"Peasssse, little brother." The dragon eyed him with sorrow. "I mean you no harm, not yet. Calandor chose his path long ago, thisss I know. We know. We always know." It shuddered, and ripples emanated across the swamp, setting the skiff to rocking upon the waters. "Ssso why come you here?"
"Seeking passage." Emboldened, Ushahin rode out the waves, planting the pole in the mire and gripping it tight in both hands. "Will you grant it, Elder Brother?"
"Brother." Beneath yellow-green eyes, twin spumes of smoke issued forth in a contemptuous snort. "What makesss you think I am your
brother
?"
Ushahin frowned, shifted his grip on his pole. "Did you not name me as much?"
"I named
you
." The dragon snorted. "Brother!"
"What, then?"
"Would you know?" The nictitating lids flickered. "Guesssss."
A mad courage seized him. What was there to lose, here in the Delta? Whether he would continue onward or die in this place was the dragon's to choose. Craning his neck, Ushahin gazed at the dragon's nearest eye. The yellow-green iris roiled in the immense orb, colors shifting like oily waters. The vertical pupil contracted like a cat's, but vaster, far vaster. Blacker than the Ravensmirror, blacker than a moonless night, it reflected no light, only darkness.
If he hesitated, he would falter; so he didn't. Using the skills taught him long ago by the Grey Dam, Ushahin slid his thoughts into the mind behind that black, black pupil.
It was like stepping into a bottomless pit.
There was nothing
there;
or if there was, it was a thing so huge, so distant, he could not compass it. The way back was gone, the filament that connected him to himself might never have existed. There was only an encompassing, lightless vastness. Deeper and deeper he fell, a tiny star in an immense universe of darkness. There were no boundaries. There would be no end, only an endless falling.
Sundered from himself, Ushahin shaped a soundless cry…
… and fell…
… and fell…
… and fell…
Something flickered in the incomprehensible verges of the dragon's mind; something, many somethings. Tiny and urgent and defiant, they came for him like a cloud of midges, a storm of claws. Feathered, frantic thoughts, scrabbling for his. Yellow beech leaves, shiny black beetles, an updraught beneath the wings and the patchwork of the tilting earth glimpsed below.
The ravens of Darkhaven had come for him.
Such were the thoughts they cast out like lifelines to Ushahin Dreamspinner; for they were, after all, ravens. It was enough. Clinging to the filaments of their awareness, Ushahin braked his endless fall and wove of the ravens' thoughts a net, a ladder, and fled the darkness, back to whence he'd come.
Behind him, the dragon's laughter echoed.
The world returned, and he returned to it.
Ushahin opened his eyes and found himself lying on his back in the skiff, half-soaked with bilge water. Hung upon the sinuous length of an arching neck, the dragon's head hovered above him, blotting out a large portion of the sky. Beyond it, he caught sight of the ravens exiting from their frantic ellipse, landing in the high branches of the palodus tree. Though his head ached like a beaten drum, Ushahin sent thoughts of gratitude winging after them. Satisfied, the ravens preened their feathers.
"The wise man," the dragon rumbled, "does not play games with dragons."
With an effort, Ushahin levered himself upward to sit on the bench in the skiff's stern and rested, arms braced on his knees. A strange exhilaration filled him at finding himself alive and whole. He took an experimental breath, conscious of the air filling his lungs, of having lungs to fill with air. "True," he said, finding the experiment a success. "But I am not a man, and I have been accused of being mad, but never wise. Elder Sister…" he bowed from the waist, "… forgive my folly."
"Ssso." The dragon eyed him with amusement. "It has gained sssome wisdom."
"Some." Ushahin wrapped his arms around his knees and returned the dragon's gaze. "Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons. I am a fool, indeed. But tell me, why here, in the heart of the Delta?"
Sulfurous fumes engulfed him as the dragon snorted. "Child of three rasses, ssson of none. Not a Man, yet ssstill a man. You deny your own desire. Do you deny the power here, where Sssatorisss Third-Born arose?"
"No, Mother." Ushahin coughed once, waving away fumes. He shook his head gravely, feeling his lank silver-gilt hair brush his cheeks. "Not the power. Only the desire."
"Why?" The dragon's voice was tender with cunning. "Anssswer."
