Earthward.
Death.
The memory of the impact made his bones ache. Ushahin opened his eyes. The living ravens watched him, carrying the memories of their fallen brethren, waiting and wondering. I am sorry, little ones. It was dangerous, more dangerous than I reckoned. Malthus was clever to bring an Archer.
What was the Company of Malthus doing in the Vedasian marshes?
Ushahin stared at the cloud-heavy sky, seen in glimpses through the beech canopy. It was early yet, too early for the dreams of Men to be abroad. He sighed, flexing his crippled hands. Tonight, then. When the moon rode high over the Vale of Gorgantum, darkness would be encroaching on the marshes.
Time to walk in their dreams.
THE DOORS TO THE THRONE Hall stood three times higher than a tall man, wrought of hammered iron. On them was depicted the War of the Shapers.
The left-hand door bore the Six: Haomane, chiefest of all; Arahila, his gentle sister; Meronin, lord of the seas; Neheris of the north; Yrinna the fruitful; and Oronin, the Glad Hunter. Haomane had raised his hand in wrath, and before him was the Souma—an uncut ruby as big as a sheep's heart, glinting dully in a rough iron bezel.
On the right-hand door were Lord Satoris, and dragons. And they were glorious, the dragons depicted in lengths of coiling scales, necks arching, vaned wings outreaching, the mighty jaws parted to issue gouts of sculpted flame. At the center of it all stood the wounded Satoris, a glittering fragment of ruby representing Godslayer held in both hands like a prayer-offering.
"General!" The Fjeltroll on guard saluted. "His Lordship awaits."
"Krognar. You may admit us."
As ever, Tanaros' heart constricted as the massive doors were opened, parting Torath from Urulat, mimicking the Sundering itself; constricted, then blazed with pride. Beyond was his Lord, who had given him reason to live. The Throne Hall lay open before them, a vast expanse. Unnatural torches burned on the walls—marrow-fire, tamed to the Shaper's whim, casting long, crisscrossing shadows across the polished floor. A carpet of deepest black ran the length of the Hall, a tongue of shadow stretching from the open maw of the iron doors to the base of the Throne. It was carved of a massive carnelian, that Throne, the blood-red stone muted in the monochromatic light.
There, enthroned, sat a being Shaped of darkness with glowing eyes.
"Tanaros." Cerelinde's voice, small and dry.
"Don't be afraid." There was more, so much more he wanted to tell her, but words fell short and his heart burned within him, drowning out thought. Settling the Helm of Shadows under his left arm, he offered the right in a gesture half-remembered from the Altorian courts. "Come, Lady. Lord Satoris awaits us."
How long? Ten paces, twenty, fifty.
Thrice a hundred.
The torches burned brighter as they traversed the hall, gouts of blue-white flame reaching upward. The
M�rkhar Fjel paced two by two on either side of them, splendid in their inlaid weapons-harnesses that glittered like quicksilver.
Always, the Throne, looming larger as they drew near, Darkness seated in it. Fair, once; passing fair. No longer. A smell in the air, the thick coppery reek of blood, only
sweeter
. The brand that circumscribed Tanaros' heart blazed; Cerelinde's fingertips trembled on his forearm, setting his nerves ablaze. Directly beneath the Throne Hall lay the Chamber of the Font, and below it, the Source itself. In the dazzling light, she might have been carved of ivory.
"Tanaros."
He drew a deep breath, feeling his tight-strung nerves ease at the Shaper's rumbling voice. Home. "My Lord Satoris!" The bow came easily, smoothly, a pleasing obeisance. He relinquished Cerelinde's arm, placing the Helm's case atop the dais. "Victory is ours. I restore to you the Helm of Shadows, and present the Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost, the betrothed of Aracus Altorus."
Gleaming eyes blinked, once, in the darkness of the Shaper's face; one massive hand shifted on the arm of the Throne. His voice emerged, deep and silken-soft. "Be welcome to Darkhaven, Elterrion's granddaughter, daughter of Erilonde. Your mother was known to me."
Her chin jerked; whatever Cerelinde had expected, it was not that. "Lord Satoris, I think it is not so. Your hospitality has been forced upon me at the point of a sword, and as for my mother… my mother died in the bearing of me."
"Yes." A single word, solemn and bone-tremblingly deep. "Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion, wife of Celendril. I recall it well, Cerelinde. In the First Age of the Sundered World, she died. She prayed to me ere her death. It is how I knew her."
"No." Delicate hands, clenched into fists. "I will not be tricked, Sunderer!"
