Godslayer

TWELVE

Days passed in Meronil.

One, Lilias discovered, was much like the other. Sometimes the days were clear and the sun outside her tall windows sparkled on the Aven River far below. Betimes it rained; a gentle rain, silvery-grey, dappling the river’s surface.

Little else changed.

There was no news; or if there was, no one did her the courtesy of telling her. Still, she did not think there was. It was too soon. Somewhere to the north, Haomane’s Allies would be converging, gathering to march across the plains of Curonan and wage their great war. But in the west, the red star still rose in the evenings, a harbinger unfulfilled. It seemed so very long ago that she had watched it rise for the first time.

What does it mean, Calandor?

Trouble.

She had been afraid, then, and for a long time afterward. No longer. Everything she had feared, every private terror, had come to pass. Now there was only waiting, and the slow march of mortality.

She wondered what would happen in the north, but it was a distant, impersonal curiosity. Perhaps Satoris Banewreaker would prevail; perhaps he would restore her to Beshtanag. After all, she had kept their bargain. Perhaps he would even return into her keeping the Soumanië that she had wielded for so long, although she suspected not. No, he would not give such a gift lightly into mortal hands.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered without Calandor.

How was it that in Beshtanag, days had passed so swiftly? Days had blended into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. A decade might pass in what seemed, in hindsight, like the blink of an eye. Ah, but it was a dragon’s eye, slow-lidded and amused, filled with amusement born of fathomless knowledge, gathered since before Shapers strode the earth.

Here, the days passed slowly.

Meronil was filled with women. There were a few men of the Rivenlost; an honor guard, rudimentary and sparse. Lilias watched them from her window as they passed, riding astride without need for saddle or reins. They looked stern and lovely in their bright armor. She wondered at their being left behind; wondered if they had volunteered, if they had been injured in previous battles. Perhaps they were reckoned too young to be on the front lines of a dire war; it was hard to gauge their age.

Mostly, though, there were women.

No children, or none that she saw. Few, precious few, children had been born to the Rivenlost in the last Age of Urulat. Few children had ever been born to the Ellylon; Haomane’s Children, created by the Lord-of-Thought, who had rejected the Gift of his brother Satoris Third-Born.

And for that he was worshipped.

The thought made Lilias shake her head in bemusement. She did not understand—would never understand. How was it that Men and Ellylon alike refused to see that behind their endless quarrels lay the Shapers’ War? It was pride, nothing but pride and folly; two things she had cause to know well.

The women of Meronil spoke seldom to her. There were handmaidens who tended to her needs; Eamaire and others, who brought food, clean water to bathe, linens for her bed. They no longer bothered with disdain, which in some ways was even harder to bear. Captive and abandoned, her power broken, Lilias was beneath their notice; a burden to be tended, nothing more.

When her heart was at its bleakest, Lilias imagined Meronil beset by the forces of Lord Satoris. She envisioned a horde of rampaging Fjel, besmirching its white towers and bridges with their broad, horny feet; bringing down its very stones with their powerful taloned hands, while Tanaros Kingslayer, the Soldier, sat astride his black destrier and watched and the Ellylon women fled, shrieking in disbelief that it come to this at the last.

Betimes, there was a fierce joy in the vision.

At other times, she remembered Aracus Altorus, with his wideset gaze; trusting, demanding. She remembered Blaise, dark-eyed Blaise, in all his fierce loyalty. They had treated her fairly, and in her heart of hearts she no longer wished to see them slain, lying in a welter of their own gore. It would not bring Calandor back, any more than Lord Satoris’ victory. When all was said and done, they were her people; Arahila’s Children. And yet both of them believed, believed so strongly. A hope, a vision, a world made whole; a faint spark nurtured and blown into a careful flame by Malthus the Wise Counselor, who was Haomane’s Weapon.

Those were the times when Lilias leaned her forehead against the lintel of her window and wept, for she had too little belief and too much knowledge.

One day alone was different, breaking the endless pattern of tedium. Long after Lilias had assumed such a thing would never happen, an Ellyl noblewoman paid a visit to her quarters. It was the Lady Nerinil, who had sat in at Malthus’ Council, who represented the scant survivors of the House of Numireth the Fleet, founder of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass.