She had let him call her mother, had not denied it! No one had done as much since the Grey Dam Sorash, whose heir had castigated him. Ushahin hugged the thought to him and tried to answer honestly. "Because I despise Haomane's Children above all else, for their cowardice in forsaking me and my begetting," he said. "And I will not allow my flesh to become the vehicle by which they receive Lord Satoris' Gift."
"Ssso." The sinuous neck flattened, its spikes lying low as the iron-grey head hovered above him. "You glimpssse the Great Pattern?"
"It may be," Ushahin said humbly. "I do not know."
Smoke puffed from the dragon's nostrils as Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons, laughed. "Then tie up your boat," she said, "and I will tell you."
The bark of the palodus tree was silver-grey, smooth as skin. Ushahin poled the skiff underneath its vast canopy. There was a rope knotted through an iron ring in its prow. He laid down his pole and knelt on the forward bench to loop the rope around the trunk of the palodus, securing the skiff. Mud-crabs scuttled among the thrusting roots of the palodus, and waterbugs skittered here and there on the surface of the water. The setting sun gilded the swamp, lending a fiery glory to the murky waters. Some yards away, the charred skeleton of a mangrove shed quiet flakes of ash, long past the smouldering stage. How many hours had he lost, falling through the dragon's mind?
It didn't matter.
Overhead, the first pale stars of twilight began to emerge and the ravens of Darkhaven fluffed their feathers, settling on their perches and calling to one another with sleepy squawks. All was quiet in the Delta, and at its heart, a pair of yellow-green eyes hung like lanterns in the dimness, hinting at the enormous bulk beyond. Ushahin gave one last tug on the bilge-sodden rope, and smiled. "Mother of Dragons." He bowed to her, then sat, feeling the skiff rock a little beneath his shifting weight. "I am listening."
"In the beginning," said Calanthrag the Eldest, "there was Urulat…"
"
PULL
!" SPEROS SHOUTED.
The Gulnagel groaned, hauling on the ropes. They were heroic figures in the red light of the setting sun, broad backs and shoulders straining, the muscles in their bulging haunches a-quiver. The chunk of rock they labored to haul moved a few paces on its improvised skid, built of a dented Fjel buckler and rope salvaged from the Well. It hadn't been on a pulley, either; just a straight length of it, impossible to draw. He'd had to send one of the Fjel back down the Well to sever it and retrieve as much as was possible.
"Pull!" Speros chanted. "Pull,
pull, pull
!"
With grunts and groans, they did. It moved, inch by inch, grinding across the hard-packed sand. He joined his efforts to theirs at the end, rolling it manually to the lip of the Well. It wasn't easy. The standing monoliths of Stone Grove had shattered when toppled, but even the pieces into which they had broken were massive. Atop the mound of the Well, Speros stood shoulder to shoulder with the Gulnagel, heaving.
"All right, lads," he panted, loosening the rope with dirty fingers. "
Now push
."
It fell with a satisfying crash, landing only a few yards below. Their long labors showed results at last; the shaft of the Well was well and truly clogged. Speros flopped onto the cooling sand, giving his aching muscles a chance to recover.
"More, boss?" One of the Gulnagel hovered over him.
"A few more, aye." With difficulty, Speros rose, gathering the rope. It was vine-wrought, but sturdy beyond belief. Those poor old Yarru had woven it well. "
One
more," he amended, weaving toward a distant boulder. "Bring the skid."
Stout hearts that they were, they did. He helped them lever the next rock onto the concave buckler and wrapped the rope around it, securing the boulder in place, lashing it to the handles. "Once more, lads," he said encouragingly, helping the Gulnagel into harness. "Remember, push with the legs!"
One grinned at him, lowering his shoulders and preparing to haul. Freg was his name; Speros knew him by the chipped eye tusks that gleamed ruddily in the sunset. There were marks on his shoulders where the rope's chafing had worn the rough hide as smooth as polished leather. "You drive a team hard, boss."
"Aye, Freg." Speros laid a hand on the Fjel's arm, humbled by his strength and endurance. Never once, since the Marasoumië had spat them out, had he heard one complain. "And you're the team for it. Pull, lads,
pull
!"
Groaning and straining, they obeyed him once more. Taloned feet splayed, seeking purchase on the churned sand. Yellowed nails dug furrows on top of furrows, strong legs driving as the Fjel bent to the harness, and the buckler moved, iron grating and squealing as it was dragged across the desert.
