Godslayer

FIVE

It felt good to hunt with the Kaldjager.

Skragdal had shed his armor for the hunt; set aside his shield, unbuckled the leather straps to remove the unwieldy carapace of steel, laid down his battle-axe and his mace. Without them, he felt light as a pup, almost giddy with lightness.

Beyond the western outskirts of Drybone Reach, where the smallfolk had fled, ash trees grew and the White River tumbled from the heights in measured stages. Water gathered in foaming pools, a shining ribbon spilling over a worn granite lip only to gather and spill onward, lower and lower. In this fashion did it make its way to the field of Neherinach, several leagues hence.

It was beside one such pool that Skragdal crouched amid the roots of a tall ash, his talons digging into the rich loam. He was glad he had chosen to dally here. A cool breeze played over his exposed hide. He widened his nostrils, inhaling deeply.

There.

The odor of blood, living blood. A beating heart and the rank odor of fear, the distinctive scent of lanolin. He felt a keen hunter’s smile stretch his mouth. Late summer, when the young males among the mountain sheep vied for precedence and territory, staking their claim for the winter to come.

The Kaldjager were driving one his way.

Lifting his head, he saw it. A ram, descending in bounds. Its coat was shaggy and greyish-white. A pair of ridged horns rose from its brow in looping, massive curves, as thick as a Tungskulder’s forearm.

It saw him and froze.

And there were the Kaldjager, emerging from their pursuit, one on either side. They moved quickly and efficiently, sealing off the young ram’s avenue of retreat. One of them saw Skragdal as he rose from his crouch, stepping from beneath the shadow of the ash tree. Even at a distance, his yellow eyes glinted. He hunched his shoulders, opening one hand in an overt gesture. Tungskulder, the prey is yours.

Skragdal spread his arms gladly. They felt so light without armor.

Beside the pool, the ram halted, setting its forelegs and planting its cloven hooves. It was breathing hard. It lowered its head, the heavy, curling horns tilting as it glanced behind it to either side, catching sight of the grinning Kaldjager.

There was no way out.

Skragdal lowered his head and roared.

Everything else went away when the ram charged. It came hard and fast, its scent filling his nostrils. At the last moment, it rose upon its hind legs. For an instant, the ram’s head was silhouetted against the sky. He took in its amber-brown eyes, filled with determined fury of the will-to-survive, its narrow, triangular nostrils and oddly Man-like mouth set in a slender muzzle, the heavy, ridged spirals of its horns. It was for these moments that Fjel lived in the wild.

The ram descended.

Skragdal met it head-on; head to head, brow to brow. It made a clap like thunder breaking. The shock of it reverberated through the thick ledge of bone protecting his brow, through his whole body. His shoulders sang with echoing might. Digging his taloned feet into the loam, he reached out with both arms, filling his hands with lanolin greasy wool.

They grappled, swaying.

And then the ram’s legs trembled. Its amber-brown eyes were dazed. With another surge of strength, Skragdal roared and wrenched sideways, breaking its neck. He swiped at the ram’s throat as he flung it to the ground. Red furrows gaped in the wake of his talons. The ram lay without moving, blood seeping slowly over the rocks without a beating heart to pump it.

Truly, Neheris had Shaped her Children well.

Skragdal grinned as the wild Kaldjager approached. “My thanks, brethren. That is how the Tungskulder hunt,” he said to them. “What do the Kaldjager say?”

They eyed his kill with respect. “We say it is well done, Skragdal of Darkhaven,” one of them said. “Our clan will feast well tonight; aye, and your lads, too. As for the rest?” He nodded to the east. “One comes. One of yours.”

Skragdal straightened, feeling the tug of absent armor on his shoulders where the straps had worn his hide smooth and shiny. It was Blagen, coming at a trot, his arms and armor jangling, a half-empty waterskin sloshing at his belt. He was unaccompanied.

“Boss,” Blågen said briefly, saluting as General Tanaros had taught them.

Everything that had gone away came crashing back. He was not free from the constraints of command. Skragdal sighed and pulled at the pointed lobe of one ear, willing the act to stimulate words, thoughts. “Where are they?”

“We lost their trail in Drybone Reach.”

Skragdal stared at him. “How?”

Blågen shrugged, glancing sidelong at the dead ram. “It is a large area. They are Arahila’s Children, cunning enough to hide and let us pass. Ulrig and Ruric have gone back to begin at the beginning. We will find them.” He glanced then at the other Kaldjager and showed the tips of his eyetusks. “We could use the aid of our brethren if they are willing to undertake a different kind of hunt.”

