“Yes.” The half-breed’s eyes uneven pupils shone. “What of Malthus?”
“Malthus the Counselor?” Lilias blinked. “There is no news. Why?”
The Dreamer turned his head, considering the unused spinning-wheel collecting dust in the comer. “Because I have no news of him either,” he said softly. “Sorceress, is Beshtanag ready for assault?”
“It is,” Lilias said grimly, straightening. “Do you say the plan has changed?”
“No.” After a pause, Ushahin shook his head with a susurrus of shimmering hair. “No,” he said, strongly. “I leave you to travel the Ways to Jakar, on the outskirts of Pelmar. There, where the forest of Pelmar abuts the Unknown Desert, is a node, a portal of the Marasoumië. There, two units of mounted Rukhari tribesmen await the arrival of our troops. Lord Vorax has sworn it is so. Do you doubt?”
“No,” Lilias whispered, asking silently, Calandor?
It is so, Lilias, the dragon affirmed.
“Good,” Ushahin said. “There, in Jakar, I will open the portal of the Marasoumië—open it, and hold it. In Darkhaven, Lord Vorax will hold open the other end, and General Tanaros will bring the army through the Ways.”
“Can this be done?” she asked him.
“Yes.” He gave her a twisted smile. “Not without strain. But with Lord Satoris’ aid, Vorax and I will bear the cost of it. Tanaros and his army will be untouched by it. In Jakar, they will rally and prepare to fall on the rearguard of Haomane’s Allies.”
Lilias looked away. “Jakar is far from Beshtanag, Dreamer. Too far.”
The half-breed shrugged. “It is far enough to be safe, Lady. There is nowhere within the boundaries of Pelmar that the army of Darkhaven can assemble unseen, and it is the element of surprise that assures our victory.”
“It seems to me it would be a considerable surprise for Haomane’s Allies to find them here,” Lilias said in a dry tone. “There is, after all, a node of the Marasoumië here in Beshtanag.”
“Yes.” Ushahin looked at her with something like regret. “There is. And there is a wall to pen us in Beshtanag, and the forest of Pelmar dense around it A trap must close at both ends, Lady. If we awaited them here, we would have no means of surrounding them, nor of sealing the avenue of their retreat. Do not fear. Jakar is near enough, and General Tanaros’ army is capable of traveling at great speed. The path they follow will already have been blazed by the enemy. It will take three days, no more.”
She bit her lip. Yesterday, one of the Were Brethren had come—a grey shadow of a yearling, thin-shanked and wary, making his report as the Grey Dam Vashuka had pledged. “Haomane’s Allies assemble at Kranac. In five days, they will be here, mounting a siege on Beshtanag.” She looked directly at him. “Where will your army be then, Dreamer?”
“On their heels.” He returned her gaze unblinking. “One day, or two. Such was the nature of your bargain, Sorceress. Can you hold?”
“What do you think?” Lilias asked grimly. Rising from her cushioned couch, she strode past the kneeling Sarika to the balcony doors, thrusting back the heavy silk curtains that veiled them. “Look and see”
He stepped through the doors and onto the balcony. His crippled fingers rested on the marble railing as he looked down at the mighty wall that encircled Beshtanag Mountain. Gauging by the figures that moved in its shadow, the wall stood three times as high as a tall man. There were no hewn blocks, no mortar—only smooth and polished granite, flecks of mica glinting in the sun.
“Such is the power of the Soumanië?” Ushahin glanced at her.
“Yes.”
In daylight, the ravages wrought on his body were more evident. Whatever other gifts the Were possessed, healing was not one. How many bones, Lilias wondered, had been broken? There was a Pelmaran children’s counting rhyme that gave the litany, all the way from one left eye-socket to each of his ten fingers. It was told as a heroic act in Pelmar, that beating, a blow struck against the Misbegotten, minion of the Sunderer himself. The stories failed to take into account the fact that it was a child beaten, a child’s bones broken. Ill-knit, all of them, from his knotted cheekbone to his skewed torso.
On her brow, the Soumanië flickered into life.
Birds rode the currents of wind above Beshtanag, calling out inconsequential news. Lilias touched the half-breed’s arm with her fingertips, watching his knuckles whiten on the railing. It would be easy, so easy, to Shape his bones, to straighten what was crooked, smooth what was rough. Easier than Shaping granite, to mold flesh and bone like clay. And he would be beautiful, oh! Prettier than her pretty ones, were he healed.
