In the south, the Duke of Seahold increased his troops, fortifying his borders. Along the curve of Harrington Inlet, where gulls cried above the sea, the Free Fishers laid aside their nets and sharpened their long knives. The knights of Vedasia rode in stately parties along the orchard roads and, here and there, Dwarfs appeared along the roadside, giving silent greeting as they passed. In Arduan, men and women gathered in knots to speak in the marketplace, full quivers slung over their shoulders. The streets of Pelmar City were filled with soldiers, and long trains of them wound through the woods. Along the eastern verge of the desert, the Rukhari whetted their curving swords. To the north, the stone fortresses of Staccia were shut and warded.
“What do they dream, Dreamspinner?”
“War, my Lord,” Ushahin said briefly. “They dream of war. They dream of a red star arisen in the west, and the rumor of a wedding-to-come. They dream, in fear, of the rumor of Fjeltroll moving in the mountains, in such numbers as none have seen in living memory.”
“Do they dream of the Arrow of Fire?”
Ushahin paused, then shook his head. “In Arduan, they do. All Arduans dream of Oronin’s Bow and the Arrow of Fire. But they do not know where it is.”
Satoris Third-Born, whom the Ellylon named Banewreaker and Men called Sunderer, watched the swirling images, motionless as a mountain. “Haomane,” he murmured, then again, “Haomane!” He sighed, gathering himself. “They will not strike, not yet Not unless this wedding occurs, and fills them with the courage of my Elder Brother’s Prophecy, such as they understand it.” A glare lit his eyes. “Then they will bring war to my doorstep.”
“Not Staccia, my Lord,” Vorax promised. “They guard their own, but they have pledged their loyalty on gold, and sent a company in earnest token. As long as we may ward the tunnels, our lines of supply shall remain open. And the desert Rukhari may be bought for swift horses, for they love fine steeds above all else, and despise the Pelmarans.”
“Loyal Vorax,” the Shaper said gently. “Your heart is as vast as your appetite. What you have done, I know well, and I am grateful for it. It the unknown that I fear.”
When the unknown is made known …
Tanaros shivered, brushed by the feather-touch of the Prophecy.
“My Lord.” Ushahin pointed at the Ravensmirror. “There is more.”
Around and around, the dark maelstrom whirled, fleeting visions forming against the black gloss of feathers, the gleam of round eyes pricking like stars. Around and around, inevitable as time, link upon link in the Chain of Being, circling like the ages.
When the companies parted in Lindanen Dale, Blaise Caveros of the Borderguard-Aracus’ second-in-command—went with the Ellylon. He spoke at length with a lieutenant in his company, a young man who saluted him firmly, his jaw set. Aracus Altorus gripped his wrists, gazing into his eyes. And they parted. Blaise rode with the Rivenlost to Meronil, and did not look back, bound to a greater mission.
Tanaros watched him hungrily.
What need could be so great that it would part the second-in-command from his sworn lord? None, in his lifetime, in his mortal lifetime. And yet it was so. Blaise Caveros, who was his own kinsman many times removed, left his lord without glancing back, his grey-cloaked back upright.
“What are you up to, Malthus?” Lord Satoris whispered.
To that, there was no answer. The Ravensmirror swirled onward, giving only taunting glimpses. A contest, and bowstrings thrumming. Fletched arrows, a silent thud. Feathers, scattering. A lone Arduan, setting forth on a journey, coiled braids hidden beneath a leather cap.
On the verges of his journey—hers, as it transpired—there was the Unknown Desert, glimpses assayed by fearful ravens, wary of the lack of water.
Malthus the Counselor keeps his counsel well …
“Enough!” The Shaper’s fists clenched, and the Ravensmirror dispersed, trembling, breaking into a thousand bits of darkness. Roosts were found, bescaled and taloned bird-feet scrambling for perches, bright eyes winking as the Shaper paced, the Tower trembling beneath his footfalls. A single raven, with a tuft of feathers atop his head, croaked a tremulous query. In the air hung the copper-sweet smell of blood.