The wild Kaldjager exchanged slow smiles.

Skragdal considered them. “How many of you?”

“Twelve,” one replied. He nodded at Blågen’s waterskin. “If we had those. Twelve and your three would be enough to sweep the Reach. Your smallfolk could not hide.” He pointed at the dead ram. “You see how we herd our prey.”

Others from Skragdal’s company began to arrive, straggling; Gulnagel, Nåltannen, the strapping young Tungskulder Thorun. Not taking part in the hunt, they had retained their arms, and their gear rattled and sloshed about them. Skragdal suppressed another sigh. He had hoped it would have ended sooner, more simply, but was not to be. He squinted at the sun, which seemed so bright after the Vale of Gorgantum. Although he misliked entrusting the task to Fjel he had not seen trained himself, too much time had passed to equivocate.

Anyway, old Mulprek was right. There were no better hunters than the Kaldjager. Although they were not as swift as the Gulnagel nor as strong as the Tungskulder, they were swifter and stronger than any of the other tribes. Kaldjager were strange and solitary for Fjel, living in roaming clans instead of proper dens, but they were unflagging in the chase, and utterly ruthless. Not even General Tanaros could improve upon their skills. If the Cold Hunters could not do it, it could not be done.

“All right, then.” Stooping, Skragdal picked up the ram’s corpse and slung it over his shoulder. Its head lolled, blood gathering to fall in slow drops from its gashed throat. It had seemed like a gift, this fine, clean kill, and now it was spoiled. Feeling obscurely cheated, he glared at the other Fjel. “Why is it so hard to kill these smallfolk?”

For a long moment, no one answered.

“Don’t worry, boss.” Blågen broke the silence with the fearless insouciance of the Cold Hunters. “We’ll find them.”

“You had better,” Skragdal said grimly. “It is the only thing his Lordship has asked of us.” He held Blågen’s gaze until the Kaldjager blinked. “Back to the clan’s gatheringplace,” he said. “We will share out our gear there.”

“Then we hunt?”

“Yes.” Skragdal grunted, shifting the ram’s corpse on his shoulder. “And we go to Neherinach to lay a trap.”

They were waiting for her in the great hall.

Sunlight blazed through the tall windows that surrounded it, glistening on the polished amber wood of the long table and the marble floor with its intricately laid pattern of white and a pale, veined blue. In the center of the table was a gilded coffer inlaid with gems. Between the windows, pennants hung from gilded poles. The clear windows were bordered with narrow panes of sea-blue glass, and the slanting sunlight threw bars of cerulean across the room.

It looked, Lilias thought, like a beautiful prison-chamber.

Ingolin the Wise presided at the head of the table, with Malthus the Counselor at his right hand and Aracus Altorus at his left. The others were Ellylon. Lorenlasse of Valmaré she knew; the others, she did not, although their faces were familiar. All of it was familiar. One of the Ellylon was a woman, with features so lovely at close range that Lilias could have wept.

Instead, under the combined weight of their regard, she froze in the doorway.

“Go on.” Blaise prodded her from behind. He pointed to an empty chair on one side of the table, isolated from the rest. “Take your seat.”

Lilias took a deep breath and entered the room, crossing through the bars of blue light. She drew out the chair and sat, glancing back at Blaise. He had positioned himself like a guard beside the tall doorway. High above him, on the pediment that capped the entrance, was the room’s sole imperfection: a shattered marble relief that had once depicted the head of Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas.

The memory evoked pain—the splintering pain she had endured when the sculpture had been demolished—but it evoked other memories, too. Lilias raised her chin a fraction, daring to face the assembly.

“Lilias of Beshtanag,” Ingolin said. “You have been brought here before us that we might gain knowledge of one another.”

“Am I on trial here, my lord?” she inquired.

“You are not.” His voice was somber. “We seek the truth, yes. Not to punish, but only to know. Willing or no, you are a guest in Meronil and I have vouched for your well-being.” He pointed at the ruined pediment. “You see here that which was once the work of Haergan the Craftsman. I think, perhaps, that it is not unfamiliar to you, Sorceress. Did you speak to us in this place using Haergan’s creation, claiming that the Lady Cerelinde was in Beshtanag?”

