Godslayer

THIRTEEN

“Lady.” Tanaros bowed. “Are you well?”

She stood very straight, and her luminous grey eyes were watchful and wary. Her travail in Darkhaven had only honed her beauty, he thought; paring it to its essence, until the bright flame of her spirit was almost visible beneath translucent flesh.

“I am,” she said. “Thank you, General Tanaros.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat, remembering how he had burst into the room and feeling ill at ease. “On behalf of his Lordship, I tender apologies. Please know that the attempt upon your life was made against his orders.”

“Yes,” Cerelinde said. “I know.”

“You seem very certain.”

Her face, already fair as ivory, turned a paler hue. “I heard the screams.”

“It’s not what you think.” The words were impulsive. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, Cerelinde! His Lordship did what was necessary. If you saw Ushahin’s … punishment … you would understand.”

Her chin lifted a notch. “The Ellylon do not condone torture.”

“He healed his arm,” Tanaros said abruptly.

Cerelinde stared at him, uncomprehending. “Forgive me. I do not understand.”

“Slowly,” Tanaros said, “and painfully. Very painfully.” He gave a short laugh. “It matters not Ushahin understood what he did. He bore his Lordship’s punishment that his madlings might not He did not want them to suffer for serving his will.” A stifled sound came from the corner; turning his head, Tanaros saw Meara huddled there. A cold, burning suspicion suffused his chest. “Do you have something to say, Meara?”

She shook her head in frantic denial, hiding her face against her knees.

“Let her be.” Cerelinde stepped between them, her face alight with anger. “Do you think I would permit her in my presence did I not trust her, Tanaros?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Do you trust her?”

The Ellylon could not lie. She stood close to him, close enough to touch, her chin still lifted. He could feel the heat of her body; could almost smell her skin. Her eyes were level with his. He could see the pleated irises, the subtle colors that illuminated them; violet, blue, and green, and the indeterminate hue that lies in the innermost curve of a rainbow.

“Yes,” Cerelinde said, her voice steady and certain. “I do.”

There was a sob, then; a raw sound, wrenched from Meara’s throat. She launched herself toward the door with unexpected speed, low to the ground and scuttling. Taken by surprise, Tanaros let her go. He caught only a glimpse of her face as she passed, an accusatory gaze between strands of lank, untended hair. Her hands scrabbled at the door, and the Mørkhar Fjel beyond it allowed her passage.

“What passes here, Lady?” Tanaros asked simply.

“You frighten her.” Cerelinde raised her brows. “Is there more?”

“No.” He thought about Meara; her weight, straddling him. The heat of her flesh, the touch of her mouth against his. Her teeth, nipping at his lower lip. The memory made him shift in discomfort. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Cerelinde moved away from him, taking a seat and keeping her disconcerting gaze upon him. “You do not know me well enough to know what concerns me, Tanaros Blacksword.”

“Lady, I know you better than you think,” he murmured. “But I will not seek to force the truth you are unwilling to reveal. Since I am here in good faith, is there aught in which I may serve you?”

Yearning flared in her eyes and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Her voice trembled as she answered, “You might tell me what passes in the world beyond these walls.”

Tanaros nodded. “I would thirst for knowledge, too, did I stand in your shoes, Cerelinde. Never say I denied you unkindly. Yrinna’s Children are on the march.”

“what?” Yearning turned to hope; Cerelinde leaned forward, fingers whitening on the arms of the chair. There were tears in her bright eyes. “Tanaros, I pray you, play no jests with me.”

He smiled sadly at her. “Would that I did.”

“Yrinna’s Children have broken her Peace!” she marveled. “And …” Her voice faltered, then continued, adamant with resolve. “And Aracus?”

“He is coming.” Tanaros sighed. “They are all coming, Cerelinde.”

“You know it is not too late—”

“No.” He cut her off with a word. It hurt to see such hope, such joy, in her face. When all was said and done, it was true; he was a fool. But he was a loyal fool, and his loyalty was to Lord Satoris; and to others, who trusted him. Tanaros fingered the rhios that hung in a pouch at his belt. “Save your words, Lady. If you have need of aught else, send for me, and I will come.”

With that he left her, because it was easier than staying. The Mørkhar Fjel at her door gave him their usual salute. Tanaros stared hard at them. Too much suspicion and longing was tangled in his heart.

