“Lord General!” A relieved shout in an unmistakable Midlander accent greeted his arrival. “Am I glad to see you!”
Tanaros found his feet and stood.
The setting sun was as red as blood, flooding the desert with a sanguine hue. He stood atop a promontory of rock situated in the center of a dry basin. Arrayed around its perimeter were standing stones, two and three times the height of a man, casting stark shadows on the sand. Within the circle were other figures, human and Fjel alike, set in a strange tableau.
“Speros!” Tanaros shaded his eyes, unreasoningly glad to see the Midlander alive. “How did you come here? Who are these people?”
“As to how we got here, I can’t say, my lord.” Speros picked a path across the basin, carrying his sword unsheathed in one hand and ignoring the motionless figures who sat on their haunches on the cooling sands. A squadron of four Gulnagel Fjel shifted position as he moved, maces at the ready, keeping a watchful eye on the still figures. “The five of us were caught in the Marasoumië, when the wizard came, and here we found ourselves; or underearth, rather. I’m not one of the Three, to understand the workings of the Ways. But these—” arriving at the base of the rocks, he nodded backward at the squatting humans, “—are the Charred Ones, those whom Haomane’s Wrath drove underearth. And unless I miss my guess, Lord General, these are the ones plotting to extinguish the marrow-fire.”
Tanaros stared at him.
Behind the Midlander, one of the squatting humans rose to his feet in a painstaking effort, joints creaking. He was old, his dark, wrinkled face bearing a map of his years. They were all old, all of them. An elderly woman beside him hissed in disapproval and tugged at his kneecap, though he paid her no heed. The Gulnagel moved in a step closer, their hided muscles flexing.
Tanaros held up one hand, halting their movement. “You would speak, old one?”
“Slayer!” The old man returned his greeting in the common tongue. Shifting an unseen wad into one cheek, he hawked and spat onto the sands. “Welcome to Birru-Uru-Alat. We have been expecting you.”
“YOU DID A GOOD THING back there, Staccian.”
The Borderguardsman’s voice was quiet, but it spoke volumes in praise. Kneeling over the fire, Carfax felt the back of his neck flush. He concentrated on the fire, feeding it bit by bit, laying branches in such a way as would build a solid blaze. The silence lingered between them, growing heavy. “Don’t know about that,” he muttered at length. “I couldn’t watch the boy slaughtered, is all.”
“Or Fianna,” Blaise said softly, so softly the Archer could not hear.
Carfax looked up sharply, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “What of her?”
“Nothing.” The Borderguardsman shook his head. By firelight his resemblance to General Tanaros was more apparent; the same spare, handsome features, the same errant lock of dark hair across his brow. “You have a good heart, Staccian. Why is it so hard for you to hear?”
On the far side of the fire, the Ellyl stirred as if to speak, then thought better of it, rising instead to check on the horses. The gentle whickering sound of their greeting carried in the night air. Carfax watched as Peldras touched them, laying pale hands on their hides, soothing aching knees, strained hocks. The Ellyl spoke inaudibly to Fianna, who rummaged through their stores. He could hear her soft laugh of delight at whatever the Ellyl said, and wondered what it must be like to move through the world with such grace that all must acknowledge it. Even so, it was the Borderguardsman she loved. The Ellyl was beyond her reach, a Lesser Shaper of a higher order. It had taken Haomane’s Prophecy and a thousand years of refusal before the Lady of the Ellylon would consider a mortal lover. An ordinary woman like Fianna would never dare to dream of such a liaison. What the Ellyl thought, only Haomane knew.
“Staccian?” Blaise prompted him.
“I don’t know.” Carfax mumbled the words. Shifting, he sat on the pine mast, hiding his face against his knees. “Don’t be so quick to speak kindly to me,” he said without looking up. “If I had thought deeper, my lord Blaise, I might not have acted. Because of me, the Bearer’s quest continues.”
“Aye,” Blaise said. “Haomane’s Allies are in your debt.”
Carfax gave a strangled laugh. “I have betrayed my loyalties and all I hold dear.”