“Sorceress.” Ushahin’s mismatched eyes glittered. “Do not think it.”
And then he was there, in her thoughts, peeling away her defenses to lay bare her deepest fear—there, alone and defeated, the Soumanië stripped from her brow, leaving her naked and defenseless, alone. The Chain of Being reclaimed her, mortality, age sinking its claws into her, withering flesh, wrinkling skin, and at the end of it Oronin the Glad Hunter sounding his horn, for her, for her …
“Stop it!” Lilias cried aloud.
“So be it.” He turned away, watching the birds soaring on the air. “Leave me my pain, Sorceress, and I will leave you your vanity.”
“Is it vanity to cling to life?” she whispered.
The half-breed ignored her and closed his eyes. His long, pale lashes curled like waves against the uneven shoals of his sockets. One of the soaring birds broke loose from its broad spiral, a sturdy-winged raven with a rakish tuft of feathers protruding from his gleaming head. Circling tight, he cawed and chattered at the Dreamer. Frown lines appeared between Ushahin’s brows.
“Gulls carry rumors,” he said, opening his eyes. “And ravens hear them. Lady, what do you know of a ship sailing from Dwarfhorn?”
Lilias stared at him. “Dwarfhorn?”
“I am uneasy.” Ushahin made a gesture at the raven, which made a sharp sound and winged off southward, in the direction of the southern coast of Pelmar. “Lady Sorceress, I would speak with the Dragon of Beshtanag.”
Calandor? she asked.
Bring him.
She escorted him to the guarded exit at the rear of the fortress, where a doubled guard of ward-soldiers saluted her, eyeing the Dreamer askance with unconcealed fear. Outside, he did not wait for her lead, but climbed steadily up the winding mountain path. Lilias followed, a shadow of fear lying over her thoughts. Ushahin the Misbegotten, who could walk in the darkest places of the mortal mind. It was said he could drive Men mad with a glance. And she had thought, in her folly, that he would be less dangerous, less strange, than Tanaros Kingslayer.
Lilias, little sister.
Ahead on the ledge, a massive brightness shone, bronze scales gleaming in the sun. Calandor awaited them. At the sight of him, her heart lifted, the darkness clearing. “Calandor!”
“Liliasss.” The dragon bent his sinuous neck so she could press her cheek to the scale-plated warmth of his. Lifting his head, he fixed his slitted green stare on the half-breed. “Child of three rassses, ssson of none. What is it you ssseek?”
Ushahin stood unflinching. “Knowledge, Lord Calandor.”
A nictitating blink, the dragon’s slow smile. “You ssseek the Counsselor.”
“Yes.”
“He chasses the Prophesssy, Dreamsspinner.”
“I know that.” A muscle twitched along Ushahin’s jaw. “Where?”
“I do not know, Dreamssspinner.” Raising his head to its full height, Calandor gazed out over the dark green forests of Pelmar. “Uru-Alat is Sssundered, and Malthus the Counssselor was Shaped on the far ssside of that ssschism. Him, I cannot sssee, nor any weapon Shaped there. Only the effectss of their actions.”
“What actions?” His voice was taut. “Where?”
“In the desert of Haomane’s Wrath.” The dragon sounded amused and regretful. “Sssuch a sssmall choissse, on which to hinge ssso much. A boy and a bucket of water. Is that what you ssseek to kn
ow, ssson of no one?”
Ushahin, pale as death, nodded. “Yes.”
NINETEEN
DARKHAVEN SHOOK WITH LORD SATORIS’ fury.
The very foundations trembled at the Shaper’s roar. Torches rattled in their sconces, flames casting wavering shadows against the black, marble walls. Overhead, storm clouds gathered and roiled, shot through with smoldering bolts of lightning. In the Chamber of the Font, the marrow-fire surged in blinding gouts and Godslayer pulsed, quick and erratic.
“Where?” the Shaper raged. “Where are they?”
Tanaros closed his eyes and touched the rhios in his pocket. “I do not know, my Lord Satoris,” he whispered.
“The Dreamspinner didn’t know, Lordship. Said the dragon couldn’t say.” Vorax tugged at one ear and scratched his beard. “Only it wasn’t heading here, like you’d think. Vedasia, he thought.” The Staccian shrugged. “Something about birds and Dwarfs.”
“It’s what the ravens saw, those who were shot.” Tanaros cleared his throat, summoning the will to meet the Shaper’s furious red stare. “Did Ushahin not speak to you of it, my Lord?”