“See to it that no one passes unnoted,” he said. “Even the Dreamspinner’s madlings, do you understand? It was one such who served the Lady poison.”

“Lord General.” It was Krognar, one of his most trusted among the Havenguard, who answered in a deep rumble. “Forgive us. One looks much like another.”

“Do they smell alike?” Tanaros asked sharply.

The Mørkhar exchanged glances. “No,” Krognar said. “But you did not ask us to note their scent. They are Lord Ushahin’s madlings. You never troubled at them before.”

“I’m asking you now.”

The Mørkhar bowed. “It will be done,” said Krognar. Leaving them, Tanaros paced the halls. His heart was uneasy, his feet restless. He half-thought to track down Meara and question her, but there was no telling where she might be in the maze of corridors behind the wall. And did it matter? She was Ushahin’s creature. If it had been her, she had only been doing his bidding. He had paid the price for it; for all of them. His Lordship was content. Could Tanaros be less?

Since he had no answers, he went to see Hyrgolf instead.

There was always merit in inspecting the barracks. Tanaros exited Darkhaven proper, making his way to the Fjel delvings north of the fortress. He strode through tunneled corridors, pausing here and there to visit the vast, communal sleeping chambers. They were glad of his visit, proud of their preparations, showing him armor stacked in neat readiness, weapons honed to a killing edge. Word traveled ahead of him, and he had not gone a hundred paces before the Fjel began spilling into the corridors, baring eyetusks in broad grins and beckoning him onward.

“Hey, Lord General!”

“Hey, boss!”

“Come check our weapons!”

“When are we going to war?”

The sheer weight of their enthusiasm settled his nerves and made him smile. The Fjel, who had the most to lose in accordance with Haomane’s Prophecy, were with him. No sign of faltering there; their loyalty was unswerving. “Soon enough, lads!” he shouted to them. “I’m off to see Marshal Hyrgolf.”

They cheered the mention of his name. One of theirs, one of their own.

And then there was Hyrgolf, standing in the entryway of his private chamber, his broad shoulders touching on either side of it. His leathery lips were curved in a smile of acknowledgment, but the squinting eyes beneath the heavy ridge of his brow held a deeper concern.

“General Tanaros,” he rumbled. “Come.”

Vorax walked along the northeastern wall of the auxiliary larder, touching items stacked alongside it; kegs of Vedasian wine, vast wheels of cheese wrapped in burlap piled into columns. Sacks of wheat, bushels of root vegetables; so much food it could not be stored within the confines of Darkhaven proper, but space must be found outside its walls. The towering cavern was filled to bursting with them.

All his, all his doing.

He was proud of it. There was no glamour in it; no, nor glory. There was something better: sustenance. Glutton, Haomane’s Allies called him. Let them. He had earned his appetite, earned his right to indulge it. For a thousand years, Vorax had provided sustenance. Food did not fall on the plate and beg to be eaten, no matter who you were; peasant, Rivenlost lord, or one of the Three.

No, it had to be obtained; somehow, somewhere. In Staccia, they had always understood it. Precious little could be grown in the northern mountains. Neheris had not Shaped her lands with Men in mind. There was fish and game, and sheep and goats were tended. Never enough, not for as many Men dwelled in Staccia. For aught else, they had to trade; and they had little with which to trade. There was proud living in the mountains, but it was hard living, too. It had made them hungry, and it had made them shrewd.

And Vorax was the hungriest and shrewdest of them all. He had made the bargain to end all bargains—and he had kept it, too. Staccia had done naught but profit by it, and Darkhaven done naught but prosper. The betrayal of the Staccian lordlings incited by the Galäinridder was the only blot on his record, and that had been dealt with swiftly and irrevocably. He had earned the right to be proud.

“Do you see this, Dreamspinner?” He slapped a wheel of cheese with one meaty hand. It made a resounding echo in the vaulted cavern. “We could feed the Fjel for a month on cheese alone!”

“I don’t imagine they’d thank you for it,” Ushahin muttered, wrapped in his sheepskin cloak. Darkhaven’s larders were built into the mountains of Gorgantum, deep enough that they remained cool even in the warmth of summer; not Fjel work, but older, part of the tunnel system that lore held was dragon-made.

“They would if their bellies pinched,” Vorax said pragmatically. “And it may come to it, does this siege last. Meanwhile, who procured the flocks that keeps them in mutton?”

