Banewreaker (19 page)

If either could find him here.

On and on the night sank into darkness, the fire settling to embers. Carfax dozed in exhaustion. A mind, borne on dark wings, beat desperately at the outskirts of the Counselor's circle; beat and beat, skittering helpless away. The Vedasian groaned in his sleep, untouchable. In the sedge grass, a saddle sat empty, three dead ravens tied by their feet. Waking, dimly aware, Carfax strained against the Counselor's binding.

Dreamspinner, I am here, here!

Nothing.

"IT TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, cousin." Standing before the dungeon stair with a smoldering torch in one hand, Vorax raised his bushy red brows. "Was it a hard reckoning?"

"No harder than it ought to be," Tanaros said. "His Lordship wanted the details."

"Twenty-three lost in Lindanen Dale."

"Aye. Yours." He met Vorax's gaze. "Good men. I'm sorry for it."

The Staccian shrugged. "They knew the price, cousin. Battle-glory, and fair recompense for the fallen. The couriers will leave on the morrow, bearing purses. At least every man's widow, every man's bereaved mother, will know the cost to a coin of her husband or son's life."

Tanaros touched the pouch where Hyrgolf's
rhios
hung, thinking on the death of Bogvar in the City of Long Grass, and how Thorun had begged him take his axe-hand. "Do they reckon it enough, in Staccia?"

"They reckon it a fairer trade than any Haomane offered." Vorax raised the torch, peering. Light glittered on the rings that adorned his thick fingers; topaz, ruby, emerald. "Cousin, this can wait until you're rested."

"No." Tanaros gathered himself with an effort. "I want to see the prisoner."

Keys rattled as Vorax sought the proper one to open the door to the lower depths. Tanaros held the torch while he fumbled. The Fjel guard stood at attention. Dank air wafted from the open door, smelling of mold and decay. Below, it was black as pitch. No marrow-fire threaded the veins of the dungeon's stone.

"Phaugh!" Tanaros raised the torch. "I forget how it stinks."

"No point in a pleasant prison," Vorax said pragmatically.

Stepping onto the first stair, Tanaros paused. "You didn't put the Lady Cerelinde in such a place, I hope."

"No." Torchlight made a bearded mask of the Staccian's face. "She's our
guest
, cousin, or so his Lordship would have it. Her quarters are as fine as my own; more so, if your taste runs to Ellylon gewgaws."

"Good," Tanaros said shortly. The winding stairs were slippery and he took them with care, one at a time. It would be a bitter irony indeed if he slipped and broke his neck here and now, in the safe confines of Darkhaven. Something moved in the reeking darkness below; there was a sound of chains rattling, a phlegmy cough. "Tell me of the prisoner. He was captured in the Weavers' Gulch?"

Behind him, Vorax wheezed with the effort of descending. "Trussed like a goose in spider-silk and glaring mad at it. He bolted like a rabbit when the Thunder Voice challenged him at the Maw. They let him go to see how far he'd get."

In the darkness, Tanaros smiled. "You put him to the questioning?"

"Aye." Vorax bent over, resting his meaty hands on his knees. "Some of Hyrgolf's lads gave him a few love-taps when he struggled. Otherwise, we held his feet to the fire." Seeing Tanaros' expression, he straightened. "Only the usual, not enough to cripple. He might be missing a few fingernails."

"And?" Tanaros waited mid-stair.

"Nothing." The Staccian shrugged. "Says he's a Midlander, a horse-thief. Says he's here to offer his service. Doesn't appear to be mad. We waited for you, otherwise."

"My thanks, cousin." Descending the final steps, his boots squelched in the damp. There must have been an inch of standing water on the floor, seeping through the dungeon's foundation. Tanaros crossed the cell and thrust the torch into a waiting sconce. "Let's see what we have."

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Wavering torchlight reflected on the standing water and the dark, moisture-slick walls. On the far wall, a single prisoner hung, knees sagging, resting his weight on the chains that held his arms upraised. Under Tanaros' regard, he hauled himself upright, his blistered feet disturbing the stagnant water. "General Tanaros Blacksword." A broad Midlander accent placed his origin in the fertile territories south of Curonan. He was young, not out of his twenties, with light brown hair falling matted and greasy over his brow. "A fine welcome you give those who would serve you."

"Count yourself lucky for it, boyo," Vorax muttered, making his way to the bottom of the stair, one hand on the wall for balance. "The Tordenstem Fjel could have killed you as easily as not."

"Lucky me." The prisoner smiled crookedly. His lips were split and swollen, one of his front teeth a ragged stump, broken by a Fjel love-tap. "What do you say, General? Could you use one such as me?"

