Banewreaker (8 page)

Satoris did.

LlLIAS KNEW.

It came as a stirring, a tensing of her brow, as if the circlet she ever wore had grown too tight. Awareness tickled the base of her skull, and the Soumanie on her brow warmed against her skin, rendering her feverish.

She paced the halls of her fasthold of Beshtanag, restless and uneasy, curt with her body-servants, her pretty ones, when they sought to soothe her. Calandor had shown her long ago how to Shape the hearts and minds of those who served her, and they were her one indulgence. Some of them sulked, but not all. She had always tried to choose them wisely. Little Sarika wept, curling into a ball, damp hair clinging to her tear-stained cheeks. Pietre dogged her steps, squaring his shoulders in a manful fashion until she snapped at him, too. It wasn't their fault, and she felt guilty at it.

"Calandor," she whispered,
reaching
. "Oh, Calandor!"

I am here.

At the touch of the dragon's thoughts, the Sorceress of the East relaxed, obliquely reassured. "One is coming, traveling the Marasoumië."

Yes, little sister. One of the Branded.

Lilias grasped the railing of the balustrade and stared down the mountainside.

It was secure, of course. The grey crags, the pine mantle spread like a dark green apron below. Gergon and his wardsmen held it for her and the Were defended its borders, but the mountain was hers, hers and Calandor's. With the power of the Soumanie, they had made it so. No creature moved upon it, not squirrel nor bat, wolf nor Were, and least of all Man, but that Calandor knew it. And what the dragon knew, the sorceress knew.

So it had been, for a long, long time.

"I shall have to meet him, won't I?" she asked aloud. "Which one is it?"

The Soldier.

Lilias grimaced. It would have been easier, in a way, had it been one of the others—the Dreamer, or the Glutton.

The Dreamer, she understood. When all was said and done, they were both Pelmaran. The Were had raised him, and although their ways were strange, she understood them better than anyone else of mortal descent.

And as for the Glutton, his wants were simple. Gold, mayhap; a portion of the fabled dragon's hoard. Or flesh, carnal desire. Lilias touched the curves of her body, the ample, swelling flesh at her bodice. That too, she understood.

What the Soldier asked would be harder.

The summons at the base of her skull shrilled louder, insistent. Lilias hurried, taking a seldom-used key from the ring at her waist and unlocking the door that led to the caverns and the tunnels below. The ancient steps were rough-hewn, carved into the living rock. She held her skirts, descending swiftly. If not for Calandor's wisdom, she would never have known such things existed.

Now, little sister. He comes now.

Down, and down and down! All beneath the surface of Urulat, the tunnels interlaced, carved out in ages past, before the world was Sundered. Calandor knew them, for it was his brethren who had carved them, long ago, when there were dragons in the earth. And along those passages lay the Ways of the Marasoumië, the passages of the Souma, along which thought traveled, quick as a pulse. Though they were Sundered from Torath and the Souma itself, still they endured; dangerous, yet passable to those who remembered them and dared.

Dragons remembered, as did the Shaper. No others would dare the Ways, save perhaps Malthus the Counselor, who wielded a Soumanie of his own.

Lilias reached the bottom, hurried along the passageway.

Ahead lay the node-point, and blood-red light beat like a heart, bathing the rocky walls. A vaulted chamber, and a tunnel stretching away westward into darkness. Lines of light, the forgotten Ways, pulsed along it, bundled fibers laid in an intricate network, all linked back to the severed bond of the Souma.

The Marasoumië of Uru-Alat, whom Men had once called the World God. Though Uru-Alat had died to give birth to the world, remnants of his power yet existed. The Marasoumië was one.

A figure was coming, dark and blurred, moving at a walking pace with inhuman speed, each motion fanning in her vision, broken into a thousand component parts. Lilias pressed her back to the stony walls of the cavern, reaching desperately for Calandor.

All is well.

The node-light flared, red and momentarily blinding. Lilias cried out as a figure stumbled into the chamber, his body stunned by the transition to a mortal pace.

A Man, only a Man.

Lilias the Sorceress pulled herself away from the cavern wall and stood upright to acknowledge him, summoning her dignity and the might of the Soumanie she wore. "Greetings, Kingslayer."

He flinched at the title, straightening as though his back pained him, pushing dark hair back from his brow. "Greetings, Sorceress."

