“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 Mørkhar 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 Mørkhar 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 Shaperforsaken 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.
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.
THIRTEEN
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.”
“Cood,” 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.”
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“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?”