“It shall not be,” Lord Satoris said. “Though I have left my Elder Brother in peace, still he pursues me, age upon age. I grow weary of his enmity. If it is war Haomane wishes, my Three, I shall oblige him. And I shall not wait for him to bring it to my doorstep.” He turned to Tanaros. His gaze burned, ruddy coals in the night. A line of seeping ichor glistened on his inner thigh, reeking of blood, only stronger. “My General, my rouser of Men. Are you fit to travel the Marasoumië?”
Tanaros bowed.
Tanaros could not do aught else.
“I am yours to command, my Lord,” he said, even as a single raven dispatched itself from the horde, settling on his shoulder. He stroked its ruffled feathers with a fingertip. “Only tell me what you wish.”
Satoris did.
FOUR
LILIAS KNEW.
It came as a stirring, a tensing of her brow, as if the circlet she ever wore had grown too tight. Awareness tickled the base of her skull, and the Soumanië on her brow warmed against her skin, rendering her feverish.
She paced the halls of her fasthold of Beshtanag, restless and uneasy, curt with her body-servants, her pretty ones, when they sought to soothe her. Calandor had shown her long ago how to Shape the hearts and minds of those who served her, and they were her one indulgence. Some of them sulked, but not all. She had always tried to choose them wisely. Little Sarika wept, curling into a ball, damp hair clinging to her tear-stained cheeks. Pietre dogged her steps, squaring his shoulders in a manful fashion until she snapped at him, too. It wasn’t their fault, and she felt guilty at it.
“Calandor,” she whispered, reaching. “Oh, Calandor!”
I am here.
At the touch of the dragon’s thoughts, the Sorceress of the East relaxed, obliquely reassured. “One is coming, traveling the Marasoumie.”
Yes, little sister. One of the Branded.
Lilias grasped the railing of the balustrade and stared down the mountainside.
It was secure, of course. The grey crags, the pine mantle spread like a dark green apron below. Gergon and his wardsmen held it for her and the Were defended its borders, but the mountain was hers, hers and Calandor’s. With the power of the Soumanië, they had made it so. No creature moved upon it, not squirrel nor bat, wolf nor Were, and least of all Man, but that Calandor knew it. And what the dragon knew, the sorceress knew.
So it had been, for a long, long time.
“I shall have to meet him, won’t I?” she asked aloud. “Which one is it?”
The Soldier.
Lilias grimaced. It would have been easier, in a way, had it been one of the others—the Dreamer, or the Glutton.
The Dreamer, she understood. When all was said and done, they were both Pelmaran. The Were had raised him, and although their ways were strange, she understood them better than anyone else of mortal descent.
And as for the Glutton, his wants were simple. Gold, mayhap; a portion of the fabled dragon’s hoard. Or flesh, carnal desire. Lilias touched the curves of her body, the ample, swelling flesh at her bodice. That too, she understood.
What the Soldier asked would be harder.
The summons at the base of her skull shrilled louder, insistent. Lilias hurried, taking a seldom-used key from the ring at her waist and unlocking the door that led to the caverns and the tunnels below. The ancient steps were roughhewn, carved into the living rock. She held her skirts, descending swiftly. If not for Calandor’s wisdom, she would never have known such things existed.
Now, little sister. He comes now.
Down, and down and down! All beneath the surface of Urulat, the tunnels interlaced, carved out in ages past, before the world was Sundered. Calandor knew them, for it was his brethren who had carved them, long ago, when there were dragons in the earth. And along those passages lay th
e Ways of the Marasoumië, the passages of the Souma, along which thought traveled, quick as a pulse. Though they were Sundered from Torath and the Souma itself, still they endured; dangerous, yet passable to those who remembered them and dared.
Dragons remembered, as did the Shaper. No others would dare the Ways, save perhaps Malthus the Counselor, who wielded a Soumanië of his own.
Lilias reached the bottom, hurried along the passageway.
Ahead lay the node-point, and blood-red light beat like a heart, bathing the rocky walls. A vaulted chamber, and a tunnel stretching away westward into darkness. Lines of light, the forgotten Ways, pulsed along it, bundled fibers laid in an intricate network, all linked back to the severed bond of the Souma.
The Marasoumië of Uru-Alat, whom Men had once called the World God. Though Uru-Alat had died to give birth to the world, remnants of his power yet existed. The Marasoumië was one.