Laughter, booming and sardonic. The rafters of the Throne Hall rattled. The
M�rkhar Fjel eyed them with pragmatic wariness. "Is it so hard to believe, Haomane's Child? After all, it was my Gift… once. The quickening of the flesh. Generation." The air thickened, rife with the sweet scent of blood, of desire. Satoris' eyes shone like spear-points. "Do you blame her? Many women have prayed to me in childbirth. I would have saved her if I could."
"Then why didn't you?"
The words were flung, an accusation. Tanaros shifted uneasily between his beloved Lord and his hostage. The Shaper merely sighed, disturbing the shadows.
"My Gift was torn from me, pierced to the heart by Oronin Last-Born, who drove a shard of the Souma into my thigh. I had nothing to offer your mother. I am sorry. If Haomane had not disdained my Gift when I had it, it might have been otherwise. I grieve that it was not. Your people will dwindle for it, and die, until you pass forevermore from Urulat's memory."
Cerelinde eyed him uncertainly. "You lie, Lord Sunderer."
"Do the Ellylon not dwindle in number?"
"Yes." She held his gaze, a thing few mortals could do unflinching. "And so we shall, until you relent or the Prophecy is fulfilled. Haomane has pledged it."
"Haomane," the Shaper mused, plucking the case that held the Helm of Shadows from the dais. "My Elder Brother, the Lord-of-Thought. Do you not find him an absent parent to his children, Lady Cerelinde?"
"No." She stared, transfixed, as his dark fingers undid the case's clasps.
"This was his weapon, once." Satoris lifted the Helm and held it before him, its empty eye-sockets gazing the length of the hall. "It contained in its visage the darkness of Haomane's absence, the darkness that lies in the deepest cracks of the shattered Souma, those things which all the Children of Uru-Alat fear most to look upon. To Ardrath the Counselor my Elder Brother gave it, and Ardrath called me out upon the plains of war." He smiled, caressing the worn, pitted bronze of the Helm. "I prevailed, and now it is
mine
. And I have Shaped into it my own darkness, of truth twisted and the shadow cast by a bright, shining lie, of flesh charred to blackness by the wrath of merciless light. Will you gaze upon it, Haomane's Child?"
So saying, he placed the Helm upon his head.
Cerelinde cried out and looked away.
"My Lord," Tanaros whispered, stretching his hands helplessly toward the Throne. Pain, so much pain! "Oh, my Lord!"
"It is enough." Satoris removed the Helm and regarded it. "Send for Lord Vorax," he said to the
M�rkhar Fjel, "that he might conduct the Lady to the quarters prepared for her. I will speak more with her anon. General Tanaros." The gleaming eyes fixed him. "Tell me of Lindanen Dale, and what transpired thereafter."
A SULLEN CAMPFIRE BURNED. ARMFULS of dried sedge grass were thrown upon it, sending sparks into the starry skies. Carfax watched them rise. He was able, now, to move his eyes. He could move his limbs, too, so long as he did not contemplate violence against his companions. The mere thought of it brought retching nausea.
"You are safe, here." It was the Counselor who spoke, his voice calm and soothing. He pointed around the perimeter of an invisible circle with the butt-end of his staff. "Inside this ring, nothing can harm you; not even Lord Satoris. Do you understand?"
He did. All too well, he understood. He had failed.
"It is dangerous to keep him." Firelight played over Blaise Caveros' face; spare features, like the General's, yet somehow stirring.
"He is no danger to us now."
It was true. Carfax's tongue was sealed, stuck to the roof of his mouth by force of will and the oath he had sworn. Silence was his only protection, his only weapon. His hands lay limp, upturned upon his thighs. Yet if he had the chance…
"Who are you? Why were you sent?"
He could have laughed; he would have laughed, if the binding had permitted it. Faces, arrayed around the campfire. Such a tiny company, to threaten the foundations of Darkhaven! He knew their names, now. Not just the Counselor and the Borderguardsman, but the others. Fianna, the Archer; a tenderness there despite the lean sinews of her arms. He saw it when she looked at Blaise. Peldras, the Ellyl; of the Rivenlost, Ingolin's kindred, young and ancient at once. Hobard, proud and angry in his hand-me-down armor, his every thought writ on his face.
You were the one, weren't you? The Dreamspinner found you and sent his ravens…
But not the boy, ah, Arahila! What was his role? Fingering the flask that hung about his neck on corded twine. Dani, they called him. A cruel fate, to summon one so young. If he'd been Staccian, Carfax would have sent him back to gain another summer's age. Small wonder his uncle had accompanied him. Thulu, that one was called. Unkempt black hair, thick and coarse. A broad belly, spilling over his crude breechclout. Lord Vorax would have understood this one, whose eyes were like raisins in the dark pudding of his face.
