A new chasm had erupted.
There was the old one, patched over by Vorax's Staccians. They had made a fair job of it for mortal Men. The old path was clearly visible, scuffed with gouges where a slab of stone had been dragged with great effort, capping the breach. It was braced by beams that had been soaked in water, already faintly charred by the heat of the marrow-fire, but holding. Rocks and rubble had filled the gaps.
And there, to the left of it—a gaping wound, emitting a violent, erratic light. Above it, a vaulted hollow soared. At the bottom, far, far below, the Source of the marrow-fire blazed and roared like a furnace. Heedless of danger. Tanaros stood at the edge and looked downward.
The sides of the sheer drop beneath his feet were jagged and raw. The marrow-fire was so bright it seared his eyes. He gazed upward, where his shadow was cast large and stark, flickering upon the hollow chamber of the ceiling. It, too, appeared new, as though hunks of rock had been sheared away.
Tanaros frowned. "There is some fault in the foundation that causes this. Small wonder, cousin, when it is built upon
this
." He turned to Ushahin. "Have you spoken of it to his Lordship?"
"Yes." Ushahin said simply.
"And?"
In the stifling heat. Ushahin wrapped his arms around himself as if to ward off a chill. His voice, when he answered, held an unwonted note of fear. "Mis Lordship says the foundation is sound."
Tanaros returned his gaze to the fiery, seething depths of the chasm. For a long moment, he was silent. When he spoke, it was without turning. "I will ask again, Dreamspinner. What does this have to do with
corruption
?"
"There is a canker of brightness at the core of this place," Ushahin said quietly. "Even as it festers in the thoughts of my madlings, even as it festers in your very heart, cousin, it festers in his Lordship's soul, gnawing at his pride, driving him to stubborn folly. There is no fault in the structure, Blacksword. Lord Satoris
is
the foundation of Darkhaven. How plainly would you have me speak?"
"You speak treason." Tanaros murmured.
"He caused rain to fall like acid."
The words, filled with unspoken meaning, lay between them. Tanaros turned around slowly. His dark eyes were bright with tears. "I know," he said. "I
know
. He had reason to be wroth. Ushahin!" He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. "There is madness in fury, aye. No one knows it better than I. Everything I have, everything I am, his Lordship has made me. Would you have me abandon him
now
?"
"No!" Ushahin's head jerked, his uneven eyes ablaze. "Do not mistake my meaning, cousin."
"What, then?" Tanaros stared at him and shook his head. "No. Oh,
no. This is not
Cerelinde's
fault. She is a pawn, nothing more. And I will not gainsay his Lordship's orders to indulge your hatred of the Ellylon, cousin."
"It would preclude the Prophecy—"
"
No
!" Tanaros' voice rang in the cavern, echoes blending into the roar of the marrow-fire. He pointed at Ushahin, jabbing his finger. "Do not think it. Dreamspinner. Mad or sane,
his
will prevails here. And, aye, his pride, too!" He drew a shaking breath. "Would you have him become
less
than Haomane? I will not ask his Lordship to bend his pride, not for your sake nor mine. It has kept him alive this long, though he suffers agonies untold with every breath he takes. Where would any of the Three be without it?"
"As for that, cousin," Ushahin said in a low voice, "you would have to ask the Lady Cerelinde. It lies in the realm of what-might-have-been." Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, touching his lids like a blind man. "So be it. Remember, one day, that I showed you this."
Turning, he began to make his way back toward the upper reaches.
"I'll bring Speros down to have a look at it," Tanaros called after him. "He's a knack for such things. It's a flaw in the
structure
. Dreamspinner! No more and no less. You're mad if you think otherwise!"
In the glimmering darkness. Ushahin gave his twisted smile and answered without pausing, the words trailing behind him. "Mad? Me, cousin? Oh, I think that should be the least of our fears."
Lilias sat beside an open window.
The chambers to which she was confined in the Hall of Ingolin were lovely. The parlor, in which she sat, was bright and airy, encircled with tall windows that ended in pointed arches; twin panes that could be opened or closed, depending on whether one secured the bronze clasps that looked like vine-tendrils. The Rivenlost did love their light and open air.
A carpet of fine-combed wool lay on the floor, woven with an intricate pattern in which the argent scroll insignia of the House of Ingolin was repeated and intertwined. It gave off a faint, sweet odor when she walked upon it, like grass warmed by the sun.