A figure was coming, dark and blurred, moving at a walking pace with inhuman speed, each motion fanning in her vision, broken into a thousand component parts. Lilias pressed her back to the stony walls of the cavern, reaching desperately for Calandor
All is well.
The node-light flared, red and momentarily blinding. Lilias cried out as a figure stumbled into the chamber, his body stunned by the transition to a mortal pace.
A Man, only a Man.
Lilias the Sorceress pulled herself away from the cavern wall and stood upright to acknowledge him, summoning her dignity and the might of the Soumanië she wore. “Greetings, Kingslayer.”
He flinched at the title, straightening as though his back pained him, pushing dark hair back from his brow. “Greetings, Sorceress.”
A quiet voice, low and husky with exhaustion. He spoke Pelmaran well, with only a trace of a southerner’s accent. It was not what Lilias had expected; and yet it was. Calandor had known as much. He was tall, but not nearly as tall as the stories made him, when he had ridden to battle on the plains of Curonan, wearing the Helm of Shadows. A Man, nothing more, nothing less.
“Your Lord has sent you.”
“Yes.” The Soldier bowed, carefully. “He would beg a favor, my lady. You know that Dergail’s Soumanië has risen in the west?”
“I know it.” A mad laugh rose in Lilias’ throat; she stifled it. It tasted of despair. “I have known it these many weeks, Tanaros Blacksword.”
His eyes were weary. “Shall we speak, then?”
Lilias inclined her head. “Follow me.”
She was aware of him on the stair behind her, his steps echoing hers, following at a respectful distance. The skin of her back crawled and her throat itched, when she remembered how his wife had died.
He offered no threat.
Even so.
“My lady!” Her Ward Commander, Gergon, was waiting at the top of the stair. He took a step forward, frowning. “You should have sent for—” Her stalwart, grizzled commander forgot what he was saying, staring in hushed awe. “General Tanaros!”
“Commander.” The Soldier bowed courteously.
Gergon’s gaze slid to the hilt of the black sword, hanging inconspicuously at Tanaros’ side. He blinked, his mouth working, no words emerging. Behind him, a pair of junior warders clad in the colors of Beshtanag, forest-green and bronze, jostled one another and craned to see over their commander’s shoulder.
Always the blades, with Men.
The dragon’s voice sounded amused, by which token Lilias knew there to be no danger. She sighed inwardly, and exerted the power of the Soumanië. “Commander Gergon, I thank you for your concern. I will summon you if there is need.”
Gergon stood aside, then, having no choice; his junior warders scrambled to fall in beside him. Lilias swept past them, leading Tanaros Blacksword to her private chambers. He followed her without comment, more patient than she would have guessed. His hands hung loose at his sides, and she tried not to think what they had done.
I have killed, little sister. I have eaten Men whole.
“None that you loved,” Lilias said aloud.
Tanaros looked quizzically at her. “Sorceress?”
The dragon chuckled. What is love?
Lilias shook her head. “It is nothing,” she said to Tanaros.
Calandor’s question was too vast to answer, so she ignored it, escorting Tanaros to her drawing-room. A woman’s room; she had chosen it deliberately. A warm fire burned in the grate, chasing away the spring chill. Soft rose-colored cushions adorned the low couches, and tapestries hung on the walls, illustrating scenes from Pelmar’s past. There was a rack of scrolls along one wall, and shelves with curiosities from Calandor’s hoard. In one corner stood a spinning-wheel, dusty for lack of use. The lamps were hooded with amber silk, casting a warm glow. Lilias sank into the cushions, watching Tanaros, lamplight glancing off the lacquered black of his armor.
He was uneasy in the room.
“Sit,” she said, indicating a chair. “You must be in need of refreshment, after your journey.”
He sat, clearing his throat. “The Ways of the Marasoumië are not easy.”
Lilias pulled a bellcord of bronze cabled silk, soft to the touch. Pietre was there almost before she released it, half-belligerent in his eagerness to serve.
“My lady?” He bowed low.
“Pietre.” She touched his luxuriant brown hair, caught in a band at the nape of his neck. The silver collar about his neck gleamed. He shivered with pleasure at her touch, and she repressed a smile. “Bring us wine and water, a terrine with bread and cheese, and some of the Vedasian olives.”
