinking, she lifted one hand to feel her brow, keenly aware of the Soumanië’s absence.

“Are you well, Sorceress?” Blaise asked without looking at her.

“Well enough.” Lilias dropped her hand. “Lead on.”

They completed their descent. There was fanfare at the gate. Lorenlasse blew his silvery horn; other horns sounded in answer. The leader of their escort spoke courteously to the Gate’s Keeper; the Gate’s Keeper replied. Rivenlost guards stood with unreadable faces, crossing their spears. Aracus sat his mount with his jaw set and a hard expression in his eyes. The Gate’s Keeper inclined his head. Malthus the Counselor smiled into his beard, fingering the bright gem at his breast. Fianna the Archer scowled, trying hard not to look overwhelmed by Ellylon splendor. Blaise conferred with his second-in-command, delegating. The bulk of the Borderguard withdrew to make camp in the green fields outside Meronil’s eastern gate.

All of it gave Lilias a headache.

The Gate’s Keeper spoke a word, and there was a faint scintillation in the air. The gate opened. They rode through, and the gate closed behind them.

They had entered Meronil.

The Rivenlost had turned out to see them. They were Ellylon; they did not gape. But they stood along their route—on balconies, in doorways, upright in shallow boats—and watched. Male and female, clad in elegant garb, they watched. Some raised their hands in silent salute; others made no gesture. Their age was unknowable. They were tall and fair, with grave eyes and a terrible light in their faces, a terrible grief in their hearts. Their silence carried a weight.

There should have been music playing.

Meronil was a city made for music, a symphony in architecture, its soaring towers and arching bridges echoing one another, carrying on a dialogue across the murmuring undertone of the Aven River.

Instead, there was only mourning silence.

In the city, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré dismissed his company. They parted ways, returning to their homes; to regroup, to await new orders. Lorenlasse bowed low to Aracus Altorus before he took his leave, promising to see him anon. Was there mockery in his bow? Lilias could not say.

Then, they were few. Haomane’s Allies; Malthus’ Company. There was Aracus and Malthus, and Blaise and Fianna, keeping watch over Lilias. Among the Ellylon, only Peldras accompanied them. Ingolin’s escort led them across a wide bridge toward the island, while the River Aven flowed tranquilly below and the denizens of Meronil watched. No longer hidden amid a large party, Lilias shrank under their regard, feeling herself small and filthy beneath it, aware of the stain of her own mortality.

She imagined their disdain.

So this is the Sorceress of the East?

She reclaimed her reins from Blaise and concentrated on holding them, fixing her gaze upon her own reddened, chapped knuckles. It was better to meet no one’s eyes. The Bridge’s Keeper granted them passage. The company alighted on the island. When the doors to the Hall of Ingolin were thrown wide open, Lilias kept her gaze lowered. She dismounted at Blaise’s quiet order and bore out the exchange of courtesies, the embraces given and returned, with little heed. None of it mattered. She wished she were anywhere in the world but this too-fair city.

“Sorceress.”

A voice, a single voice, speaking the common tongue, infused with deep music and bottomless wisdom, a host of magic at its command. It jerked her head upright. Lilias met the eyes of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost.

He was old; so old, though it was not in his features, no. Or if it was, it was not in such a way that mortal Men understood. It was true, his hair was silver-white, falling like a shining river past his shoulders. Still, his shoulders were broad, and his features unlined. Time’s footprints did not touch the Ellylon as they did the rest of the Lesser Shapers. But his eyes … ah!

Fathomless and grey, eyes that had seen the world Sundered.

They met hers, measured and knew her. They saw the hopeless tangle of grief and envy knotted in her heart. Ingolin was not called the Wise for nothing. He bent his head a fraction in acknowledgment of the status she had once held. “Lilias of Beshtanag. We welcome you to Meronil as our guest.”