In one corner of the parlor was a spinning-wheel. A bundle of the same soft, sweet-smelling wool lay in a basket beside it, untouched. Ellylon noblewomen took pride in their ability to spin wool as fine as silk.
There had been a spinning-wheel in Beshtanag. In a thousand years, she had scarce laid a hand to it.
On the southern wall was a shelf containing half a dozen books bound in supple leather polished to a mellow gleam. They were Rivenlost volumes—an annotated history of the House of Ingolin, the Lost Voyage of Cerion the Navigator, the Lament of Neherinach—crisp parchment pages inscribed with Ellylon characters inked in a flow ing hand. Although Calandor had taught Lilias to speak and read the Ellylon tongue, she hadn't been able to bring herself to read any of them.
It was clear that these rooms were designed to house a treasured guest, and not a prisoner. Still, a lock was on the outer door, and beyond her lovely windows awaited a drop of several hundred feet.
The rooms were at the top of one of the outer towers. From her seated vantage point. Lilias could watch the sea-eagles circling the central spire. Their wings were as grey as stormclouds, but their heads and underbellies were pristine white, white as winters first snowfall on Beshtanag Mountain.
Every thirty seconds, they completed another circuit, riding the updrafts and soaring past on vast, outspread wings. They made broad circles, coming so close it almost seemed she could touch them as they passed. Close enough to see the downy white leggings above then yellow feet, talons curved and trailing as they flew. Close enough to make out the fierce golden rings encircling the round, black pupils of their eyes. She felt their gaze upon her: watching her as she watched them. Like as not it was true. The Eagles of Meronil served the Rivenlost.
"And why not?" Lilias said, addressing the circling sea-eagles. "That is what we do, we Lesser Shapers. We impose our wills upon the world, and
shape
it to our satisfaction. After all, are you so different from the ravens of Darkhaven?"
The sea-eagles tilted their wings, soaring past without comment.
"Perhaps not." Since the eagles did not deign to reply. Lilias answered her own question, reaching out one hand to touch the glass panes of the open window. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Far below, the Aven River beckoned, a silvery ribbon dividing to encompass the island upon which the Hall of Ingolin was built, winding its way toward the sea. "In the end, it is a question of who chooses to use you, is it not?"
There was a scraping sound; in the antechamber, the outermost door to her quarters was unlatched, swinging open.
"Lady Lilias."
It was an Ellyl voice, fluted and musical. There was much to be discerned from the layering of tones within it. That was one of the hardest parts of her captivity; enduring the unspoken disdain and muted hatred of those Rivenlost whom Ingolin had assigned to attend her. "Lady," yes; after a thousand years of rule, they would accord her that much. Not "my lady," no. Nobleborn or no, she was none of
theirs
. Still, it was better than their compassion. Her words in the great hall had put an end to that particular torment. Lilias got to her feet, inclining her head as her attendant entered the parlor.
"Eamaire," she said. "What is it?"
Her attendant's nostrils flared. It was a very fine nose, chiseled and straight. Her skin was as pale as milk. She had wide-set, green eyes, beneath gracefully arching brows. The colors of her irises appeared to shift, like sunlight on moving grasses, on the rustling leaves of birch-trees. "There is a Man here to see you," she said.
Blaise Caveros stood a few paces behind her. "Lilias."
"Thank you, Eamaire," Lilias said. "You may leave us."
With a rigid nod, she left. Lilias watched her go, thinking with longing of her quarters in Beshtanag with their soft, muted lighting, a warm fire in the brazier, and her own attendants, her pretty ones. If she had it to do over, she would do it differently; choose only the willing ones, like Stepan and Sarika, and her dear Pietre. No more surly charms, no.
No more like Radovan.
It hurt to remember him, a flash of memory as sharp and bright as the gleam of a honed paring-knife. On its heels came the crash of the falling wall and Calandor's voice in her mind, his terrible brightness rousing atop Beshtanag Mountain.
It is time, Lilias.
With an effort, she pushed the memory away and concentrated on Blaise. "My lord Blaise." She raised her brows. "Have you come to make one last plea?"
"No, not that." He looked ill at ease amid the graceful Ellylon furnishings. "I don't know, perhaps. Would it do any good?"