“Yes.” She threw out the truth. Let them make of it what they would. Around the table, glances were exchanged. Aracus Altorus gritted his teeth. She remembered how he had reacted when she had made Meronin’s head speak words he despised, leaping onto the table, hurling an Ellylon standard like a javelin.

“How did you accomplish such a thing?” Ingolin frowned in thought. “It is Ellyl magic Haergan wrought, and not sympathetic to Men’s workings. Even the Soumanië should not have been able to command matter at such a distance.”

“No, my lord.” Lilias shook her head. “I used Haergan’s mirror.”

“Ah.” The Lord of the Rivenlost nodded. “It was in the dragon’s hoard.” Sorrow darkened his grey eyes. “We have always wondered at Haergan’s end. It is a difficult gift to bear, the gift of genius. A dangerous gift.”

“To be sure,” Lilias said absently. Although she did not know the details of Haergan’s end, Calandor’s words echoed in her thoughts, accompanied by the memory of his slow, amused blink. I might not have eaten him if he had been more ussseful.

“Why?” It was the Ellyl woman who spoke, and the sound of her voice was like bells; bells, or silver horns, a sound to make mortal flesh shiver in delight, were it not infused with anger. She leaned forward, her lambent eyes aglow with passion. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Her words hung in the air. No one else spoke. Lilias glanced from face to face around the table. Plainly, it was a question all of them wanted answered; and as clearly, it was an answer none of them would understand.

“Why do you seek to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy?” she asked them. “Tell me that, and perhaps we may understand one another.”

“Lilias.” Malthus spoke her name gently. “These things are not the same, and well you know it. Urulat is Sundered from itself. We seek that which Haomane the Lord-of-Thought himself seeks—to heal the land, so restore it to the wholeness and glory to which it was Shaped, and which Satoris Banewreaker has perverted.”

“Why?” Lilias repeated. They stared at her in disbelief, except for Malthus, who looked thoughtful. She folded her hands on the table and met their stares. “I ask in earnest, my lords, my lady. Was Urulat such a paradise before it was Sundered?”

“We had the light of the Souma!” Lorenlasse of Valmaré’s voice was taut with fury, his bright eyes glittering. “We are Haomane’s Children and we were torn from his side, from all that sustained us.” He regarded her with profound contempt. “You cannot possibly know how that feels.”

“Lorenlasse,” Ingolin murmured.

Lilias laughed aloud. There was freedom in having nothing left to lose. She pointed at the lifeless Soumanië on Aracus’ brow. “My lord Lorenlasse, until very recently, I held a piece of the Souma itself. I stretched the Chain of Being and held mortality at bay. I had power to Shape the very stuff of life, and I could have twisted your bones like jackstraws for addressing me in such a tone. Do not speak to me of what I can or cannot know.”

“My lord Ingolin,” The Ellyl woman turned to the Lord of the Rivenlost. The rigid lines of her body expressed her distaste. “It seems to me that there is naught to be gained in furthering this discussion.”

“Hold, Lady Nerinil” Malthus lifted one hand, forestalling her. “There may yet be merit in it Lilias.” He fixed his gaze upon her. Seated among Ellylon, he looked old and weary. “Your questions are worthy ones,” he said. “Let me answer one of them. Yes, Urulat was a paradise, once. In the First Age, before the world was Sundered, when the world was new-made and the Shapers dwelled among us.” Malthus smiled, gladness transforming his face. “When Men had yet to discover envy and delighted in the skills of the Ellylon; when the Were hunted only with Oronin’s blessing and the Fjeltroll heeded Neheris, and the Dwarfs tilled the land and coaxed forth Yrinna’s bounty.” On his breast, the clear Soumanië blazed into life. “That is the world the Lord-of-Thought shaped,” he said quietly. “That is the world we seek to restore.”

Lilias blinked, willing away an onslaught of tears. “It may be, Counselor. But that world was lost long before Urulat was Sundered.”

“Through folly,” Aracus said unexpectedly. “Men’s folly; our folly. What Haomane wrought, we unmade through covetousness and greed.”

“Men did not begin the Shapers’ War,” Lilias murmured.

“I am not so sure.” Aracus shook his head. “It was Men who made war upon the Ellylon, believing they withheld the secret of immortality from us. If we had not done so, perhaps Haomane First-Born would not have been forced to ask the Sunderer to withdraw his Gift from us.”

Ingolin laid a hand upon Aracus’ arm. “Do not take so much upon yourself. The House of Altorus has never been an enemy to the Ellylon.”