Others watched her; Aracus, with the dead Soumanië on his brow, filled with longing. Fianna, seething with resentment. Malthus and the Ellyl Peldras, both with that awful compassion. And Blaise; what of Blaise? He sat his mount quietly, scarred hands holding the reins, avoiding her eyes.

Lilias drew a deep breath. “You put a pleasant face upon my captivity, Lord Ingolin.”

“Yes.” Ingolin offered the word simply. “You know who you are, Sorceress; what you have been, what you have done. You know who we are and what we seek.” He indicated the open door. “You will be granted hospitality within these walls; and sanctuary, too. Of that, I assure you. No more, and no less.”

Lilias’ head ached. There was too much light in this place, too much whiteness. She rubbed at her temples with fumbling fingers. “I don’t want it.”

There was no pity in his face, in the eyes that had beheld the Sundering of the world. “Nonetheless, you shall have it.”

“It’s him!” Meara hissed.

Cerelinde’s heart clenched in a spasm of fear. She willed herself to a semblance of calm before glancing up from the embroidery in her lap. “Has Lord Satoris summoned me, Meara?”

“Not his Lordship!” The madling grimaced and jerked her head at the doorway. “General Tanaros. He’s here.”

This time, it was a surge of gladness that quickened her heart. It was more disturbing than the fear. Cerelinde laid aside her embroidery and folded her hands. “Thank you, Meara. Please make him welcome.”

She did, muttering to herself, and made a hasty exit without apology.

And then he was there.

He was taller than she remembered; or perhaps it was the gauntness his travail had left that made him seem so. The room seemed smaller with him in it. Muted lamplight reflected dimly on the glossy surface of his ceremonial black armor. He bowed, exacting and courtly. “Lady Cerelinde”

“General Tanaros.” She inclined her head, indicating the empty chair opposite her. “Will you sit?”

“Thank you.” Encased in unyielding metal, Tanaros sat upright, resting his hands on his knees. He regarded her in silence for a moment, as though he’d forgotten what he’d come to say. “I trust you are well?”

“As well as I may be.” Cerelinde smiled faintly. “Meara has obtained materials that I might indulge in needlework to alleviate the tedium. His Lordship has not permitted Lord Vorax to kill me.”

“Vorax?” The straps of Tanaros’ armor creaked as he shifted. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would like to.”

“He won’t.”

Another silence stretched between them. Cerelinde studied him. He looked tired, his face bearing the marks of sun and wind. The hollows of his eyes looked bruised, and beneath the errant lock of dark hair that fell across his brow, there were furrows that had not been there before. It stirred pity in her heart, an emotion she sought to repress. He was Tanaros Kingslayer, one of the Three, Lord General of the Army of Darkhaven.

Still, he was here, sitting in her well-appointed prison cell, and he was the only sane person she had seen in this place who did not appear to wish her dead.

“In Haomane’s name,” she said quietly, “or any you might honor, will you please tell me what is happening?”

“War.” Tanaros held her gaze without blinking. “Not yet, but soon. Even now, they are gathering in Meronil to plot strategy. They are coming for you, Lady.”

Cerelinde nodded once. “Do they have a chance?”

He shrugged, making his armor creak. “Do I think they can take Darkhaven? No, Lady, I do not. But nothing in war is certain save bloodshed.”

“It could be averted.”

“By letting you go?” Tanaros gave a short laugh. “To wed Aracus Altorus?”

She made no reply.

“Ah, Lady.” His voice roughened. “Even if your answer were no … how long? One mortal generation? Ten? How long do you suppose it will be until another scion of Altorus is born who sets your heart to racing—”

“Enough!”

“—and makes the blood rise to your cheeks?”

“Enough, my lord,” Cerelinde repeated, flushing. “There is no need to be vulgar.”

Tanaros raised his brows. “Vulgar?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

Tanaros sighed and rumpled his hair with one hand. “In the end, it matters naught. I do not think Haomane’s Allies would ever be willing to forgo the Prophecy. And I am quite certain, in this instance, that his Lordship is not interested in negotiating.”