A quiet voice, low and husky with exhaustion. He spoke Pelmaran well, with only a trace of a southerner's accent. It was not what Lilias had expected; and yet it was. Calandor had known as much. He was tall, but not nearly as tall as the stories made him, when he had ridden to battle on the plains of Curonan, wearing the Helm of Shadows. A Man, nothing more, nothing less.

"Your Lord has sent you."

"Yes." The Soldier bowed, carefully. "He would beg a favor, my lady. You know that Dergail's Soumanie has risen in the west?"

"I know it." A mad laugh rose in Lilias' throat; she stifled it. It tasted of despair. "I have known it these many weeks, Tanaros Blacksword."

His eyes were weary. "Shall we speak, then?"

Lilias inclined her head. "Follow me."

She was aware of him on the stair behind her, his steps echoing hers, following at a respectful distance. The skin of her back crawled and her throat itched, when she remembered how his wife had died.

He offered no threat.

Even so.

"My lady!" Her Ward Commander, Gergon, was waiting at the top of the stair. He took a step forward, frowning. "You should have sent for—" Her stalwart, grizzled commander forgot what he was saying, staring in hushed awe. "General Tanaros!"

"Commander." The Soldier bowed courteously.

Gergon's gaze slid to the hilt of the black sword, hanging inconspicuously at Tanaros' side. He blinked, his mouth working, no words emerging. Behind him, a pair of junior warders clad in the colors of Beshtanag, forest-green and bronze, jostled one another and craned to see over their commander's shoulder.

Always the blades, with Men.

The dragon's voice sounded amused, by which token Lilias knew there to be no danger. She sighed inwardly, and exerted the power of the Soumanie. "Commander Gergon, I thank you for your concern. I will summon you if there is need."

Gergon stood aside, then, having no choice; his junior warders scrambled to fall in beside him. Lilias swept past them, leading Tanaros Blacksword to her private chambers. He followed her without comment, more patient than she would have guessed. His hands hung loose at his sides, and she tried not to think what they had done.

I have killed, little sister. I have eaten Men whole.

"None that you loved," Lilias said aloud.

Tanaros looked quizzically at her. "Sorceress?"

The dragon chuckled.
What is love
?

Lilias shook her head. "It is nothing," she said to Tanaros.

Calandor's question was too vast to answer, so she ignored it, escorting Tanaros to her drawing-room. A woman's room; she had chosen it deliberately. A warm fire burned in the grate, chasing away the spring chill. Soft rose-colored cushions adorned the low couches, and tapestries hung on the walls, illustrating scenes from Pelmar's past. There was a rack of scrolls along one wall, and shelves with curiosities from Calandor's hoard. In one corner stood a spinning-wheel, dusty for lack of use. The lamps were hooded with amber silk, casting a warm glow. Lilias sank into the cushions, watching Tanaros, lamplight glancing off the lacquered black of his armor.

He was uneasy in the room.

"Sit," she said, indicating a chair. "You must be in need of refreshment, after your journey."

He sat, clearing his throat. "The Ways of the Marasoumië are not easy."

Lilias pulled a bellcord of bronze cabled silk, soft to the touch. Pietre was there almost before she released it, half-belligerent in his eagerness to serve.

"My lady?" He bowed low.

"Pietre." She touched his luxuriant brown hair, caught in a band at the nape of his neck. The silver collar about his neck gleamed. He shivered with pleasure at her touch, and she repressed a smile. "Bring us wine and water, a terrine with bread and cheese, and some of the Vedasian olives."

"My lady." He shivered again before departing.

Tanaros Blacksword watched, expressionless.

"You do not approve?" Lilias raised an eyebrow.

He released his breath in a humorless laugh, pushing at his dark hair. "Approve? I neither approve nor disapprove. It is the way of Men, and the daughters of Men, to make tame what is wild."

Lilias shrugged. "I Shape only those whose natures it is to serve, as mine was not. Some are more willing than others. I try to choose wisely. Pietre has pride in his labors."

"And your army?" He leaned forward, hands on his knees, greaves creaking.

"You have seen my Ward Commander, Kingslayer." Lilias eyed him. "Gergon learned his task at his father's knee, as did his father before him. Though Dergail's Soumanie has risen in the west, Beshtanag is secure. You have done as much for Darkhaven, since before his grandfather drew breath. Do you doubt his pride in it?"

"No." He exhaled, met her gaze. "How long has it been, lady?"