“Perhaps not,” Aracus said. “But I would atone for the deeds of my race by working to see Haomane’s Prophecy fulfilled. And then perhaps, in a world made whole, we might become what once we were.”

A silence followed upon his words. Even Lorenlasse of the Valmaré was respectful in the face of Aracus’ passion.

Malthus smiled at Lilias. White light flashed in the depths of his transfigured Soumanië, casting scintillating points of brightness around the room. “Is your question answered in full, Lilias of Beshtanag?”

“Yes, Counselor.” Lilias rubbed at the familiar ache in her temples. “Your point is made. I understand the purpose of this meeting. You may now ask me once more to relinquish the Soumanië.”

“I do not ask on my own behalf.” Resonant power filled Malthus’ voice, making her lift her head to meet his eyes. “I ask it on behalf of the Lady Cerelinde, who suffers even as we speak. I ask it on behalf of the Rivenlost, who endure the pain of separation, dwindling year by year. I ask it on behalf of those noble Men who would atone for the misdeeds of their race. I ask it on behalf of all Urulat, that this vision we share might come to pass. And I ask it, yes, on behalf of those poor souls who have fallen into folly, through the lies of Satoris Banewreaker, that they might know redemption. The Soumanië that Aracus Altorus bears was Shaped by Haomane himself, carried into battle by Ardrath the Wise Counselor, who was like unto a brother to me. Lilias of Beshtanag, will you release your claim upon it?”

“No.” The word dropped like a stone from her lips. Despite the welling tears and the ache in her head, Lilias laughed. “It is a pleasant fiction, Counselor. But there is a problem with your story. You are Haomane’s Weapon, Shaped after the world was Sundered. How can you claim knowledge of the First Age of Urulat?”

At the head of the table, Ingolin stirred. With a frown creasing his brow, the Lord of the Rivenlost bent his gaze on Malthus. “How do you answer, old friend?”

Something deep shifted in Malthus’eyes, and it was as if a veil had been withdrawn, revealing ancient and terrible depths. “I am as the Lord-of-Thought Shaped me,” he said softly. “And I possess such knowledge as he willed. More than that, Sorceress, I cannot say, nor may I.”

Lilias nodded. “Can you tell me, then, why Haomane refused when Satoris offered his Gift to Haomane’s Children?”

“Because such a thing was not meant to be.” Malthus shook his head, and the semblance of age and weariness returned to his mien. “Thus was the will of Uru-Alat, which only the Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, sprung from the very brow of the world, grasps in its fullness.”

“Except for dragons, of course. But perhaps it wasn’t Haomane’s will that you possess that knowledge.” Lilias pushed back her chair and stood, gazing at their silent, watching faces. Her vision was blurred with the weak, foolish tears she couldn’t seem to suppress. “You should have tried to woo me,” she said to Aracus. “It might even have worked.” Thick with tears, her voice shook. “I am a proud woman, and a vain one, and if you had begged me for the Soumanië I might have relented. But although I am flawed, I have lived for a very long time, and I am not a fool.” She dashed at her eyes with the back of one hand, a choking laugh catching in her throat. “I’m sorry, Counselor,” she said to Malthus. “It must disappoint you to learn that your Soumanië has not illuminated my soul.”

“Yes.” There was no mockery in Malthus’ tone, only abiding sorrow. He gazed at her with profound regret. “It does.”

“Yes, well.” Lilias took another shaking breath. “Perhaps I am protected by the claim I have not relinquished, or perhaps this place suffers from a surfeit of brightness already. Perhaps, after all, my soul is not so black as it has been painted.” She stood very straight, addressing all of them. “I know who I am and what I have done. I have endured your compassion, your mercy, your righteous outrage. But you should not have brought me here to humiliate me with your goodness.”

“Such was not our intention, Sorceress,” Ingolin murmured. “If that is your feeling—”

“No.” She shook her head. “You claimed to want knowledge, Ingolin the Wise, but all you truly wanted was my repentance. And the Soumanië.” Lilias smiled through her tears and spread her arms. “And yet, I cannot gainsay what I know. All things must be as they are. For the price of my life, the Soumanië is yours. Will you take it and be forsworn?”

The Lord of the Rivenlost exchanged glances with Aracus and Malthus. “No, Sorceress,” he said with terrible gentleness. “We will not.”

“Well, then.” Lilias swallowed, tasting the bitter salt of her tears. “Then I will keep my claim upon it until I die of uselessness and shame.” She turned to Blaise. “Will you take me back to my quarters, please?”