“He could relent,” Cerelinde said in a low, impassioned voice. “I have said it before, and it is still true. He could relent and surrender to Haomane’s will. There is that. There is always that.”

“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “No, Lady, I don’t think there is. I don’t think there ever was.”

“Why?” she asked steadily.

He shrugged again. “Ask him, if you truly want to know. Perhaps the answer lies in what-might-have-been.”

“You heard of that?” Cerelinde flushed a second time. “I meant to speak to you of the incident. It is a small gift, a small magic. Vorax was wroth, but I did not mean to disturb, only to bring comfort. It eases them, to glimpse the paths they might have walked.” She considered Tanaros and added softly, “I could show you, if you wished.”

“No!” The word exploded from his lips. He took a slow breath, bracing his hands on his knees. “No,” he repeated more gently. “Do you think I don’t know, Lady? An ordinary cuckold’s life, with all the small shames and painful sympathies attendant upon it. Believe me, I know what I abandoned”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Cerelinde looked at his braced hands, then raised her gaze to his face. “Is that why you killed her?”

“No.” Tanaros lifted his hands, examining them in the dim lamplight. “I was angry.” He met her gaze. “I held her hand through the birth. I wept tears at her pain. It was only afterward, when I saw the babe. I saw his red hair, and I remembered. How she and Roscus had smiled at one another. How they had fallen silent when I entered a room. A thousand such incidents, meaningful only now. I asked her, and she denied it. Lied. She lied to me. It was not until my hands were at her throat that she confessed. By then, my anger had gone too far.” He paused. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Neither portion, I fear.”

“It is said the Ellylon cannot lie,” he mused. “Is it so?”

“We are Haomane’s Children,” Cerelinde said, perplexed. “The Lord-of-Thought Shaped us. To think is to speak; to speak is to be. How can we speak a thing that is not true? We might as well unmake ourselves. It is not a thing I can fathom.”

“Ah, well.” Tanaros gave her a twisted smile. “We are Arahila’s Children, and the truth of the heart does not always accord with that of the head. Be mindful of it, Lady, since you propose to wed one of us. If I am wrong, and we lose this coming war, it may matter.”

“Aracus would not lie,” she said certainly.

“Perhaps,” he said, echoing her words. “Perhaps not.”

Silence fell over the room like a shroud.

“Tanaros Kingslayer,” Cerelinde said aloud. “Do you lay that death, too, at anger’s doorstep? For it seems to me you must have loved him, once, for him to have wounded you so deeply.”

For a long time, he was silent. “Yes,” he said at length. “Anger, and love. It is the one that begat the other’s strength, Cerelinde. He was my liege-lord; and for many years, like unto a brother to me.” His mouth quirked into another bitter smile. “Do the Ellylon understand betrayal?”

“Yes.” She did not tell him what was in her mind; that the Ellylon had known betrayal at the hands of Men. So it had been, since before the world was Sundered. From the dawning of the Second Age of Urulat, Arahila’s Children had coveted the Gifts of Haomane’s. And they had made war upon the Ellylon, believing in their folly that a Shaper’s Gift could be wrested away by force. “We do.”

“So be it.” After considering her words, Tanaros give himself a shake, like a man emerging from a dream. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Lady. I did not come here to speak of such things.”

“What, then?” Cerelinde asked simply.

His dark gaze was steady and direct. “To assure you that I continue to vouch for the safety of your well-being. No more, and no less.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

“Well.” Tanaros flexed his hands upon his knees. He made to rise, then hesitated. “Lady … if it might please you, there is something I might show you outside the walls of Darkhaven proper. On the morrow, perhaps?”

Outside.

For the third time in the space of an hour, Cerelinde’s heart leapt. “Oh, yes,” she heard herself whisper. “Please.”

Tanaros rose, executing another crisp bow. “On the morrow, then.”