She came announced, filling the tower chamber with her unearthly beauty. Lilias had grown accustomed to the handmaidens; the Lady Nerinil was something else altogether. How was it, Lilias wondered, that even among the Rivenlost, one might outshine another? Perhaps it was a form of glamour, a remnant of the magics they had lost when the world was Sundered. She was glad she had asked the handmaidens to remove all mirrors from her room.

“Sorceress of the East!” Nerinil paced the chamber, unwontedly restless for one of her kind. Her tone was belllike and abrupt. “There is a thing that troubles me.”

Lilias laughed aloud. “Only one, Lady?”

The Lady Nerinil frowned. It was an expression of exceeding delicacy, the fine skin between her wing-shaped brows creasing ever so slightly. “In the Council of Malthus, I asked a question of you; one to which you made no reply.”

“Yes.” Lilias remembered; the sweet, ringing tones filled with anger and incomprehension. Why would you do such a thing? She looked curiously at her. “I answered with a question of my own. It was you who did not wish the conversation furthered, Lady. Why, now, do you care?”

Nerinil’s luminous eyes met hers. “Because I am afraid.”

Lilias nodded. “You have answered your question.”

“Fear?” The Ellyl noblewoman gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Only fear? I am afraid, Sorceress, but I do not condemn thousands to death because of it.”

“Yes,” Lilias said wearily. “You do. You, and all of Haomane’s Allies. What do you think will happen when they march upon Darkhaven?”

The Lady Nerinil shook her head, her dark hair stirring. Tiny diamonds were woven into it, and it gleamed like the Aven River reflecting stars at night. “Your question was asked and answered, Sorceress. You know our plight and our dream. We march upon Darkhaven despite our fear, and not because of it.”

Lilias shrugged. “Doubtless that will prove great comfort to the wives and mothers of the slain. I’m sure they will be pleased to know a Midlander farmer’s son died so that the Rivenlost may behold the face of Haomane once more.”

A flash of anger crossed the Lady Nerinil’s features. “You are swift to condemn Haomane’s Allies for leading soldiers to take arms against the Sunderer, Sorceress. And yet you deceived us and sought to lead us into the Sunderer’s trap to be slaughtered. Is this not hypocrisy? The Rivenlost had done nothing to threaten or harm you.”

“No,” Lilias agreed, gazing out the window. “But I would have been next.”

There was silence, then. For a long time, the Lady Nerinil said nothing, for the Ellylon were incapable of lying. “Perhaps,” she said at last, and her voice was low and melodious. “Like the Sunderer, you were a dragon-friend.”

“I was that.” Lilias swallowed, tasting the salt of her tears. Oh, Calandor!

“And your life was worth the lives of thousands?”

“It was to me.” Lilias turned her gaze on the Ellyl noblewoman. “As you say, Lady, I had done nothing to threaten or harm you. I wished only to be left in peace. Did Beshtanag deserve to be destroyed because of it?”

“For that, no,” the Lady Nerinil said quietly. “But the Soumanië was never meant to be yours to wield, and never in such a manner. You set yourself against Haomane’s will when you did so. Surely you must have known such defiance could not go unanswered forever.”

“Ah, Haomane.” Lilias curled her lip. “We spoke of fear, Lady. What is it Haomane fears? Why is he so jealous of his power that he will not share even the smallest portion of it with a mortal woman?” She paused. “Or is it knowledge the Lord-of-Thought fears? Even Haomane’s Allies seem passing fearful of the wisdom of dragons. Perhaps it is that he sought to extinguish.”

“No.” The Ellyl spoke tentatively, then frowned and repeated the word more strongly. “No.” Scintillant points of light danced around the room as she shook her head once more. “I will not fall prey to your sophistry and lies. You seek but to justify your actions, which served only your own ends.”

“Can Haomane First-Born claim otherwise?” Lilias laughed shortly, feeling old and haggard, and wishing the Ellyl would depart. “At least, unlike the Lord-of-Thought, I know it. Have I ever denied as much?”

The Lady Nerinil looked at her with a fathomless expression in her dark, lambent eyes. “It seems to me that you spoke true words in the Council of Malthus, Sorceress. You are a proud woman, and a vain one.”

“Yes,” Lilias said. “I know.”

“Arahila the Fair bids us to be compassionate,” the Lady Nerinil mused. “May she in her infinite mercy forgive me, for I cannot find it in my heart to pity you, Lilias of Beshtanag.”