Blaise looked to Aracus, who gave a curt nod. Without a word, Blaise opened the door. She followed him through it.

Behind her, the silvery voices arose.

The lady Cerelinde smiled at him. “General Tanaros.”

“Lady.” He bowed in greeting, thinking as he straightened that perhaps it had been a mistake to come here. The impact of her presence was always greater than he remembered. “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

Out of the courtly habit he had kept for over a thousand years, Tanaros extended his arm to her as he escorted her from her chamber. Cerelinde took it as she had done the night he brought her to the moon-garden, her slender, white fingertips resting on his forearm. He had forgone his armor, wearing only the black sword belted at his waist, and he could feel her touch through the velvet sleeve of his austere black doublet Clear and distinct, each fingertip, as though she were setting her own brand upon him through some forgotten Ellyl magic; as powerful as Godslayer, yet more subtle.

What would it be like, that delicate touch against bare skin?

The thought came before he could quell it, and in its wake arose a wave of desire so strong it almost sickened him, coupled with a terrible yearning. It was a nameless emotion, its roots as old as mortality; covetous envy thwarted, manifesting in the desire to possess something so other, so fine.

“Are you all right?” There was concern in her voice.

“Yes.” Standing in the hallway outside her door, Tanaros caught the eye of the leader of the Havenguard quartet he had assigned to accompany them. The sight of the Mørkhar Fjel looming in armor steadied him. He touched the rhios that hung in a pouch at his belt, feeling its smooth curves, and willing his racing pulse to ease. “Krognar,” he said. “This is the Lady Cerelinde. Your lads are escorting us to the rookery.”

“Lady,” Krognar rumbled, inclining his massive head.

“Sir Krognar.” She regarded him with polite, fascinated horror.

Tanaros could feel the tremor that ran through her. “This way, Lady,” he said.

The quartet of Mørkhar Fjel fell in behind them as he led her through the winding corridors of Darkhaven. The marble halls echoed with the heavy pad and scritch of their homy, taloned feet, accompanied by the faint jangle of arms.

“You needed no guard the night you brought me to see Lord Satoris’ garden,” Cerelinde said presently. Although her voice was level, her fingers clenching his forearm were tight with fear.

“The moon-garden lies within the confines of Darkhaven,” Tanaros said. “The rookery does not I am responsible for your security, Cerelinde.”

She glanced briefly at him. Despite her fear, a faint smile touched her lips. “Do you fear I will use Ellyl magic to effect an escape?”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I do. I fear enchantments of the sort you invoked in Cuilos Tuillenrad. And I fear …” Tanaros took a deep breath. “I fear I do not trust myself to resist your beseechment, should you seek to beguile me. It is best that the Havenguard are here.”

Color rose to her cheeks, and her reply was unwontedly sharp. “I did not beseech you to do this, Tanaros!”

“True.” He disengaged his arm. “Shall we go back?”

Cerelinde hesitated, searching his face. “Is it truly outside?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitating, without pausing to consider the pleasure it gave him to answer her with the truth. “It is outside. Well and truly, Cerelinde.”

She turned away, averting her gaze. Strands of her hair, as pale as corn silk, clung to his velvet-clad shoulder. “Then I would fain see it, my lord Blacksword,” she murmured. “I would walk under the light of Haomane’s sun.”

Tanaros bowed. “Then so you shall.”

They exited Darkhaven through the northern portal, with its vast doors that depicted the Council of the Six Tribes, in which the Fjeltroll Elders had voted to pledge their support to Lord Satoris; he to whom they had given shelter, he who had sought to teach the Fjel such Gifts as Haomane had withheld. Tanaros wished that Cerelinde had noticed the depiction and inquired about it. There was much he would have liked to discuss with her, including the quixotic nature of Haomane’s Gift, the gift of thought, which only Arahila’s Children shared.

But beyond the doors, there was daylight.

“Ah, Haomane!” Cerelinde breathed the word like a prayer. Relinquishing his arm, she ran on ahead with swift, light steps; into the daylight, into the open air. Although the sky was leaden and grey, she opened her arms to it, turning her face upward like a sunflower. And there, of a surety, was the sun. A pale disk, glimpsed through the clouds that hovered over the Vale of Gorgantum. “Tanaros!” she cried. “The sun!”

“Aye, Lady.” He was unable to repress a smile. “’Tis where you left it.”