Like a good hostess, she saw him to the door. He paused only briefly, searching her face. Something haunted was in his gaze, something that had not been there before. Then he took his leave, averting his eyes. The Fjeltroll on duty saluted him in passing, closing the door upon his departure.

It locked with an audible sound, sealing Cerelinde into her quarters.

Left alone, she placed her hand upon the ironwood door, contemplating her outspread fingers.

“All together, now,” Speros said encouragingly. “That’s right, you’ve got it, lean on the lever. One, two, three … yes!” He let out a triumphant whoop as the great boulder settled into place with a resounding crash. “Oh, well done, lads!”

On the crude ramp, one of the Tordenstem let loose a reverberating howl, lofting the heavy, pointed log that had served as a lever. Delighted in their achievement, the others echoed his cry until loose pebbles rattled and the very air seemed to tremble.

Despite his aching eardrums, Speros grinned. “Hold on!” he shouted, prowling around the wooden rick on which the boulder rested. “Let’s be sure it will hold.”

It would. The thick branches groaned and the ropes lashing them together creaked, but in time they settled under the boulder’s weight, ceasing their complaint They would hold. High atop the crags above the Defile, Speros lay on his belly, squirming forward on his elbows, inching onto the overhanging promontory until he could peer over the edge.

Far, far below him lay the winding path that led along the desiccated riverbed. The mountains that Lord Satoris had erected around the Vale of Gorgantum were impassable, except perhaps to a determined Fjeltroll. With the tunnels blocked, the path was the only way into the Vale. If Haomane’s Allies sought to penetrate Darkhaven’s defenses, they would have to traverse it.

It would be difficult. Speros meant to make it impossible.

“Right.” He squirmed backward and got to his feet. “We’ll need to pile it high, with as much as it can hold. If we can get enough weight to take off the edge of this crag …” He made a chopping gesture with one hand. “It will block the path. But first we need to get our fulcrum in place.” He glanced around, seeking a smallish boulder. “How about that one?”

“Aye, boss!” A Tordenstem Fjel padded cheerfully down the log ramp. It dipped under his heavy tread. He splayed his legs and squatted, lowering his barrel chest near to the ground, and wrapped powerful arms around the rock. It came loose in a shower of pebbles. “Where do you want it?”

“Here.” Speros pointed to the spot.

The Fjel grunted and waddled forward. There was a second crash as he set down his burden at the base of the wooden rick. “There you are, then.”

“That’s done it. Shall we see if it will work?” Speros reclaimed the lever and tested it, lodging the pointed tip of the log beneath the mammoth boulder they had first moved. He positioned the midsection over the rock intended to serve as the fulcrum and leaned all his weight on the butt.

“Careful, boss,” one of the Tordenstem rumbled.

“Don’t worry.” Speros bounced on the lever. Nothing so much as shifted. “Can you move it, Gorek?”

The Fjel showed the tips of his eyetusks in a modest smile. “Like as not.” He approached the lever, taloned hands grasping the rough bark, and pushed.

It shifted, and the entire structure groaned.

“All right!” Speros said hastily. “One, then; or two of you at the most. We’ll work it out later. Come on, lads, let’s load the rick.”

Hoofbeats sounded along the path that led from Darkhaven proper as the Fjel formed a chain, piling the wooden rick high with loose rocks and stones. Speros went out to meet the approaching rider. And there was Tanaros, clad in black armor, all save his helmet, astride the black destrier he had claimed in the Midlands, surveying his—his—accomplishments.

“Lord General!” Speros felt his face split in another grin. “Do you see what we’ve done here?”

“Indeed.” Tanaros drew rein and took it in; the rick, the boulders, the lever, the Tordenstem padding their way up the crude ramp to deposit heavy stones. Dismounting, he strode to the edge of the promontory and gazed at the path below, gauging the trajectory. The wind stirred his dark hair. “Would it block the path entirely?”

