“No,” Ushahin said simply. “I remember. But it was many years ago, and hatred burned in you like the marrow-fire, then. Now, there is yearning.”
The calm, mismatched regard was too much to bear, undermining his anger. What was his suffering, measured against the half-breed’s? Ushahin Dreamspinner had been unwanted even before his birth. It was an ill-gotten notion that had sent an embassy of the Ellylon of the Rivenlost to Pelmar in the Sixth Age of the Sundered World; an ill-gotten impulse that had moved a young Pelmaran lordling to lust.
A son of Men had assaulted a daughter of the Ellylon.
And Ushahin was the fruit of that bitter union, which had dealt the Prophecy a dire blow. Ushahin the Unwanted, whose birth ruined his mother—though he’d had no name, then, and hers was hidden from history. In their grief, the Ellylon laid a charge upon the family of the nameless babe’s father, bidding them raise him as their own.
Instead, they despised him, for his existence was their shame.
Even in the Dreamspinner’s story, Tanaros thought, he could not escape the sons of Altorus, for one had been present. Prince Faranol, Faranol Altorus, who had accompanied the Ellylon embassy on behalf of Altoria. A mighty hunter, that one, bold in the chase. He’d ridden out in a Pelmaran hunting-party, hunting the Were who savaged the northernmost holdings of Men. Oronin’s Children were deadly predators, a race unto themselves, as much akin to wolves as Men. And if they hadn’t found the Grey Dam herself, they’d found her den—her den, her cubs and her mate.
Prince Faranol had slain the Grey Dam’s mate himself, holding him on the end of a spear as he raged forward, dying, the froth on his muzzle flecked with blood. They still told the story in Altoria, when Tanaros was a boy.
A mighty battle, they said.
Was it a mighty battle, he wondered, when Faranol slew the cubs? In Pelmar they had lauded him for it, even as they had turned their backs upon the family of Ushahin’s father. Still, the damage was done, and no treaty reached; the Ellylon departed in sorrow and anger, Faranol Altorus’ deeds went unrewarded, and in the farthest reaches of Pelmar, the Sorceress of the East remained unchallenged.
Such was the outcome of that embassy.
And seven years later, when a nameless half-breed boy, the shame of his family, starveling and ragged, was set upon and beaten in the marketplace of the capital city, who remarked it? When he staggered into the woods to die, the bones of his face shattered, his limbs crooked, his fingers broken and crippled, who remarked it?
Only the Grey Dam of the Were, still grieving for her slain mate, for her lost cubs, who claimed the misbegotten one for her own and named him in her tongue: Ushahin. And she reared him, and taught him the way of the Were, until Lord Satoris summoned him, and made of his skills a deadly weapon.
Tanaros watched the ravens, his raven. “Do you never yearn, cousin?”
“I yearn.” The half-breed’s voice was dry, colorless. “I yearn for peace, and a cessation to striving. For a world where the Were are free to hunt, as Oronin Last-Born made them, free of the encroachments of Men, cousin. I yearn for a world where ones such as I are left to endure as best we might, where no one will strike out against us in fear. Do you blame me for it?”
“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “I do not.”
For a moment, Ushahin’s face was vulnerable, raw with ancient pain. “Only Satoris has ever offered that hope. He has made it precious to me, cousin; this place, this sanctuary. Do you understand why I fear?”
“I understand,” Tanaros said, frowning. “Do you think I will fail his trust?”
“I do not say that,” the half-breed replied, hesitating.
Tanaros watched the raven Fetch, sidling cunningly along the low branch, bobbing his head at a likely female, keeping one eye cocked lest he, Tanaros, produce further gobbets of meat from his pouch. “Ravens mate for life, do they not, cousin?”
“Yes.” Ushahin’s eyes were wary.
“Like the Fjel.” Tanaros turned to face the Dreamspinner, squaring his shoulders. “You need not doubt me, cousin. I have given my loyalty to his Lordship; like the Fjeltroll, like the ravens, like the Were.” Beneath the scar of his branding, his heart expanded, the sturdy beating that had carried him through centuries continuing, onward and onward. “It is the only love that has never faltered.”
Love, yes.
He dared to use that word.