Her face was alight with pleasure. “Mock me if you must, Tanaros, but the light of the sun is the nearest thing to Haomane’s presence, without which the Rivenlost fade and dwindle. Do not despise me for taking joy in it.”

“Lady, I do not.” It seemed to him, in that moment, he could never despise her. “Shall we proceed?”

He escorted her down the paths that led into beechwood. Although the wood lay within the vast, encircling wall that surrounded Darkhaven, the dense trees blotted out any glimpse of its borders. Were it not that the trees grew dark and twisted, their trunks wrenched around knotted boles, they might have been anywhere in Urulat.

Once they were beneath the wood’s canopy, Tanaros gave way, allowing Cerelinde to precede him, wandering freely along the trail. The Mørkhar padded behind them, heavy treads crunching on the beech-mast. Autumn was approaching and the leaves were beginning to turn. Elsewhere, they would have taken on a golden hue. Here in Darkhaven, a splotch of deepest crimson blossomed in the center of the jagged spearhead of each leaf, shading to dark green on the outer edges.

Cerelinde touched them, her fingertips trailing over glossy leaves and rutted, gnarled bark. “There is such pain in the struggle,” she wondered aloud. “Even their roots groan at their travail. And yet they adapt and endure. These are ancient trees.” She glanced at him. “What has done this to them, Tanaros? Is it that Lord Satoris has stricken them in his wrath?”

“No, Lady.” He shook his head. “It is his blood that alters the land in the Vale of Gorgantum, that which flows from his unhealing wound. For thousands upon thousands of years, it has seeped into the earth.”

“A Shaper’s blood,” she murmured.

“Yes.” He watched her, his heart aching. In the muted, blood-shot light beneath the beech canopy, the Lady of the Ellylon shone like a gem. How finely they were wrought, Haomane’s Children! No wonder that Haomane loved them so dearly, having taken such care with their Shaping. “Come, it is this way.”

She paused for a moment as they entered the rookery, where a hundred ragged nests adorned the crooked trees, absorbing the sight in silence. The wood was alive with ravens, bustling busily about their messy abodes, sidling along branches and peering at the visitors with bright, wary eyes. When she saw the small glade and the table awaiting them, Cerelinde turned to him. “You did this?”

“Aye.” Tanaros smiled. “Will you join me in a glass of wine, Lady?”

Another faint blush warmed her cheeks. “I will.”

The table was laid with dazzling white linens and set with a simple wine service; a clay jug and two elegantly turned goblets. It was Dwarfish work, marked by the simple grace that characterized their labors. How it had made its way to Darkhaven, Tanaros did not know. Beneath the glowering light of the Vale, table and service glowed alike, filled with their own intrinsic beauty. And beside the table, proud and upright in plain black livery, stood Speros, who had undertaken the arrangements on his General’s behalf.

“Speros of Haimhault,” Tanaros said. “This is the Lady Cerelinde.”

“Lady.” Speros breathed the word, bowing low. His eyes, when he arose, were filled with tears. In the desert, he had expressed a desire to behold her. It was a wish granted, this moment; a wish that made the heart ache for the beauty, the fineness, that Arahila’s Children would never possess. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

“As you please.” Cerelinde smiled at him, taking her seat. The Mørkhar Fjel dispatched themselves to the four quarters of the glade, planting their taloned feet and taking up patient, watchful stances. “Thank you, Speros of Haimhault.”

“You are welcome.” His hand trembled as he poured, filling her cup with red Vedasian wine. The lip of the wine-jug rattled against her goblet. With a visible effort, he moved to fill his General’s. “Most welcome, Lady.”

Tanaros sat opposite Cerelinde and beheld that which made the Midlander tremble. He pitied the lad, for a wish granted was a dangerous thing; and yet. Ah, Shapers, the glory of her! It was a light, a light that shone from within—it was Haomane’s love, shining like a kiss upon her brow. It was present in every part of her; bred into the very fineness of her bones, the soaring architecture of the flesh. All at once, it enhanced and shamed its surroundings.

And she was pleased.

In all his prolonged years, he had never seen such a thing. One of the Ellyl; pleased. Her heart gladdened by what Tanaros had done. It was reflected in the gentle curve of her lips. It was reflected in her eyes, in the limitless depths of her pupils, in the pleated luminosity of her irises, those subtle colors like a rainbow after rain. And although her mood had not yet passed, it would. The thought filled him with a prescient nostalgia. Already he longed to see it once more; yearned to be, in word and deed, a Man as would gladden the heart of the Lady of the Ellylon and coax forth this brightness within her. Who would not wish to be such a Man?