Such a question! She knew what he meant, and tears, unbidden, stung her eyes. "Over a thousand years. How long for you?"

"Twelve hundred." He bowed his head, touching some unknown talisman in his pocket. His dark hair fell to curtain his features. It was ill-cropped, and there was not a trace of grey in it. "Over twelve hundred."

Neither of them spoke.

The door opened for Pietre's return, with Sarika at his heels, a pitcher of water in one hand and wine in the other. They served the refreshments with exquisite, sullen grace. Sarika knelt at her feet, grey-blue eyes pleading mutely for reassurance. Lilias caressed her cheek, finding her voice.

"Thank you, child."

Sarika was pleased; Pietre shot a triumphant glance at the Soldier, who nodded courteously at him, studiously ignoring his bared chest, and how it gleamed by lamplight, oiled and taut below his servant's collar. Lilias poured the wine herself, and waited until Tanaros had filled his mouth with bread and cheese.

"So," she asked him then, "what does your Lord Satoris wish of me?"

Swallowing crumbs, he told her.

I WILL NOT BE AFRAID.

I will not be afraid.

Calandor!

And he was there, with her, as he had been for a thousand years and more, a reassuring presence coiled around the center of her being. Lilias touched the Soumanie at her brow and breathed easier, turning to face the Soldier. When had she risen to pace the room, when had her hands become fists? She did not remember.

"You will bring war to Beshtanag."

"Aye, lady." There was regret in his voice. "A war to prevent a war."

Bring him to me, Lilias. I would hear his Master's words.

"You understand," Lilias said to him, "the decision is not mine alone to make."

"The dragon." There was fear in his eyes, and exultation, too.

"Yes." Lilias nodded. "We are as one in Beshtanag."

Tanaros rose, bowing. "It will be my honor. I bear him greetings from my Lord Satoris."

"Come," Lilias said.

Outside, the air was thin, gold-washed in the afternoon sun. Once again, she led him herself, through the rear entrance her wardmen guarded, out of the castle and upward, up the lonely, winding path where her own people feared to tread. The mountain of Beshtanag ran both deep and high. His breath labored in the thin air. Holding her skirts, the Sorceress cast glances behind her as she climbed.

His face was rapt, and he paused at every chance to gaze at the sun as it gilded the peaks of the trees below. Seeing her notice, he smiled with unexpected sweetness. "Forgive me, my lady. We do not see the unveiled sun in Darkhaven, save as an enemy."

Of course.

Haomane First-Born had Shaped the sun, wrought it of the light of the Souma before the world was Sundered. Lilias knew it, as every schoolchild did. And after the world was Sundered, when Satoris fled into the depths of Urulat, Haomane sought to destroy him with it, withdrawing only when the sun scorched the earth, threatening to destroy all life upon it.

And Satoris had escaped; and in his wake, the Unknown Desert.

Still, it had marked the Sunderer, cracking and blackening his flesh, weakening him so that he could not bear the touch of the sun. A whole Age he had hidden himself in the cold, cavernous fastnesses of Neherinach, among the Fjel, seething and healing, until he was fit to emerge and forge his way west, wreaking vengeance upon the world.

Of course the sun did not shine full upon Darkhaven.

"Your pardon, General," Lilias said. "I did not think upon it."

"No mind." Tanaros smiled again, drawing a deep breath of mountain air. "I have missed it."

Lilias paused, tucking a wind-tugged strand of hair behind her ear. The height was dizzying and the crags fell away beneath their feet, but she was at home, here. "Then why do you serve him?" she asked curiously.

"You know what I did?" His gaze flicked toward her.

She nodded.

She knew; the world knew. Twelve hundred years gone by, Tanaros Caveros had been the Commander of the King's Guard in Altoria, sworn to serve Roscus Altorus, his kinsman. His wife had betrayed him, and lain with the King, giving birth to a babe of Altorus' get. For that betrayal, Tanaros had throttled his beloved wife, had run his sworn King through on the point of a sword and fled, bloody-handed. And that was all Urulat had known of him until he returned, four hundred years later, at the head of the army of Darkhaven and destroyed the kingdom of Altoria.

"Well." Tanaros stared into the distant gorge at the base of the mountain. "Then you know. My Lord Satoris…" He paused, fingering the unseen talisman. "He needed me, my lady. He was the only one who did, the only one who gave me a reason to live. A cause to fight, an army to lead. He is the only one who allowed me the dignity of my hatred."