“You understand that what you see this night may pain you?” Ushahin asked gently. “It involves your kindred, and the sons of Altorus.”
“I understand.” Tanaros inclined his head. “And you, cousin? You understand that we are speaking of a union between Men and Ellylon?”
Ushahin grimaced, baring his even teeth. “I understand, cousin. All too well”
“Then we are in accord,” Tanaros said.
The raven Fetch chuckled deep in his throat, shifting from foot to foot.
THREE WERE EMERGED FROM THE dense forest at the base of Beshtanag Mountain, drifting out of the foliage like smoke. They rose from four legs to stand upon two, lean and rangy. Oronin’s Children, Shaped by the Glad Hunter himself. They were vaguely Man-shaped, with keen muzzles and amber eyes, their bodies covered in thick pelts of fur.
One among them stood a pace ahead of the others. He addressed Lilias in the Pelmaran tongue, a thick inflection shading his words. “Sorceress, I am the ambassador Kurush. On behalf of the Grey Dam Sorash, we answer your summons.”
“My thanks, Kurush.” Lilias inclined her head, aware of the weight of the Soumanië on her brow. Her Ward Commander, Gergon, and his men flanked her uneasily, hands upon weapons, watching the Were. In the unseen distance, somewhere atop the mountain, Calandor coiled in his cavern and watched, amusement in his green-slitted eyes. Lilias did not fear the Were. “I seek to affirm our pact.”
Kurush’s jaws parted in a lupine grin, revealing his sharp white teeth. “You have seen the red star.”
“I have,” she said.
“It is Haomane’s doing,” he said, and his Brethren growled low in their throats.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully. “It betokens trouble for those who do not abide by the Lord-of-Thought’s will.”
Kurush nodded toward the mountain with his muzzle. “Is that the wisdom of dragons?”
“It is,” Lilias said.
Turning to his Brethren, Kurush spoke in his own tongue, the harsh sounds falling strange on human ears. Lilias waited patiently. She did not take the alliance of the Were for granted. Once, the east had been theirs; until Men had come, claiming land, driving them from their hunting grounds. In the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, the Were had given their allegiance to Satoris Banewreaker, who held the whole of the west. Haomane’s Counselors had arrived from over the sea, bearing the three Soumanië and the weapons of Torath, the dwelling-place of the Six Shapers: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light, the Arrow of Fire.
There had been war, then, war as never before. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only the Dwarfs, Yrinna’s Children, had taken no part in it, taking instead a vow of peace.
While Men, Ellylon and Fjel fought on the plains of Curonan, the Were had lain in wait, on the westernmost shore of Urulat—the last place they would be expected. When the ships of Dergail the Counselor and Cerion the Navigator made landfall, thinking to assail Satoris from the rear, the full force of the Were met them and prevailed. Dergail flung himself into the sea, and his Soumanië and the Arrow of Fire were lost. Cerion the Navigator turned his ships and fled, vanishing into the mists of Ellylon legend.
And yet it was no victory.
If the Were had remained in the west, perhaps. Though Satoris had been wounded and forced to take refuge in the Vale of Gorgantum, there he was unassailable. But no, Oronin’s Children returned east to the forests of their homeland, flowing like a grey tide, and the wrath of Men was against them, for Haomane’s Counselors and the army of Men and Ellylon they led had failed, too. And Men, always, increased in number, growing cunnin
g as they learned to hunt the hunters; waiting until spring to stalk Were-cubs in their dens, while their dams and sires foraged.
Not in Beshtanag. Many centuries ago, Lilias had made a pact with the Grey Dam, the ruler of the Were. Oronin’s Children hunted freely in the forests of Beshtanag. In return, they held its outer borders secure.
Concluding his discussion with his Brethren, the ambassador Kurush dropped into a crouch. Gergon ordered his wardsmen a protective step closer to Lilias, and the two Brethren surged forward a pace.
“Hold, Gergon.” Lilias raised her hand, amused. It had been more than a mortal lifetime since she had cause to summon the Were. Betimes, she forgot how short-lived her Ward Commanders were. “The ambassador Kurush does but speak to the Grey Dam.”
With a dubious glance, Gergon shrugged. “As my lady orders.”