“Cerelinde.” He hoisted his goblet to her.

“Tanaros.” Her smile deepened. “Thank you.”

“Kaugh!”

Tanaros startled at the sound, then laughed. He extended an arm. In a flurry of black wings, Fetch launched himself from a nearby branch, alighting on Tanaros’ forearm. “This,” he said fondly, “is who I wanted you to meet.” He glanced at Speros, feeling an obscure guilt. “Or what, I should say.”

The Lady of the Ellylon and the bedraggled raven regarded one another.

“His name is Fetch,” Tanaros said. “He was a late-born fledgling. Six years ago, I found him in his Lordship’s moon-garden, half-frozen, and took him into my quarters.” He stroked the raven’s iridescent black feathers. “He made a fearful mess of them,” he added with a smile. “But he saved my life in the Unknown Desert; mine, and Speros’, too. We are at quits now.”

“Greetings, Fetch,” Cerelinde said gravely. “Well met.”

Deep in his throat, the raven gave an uneasy chuckle. He sidled away from her, his sharp claws pricking at Tanaros’ velvet sleeve.

“My apologies.” Tanaros cleared his throat in embarrassment as Fetch scrambled to his shoulder, clinging to the collar of his doublet and ducking beneath his hair to peer out at Cerelinde. “It seems he is shy of you, Lady.”

“He has reason.” Her voice was soft and musical. “My folk have slain his kind for serving as the Sunderer’s eyes, and the eagles of Meronil drive them from our towers. But it is also true that the Rivenlost do not begrudge any of the small races their enmity.” Cerelinde smiled at the raven. “They do not know what they do. One day, perhaps, there will be peace. We hope for it.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Fetch bobbed his tufted head. His sharp beak nudged its way through the dark strands of Tanaros’ hair, and his anxious thoughts nudged at Tanaros’ mind. Opening himself to them, Tanaros saw through doubled eyes a familiar, unsettling sensation. What he saw made him blink.

Cerelinde ablaze.

She burned like a signal fire in the raven’s gaze, an Ellyl shaped woman’s form, white-hot and searing. There was beauty, oh, yes! A terrible beauty, one that filled Fetch’s rustling thoughts with fear. Her figure divided the blackness like a sword. And beyond and behind it, there was a vast emptiness. The space between the stars, endless black and achingly cold. In it, as if through a crack in the world, stars fell; fell and fell and fell, trailing gouts of white-blue fire, beautiful and unending.

Somewhere, there was the roar of a dragon’s laughter.

Tanaros blinked again to clear his vision. There was a sudden pressure upon his shoulder as Fetch launched himself, soaring with outspread wings to a nearby branch. The raven chittered, his beak parted. All around the rookery, his calls were uneasily echoed until the glade was alive with uneasy sound.

“Perhaps I am unwelcome here,” Cerelinde said softly.

“No.” At a loss for words, Tanaros quaffed his wine and held out his goblet for Speros to refill. He shook his head, willing the action to dispel the lingering images. “No, Lady. You are a guest here. As you say, they are fearful. Something happened to Fetch in the desert.” He furrowed his brow in thought, pondering the strange visions that flitted through the raven’s thought, the recurrent image of a dragon. Not just any dragon, but one truly ancient of days. “Or before, perhaps. Something I do not understand.”

“It seems to me,” said the Lady of the Ellylon, “many things happened in the desert, Tanaros.” She gazed at him with the same steady kindness she had shown the raven, the same unrelenting pity with which she had beheld the madlings of Darkhaven. “Do you wish to speak of them?”

Speros, holding the wine-jug at the ready, coughed and turned away.

“No.” Resting his elbows on the dazzling white linen of the tablecloth, Tanaros fiddled with the stem of his goblet. He studied the backs of his hands; the scarred knuckles. It had been a long, long time since he had known a woman’s compassion. It would have been a relief to speak of it; a relief so deep he felt the promise of it in his bones. And yet; she was the Lady of the Ellylon, Haomane’s Child. How could he explain it to her? Lord Satoris’ command, his own reluctance to obey it. Strength born of the Water of Life still coursing in his veins, the quietude of Stone Grove and Ngurra’s old head lifting, following the rising arc of his black blade. His refusal to relent, to give a reason, any reason. Only a single word: Choose. The blade’s fall, a welter of gore, and the anguished cry of the old Yarru’s wife. The blunt crunch of the Fjel maces that followed. These things, she would not understand. There was no place for them here, in this moment of civilized discourse. “No,” he said again more firmly. “Lady, I do not.”