“Yes.” It was a low growl, rising as he continued. “Of Malthus and deserts and ravens and Vedasia. Not of the Water of Life!”
Tanaros winced at the volume. “He didn’t know, my Lord.”
“So this Water of Life, it can put out the marrow-fire itself?” Vorax cast a dubious glance at the surging blue-white column of the Font, which was the merest manifestation of the Source below. “Take a river’s worth, I reckon. No need to fear, my Lord, unless Neheris Fourth-Born herself plans to cross the divide and Shape the rivers.”
“No.” The Shaper sounded weary. “You misunderstand, Staccian. The Water of Life is the very essence of water, drawn from the navel of Uru-Alat itself. It would take no more than a mouthful to extinguish the marrow-fire. And I … I did not know any lived who could draw it forth from the earth.”
There was a profound silence.
“Well,” Vorax said. “Why would sodding Malthus take it to Vedasia?”
Lord Satoris glared at him, raising his voice to rattle the rafters. “I don’t know!”
“My Lord,” Tanaros said carefully, pressing his fingertips to his temples to still the echoes. “Whatever else is true, it seems certain that he did. Malthus’ Company was seen in the marshes, and Carfax’s men vanished there. Ushahin said …” He cleared his throat again “ … Ushahin said seagulls bore rumors of a ship, sailing from Dwarfhorn. If it is so, then they are bound for Pelmar to unite with Haomane’s Allies.”
“Seagulls.” The Shaper’s glare turned his way. “Seagulls!”
“My Lord Satoris.” Tanaros spread his hands helplessly. “It is what he said”
The Shaper brooded, pacing the Chamber of the Font. Shadows swirled in his wake, and his eyes were like two red embers. “Ushahin Dreamspinner waits in Jakar,” he growled. “Haomane’s Allies march toward Beshtanag. The trap lies baited and ready. If my brother Haomane thinks I will fold my hand at this new threat, he is very much mistaken.” He halted, pointing at Vorax. “Lord Vorax. With two things, I charge you. You will use the Marasoumië to communicate my will to Ushahin. He is to summon the Grey Dam of the Were. Oronin’s Children do not wish to be drawn into war; very well. But this thing, they will do.” He smiled, and his smile was grim. “On pain of my wrath, they will hunt Malthus’ Company, and slay them. All of them, and most especially this … boy … from the Unknown Desert. The Water of Life, they will spill where they find it.”
“My Lord.” Vorax bowed, his rings glittering. “And the second thing?”
“I charge you with the defense of Darkhaven. To that end, I lend the Helm of Shadows into your usage.” Lord Satoris glanced at Tanaros, and his voice softened. “Forgive me, my general. You have born it nobly in my service. But I dare not leave Darkhaven without a safeguard.”
“My Lord Satoris.” Tanaros touched the hilt of the black sword at his waist “This is all I need. This is all I have ever needed”
OVERHEAD, THE STARS CONTINUED THEIR slow, inevitable movement.
In the desert, Ngurra raised his voice. “I hear you, old woman!”
She made an irritated noise, emerging from the spindly shadows of the thorn-brush to join him on the cooling rock. “You’ve ears like a bat, old man!”
He worked a wad of gamal into his cheek, smiling into his beard. “Bats hear much that is hidden from other ears.”
The red star had risen on the western horizon, riding higher than before. Warabi settled herself beside him, joints creaking. Together, they watched the stars revolve around the basin of Birru-Uru-Alat and the cleft rock-pile in its center. Alone among the old ones gathered at the Stone Grove, they kept the watch. As for the rest of the Yarru-yami, they were dispersed among the Six Clans. At Dry Gulch and Owl Springs, at Blacksnake Bore, Ant Plains and Lizard Rock, the Yarru had gone to earth.
“So it comes,” she said with sorrow.
“It comes.” He nodded, shifted the gamal wad into his other cheek. It fit neatly into a pocket there alongside his gums, teeth and tongue teasing out the bittersweet juices that sharpened the mind. “They have a choice, old woman. They all have a choice. Even the one who comes with a sword.”
“I know.” Her voice was muffled, gnarled fingers covering her face. “Ah, Ngurra! It is such a short time we have.”
“Old woman!” His hands encircled her wrists, swollen by a lifetime of digging and labor. “Warabi,” he said, and his voice was gentle. “An eternity would not be enough time to spend with you. But it has been a good time.”
Lowering her hands, she looked at him. “It has.”