Tanaros folded his arms. "Who are you?"

"Speros of Haimhault. I'd make a proper bow, Lord General, but…" The prisoner twitched his hands, dangling limp in their iron manacles. His fourth and fifth fingers ended in raw wounds. "Well, you see."

"And you seek to offer your service?" Tanaros raised his brows. "Others in your position might complain of such treatment."

The prisoner Speros shrugged, causing his chains to rattle. "I came unannounced. Darkhaven has cause for suspicion. Shall we say as much and begin anew?"

Vorax stifled a yawn and settled his bulk on a three-legged stool left by the prisoner's questioners. Tanaros ignored him, eyeing the young man. "Lord Vorax says you claim to be a horse-thief."

"I have done." Brown eyes glinted through matted hair. "Stole a Seaholder lordling's mount, once, when I was employed at a blacksmith's forge. Cut purses, wooed women I'd no intent to wed. Served as second-in-command to the volunteer militia of Haimhault, for a time. I've done lots of things, Lord General. I've lots of ideas, too. I'm chock full of ideas."

"Have you shed innocent blood?" Tanaros asked brusquely.

There was a pause, then, punctuated only by another stifled Staccian yawn.

"Aye." The prisoner's voice was soft. "That, too."

Tanaros paced the narrow cell, his boot-heels splashing in the standing water. In the wavering torchlight, Vorax watched him without offering comment. As it was, as it should be. It was true, this was one of his, one of his own. He fetched up before the prisoner, peering at his bruised face. "You do know where you are? This is Darkhaven, lad. Beyond the wall, the world is our enemy. If you swear loyalty to Lord Satoris—for it is him you will serve, and not me—it will be your enemy, too. Your name will become poison, a symbol of the worst betrayal a man may commit."

"Aye, Lord General." Speros straightened in his chains. "I know."

"Then why?"

An inch could have closed the space between them; even in chains, Speros could have flinched. He didn't, clenching his manacled fists instead. Blood fell, drop by drop, from his wounded fingertips. It made a faint splashing sound as it struck the water. "You need to ask?"

Tanaros nodded. He could smell the prisoner's suppurating wounds. "I do."

"I'm tired of paying for my sins." Speros smiled, taut and bitter. "I never set out to become a thief and a killer, but it's funny the way things go. You make enough mistakes, comes a day when no one will take a chance on you. Arahila may forgive, General Blacksword, but her Children do not. I am weary to the bone of courting their forgiveness. Lord Satoris accepted your service. Why not mine?"

Had he been that young, that defiant, twelve hundred years ago? Yes, Tanaros thought; he had been. Twenty-and-eight years of age, hunted and despised throughout the realm. Kingslayer, they had called him. Wifeslayer, some had whispered. Cuckold. Murderer. He had yearned for death, fought for life. A summons tickling his fevered brain had led him to Darkhaven.

Still, he shook his head. "You're young and angry at the world. It will pass."

The brown eyes glinted. "As yours did?"

Tanaros awarded him a slight smile. "Anger is only the beginning, Midlander. It does not suffice unto itself."

"What, then?" Speros shifted in his chains, but his gaze never left Tanaros' face. "Tell me, General, and I will answer. Why do
you
serve him? For gold and glory, like the Staccians? Out of mindless loyalty, like the Fjeltroll?"

On his stool, Vorax coughed. Tanaros glanced at him.

"The Staccians' bargain grants peace and prosperity to the many at a cost to the few," he said. "And the Fjel are not so mindless as you think."

"Yet that is not an answer," Speros said. "Not your answer."

"No." Tanaros faced him. "I serve my Lord Satoris because, in my heart, I have declared myself the enemy of his enemies. Because I despise the hypocrisy and cowardice of the Six Shapers who oppose him. Because I despise the tyranny of certitude with which Haomane First-Born seeks to rule over the world, placing his Children above all others." His voice grew stern. "Make no mistake, lad. For many years, his Lordship sought nothing more than to live unmolested, but great deeds are beginning to unfold. I tell you this, here and now; if you swear yourself to Lord Satoris' service, you are declaring yourself an enemy of the Lord-of-Thought himself, and a participant in a battle to Shape the world anew."

The prisoner grinned with his split, swollen lips. "I am not fond of the world as I have found it, General. You name a cause in which I would gladly believe."

"Haomane's Wrath is a fearsome thing," Tanaros warned him.

Speros shrugged. "So was my Da's."