"Why were you sent?"
Why? Why, indeed? To secure the world against your machinations, Haomane's tool! Carfax suffocated his laughter, biting his tongue. Red foam spilled from the corners of his mouth. Why? Why are you
here
, in these Shaper-forsaken marshes? What do you want in Vedasia? What does the boy Dani carry in his flask, that you guard so fearfully?
"Why doesn't he answer?"
"He is afraid, Dani." It was Peldras the Ellyl who answered in gentle tones. "He has served a cruel master. Give him time, and he will come to see we mean him no harm."
"Can you not compel him, wizard?" Hobard challenged the Counselor.
"No." Malthus shook his head wearily, taking a seat on a grassy tussock. "Satoris' minions swear an oath bound by the force of Godslayer itself. I can compel his flesh, but not his loyalty. Not even the Soumanië can undo that which is bound to a shard of the Souma." His deep-set gaze rested on Carfax. "That, he must choose himself."
"He's bleeding." The boy poured water from a skin into a tin cup, approaching Carfax and squatting to proffer the cup. In the firelight, the tin shone like a ruddy star between his palms. "Would you like a drink to rinse your mouth?" he asked.
Carfax reached for it with both hands.
"Dani," Blaise cautioned. "Don't go near him."
"Let him be, swordsman." Fat Thulu spun his digging-stick with deceptive ease. " 'He's the Bearer, and that's water he bears. Let him do it."
Cool tin, sweet water. It stung his tongue and turned salty in his mouth. Carfax spat pink-tinged water onto the marshy soil, then drank, his throat working. Water, cool and soothing, tasting of minerals and hidden places deep in the earth. "Thank you," he whispered, returning the cup.
The boy smiled, an unexpected slice of white in his dark face.
"Malthus." Blaise raised his brows.
The Counselor, watching, shook his head. "Thulu is right, Blaise. Whether he knows it or not, the boy does Haomane's work in ways deeper than we may fathom. Let it abide. Mayhap his kindness will accomplish what the Soumanië cannot. Any mind, I have spent too deeply of myself to pursue it further this night." Yawning with weariness, he let his chin sink onto his chest, mumbling through his beard. "In the morning, we will continue on toward Malumdoorn. Peldras, the first watch is yours."
Overhead, the stars wheeled through their courses.
One wouldn't expect a wizard to snore, but he did. One might expect it to loosen his bindings, but it didn't. Carfax struggled against them, testing of his circumscribed thoughts and constrained flesh. The Ellyl watched him, not without pity, an unsheathed blade across his knees. All around them, starlight shone on the hummocks and knolls that had been Carfax's companions when dawn had risen on that day. Now it was night and they were earth and grass, nourished by his bloody spittle, glimmering beneath the stars and a crescent moon.
"She Shaped them, you know." The Ellyl tilted his perfect chin, gazing at the night sky. "Arahila the Merciful took pity on night's blackness and beseeched Haomane to allow her to lay hands upon the Souma, the Eye of Uru-Alat that she might Shape a lesser light to illume the darkness." He smiled compassionately at Carfax's struggle. "It is said among the Rivenlost that there is no sin so great that Arahila will not forgive it."
It was dangerous to match words with an Ellyl; nonetheless, Carfax left off his efforts and replied, the words grating in his throat. "Will she forgive Malthus what he did to my men?"
"It does not please him to do so, Staccian." The Ellyl's voice held sorrow. "Malthus the Wise Counselor would harm no living thing by his own choice. You sought to slay us out of hand."
"What do you seek, Rivenlost?"
"Life." The Ellyl's hands rested lightly on his naked blade. "Hope."
Carfax bared his bloodstained teeth. "And Lord Satoris' death."
Peldras regarded the stars. "We are Haomane's Children, Staccian. It is the Sunderer's choice to oppose him and it is the Rivenlost, above all, who will die for this choice if we do not take it from him." He looked back at Carfax, his gaze bright and direct. "Torath is lost to us and, without the Souma to sustain us, we diminish. Our numbers lessen, our magics fading. If Satoris Banewreaker conquers Urulat, it will be our end. What would you have us do?"
Dangerous, indeed, to match words with an Ellyl. This time, Carfax held his bitten tongue. Better to keep silent and hope against hope for rescue or a clean death that would place him beyond his enemies' reach.