“No. Only those false loyalties you were taught. It is not the same.” Removing a whetstone from a pouch at his belt, Blaise began honing his sword, smoothing away the nicks it had gotten battling the Were. It was a homely sound, stone grinding on metal. “I asked you once what manner of man you wanted to be, Staccian. You have shown me through your actions. A man of honor, willing to risk his life to protect the innocent I tell you tonight, Aracus Altorus would welcome one such as you into his service.”
“Why?” he whispered.
“Because he understands what it means to be King of the West.” Fianna had approached him from behind, her steps inaudible on the pine mast. Her hands lit on his shoulders, her face bending down beside his. “Oh, Carfax! You have proved a true companion in this venture when all but the Wise Counselor would have doubted you. Do you think Aracus Altorus will not see it?”
It was hard to think, with her soft breath brushing his cheek. Exhaling hard, he lifted his head and focused on the Borderguardsman. “Why him, Blaise? What has he done to win your loyalty?”
“Can you not guess?” Blaise Caveros laid his sword across his knees. His dark eyes held Carfax’s in a steady gaze. “You, who have served under the Kingslayer? He trusted me, Staccian. Since we were boys. Always.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “If the Kingslayer’s wife had not betrayed him, his blood would run in Aracus’ veins. Instead, Aracus is the last scion of the House of Altorus, while for a thousand years, my family’s name has been a byword for betrayal. Aracus Altorus measured me by the contents of my heart and made me his right hand. He gave my family back its honor, Staccian. Is that not enough? Can you say as much of Tanaros Blacksword?”
“No,” Carfax whispered.
“And Satoris Banewreaker?” Blaise’s voice hardened. “How is it you serve him? Has the Sunderer dealt so gently with his Staccian allies?”
“No.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Yes! I don’t know, my lord!” Carfax drew a long, shuddering breath. “What would you have me say?” he asked miserably, raising his bloodshot gaze. “He played us fair! Battle-glory and generous recompense for the fallen. That’s the bargain Lord Vorax has ever offered on Lord Satoris’ behalf, and from time out of mind, we’ve taken it. And he has kept his terms! For a thousand years, no enemy has lifted a blade within our borders, and no child has hungered. This, Lord Satoris has done for us. Can any other nation of Men claim the same? My family dwells in peace and comfort because I serve his Lordship. Is it so wrong?”
“If it keeps the world Sundered, aye.” Blaise’s tone was surprisingly gentle. “Forgive me, Staccian, but I do believe it.”
“You have so much faith!” The words burst from his lips. Carfax glared at them; glared at them all, for now the Ellyl had returned and all four were arrayed about the campfire. “How can you know? How can you be so sure?”
They glanced at one another, and at him, pitying.
It was Peldras who answered, lowering himself gracefully to sit cross-legged beside the fire. “Carfax of Staccia,” he said, “let me ask you this: How is it you cannot?”
Carfax shook his head, unable to articulate a reply.
“My people are dying.” The Ellyl tilted his head, regarding the distant stars. “We are fading, bit by bit. We are Haomane’s Children, and we drew our strength from the Souma. Without it, we are bereft. We are the Rivenlost. The way home is forbidden us.” He turned the weight of his luminous gaze on Carfax. “We are Haomane’s Children, and while we live, we are an affront to the Sunderer, and one he would destroy. Do you deny it?”
“No,” he said, miserable. “But—”
“But tomorrow we will be in Beshtanag,” Blaise said bru
squely. “Which is a trap. You have said so yourself, Staccian. I mean to give warning to my lord Aracus Altorus. I spoke the truth, before. You acquitted yourself well. Now I need to know: Do you stand with us or against us? Will you pledge your loyalty to me?”
Carfax blinked, his vision streaked by tears. Why was it that the rest of the world seemed so far away? It felt like a lifetime had passed since he set out from Darkhaven. These people had become his companions, the only ones left to him. He had traveled with them, eaten with them, fought with them back-to-back. One had sacrificed himself to save his worthless life. He remembered Hobard, his father’s sword in his hand and urgency straining his bloodstained face, the wave of Were that had swallowed him. This is my death. Go!