"No," Lilias said quietly. "But you could sit and talk with me all the same."
"You're a stubborn woman." Blaise glanced away. "I don't know why I came. Lilias. I suppose… I feel a responsibility for you. After all, I kept you from taking your life." He smiled bitterly. "You did try to warn me that I would regret it."
"Do you?"
"Yes." He met her eyes, unflinching. "Perhaps not entirely for the reasons you believe."
Lilias tilted her head, considering him. "Will you not sit and tell me why?"
He sat in one of the parlor's four chairs, which were wrought of a pale, gleaming wood that seemed not to have been carved so much as woven, the slender branches wrought into an elegant form with arms like the curled ends of a scroll. The chair, made for an Ellyl's slighter weight, creaked beneath him. Blaise ignored it, waiting for her.
She took her seat by the window. "Well."
"It was something you said." He cleared his throat. "That you had the right to seek death in defeat. That I wouldn't have denied you a clean death on the battlefield if you had been a man."
"Nor would you," Lilias murmured.
"No." Blaise picked restlessly at a loose thread on the knee of his breeches. "There was a man I wanted to kill," he said abruptly. "A Staccian, Carfax, one of the Sunderer's minions. His men attacked us outside Vedasia. Malthus… Malthus handled the others. Him, we took prisoner. I thought he was too dangerous to live, especially…"
"In company with the Bearer?" Lilias suggested. She laughed tiredly at his wary glance. "Ah, Blaise! Did you think I didn't know?"
"I wasn't sure."
"So you let him live."
He nodded. "On Malthus' orders. And in the end… do you know that, too?"
"Yes." Lilias swallowed against the sudden swelling in her throat. Brightness, falling. All the brightness in the world. "I know all that Calandor knew, Blaise. I know it all, even unto the cruel end." She rubbed the tears from her eyes, contempt shading her voice. "Will you tell me now what lesson lies within your tale? How even I am not so far gone that Arahila's mercy cannot redeem me?"
"No." He shook his head. "That wasn't my purpose."
"What, then?"
Blaise shrugged. "To say… what? Although I maintain poison is an unclean death, I do regret depriving you of the dignity of your choice. It was unfairly done; perhaps, even, at cross-purposes with Haomane's will. Who can say?" He smiled crookedly, "If Malthus had not maintained that Carfax of Staccia had the right to choose, we would not be having this conversation."
"No," Lilias said quietly. "We wouldn't."
Blaise sighed and rumpled his hair. "I raised the hackles of your pride, Lilias; aye, and your grief, too. I know it, and I know what it has cost us. I know the Counselor's words in the great hall stroked you against the grain. I knew it when he spoke them. I am here to tell you it was ill-considered."
Lilias glanced out the window. The Eagles of Meronil soared past on tilted wings, watching her with their gold-ringed gazes. "Do you suppose any of this will change my mind?" she asked.
"No. Not really, no." There were circles around his eyes, too; dark circles, born of weariness and long effort. "Lilias…" He hesitated. "Did you know that Darkhaven's army wasn't coming?"
There must, she thought, be a great sense of freedom in riding the winds' drafts; and yet, how free were they, confined to this endless gyre? Lilias thought about that day, during the siege, when she had dared the node-point of the Marasoumië beneath Beshtanag and found it blocked, hopelessly blocked.
"Yes," she said. "I knew."
"Why didn't you surrender, then?" Blaise furrowed his brow. "That's the part I don't understand. The battle was all but lost. You could have
told
us that the Lady Cerelinde was in Darkhaven. And if you had—"
"
I know
!" Lilias cut him off, and drew a shuddering breath. "I would still be a prisoner, but Calandor would live.
Might
live. How-many other things
might
have happened, Borderguardsman? If you had arrived a day later, Calandor would have prevailed against Aracus' army. Or we might have escaped together, he and I. Did you never wonder at that?" They could have fled; they could have hidden.
For a time. Liliass. Only that
. The too-ready tears burned her eyes. "Aye, I
regret it! Is that what you want to hear? A few months, a tew years. Would that I had them, now. But you had reclaimed the Arrow of Fire. Could it have ended otherwise?"
"No." Blaise Caveros murmured the word, bowing his head. A lock of dark hair fell across his brow. "Not really."