The words carried a familiar sting. “I do not want your pity,” Lilias murmured.

“I know.” The Lady Nerinil of the House of Numireth the Fleet inclined her head with grace. “But it is all that you deserve.”

The tunnel went on forever.

After the unforgiving terrain of the northern Fjel territories, it should have been easy. Beyond the initial descent, the tunnel was level. Its floor was worn almost smooth by the passage of countless generations; broad Fjeltroll feet, the booted feet of Men, even horses’ shod hooves, for it was vast enough for two Men to ride abreast. It was warmer beneath the earth than it was above it, out of the elements of wind and rain. They had food and water, and torches to light their way.

Set against that was a sense of stifling fear, and Dani would have traded all of the comforts the tunnel afforded to be rid of it In the desert, one could see for leagues all around. Here, there was only the endless black throat of the tunnel. Stone below and stone above, ton upon ton of it. They used the torches sparingly, a tiny pool of firelight moving through the darkness.

Once, Dani had watched an enormous blacksnake swallow a hopping-mouse. Its hind legs were still twitching as it disappeared into the snake’s gullet. Afterward, it made a visible lump as it moved through the long, sinuous body.

That was what it felt like.

The tunnel smelled of Fjeltroll; musky, faintly rank. Old or fresh? There was no way of knowing. They could see nothing beyond the edge of the torchlight. Every step forward was fraught with tension. If they could have done without the torches, they would have, but it was impossible. They would have been bumbling into the walls with every other step; or worse, wandered into one of the smaller side tunnels.

From time to time, they came upon ventilation shafts cut into the ceiling high above. When they did, they would pause, breathing deeply of the clean air and gazing upward at the slanting rays of daylight filtering into the tunnel. Uncle Thulu would snuff his torch, and for a precious span of yards they would continue by virtue of the faint illumination, no longer an excruciatingly visible target.

Then the air would grow stale and darkness thicker, until they could no longer see their hands before their faces, and they would pause again, straining their ears for any sound of approaching Fjeltroll. The sound of the flint striking, the violent spray of sparks as Uncle Thulu relit the torch, always seemed too loud, too bright.

There was no way of marking the passage of days. Although they tried counting the ventilation shafts, they had no idea how far apart they were. When they grew too weary to continue, they rested, taking turns sleeping in shifts, huddled in one of the side tunnels. Sometimes in their endless trudging, they felt a whisper of cool air on their faces though the darkness remained unalleviated. When that happened, Dani reckoned it was night aboveground.

In the tunnel, it made no difference.

They found resting-places where the forces of Darkhaven had made camp; broad caverns with traces of old campfires. There they found supply-caches, as Sorhild of Gerflod had told them. At the first such site they reached, Dani lingered beneath the ventilation shaft, studying marks scratched onto the cavern wall above the cold ashes of an abandoned campfire.

“Can you read what it says, Uncle?” he asked.

Uncle Thulu shook his head. “No, lad. I don’t have the art of it.”

Dani traced the markings with his fingertips, wondering. “Is it a spell, do you think? Or a warning?”

His uncle gave them a second glance. “It looks like clan markings as much as anything. Come on, let’s be on our way.”

Afterward, they did not linger in these places, for the scent of Fjeltroll was strongest where they had eaten and slept, but took aught that might be of use and hurried onward. Dani found himself thinking about the marks; wondering who had written them, wondering what they meant. It was true, they did look like clan markings. Among the Six Clans of the Yarru-yami, it was a courtesy to leave such signs in territories they hunted in common, letting others know where a new drought-eater had taken root, when a waterhole had silted closed, where a patch of gamal might be found. Or it could simply be a sign to let Lizard Rock Clan know that the Stone Grove had already passed through, hunting such prey as might be found.

It hurt to think of home.

He wondered what would be worth marking in the endless tunnel. Caches, perhaps; or perhaps it was notes about the other tunnels, the side tunnels Sorhild had warned them not to venture far into. Maybe it was nothing, only marks to show someone had passed this way. It was easy, in the tunnels, to believe the outside world could forget you ever existed.

He wondered if there was anyone left in the outside world to remember him. Surely the Fjeltroll could not have slain all of the Yarru-yami, not unless all of the Six Clans had remained at the Stone Grove. The desert was vast and Fjeltroll were not suited to traveling in an arid clime. Perhaps some of the Yarru lived.