But …
He remembered Turin, Hunric; the men he had left behind, obedient to his orders. He remembered the men he had led and how they had trusted him. How he had led them into battle, singing, sure of victory. They had been good comrades, and true. They had trusted his leadership, and General Tanaros had trusted him to lead them. And he had erred in his folly and the earth had risen to engulf them. He was a traitor, aye. He had saved Dani’s life. He had admitted that Beshtanag was a trap, and Lord Satoris’ raven had watched him do it. Oh, aye, Carfax of Staccia was a traitor of the first order, but he was man enough still not to profit by it. Not while his own men rotted in barrows beneath the sedge grass.
“I can’t.” The words came harshly, catching in his throat. The tears were flowing freely, coursing his cheeks. “Forgive me, Blaise, but I can’t.”
The Borderguardsman nodded with regret.
“Carfax, please!” Fianna’s face swam in his vision, and there were tears in her own eyes, shining on her cheeks. How not? Archer or no, she was a woman, and women reckoned the cost. Always, women reckoned the cost. Her hands found his, gripping them tightly. “You saved my life! How can you name yourself aught but a friend?”
“I wasn’t prey.” He blinked at her, clutching her hands. Soft, so soft, save for the bowstring’s calluses. “Do you understand? The Were wouldn’t attack me. I might as well have struck an unarmed man.”
“As they did!” Her voice rose. “You defended Dani, too, who never raised his hand to anyone! Where is the wrong in that?”
Carfax shook his head and looked away, withdrawing from her grasp. “Dani raised his hand against Darkhaven when he drew forth the Water of Life,” he murmured. “Malthus knew it, if the boy did not. And the Were knew it, too. I’m sorry, Fianna.” Gathering himself, he met Blaise’s eyes. “I’ll do nothing to thwart your purpose. You have my word on that, my lord. But I cannot pledge you my loyalty.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I ride into Beshtanag as your prisoner.”
“So be it.” The Borderguardsman’s gaze was steady. “My hand is extended in friendship, Staccian. It will be there should you wish to take it.”
Not trusting himself to speak, Carfax nodded.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE WALL WAS FAILING.
It was simply too much to hold. For three days, Haomane’s Allies had assailed it without cease. Day and night, night and day. No one could sleep for the sound of battering rams thudding mercilessly against granite, seeking cracks where Lilias’ power weakened.
She had held out longer than she had dreamed possible. It wasn’t easy work, Shaping, and she was neither Ellyl nor Counselor, with Haomane’s Gifts in her blood to make it easier. Rock and stone fought her will, seeking to return to their original form. Again and again, her bindings loosened. With grim determination, she held them in place, until exhaustion left her weak and dizzy, forgetful of her surroundings.
“Please, my lady! You must drink.”
The cool rim of a cup touched her lower lip. Raising her head with a jerk, Lilias saw Sarika kneeling before her, eyes pleading. “Sweetling.” She steadied the girl’s hands with her own, drinking deep. The water forged a cool trail into her empty belly, lending the illusion of fullness. “Our stores endure?”
“Water.” Sarika licked her lips involuntarily. “There is water, and quarter-rations of gruel for the wardsmen. As you ordered, my lady.”
“Yes.” Lilias pressed one hand to her brow, feeling the weight of the Soumanië. “Of course.” A hollow boom shook the mountain as a battering ram struck her wall for the hundredth time that morning, and she shuddered. “Where is Gergon?”
“He’s coming.” It was Radovan’s voice that spoke; Radovan, whose smouldering eyes had pleased her once. Now they stared at her with dark hatred, and disdain laced his voice. “My lady.” He spat the words like an epithet, running one grimy finger beneath the linked silver collar that bound him to her.
It was folly, of course. She should have freed him before this began; should never have bound them so close. Any of them, her pretty ones. It had never been necessary, not with the good ones. How had it begun? A sop to her mortal vanity; to pride, to desire. What was power good for if not for that? It pleased her to be surrounded by youth in all its fleeting beauty. What was immortality good for without simple pleasures? She was a generous mistress. None of them had ever taken any harm from it, only tales to tell their grandchildren.