Kurush crouched, lowering his head. His taloned hands dug into the forest loam, the lean blades of his shoulders protruding like grey-furred wings. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites, as he communed with the Grey Dam.
Oronin’s Children possessed strange magics.
A gratifyingly short time passed before Kurush relaxed and stood. With another sharp grin he extended his hand. “Yea,” he said. “The Grey Dam Sorash accedes.”
Lilias clasped his hairy hand. His pads were rough against her palm and his claws scratched lightly against the back of her hand. She recited the ritual words of their alliance. “Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine.”
“My enemies shall be thine, and thy enemies shall be mine,” Kurush echoed.
Dipping his muzzle to her, the Were ambassador turned, his Brethren following. In the space of a few heartbeats, they had melted back into the forest from which they had come. The pact had been affirmed. Beshtanag’s defenses were secure.
From his distant eyrie, Calandor’s thoughts brushed hers, tinged with warm approval.
Well done, Lilias.
IT WAS THE DARK OF the moon, and dark in the Tower of Ravens.
There was no view, here, though the windows stood open onto the night. The rooftops of Darkhaven fell away beneath them, illuminated faintly by starlight.
All of them were there, all of the Three.
And in the center of them stood the Shaper.
“They are ready, Dreamspinner?” he asked.
Ushahin bowed low and sincere, starlight glimmering on his moon-pale hair. “They are, my Lord.”
“Come,” Lord Satoris whispered, his voice carrying on the night breeze “Come!” And other words he added, uttered in the tongue of the Shapers, tolling and resonant, measured syllables that Shaped possibilities yet unformed.
Beating wings filled the air.
Through every window they came, filling the tower chamber, ravens, the ravens of Darkhaven, come all at once. They came, and they flew, round and around. Silent and unnatural, swirling in a glossy-black current around the tower walk—so close, wings overlapping like layered feathers, jet-bright eyes gleaming round and beady. Around and around they went, raising a wind that tugged at Vorax’s ruddy beard, making the Staccian shudder involuntarily.
Still, they held their positions, each of the Three.
Where are you, Tanaros wondered, which are you? To no avail he sought to pick a raven, his raven, .from the dark, swirling tide that enveloped the tower walls, looking to find a mischievous eye, an errant tuft of pin-feathers, from among them. Darkness upon darkness; as well pick out a droplet of water in a rushing torrent.
“The Ravensmirror is made,” Ushahin announced in a flat tone.
In the churning air, a scent like blood, sweet and fecund.
Satoris the Shaper spread his hands, drawing on ancient magic—the veins of the marrow-fire, running deep within the earth; the throbbing heart of Godslayer, that Shard of the Souma that burned and was not consumed.
“Show!”
The command hung in the air with its own shimmering darkness. Slowly, slowly, images coalesced, moving. Sight made visible. Only fragments, at first—the tilting sky, a swatch of earth, an upturned face, a scrabbling movement in the leaf-mold. A mouse’s beady eye, twitching whiskers. A drawn bow, arrow-shot and an explosion of feathers, a chiding squawk.
Such were the concerns of ravens.
Then; a face, upturned in a glade. A thread for Lord Satoris to tease, drawing it out What glade, where? Ravens knew, ravens kept their distance from the greensward. One flew high overhead, circling; their perspective diminished with lurching swiftness to an aerial view. There. Where? A greensward, ringed about with oak, a river forking to the north. And in it was a company of Ellylon.
There was no mistaking them for aught else, Haomane’s Children. Tall and fair, cloaked in grace. It was in their Shaping, wrought into their bones, in their clear brows where Haomane’s blessing shone like a kiss. It was in the shining fall of their hair, in the touch of their feet upon the earth. If their speech had been audible, it would have been in the tenor of their voices.
“What is this place?” Ushahin’s words were strained, a taut expression on his ravaged face. Always it was so. More than the children of Men who had shunned him, he despised the Ellylon who had abandoned him.
“It is called Lindanen Dale,” said the Shaper, who had walked the earth before it was Sundered. “Southward, it lies.”
“I know it, my Lord,” Tanaros said. “It lies below the fork of the Aven River. Betimes the Rivenlost of Meronil would meet with the sons of Altorus, when they ruled in the west. Or so my father claimed.”