Or perhaps they did not. Who, then, would remember Dam of the Yarru and his fat Uncle Thulu if they died beneath the earth? Blaise? Fianna? Hobard? Peldras, the Haomane-gaali? Carfax, who had saved him after all? He held out little hope that any of them had survived. There had been too few of them, and the Were too swift, too deadly. Even Malthus had deemed it imperative to flee.

There was Malthus, if it was true, if he was the Galäinridder after all. Dani thought he must be, even though the gem was the wrong color. But the Galäinridder had gone south without looking for them. He must think they were dead already, or lost forever in the Ways.

He was still thinking about it when they broke for a rest, laying their bedrolls a short, safe distance inside one of the side tunnels. It took a bit of searching to find a stone with a sharp point that fit nicely in the hand.

“What are you doing, lad?” Uncle Thulu, rummaging through their packs, eyed him curiously. “We’re in enough danger without leaving a sign to point our trail.”

“With the two of us marching down the tunnel plain as day, I don’t think we need to worry about it, Uncle.” Scratching on the tunnel wall, Dani drew the marking of the Stone Grove clan, five monoliths in a rough circle. He frowned, settling back to squat on his heels, then leaned forward to sketch a small vessel with a cork stopper in it, adding a digging-stick for good measure. “There.”

Against his will, Uncle Thulu smiled. “There we are.”

“Aye.” Dani set down the stone and met his uncle’s gaze. “It’s just … if we fail, if we’re caught and slain out of hand, maybe someday someone will find this; Malthus, or one of the Haomane-gaali; they have long memories. Or maybe a Staccian from Gerflod who remembers the Lady Sorhild’s stories. And they will say, ‘Look, the Bearer was here and his Guide was with him. Two Yarru-yami from the Stone Grove clan. They made it this far. They tried. Can we not do as much?’”

“Ah, lad!” Thulu’s voice was rough. “I wish I had my digging-stick with me now. There may be no waterways to trace down here, but I hated to leave it in that Fjeltroll.”

“You’ll make another,” Dani said. “I’ll help you find it. After we go home. We’ll rise before dawn and chew gamal together, then when the stars begin to pale, we’ll go to the baari-grove and watch the dew form and pick just the right one.” He smiled at his uncle. “One with a thirst for water, straight and strong, that peels clean as a whistle and fits firm in the hand, so you can lean on it once you’ve grown fat again.”

Thulu laughed softly, deep in his chest “Do you think so?”

“No.” Dani’s smile turned wistful. “But we can pretend.”

“Then we shall.” Thulu stroked the clan markings on the wall with his strong, blunt fingertips. “And, aye, lad, I promise you. Whatever happens, one day the world will say, ‘Dani the Bearer was here, and his fat Uncle Thulu, too. They did their best. Let us do the same’”

Ushahin Dreamspinner sat cross-legged on a high crag overlooking the plains of Curonan, squeezing a rock in his right hand. The heavy sheepskin cloak he wore cut the worst of the wind, but his bones still ached in the cold.

All except his right arm.

It felt strange; a foreign thing, this straight and shapely limb that moved with effortless grace. This finely made hand, the fingers capable of nimble manipulation and a powerful grip alike. Gone was the familiar stiffness of joint and bone-deep ache that plagued the rest of his body. In its place was an easy, lithesome strength and the memory of an agony that surpassed any pain the rest of his body had known, living like a phantom beneath the surface of his skin. The bones did not merely ache. They remembered.

Tanaros had told him to squeeze the rock. It would strengthen the new sinew and muscle, toughen the soft skin of his palm and fingers. It seemed unnecessary to Ushahin, but it gave a focal point to the pain; to the memory of pain. So he squeezed, and each time his hand constricted around the rock, it sent a pulse through fiber and bone that remembered its own slow pulverization. There was a macabre comfort in it; and irony, too. Another memory, an image that lay over him like a shadow, and it, too, carried a pain his bones remembered. Now, a thousand years later, here he was, a rock clenched in his fist. It was strange the way time brought all things full circle. Ushahin wished he could speak to Calanthrag about it. The Eldest would have understood.

But time itself was the problem, for there was none to spare. Not for him, not for any of them. His ravens were streaking across the face of Urulat. Ushahin sat, squeezing a rock in his right hand, and gazed through the fragmented mosaic of their myriad eyes. He could not say which filled him with the most fear: that which they saw, or that which they did not.