Too late, now. As strained as the linkage was, it would take more to sever it than to maintain it Lilias shoved aside her regrets and shook her head like a fly-stung horse, impatient. “Gergon?”
“There, my lady.” Sarika pointed, her voice soothing.
He looked like an ant toiling up the mountainside. They all looked like ants. Her wardsmen, the Warders of Beshtanag, defending the mighty wall. Other ants in bright armor swarmed it, creeping along the top with their siege-towers and ladders, while the battering ram boomed without ceasing. Lilias sat back in her chair, surveying her crumbling empire. She remembered, now. She’d had a high-backed chair of office placed here, on the terrace of Beshtanag Fortress itself, to do just that.
Lilias.
Calandor’s voice echoed in her skull. “No,” she said aloud. “No.”
Her Ward Commander, Gergon, toiled up the mountainside, nodding as he went to archers posted here and there, the last defenders of Beshtanag. It was warm and he was sweating, his greying hair damp beneath his helmet. He took it off to salute her. “My lady Lilias.” He tucked his helmet under his arm, regarding her. His face was gaunt and the flesh beneath his eyes hung in bags. He had served her since his birth, as had his father and his father’s father before him. “I am here in answer to your summons.”
“Gergon.” Her fingers curved around the arms of the chair. “How goes the battle?”
He pointed. “As you see, I fear.”
Below, the ants scurried, those inside the wall hurrying away under its shadow.
A loud crr-ackk! sounded and a web of lines emerged on a portion of the wall, revealing its component elements. Rocks shifted, boulders grinding ominously. Lilias stiffened in her chair, closing her eyes, drawing on the power of the Soumanië. In her mind she saw her wall whole and gleaming; willed it so, Shaped it so, shifting platelike segments of mica, re-forming the crystalline bonds of silica into a tracery of veins running throughout a single, solid structure. What she saw, she Shaped, and held.
There was a pause, and then the sound of the battering ram resumed.
Lilias bent over, gasping. “There!”
“Lady.” Gergon gazed down at the siege and mopped the sweat from his brow, breathing a sigh that held no relief. “Forgive me, but it is the third such breach this morning, and I perceive you grow weary.” His voice was hoarse. “I am weary. My men are weary. We are hungry, all of us. We will defend Beshtanag unto the death, only …” The cords in his weathered throat moved as he swallowed, hale flesh grown slack with privation and exhaustion. “Three days, you said. Today is the fourth. Where are they?”
Lilias, you must tell him.
“I know.” She shuddered. “Ah, Calandor! I know.”
Before her, Gergon choked on an indrawn breath, a fearful certainty dawning in his hollow-set
eyes. He glanced down at his men, his shoulders sagging with defeat, then back at her. “They’re not coming,” he said. “Are they?”
“No,” she said softly. With an effort, Lilias dragged herself upright in her chair and met his gaze, knowing he deserved that much. “I lied. I’m sorry. Something went awry in the Marasoumië. I thought …” She bowed her head. “I don’t know what I thought. Only that somehow, in the end, it wouldn’t come to this. Gergon, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
A sound arose; two sounds. They seemed linked, at first—the redoubled sound of the battering ram, Radovan’s rising shout. He plunged at her, his smouldering eyes gone quite mad, the paring-knife held high overhead. Somewhere, Sarika’s shrill scream echoed against Gergon’s belated cry of protest.
Lilias dealt with it unthinking.
The Soumanië on her brow flared into life, casting its crimson glow. Abandoning every tendril of her defense of the wall, she drew upon the Soumanië and hurled every ounce of her remaining strength at him, Shaping the pulse of his life-force as surely as she had Shaped the veins of silica. Radovan stiffened mid-strike, his free hand clutching at his throat; at the silver collar he wore, the token of her will circumscribing his life. Sunlight shone on the edge of the paring-knife, casting a bar of brightness across her face. When had he stolen it? How long had he planned this? She had known, known she should have freed him! If he had only asked, only spoken to her of his resentment … but, already, it was too late. Panicked and careless, Lilias forgot all else, concentrating the Soumanië’s power upon him, until his heartbeat fluttered and failed.
Lifeless knees buckling, Radovan slumped to earth.