“My lady.” He shivered again before departing.
Tanaros Blacksword watched, expressionless.
“You do not approve?” Lilias raised an eyebrow.
He released his breath in a humorless laugh, pushing at his dark hair. “Approve? I neither approve nor disapprove. It is the way of Men, and the daughters of Men, to make tame what is wild.”
Lilias shrugged. “I Shape only those whose natures it is to serve, as mine was not. Some are more willing than others. I try to choose wisely. Pietre has pride in his labors.”
“And your army?” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, greaves creaking.
“You have seen my Ward Commander, Kingslayer.” Lilias eyed him. “Gergon learned his task at his father’s knee, as did his father before him. Though Dergail’s Soumanië has risen in the west, Beshtanag is secure. You have done as much for Darkhaven, since before his grandfather drew breath. Do you doubt his pride in it?”
“No.” He exhaled, met her gaze. “How long has it been, lady?”
Such a question! She knew what he meant, and tears, unbidden, stung her eyes. “Over a thousand years. How long for you?”
“twelve hundred.” He bowed his head, touching some unknown talisman in his pocket. His dark hair fell to curtain his features. It was ill-cropped, and there was not a trace of grey in it. “Over twelve hundred.”
Neither of them spoke.
The door opened for Pietre’s return, with Sarika at his heels, a pitcher of water in one hand and wine in the other. They served the refreshments with exquisite, sullen grace. Sarika knelt at her feet, grey-blue eyes pleading mutely for reassurance. Lilias caressed her cheek, finding her voice.
“Thank you, child.”
Sarika was pleased; Pietre shot a triumphant glance at the Soldier, who nodded courteously at him, studiously ignoring his bared chest, and how it gleamed by lamplight, oiled and taut below his servant’s collar. Lilias poured the wine herself, and waited until Tanaros had filled his mouth with bread and cheese.
“So,” she asked him then, “what does your Lord Satoris wish of me?”
Swallowing crumbs, he told her.
I WILL NOT BE AFRAID.
I will not be afraid.
Calandor!
And he was there, with her, as he had been for a thousand years and more, a reassuring presence coiled around the center of her being. Lilias touched the Soumanië at her brow and brea
thed easier, turning to face the Soldier. When had she risen to pace the room, when had her hands become fists? She did not remember.
“You will bring war to Beshtanag.”
“Aye, lady.” There was regret in his voice. “A war to prevent a war.”
Bring him to me, Lilias. I would hear his Master’s words.
“You understand,” Lilias said to him, “the decision is not mine alone to make.”
“The dragon.” There was fear in his eyes, and exultation, too.
“Yes.” Lilias nodded. “We are as one in Beshtanag.”
Tanaros rose, bowing. “It will be my honor. I bear him greetings from my Lord Satoris.”
“Come,” Lilias said.
Outside, the air was thin, gold-washed in the afternoon sun. Once again, she led him herself, through the rear entrance her wardmen guarded, out of the castle and upward, up the lonely, winding path where her own people feared to tread. The mountain of Beshtanag ran both deep and high. His breath labored in the thin air. Holding her skirts, the Sorceress cast glances behind her as she climbed.
His face was rapt, and he paused at every chance to gaze at the sun as it gilded the peaks of the trees below. Seeing her notice, he smiled with unexpected sweetness. “Forgive me, my lady. We do not see the unveiled sun in Darkhaven, save as an enemy.”
Of course.
Haomane First-Born had Shaped the sun, wrought it of the light of the Souma before the world was Sundered. Lilias knew it, as every schoolchild did. And after the world was Sundered, when Satoris fled into the depths of Urulat, Haomane sought to destroy him with it, withdrawing only when the sun scorched the earth, threatening to destroy all life upon it.
And Satoris had escaped; and in his wake, the Unknown Desert.
Still, it had marked the Sunderer, cracking and blackening his flesh, weakening him so that he could not bear the touch of the sun. A whole Age he had hidden himself in the cold, cavernous fastnesses of Neherinach, among the Fjel, seething and healing, until he was fit to emerge and forge his way west, wreaking vengeance upon the world.