Hoofbeats sounded on the winding, treacherous path behind him, drawing him out of his distant reverie. “Lord Dreamspinner?”

“Speros of Haimhault.” Ushahin acknowledged him without looking.

“General Tanaros has asked me to take you to the armory.” Although he was doing his best to conceal it, the Midlander’s voice held a complex mixture of emotions. Ushahin smiled to himself.

“Do you wonder that I still live?” he asked, dropping the rock and getting to his feet. “Is that it, Midlander? Would you see me dead for defying his Lordship’s wishes?”

“No, my lord!” Speros’ brown eyes widened. He sat astride the horse he had ridden during their flight to Darkhaven; the ghostly grey horse Ushahin had lent him. Behind him was the blood-bay stallion, its head raised and alert. “I would not presume to think such a thing.”

“No?” Ushahin made his way to the stallion’s side. Its once rough hide was glossy with tending, a deep sanguine hue. He felt it shudder beneath his touch, but it stood without flinching and let him mount, slewing around one wary eye. It was much easier to pull himself astride with one strong right arm. “How is it, then? Are you, like our dear general, ensorcelled by the Lady of the Ellylon’s beauty?”

Speros kneed his horse around to face Ushahin, his jaw set, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “You do me an injustice,” he said through gritted teeth, “and a greater one to the Lord General.”

Ushahin gazed at him without answering, reaching out to sift through the Midlander’s thoughts. Ignoring Speros’ jolt of horror at the invasion, he tasted the deep and abiding awe with which the young man had first beheld the Lady of the Ellylon, weighing it judiciously against his fierce loyalty to Tanaros, born of their travail in the desert and his own inner demons. “So,” he said softly. “It is loyalty that wins. Or need I search further? Shall I tell you your deepest fears, your darkest nightmares?”

“Don’t.” Speros choked out the word. The blood had drained from his face, and his wide-stretched brown eyes were stark against his pallor. “Please don’t, my lord! It hurts.”

Ushahin sighed and released him. “Then speak truth to me, Speros of Haimhault. What troubles you?”

Speros shuddered, tucking his chin into the collar of his cloak; heavy sheepskin like Ushahin’s own. “You betrayed him,” he said in a low voice. “Lord Satoris.”

“No.” Ushahin shook his head, gazing past the Midlander toward the plains. “I defied him, which is a different matter altogether.” He looked back at Speros. So young, and so mortal! Why was it that he seemed so much more vulnerable than his own madlings? He had come here unwelcome, had braved far worse than his madlings, who were admitted unharmed. And yet. There was something touching about it; his fear, his loyalty. “Do you know what is coming, child?”

“War.” Speros lifted his chin defiantly, the color returning to his face. “I’m not a child, Lord Dreamspinner.”

“War,” Ushahin echoed. “War, such as the world has not seen since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.” He pointed to the east. “Do you know what I have seen today, Midlander? Dwarfs, on the march. An entire company, following a column of Vedasian knights.”

Speros laughed. “Dwarfs, my lord?”

“You laugh,” Ushahin murmured. “Yrinna’s Children have broken their Peace, and you laugh. You should not laugh, Midlander. They are strong and stubborn, as sturdy as the roots of an ancient tree. Once, long ago, before the world was Sundered, they made war upon the Ellylon.”

“They are very … short,” Speros said cautiously. “Or so it is said.”

Ushahin gave him a grim smile. “We are all smallfolk to the Fjel, and yet they can be defeated. Do you know what I have not seen? An entire company of Fjel sent to hunt a pair of smallfolk. Not today, nor yesterday, nor for many days now. So, yes, Midlander, I defied his Lordship. I am uneasy at the signs converging upon us. I do not have a Shaper’s pride; no, nor even a Man’s, to scruple at a dishonorable course. If there was another chance to avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single stroke, I would take it.”

For a long moment, Speros was silent. “I understand,” he said at length.

“Good.” Ushahin turned his mount. “Then take me to the armory.”

They rode in single file along the path, and the Tordenstem Fjel on sentry duty saluted them as they passed. Speros glanced at the fortifications he had built at the edge of the Defile; the wooden ricks laden with boulders, levers primed and ready. “Darkhaven is well-guarded, Lord Dreamspinner,” he said. “I do not discount your fears, but we are prepared for any army, whether it be Men, Ellylon, or Dwarfs.”