“Would you have me sing your glory?” The half-breed shivered. “I would as soon be done with it, Staccian.”

“As you will,” Vorax grumbled, and went back to counting kegs. “Third row, fifth barrel … here.” He reached between the wooden kegs, grunting, and drew forth a parcel thrice-wrapped in waxed parchment, which he tossed onto the stony floor. “I had to bargain dearly for it, Dreamspinner. Are you sure we ought to destroy it?”

“I’m sure.” Ushahin squatted next to the packet, bowing his head. The ends of his pale hair trailed on the ground; he glanced upward with his mismatched eyes. “We had our chance and took it. The time has passed. Do you want to risk Tanaros finding it? He is asking questions, cousin, and in time he may think of your outermost larder, or learn it from my madlings. Do you want his Lordship to know your involvement? Would you risk that?”

“No.” Vorax shook his head and shuddered. “No, I would not.”

“So.” With his newly deft right hand, Ushahin unfolded the parcel. A scant pile of herbs lay in the center of the creased parchment. There had been more, once. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. “All-Bane,” he murmured. “Sprung from the death-mound of a Were corpse. I have not smelled it since I dwelled in the forests of Pelmar.”

“Aye,” Vorax said. “Or so the Rukhari swore. I demanded it in compensation for our aborted bargain. They were loath to part with it.” He shrugged. “Do you think it would have killed her?”

“Yes,” the half-breed said. “Oh, yes, cousin. All-Bane, Oronin’s Foil. To taste of it is to hear the Glad Hunter’s horn call your name. Death rides in his train, and not even the Ellylon are exempt from its touch.” He regarded the herbs with his twisted smile. “Would that Oronin Last-Born had protected his Children as well in life as he does in death. The Lady would have died had she sampled the broth.”

“Pity,” Vorax said, reaching for a torch. “It was a noble effort.”

“Yes.” Ushahin straightened and rose. “It was.”

Vorax touched the torch to the parcel. The waxed parchment ignited with a flare. Fire consumed it, and soon the dried herbs were ablaze. Tendrils of smoke arose, dense and grey, with a faint violet tint, more smoke than one would have thought possible from such a scant handful. It coiled along the floor, rising where it encountered living flesh.

“It smells … almost sweet,” Vorax said in wonder. “No wonder the Fjel did not recognize it as a poison.” A pleasant lassitude weighted his limbs and his eyelids felt heavy. He inhaled deeply. “What is the aroma? Like vulnus-blossom, only … only the memory it evokes is pleasant. It reminds me of … of what, Dreamspinner?” He smiled, closing his eyes and remembering. “Childhood in Staccia, and goldenrod blooming in the meadows.”

“Out. Out, cousin!”

The words came to him filtered through a haze; a gilded haze of swimming light, violet-tinged, the air filled with pollen. Vorax opened his eyes and frowned, seeing Ushahin Dreamspinner’s face before him, skin stretched taut over the misshapen cheekbones. “What troubles you, cousin?” he asked in a thick voice.

Pale lips, shaping a curse in the tongue of the Were; he watched with mild interest, watched the shapely right arm swing back, then forward, tendrils of smoke swirling in its wake. It all seemed so slow, until it was not. Vorax rocked on his heels at the impact of the half-breed’s palm against his bearded cheek.

“Enough!” he roared, anger stirring in his belly. “Do not try my patience!”

Ushahin’s eyes glittered through the smoke. One was black, drowning-black, swallowed by pupil; the other was silver-grey, fractured into splintered shards, like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces of bad luck, with a pinprick of black at the center. His hand, his right hand, fell upon the Staccian’s shoulder with unexpected strength, spinning him. “Vorax of Staccia, get out of this place!”

There was a shove, a powerful shove between the shoulder blades, and Vorax went, staggering under the impetus, placing one foot after the other until he reached the outermost opening with its narrow ledge. There the air was cold and clean and he breathed deeply of it, gazing at Darkhaven’s holdings until his head began to clear. There was edifice; there was the encircling wall, vanishing to encompass them. There was the Gorgantus River. There, in the distance, were the pastures and the mines; there, nearer, were the furnaces and forges, beneath their pall of smoke.

It made him glance involuntarily behind him; but the smoke of the All-Bane had not followed him. There was only Ushahin, huddled in his sheepskin cloak, looking raw with the cold.

“Are you well, cousin?” he asked in a low voice.