It was a boy's comment, not a Man's; and yet, the glint in the lad's eyes suggested it was deliberate, issued as a reckless dare. Against his better judgement, Tanaros laughed. He had found fulfillment and purpose in service to Lord Satoris, in seizing his own warped destiny and pitting himself against the will of an overwhelming enemy. If it afforded him the chance to play a role in Shaping the world that had betrayed him, so much the better.

Did the lad deserve less?

"Vorax," Tanaros said decisively. "Strike his chains."

THE LAMPS BURNED LOW IN her quarters.

There was a veneer of delicacy overlaying the appearance of the rooms to which she had been led. Tapestries in shades of rose, celadon and dove-grey hid the black stone walls; fretted lamps hung from the buttresses, their guttering light casting a patterned glow. These elements had been added, tacked atop the solid bulwark of the fortress in an effort to disguise the brooding mass of Darkhaven.

Cerelinde was not fooled.

This prison had been made for her.

She paced it, room by room, her feet sinking deep into the cloud-soft carpets that concealed the polished floor. What halls had they adorned? Cuilos Tuillenrad? A faint scent arose at her passage. Heart-grass, bruised and crushed by her feet. Oh, this was Ellylon craftsmanship, to be sure! Her kinfolk had woven it in ages past, with fingers more nimble than any son or daughter of Man could hope to emulate. The wool would have been culled from the first coats of yearling lamb, washed with an effusion of the delicate flowers of heart-grass that bloomed for three days only in the spring. Journeymen would have carded it, singing under the open skies, but the spinning, ah! That would have been done by Ellylon noblewomen, for they alone had the nicety of touch to spin wool thread as fine as silk.

Her own mother might have touched it…

Your mother was known to me.

Cerelinde closed her eyes. Unfair; oh, unfair!

It was not true. It could
not
be true. Time and time again, Malthus had said it: Satoris Banewreaker is cunning, he Shapes truth itself to his own ends. Her father… her father Celendril, she remembered well, for he had died in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, slain upon the plains of Curonan amid the host of Numireth.

And left her alone.

No. That, too, was a lie; this place bred them like flies. Lord Ingolin had opened the gates of Meronil to all the Rivenlost who had fled the Sunderer's wrath. Always her place there had been one of honor, even during the long centuries she had refused to hear their arguments. Malthus had been the first to say it, his wise old eyes heavy with grief at the death of his comrades. It is your duty and destiny, Cerelinde.

When a daughter of Elterrion weds a son of Altorus…

What a bitter irony it was!

At first, she had refused out of anger. It was a son of Altorus who had cost them dear on the plains of Curonan; Trachan Altorus, who received the news of Dergail's defeat, who saw Ardrath the Counselor fall. Too soon he had sounded the retreat, and in that moment Satoris Banewreaker regained the dagger Godslayer and fled.

Long years it had taken for her people to overcome the bitterness of that blow and the ill-will it engendered between their races. Indeed, there were many among the Rivenlost who blamed Men for all the woes of their people; jealous, short-lived Men, who had long ago made war upon the Ellylon, coveting the secret of immortality. None of the House of Altorus, no, but others. And the ill-will flowed both ways, for the descendents of those Men who had kept faith with the Ellylon blamed them for repaying loyalty by drawing them into dire war against the Sunderer.

It was not their fault, not entirely. The lives of Men were brief, flickering like candles and snuffed in a handful of years. How could they hope to compass the scope of the Sunderer's ambition when Satoris Banewreaker was content to wait ages for his plan to unfold? It was the second reason Cerelinde had refused to hear the arguments of Malthus and Lord Ingolin. Though she was young by Ellylon reckoning, she remembered ages preserved only in the dusty memories of parchment for the sons and daughters of Men.

How would it be, to wed one whose life passed in an eye-blink? One in whose flesh the seeds of death already took root? For century upon century, Cerelinde had never contemplated it with aught but a sense of creeping horror.

And then Aracus had come.

Oh, it was a bitter irony, indeed.

What lie, she wondered, would the Sunderer make of it? The truth was simple: He had won her heart. Aracus Altorus, a King without a kingdom, had ridden into Meronil with only a handful of the Border-guard to attend him. By the time he left, she had agreed to wed him.

Now she knew better the machinations behind that meeting, the long planning that had gone into it. By whatever tokens and arcane knowledge he used to determine the mind of Haomane, the Wise Counselor had divined that the time of reckoning was coming and Aracus Altorus, last-born scion in a line that had endured for five thousand years, must be the one to fulfill the Prophecy. Malthus had begun laying the groundwork for it when Aracus was but a child, visiting the boy in the guise of an aged uncle, filling his ears with portents.