“As you please.” Cerelinde bowed her head for a moment, her features curtained by her pale, shining hair. When she lifted her head, a nameless emotion darkened her clear eyes. “Tanaros,” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

All around the rookery, ravens settled, cocking their heads.

“It is a small kindness, Lady, nothing more.” Tanaros glanced around, taking in the myriad bright eyes. There was Fetch, still as a stone, watching him. A strange grief thickened his words. “Do you think me incapable of such deeds?”

“No.” Sorrow, and something else, shaded her tone. “I think you are like these trees, Tanaros. As deep-rooted life endures in them, so does goodness endure in you, warped and blighted by darkness. And such a thing grieves me, for it need not be. Ah, Tanaros!” The brightness returned to her eyes. “There is forgiveness and Arahila’s mercy awaiting you, did only you reach out your hand. For you, and this young Man; yes, even for the ravens themselves. For all the innocent and misguided who dwell beneath the Sunderer’s shadow. Is it asking so much?”

He drew breath to answer, and the rookery burst into a flurry of black wings as all the ravens of Darkhaven took flight at once, a circling stormcloud. Without thinking, Tanaros found himself on his feet, the black sword naked in his fist. The Mørkhar Fjel came at a thundering run, bristling with weapons. Speros, unarmed, swore and smashed the Dwarfish wine-jug on the edge of the table, shattering its graceful form to improvise a jagged weapon. Red wine bled in a widening stain on the white linen.

“Greetings, cousin.” Ushahin stood at the edge of the glade; a hunched form, small and composed. Above him, the ravens circled in a tightening gyre, answering to him as if to one of the Were. His uneven gaze shifted to Cerelinde. “Lady.”

“Dreamspinner.” Her voice was cool. She had risen, standing straight as a spear.

“Stand down.” Tanaros nodded to Speros and the Fjel and shoved his sword back into its sheath. His hand stung and his chest felt oddly tight, as though the brand over his heart were a steel band constricting it. “What do you want, Dreamspinner?”

“I come on his Lordship’s orders. ‘Tis time to send the ravens afield again.” Ushahin gave his tight, crooked smile. In Cerelinde’s presence, he looked more malformed than ever. Here was the beauty of the Ellylon rendered into its component parts and poorly rebuilt, cobbled together by unskilled hands. “But there is a matter of which I would speak to you, cousin. One that concerns the safety of Darkhaven.” He paused, and in the silence, Fetch descended, settling on his shoulder. “A matter of corruption.”

He said no more, waiting.

Tanaros inclined his head. A moment had passed; an axis had tipped. Something had changed, something was lost. Something bright had slipped away from him, and something else had settled into place. Its roots were deep and strong. There was a surety, a knowledge of self, and the course he had chosen. Beneath its brand, his aching heart beat, each beat reminding him that he owed his existence to Lord Satoris.

A vast and abiding love.

He touched the pouch at his belt, feeling the contours of Hyrgolf’s rhios through it, letting himself be humbled by the awesome loyalty of the Fjel. The Fjel, to whom it seemed Arahila’s forgiveness did not extend. On the far side of the glade, Ushahin’s eyes glittered as if he knew Tanaros’ thoughts.

Perhaps he did.

“Permit me to escort the Lady Cerelinde to her quarters,” Tanaros said to the half-breed. “Then I am at your disposal.” Turning to Cerelinde, he extended his arm. “Lady?”

Cerelinde took his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for this glimpse of sun.”

“For that, Lady, you are welcome.” Tanaros heard the unsteadiness in his voice and despised it. He crooked his arm, capturing her fair, white fingers against his torso and made his voice harsh. “Now, come with me.”

She went, making no protest.

Behind them came the padding footfalls of the Havenguard, crunching upon the beech-mast. And all the way, Tanaros felt the combined gaze of Ushahin and the ravens of Darkhaven upon him. On his arm, Cerelinde’s touch burned; on the outer edges of his sight, Fetch’s vision burned, a raven’s fitful thoughts, backed by a dragon’s roar, and the gleam in Ushahin’s mismatched eyes.

Somewhere between the two, lay his path.

So be it, Tanaros thought, conscious of the steady throb of his beating heart, and all that he owed, every breath drawn, to Lord Satoris.

A matter of corruption?

No. Never.