“But what are they doing?” Vorax mused.
In the shifting visions, Ellyl craftsmen walked the greensward, measuring, gauging the coming spring. Banners were planted, marking the four corners of the Dale; pennants of white silk, lifted on the breeze, showing the device of Elterrion the Bold, a gold crown above the ruby gem of the Souma, as it had been when it was whole. The Ravensmirror churned and circled, showing what had transpired.
A Man came riding.
The weak sunlight of early spring glinted on his hair, red-gold. His eyes were wide-set and demanding, his hands steady on the reins as he guided his solid dun mount. Tanaros felt weak, beholding him.
Aracus Altorus.
It was him, of course. There was no denying it, no denying the kingship passed down generation upon generation, though the kingdom itself was lost. It did not matter that he wore no crown, that his cloak was dun-grey, designed to blend with the plains of Curonan. What he was, he was. He looked like Roscus. And he looked like Calista, too—Tanaros’ wife, so long ago. The set of the eyes, last seen believing. How not? He was of their blood.
And at his side, another, dark-haired and quiet, with scarred knuckles. Unlike his lord, he was watchful as he rode, stern gaze surveying the wood as they emerged into the glade. Ravens took wing, the perspective shifting and blurring as they withdrew, resolving at a greater distance.
Once, Tanaros had ridden just so, at the right hand of his lord.
Strange, that his memory of Roscus’ face as he died was so vague. Surprised, he thought. Yes, that was it. Roscus Altorus had looked surprised, as he raised his hand to the sword-hilt protruding from his belly. There had been no time for aught else.
In the churning Ravensmirror, in Lindanen Dale, Aracus Altorus halted, his second-in-command beside him. Behind them, a small company of Borderguard sat their mounts, silent and waiting in their dun-grey cloaks.
The Ellyl lord in command met him, bowing low, a gesture of grace and courtesy. Aracus nodded his head, accepting it as his due. Who is to say what the Ellyl thought? There was old sorrow in his eyes, and grave acceptance. He spoke to the Altorian king-in-exile, his mouth moving soundlessly in the Ravensmirror, one arm making a sweeping gesture, taking in the glade. There and there, he was saying, and pointed to the river.
Such a contrast between them! Tanaros marveled at it. Next to the ageless courtesy of the Ellyl lord, Aracus Altorus appeared coarse and abrupt, rough-hewn, driv
en by the brevity of his lifespan. Small wonder Cerelinde Elterrion’s granddaughter had refused this union generation after generation. And yet … and yet. In that very roughness lay vitality, the leaping of red blood in the vein, the leaping of desire in the loins, the quickening of the flesh.
Satoris’ Gift, when he had one.
It was the one Gift the Ellylon were denied, for Haomane First-Born had refused it on his Children’s behalf, who were Shaped before time came into being and were free of its chains. Only the Lord-of-Thought knew the mind of Uru-Alat. The slippery promptings of desire, the turgid need to seize, to spend, to take and be taken, to generate life in the throes of an ecstasy like unto dying—this was not for the Ellylon, who endured untouched by time, ageless and changeless as the Lord-of-Thought himself.
But it was for Men.
And because of it, Men had inherited the Sundered World, while the Ellylon dwindled. Unprompted by the goads of desire and death, the cycle of their fertility was as slow and vast as the ages. Men, thinking Men, outpaced them, living and dying, generation upon generation, spreading their seed across the face of Urulat, fulfilling Haomane’s fears.
“A wedding!” Vorax exclaimed, pointing at the Ravensmirror. “See, my Lord. The Ellyl speaks of tents, here and here. Fresh water from thence, and supplies ferried upriver, a landing established there. From the west, the Rivenlost will come, and Cerelinde among them. They plan to plight their troth here in Lindanen Dale.”
Lord Satoris smiled.
Above, the stars shuddered.
“I think,” he said, “that this will not come to pass.”
And other things were shown in the Ravensmirror.
The ravens of Darkhaven had flown the length and breadth of Urulat, save only the vast inner depths of the Unknown, where there was no water to sustain life. But to the south they had flown, and to the east and north. And every place they had seen, it was the same.
Armies were gathering.