“The children,” he said, “are safe.”
“But who will teach them if we perish?” Her eyes glimmered in the starlight. “Ah, Ngurra! I know what must be. I know we must offer the choice. Still, I fear.”
He patted her hands. “I too, old woman. I too.”
She stared at the stars. “The poor boy. Where do you think he is tonight?”
He shook his head. “The Bearer’s path is his own, old woman. I cannot guess. He has chosen, and must choose again and again, until his path finds its end.”
THE DWARF SHIP DOCKED AT Port Delian, on the southern coast of Pelmar.
Carfax had the impression that the Dwarfs were glad to be rid of them, for which he did not blame them. Malthus’ Company had breached Yrinna’s Peace, destroying it irrevocably. As a war-proud Staccian in the service of Lord Satoris, he’d never had much use for peace.
Captivity had begun to change his perspective.
Peace, he thought, did not seem such an undesirable thing. Mayhap it would quench the killing urge he saw in the young knight Hobard’s eyes whenever the Vedasian glanced at him, or the cold calculation in the eyes of Blaise Caveros, who still considered him an unwelcome threat.
Mayhap he would know himself deserving of the kindness that Dani and his uncle Thulu extended to him, of the burdensome compassion of Peldras the Ellyl, of the patient regard of Malthus the Counselor. And mayhap, mayhap, Fianna of Arduan would have some tenderness to spare for him, and cast a few of the yearning glances she saved for Blaise in his direction.
Would that be so wrong?
I am confused, Carfax thought as the Company departed Port Delian, I am heartsick and confused. His hands held the reins, directing his newly purchased gelding in a steady line, following on the haunches of Blaise’s mount. It was so much easier to follow, to obey unquestioning. What merit was there in fruitless resistance? He had tried and tried and tried, to no avail.
Malthus knew it. He saw it in the Counselor’s gaze, gentle and wise.
What if Malthus were a match for Lord Satoris?
It was heresy, the deepest kind of heresy. It froze his blood to think on it; yet think on it he must. What if it were so? Step by step, the Prophecy was being fulfilled. And they did not seem, after all, so evil. They believed in the rightness of what they did, in the quest to
render the Sundered World whole.
Was it wrong?
Would Urulat be the worse if they succeeded?
Searching his mind, Carfax found no answers. And so he rode among them as they entered the depths of the Pelmaran forests, his dreams of vengeance giving way to vague thoughts of escape and warning. And he found himself seeking, unwitting, to win their approval, gathering firewood and making himself useful. Ushahin! he whimpered in his thoughts from time to time, but there was no answer, for Malthus’ binding held, more gentle but no less firm.
And Fianna smiled at him when he gathered pine rosin for her bow, the ordinary Arduan bow she used for shooting game, and her smile echoed the smile of another girl long ago in Staccia. Goldenrod pollen, and freckles on the bridge of her nose.
Oh, my Lord! Carfax prayed. Forgive me. I know not what I do.
ALTHOUGH IT HAD STOOD FOR many years, Jakar remained a desert encampment, a few sandstone buildings erected around a scrubby oasis, the rest of it a city of tents. From time out of mind, Rukhari traders had used it as a last stopping-place before entering the trade routes that cut into the forests of Pelmar. Now the traders had fled, making way for fierce warriors with sun-scorched faces and black mustaches, who raced their swift desert ponies between the lines of tents with ululating cries.
It was a good bargain Vorax had offered them.
A half league to the west, a stony ridge sprawled across the landscape, ruddy and ominous in the light of the setting sun. It was haunted, the Rukhari said; riddled with caverns and haunted by bloodthirsty spirits of the unavenged dead. Small wonder, for it held a node of the Marasoumië, which was death to the unwary traveler.
A half league to the east, the Pelmaran forest began, a dark and ragged fringe looming over the barren plains of Rukhar. Beyond the verge was a darkness even the slanting rays of the sun could not penetrate, where Oronin’s Children might lurk in the shadows a stone’s throw from the trodden path.
Between the two was Ushahin, cross-legged before his tent. He was Satoris’ emissary and one of the Three; he could have had the finest lodging Jakar had to offer, had he wished it. He had chosen otherwise. It was a cruel task his Lord had set him; the cruelest he had known. Still, he understood what was at stake. It was that and that alone that had decided him, that had set his course. Borrowing a pony from Makneen, the Rukhari commander, he had ridden to the verge of the Pelmaran forest and beyond, into the shadows. There, he had given the summons.