How many times had they done this? Speros had lost count. It had seemed impossible on the first day. Boulders were like pebbles, dropped into the Well of the World. On the first day they had merely fallen an impossible distance, shattering, dispersing fragments into the cavern of the dead Marasoumië. He had been uncertain that the Well could be blocked. It had taken all his cunning to achieve it; rigging the skid, utilizing the full strength of the Fjel, moving the largest pieces first.
Even then, he had been unsure.
And yet… and yet. In time, it had happened.
The last boulder crashed like thunder as they rolled it over the lip. Speros straightened, putting his hands at the small of his back. His lower back ached, and his nails were torn and bloodied. "Good job, lads," he gasped. "Fill in the rest with loose rock and sand, make it look natural. That ought to do it."
The Gulnagel surrounded the shallow mouth of the Well, backing up to it and squatting low. Sand and shale flew as they dug dog-wise, shoveling a flurry of debris betwixt their rear legs, braced and solid. The remaining feet of the Well's open throat dwindled to inches.
"Good job, lads," Speros repeated, eyeing the rising level and trying to remain steady on his feet. "Remember to make it look natural."
One of them grunted; Freg, perhaps. It was hard to tell from the rear. Speros clapped a hand on the nearest Fjel appendage and let his staggering steps take him down the mound. The earth was churned and torn. He had to tread with exhausted care to avoid turning an ankle. All around the desert floor, the jagged stumps of the monoliths remained, raw and accusatory.
General Tanaros was seated on one, sharpening his sword and gazing westward.
Speros wove toward him. "Lord General!" He drew himself up in a weary salute. "The Well is filled."
"Thank you, Speros." The General spoke in a deep voice, absent-minded. "Look at that, will you?" He pointed with the tip of his sword; to the west, where a red star hung low on the horizon. "Dergail's Soumanië still rises. What do you think it means?"
"War." Speros' quivering legs folded, and he sat abruptly. "Isn't that what they say? It is in the Midlands, anyway." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to scrub away the exhaustion. "The red star, reminder of Dergail's defeat. It's the Sunderer's challenge, a declaration of war."
"So they do," the General mused. "And yet, Lord Satoris did not raise the star. He thought it a warning. A sister's kindness."
"Does it matter?" Speros fumbled for the waterskin lashed to his belt and managed to loosen the stopper. It sloshed, half-empty, as he raised it to his lips and took a sparing mouthful.
"Betimes, I wonder." General Tanaros drew his whetstone down the length of his sword. "I fear we have not chosen our battlefield wisely, Speros."
Speros glanced up at him. "Beshtanag, sir? Or Darkhaven?"
"No." The General shook his head. "Neither. I mean the hearts and minds of Men, Speros." He examined one edge of his ebony blade, testing it with his thumb. "Do you suppose it would have made a difference?"
"Sir?"
"The Bearer." Sheathing his sword, General Tanaros turned his attention to the Midlander. "He made the only choice he was offered. Would it have made a difference, do you think, if we had offered another one?"
"I don't know, Lord General."
"I wonder." Tanaros frowned. "But what would we have offered him, after all? Wealth? Power? Immortality? Those are merely bribes. In the end, it all comes down to the same choice."
Speros shrugged. "A reason to say no, I suppose."
"Yes." General Tanaros glanced across the Stone Glade. The smaller mound that had been erected outside the circle of broken monoliths was barely visible in the deepening twilight. It had taken the Gulnagel less than an hour to dig a grave large enough to contain the corpses of the slaughtered Yarru elders. "I suppose so."
"Sir." Speros cleared his throat. "Will there be a lot of… that sort of thing?"
Tanaros smiled bleakly. "You told me you'd shed innocent blood before, Midlander."
"Aye." He held the General's gaze, though it wasn't easy. "But not gladly." A creeping sense of alarm stirred in his heart. Was the General thinking of dismissing him? Speros ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the gap where one had been lost in the dungeons of Darkhaven. He had gambled everything on this. He thought about the Midlands and the disdain his name evoked, the disappointment in his mother's eyes. He thought about how General Tanaros had deigned to meet him as an equal on the sparring-field. He thought of the camaraderie of the Fjel, and their unfailing admiration and loyalty, and knew he didn't want to lose it. Not for this, not for anything. What did the death of a few old Charred Folk matter? They'd brought it on themselves, after all. The Lord General had asked them to give him a reason to spare them. A reason to say no. It wasn't that much to ask. His hands clenched involuntarily into fists, and he pressed one to his heart in salute. "I failed you, I know. It won't happen again."