“Long enough to give them trouble. There’s another site that may work as well.” Watching the General stand on the verge of the abyss gave Speros an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Careful, my lord. There’s not much holding that ledge up.”

Tanaros raised his brows. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” Speros swallowed nervously.

“Don’t worry. I’ve lived too long to die falling off a cliff.” Tanaros came back to place a hand on Speros’ shoulder. “Well done, Midlander. This was a fine thought you had.”

“Thank you, sir!” His anxiety vanished in a surge of pride. “It came to me after we rode through the Defile. Why not use the strength of the Tordenstem to greater effect? It was filling in the Well of the World that gave me the idea. You recall how—”

“Yes.” A shadow of sorrow crossed the General’s face.

“—we used skids and levers …” Speros stopped. “Forgive me.”

“No matter.” Tanaros shook his head.

“I know, I failed you in the desert.” Speros took a deep breath. “Believe me, Lord General, I have sworn an oath. I have said it before and will say it again. A thousand times, if need be. It will never happen—”

“Speros!” The General’s grip on his shoulder tightened until it hurt. “Enough,” he said quietly. “You will speak no more of it. I bear you no blame for what happened with the Yarru. What happened there …” He sighed and released Speros’ shoulder, gazing out across the gorge of the Defile. “It will be good to fight an enemy who comes seeking a battle.”

“Aye, sir.” Speros followed the General’s gaze uncertainly.

“Not yet, ladl” His mood shifting, Tanaros smiled at him. “They’ll come soon enough. And I thank you for making us that much the readier for it.”

“Aye, sir!” Speros smiled back at the General.

“You’re a good lad, Speros of Haimhault …” With another clap on the shoulder, Tanaros left him, striding across the stony ground to greet the Tordenstem. He knew them all by name. In another moment, he was gone, swinging astride the black horse and heading back toward the fortress, his figure dwindling beneath the dull grey sky.

Watching him go, Speros retained a lingering vision of the General standing on the edge of the cliff, the wind tugging at his dark hair, a specter of sorrow haunting his eyes. He wished there was something he could do or say to dispel that shadow.

He wished it was his own failure that had put it there.

It wasn’t, of course. In his heart of hearts, he knew it. That was his own specter, the ghost of his father’s voice, his family’s disapproval. It had nothing to do with General Tanaros. That was something else altogether. He had heard what the old Yarru had said about the General’s choice, and he had heard the General’s reply, his final, agonized shout: Give me a reason not to make it!

But he hadn’t. The old man had just stood there. Choose, he’d said; as if his people hadn’t sent one of their own off upon a quest to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy, to destroy Lord Satoris and everything General Tanaros held dear. And what had followed afterward, the black blade flashing, the dull thud of Fjeltroll maces and blood sinking into the sand …

“What else was he supposed to do?” Speros asked aloud.

“Boss?” One of the Tungskulder glanced quizzically at him.

“Nothing.” He squared his shoulders. There was one thing, at least, he could do. “Come on, lads, let’s move. We’ve got another one of these to build before Haomane’s Allies come a-calling.”

Fjeltroll were hunting them and Uncle Thulu was sick.

He had denied it for days; and long, thirsty, grueling days they were. After the first Fjeltroll to follow them had turned back, Dani had dared to hope. They worked their way slowly westward, avoiding all save the smallest water sources, concealing their trail as they went. It was slow and laborious, and he was increasingly worried about his uncle’s condition, but at least they were spared the threat of Fjel.

Then they had seen another.

Dani had spotted it in the distance. It wasn’t like the others that had attacked them. This one traveled alone, moving swiftly and silently. It worked its way back and forth across the terrain in purposeful arcs, pausing at times to lift a narrow, predatory head and scent the air. If it hadn’t been for the glint of sunlight on its armor, he might have missed it.

Armor.

The Fjel hunting them was armed; worse, it carried a waterskin. Dani choked out a warning. Uncle Thulu clamped a hand over his mouth, casting around wildly for a place to hide.