“What of Shapers?” Ushahin inquired.

Speros shot him an alarmed look. “Shapers?”

“To be sure.” Ushahin laughed mirthlessly. “Who do you think we are fighting, Speros of Haimhault? Aracus Altorus? Malthus the Counselor? The Lord of the Rivenlost?” He shook his head. “Our enemy is Haomane First-Born.”

“I thought the Six Shapers would not leave Torath!”

“Nor will they,” Ushahin said. “Not while his Lordship holds Godslayer. But make no mistake, this war is of Haomane’s making. It is the wise man who can name his enemy.”

The Midlander was quiet and thoughtful as they made their way back to within Darkhaven’s walls and rode toward the armory. Alongside the Gorgantus River, the waterwheel built at Speros’ suggestion creaked in a steady circle, powering the bellows. Grey-black smoke was churning from the smelting furnaces, and nearby, the forges were going at full blast, sending up a fearful din and clatter. Teams of Fjel handled the work of heating and reheating cast-iron rods and plates, beating and folding them back onto themselves until the iron hardened. Elsewhere, red-hot metal was plunged into troughs of water, sending up clouds of acrid steam, and grinding wheels shrieked, scattering showers of sparks. The Fjel worked heedless amid it all, their thick hides impervious. A Staccian smith clad in a heavy leather apron strolled through the chaos, supervising their efforts.

In the presence of so much martial clamor, Speros’ spirits rose visibly. “Come, my lord,” he shouted. “We’ll find you a weapon that suits!”

Inside the armory, the thick stone walls diminished the racket outside. Weapons were stacked like firewood; piles of bucklers and full-body shields, racks of spears, bits and pieces of plate armor on every surface. Whistling through his gapped teeth, Speros strode toward a row of swords, hefting one and then another, pausing to eye Ushahin. At last he nodded, satisfied, and offered one, laying it over his forearm and extending the hilt. “Try this one, my lord.”

It was strange to watch his hand, his finely made hand, close on the hilt. Ushahin raised the sword, wondering what he was supposed to discern from it, wondering what his Lordship expected him to do with it.

“Very nice!” Speros grinned at him. “Shall I teach you a few strokes, my lord?”

“I have seen it done,” Ushahin said wryly.

“Ah, come now, Lord Dreamspinner.” Speros plucked another blade from the row and tossed aside his sheepskin cloak, taking up an offensive stance. “If I were to come at you thusly,” he said, aiming a slow strike at Ushahin’s left side, “you would parry by—”

Ushahin brought his blade down hard and fast, knocking the Midlander’s aside. “I have seen it done, Speros!” The impact made every misshapen bone in his body ache. He sighed. “This war will not be won with swords.”

“Maybe not, my lord.” The tip of Speros’ sword had lodged in the wooden floor. Lowering his head until his brown hair spilled over his brow, he pried it loose and laid the blade back in its place. “But it won’t be lost by them either.”

“I pray you are right,” Ushahin murmured. “You have done your duty to Tanaros, Midlander. I am armed. Go, now, and leave me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Speros went.

Ushahin gazed at the blade in his right hand. The edges were keen, gleaming blue in the dim light of the armory. He wished, again, he knew what his Lordship expected of him. Since he did not, he found a scabbard for the blade and a swordbelt that fit about his waist and left the armory.

Outside, the blood-bay stallion was waiting, its reins looped over a hitching rail. Beneath the murky pall of smoke that hung over the place, its coat glowed with dark fire, as though it had emerged molten from the furnace and were slowly cooling. It stood unnaturally still, watching him with its wary, intelligent gaze.

“Have we come to a truce, you and I?” Ushahin asked aloud. “Then we are wiser, in our way, than our masters.”

Perhaps it was so; or perhaps Ushahin, who had been abjured by the Grey Dam, no longer carried the taint of the Were on him like a scent. It grieved him to think it might be so. The horse merely gazed at him, thinking its own abstruse equine thoughts. He did not trouble its mind, but instead stroked its mane, wondering at the way his fingers slid through the coarse, black, hair. It had been a long time since he had taken pleasure in touch, in the sensation of texture against his skin.

“All things must be as they must,” he said to the stallion, then mounted and went to tell Lord Satoris that the Dwarfs had broken Yrinna’s Peace.