Uru-Alat be thanked, he had found one—a cave, scarce more than a shallow depression, its opening partially hidden by pine branches. Uncle Thulu shoved Dani into it, scrambling after him and dragging the branches back in place. He stripped off a handful of needles as he did, grinding them hard between his palms.

“Here,” he whispered, pressing half of the damp wad into Dani’s good hand. “Rub it on your skin. It will help mask our scent.”

Dani obeyed awkwardly, hampered by the cloth that bound his left arm. “I don’t think he saw us,” he whispered back. “Can they track by scent like the Were?”

“I’m not sure.” Thulu peered through the branches. “But I suspect it’s live prey rather than a cold trail he’s sniffing after. If it wasn’t, he’d be on us already.” He settled back, adding grimly, “We’ll find out soon enough, lad.”

Pressed close to his uncle, Dani could feel the dry, feverish heat of his skin and hear the faint rattle in his chest as he breathed. Offering a silent prayer to Uru-Alat, he touched the clay vial at his neck like a talisman.

They waited.

The Yarru-yami were good at waiting. It took patience to survive in the desert. Many a time, Dani had squatted in front of a crevice in the rocks, a rock in his sling, waiting for hours for a lizard to emerge. He had never thought until now how much worse it must be for the lizard, hidden in darkness, unable to see or smell beyond the walls of its shelter, making the tentative decision to emerge without knowing whether a predator awaited it.

Dani strained his ears for the sound of heavy Fjel feet crunching on the rocks, the scrape of talons. Surely something that large could not move in total silence? Perhaps; perhaps not. There was no sound but the rattle of his uncle’s breath. It seemed to be growing louder. His own mouth grew dry and parched. Dani sucked on a pebble to relieve the dryness and waited.

Beyond the spray of pine needles that curtained their hiding place, shadows moved across the ground. They stretched long and black, slanting toward twilight, before Uncle Thulu gauged it safe to investigate.

“I’ll do it.” Dani moved before his uncle could argue, parting the branches and wriggling out of the shallow cave and into open air.

With his heart in his throat, half-anticipating a blow, he scrambled to his feet and glanced around wildly.

There was nothing there, for as far as the eye could see. Only the slanting shadows; rocks and pine trees, and a mountain thrush warbling somewhere in the branches. Overhead, the sky was turning a dusky hue.

Dani laughed with relief. “He’s gone, Uncle!”

The pine branches curtaining the cave rustled, then went still. Dani waited for a moment with a dawning sense of alarm. When Thulu failed to emerge, he wrenched the branches aside with his right hand, admitting light into the cavern.

“Uncle!”

The older Yarru squinted at him. “Sorry, boy. Thought the rest … do me good, at least.” He made an effort to rise and grimaced. “Seems not.”

A cold hand of fear closed around Dani’s heart. In the lowering light of sunset, Uncle Thulu looked bad. His eyes were fever-bright and his face was drawn and haggard. His lips were dry and cracked, and his ashen skin seemed to hang loose on his bones.

Dani took a deep breath, touching the clay vial in an instinctive gesture. He willed his fear to subside. Without meaning to, he found himself thinking of Carfax the Staccian, who had found the courage to save him at the end, when the Were had attacked them. It seemed like a very long time ago.

Still, he found courage in the memory.

“Let me see.” He knelt beside his uncle, untying the laces on the front of his woolen shirt. Folding back a corner to lay bare his uncle’s chest, he hissed involuntarily through his teeth. The three gashes left by a Fjel’s talons were angry and red, suppurating. Proud flesh swelled in ridges on either side, and a yellowish substance oozed from them.

“It’s nothing.” Uncle Thulu fumbled at his shirt. “I can go on, lad.”

“No.” Dani sat back on his heels. “No,” he said again more strongly. “You can’t.” He nodded, mostly to himself. “But we’re going to stay here until you can.”