“Aye,” Vorax said roughly. With his chin, he pointed at the Dreamspinner’s hidden right arm. “Who would have thought there was such strength in that wing of yours. So is … that … what you might have been?”

“Perhaps.” Ushahin gave a terse laugh. “I am the Misbegotten, after all.”

“Ah, well. You would have made a doughty warrior, cousin.” There was nothing else in those words he wanted to touch. Vorax breathed slow and steady, watching the sluggish flow of the Gorgantus River below them. The waterwheel Tanaros’ Midlander protégé had built turned with excruciating slowness, murky water dripping from its paddles. Still, it did its job, powering the bellows. “Is it done?” he asked presently.

Ushahin shrugged his hunched shoulders. “Let us see.”

They did, returning step by step, side by side. There was the larder, lined with kegs and loaves and wheels. There, on the floor, a tiny pile of ashes smoldered, no longer smoking. Side by side, they stared at it.

“Is it still dangerous?” Vorax asked.

“I do not believe so.” Ushahin glanced into the darkness at the rear of the larder, where the chamber narrowed into a winding tunnel. “There is no one there to heed Oronin’s Horn. The passages are too low, even for my madlings.” He shrugged again. “Even if they were not, the tunnels leading from here link to the Vesdarlig Passage, and it is blocked, now. No one travels to or from your homeland, cousin.”

“I pray you are right.” Vorax stamped on the smoldering pile with a booted heel, grinding the remnants into harmless powder until nothing remained but a faint sooty smear. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “All evidence of our conspiracy is gone.”

Ushahin considered him. “Then we are finished?”

“Aye.” Vorax met his gaze unflinching. “I lack the courage of your madness, Dreamspinner. Already, you have shielded me from his Lordship’s wrath. I will not risk facing it a second time.” He shook his head. “Haomane’s Prophecy is no certain thing. His Lordship’s fury is. Do you cross his will again, there will be no mercy. I would sooner die in his name than at his hands.”

Ushahin nodded. “As you will, cousin.”

“Uru-Alat!” Dani whispered. “A rockfall?”

There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Uncle Thulu was silent, staring in disbelief. By the wavering torchlight, the pile of boulders before them reached all the way to the ceiling.

“No.” Thulu spoke at last, his voice heavy. “No, this was done on purpose. There’s no damage to the tunnel itself.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Of course it was. Why wouldn’t they block it? One less entrance to guard.”

It was too much to encompass. How many days had they been traveling beneath the earth? Weeks, at least; it may have been longer. Each step filled with fear and trepidation, each curve in the tunnel harboring the potential of a Fjel attack. All for nothing. There had been no Fjel. There was no egress. The tunnel was blocked.

“Can we move them?” Dani asked. “Or climb over it?”

Uncle Thulu squared his shoulders, shaking off the yoke of despair. “I don’t know, lad. Let’s try.”

They wedged the torches into the pile and began working, shifting the smaller rocks and digging out around the larger, concentrating their efforts on one several feet off the tunnel floor that appeared to be supporting the weight of others.

“Ready, lad?” Uncle Thulu asked, once he could wrap his arms around it.

Dani nodded grimly, taking hold of the boulder. “Ready.”

On a count of three, they hauled together, tipping it. The massive stone’s weight did the rest, rolling loose. As they leapt clear of its path, a small section of the pile shifted, other boulders settling in a cascade of smaller rocks.

Otherwise, it was unchanged.

“No good.” Thulu shook his head. “This is Fjeltroll work. It may go on for yards; scores of them, is my guess. After all, they’re trying to keep an army out, not just a couple of weary Yarru-yami.”

Dani took a deep breath. “I’ll see if we can climb over it.”

He went slowly, testing each hand- and foothold with care. The boulders, disturbed by their efforts, shifted beneath his weight. For once, he was glad that he was unshod, feeling the subtle movement of the rocks beneath the soles of his bare feet. Although he no longer needed the sling, his left shoulder was imperfectly healed and ached with the strain. The muscles of his legs quivered; partly with effort, and partly with nerves. The clay vial strung around his neck had never seemed so vulnerable. One wrong step, and he would set off a rockslide. Whether or not Dani survived it, he doubted the fragile vessel would.

Endless as it seemed, he eventually reached the top.

“What do you see, lad?” Uncle Thulu called from the base of the pile, holding his torch as high as possible.

“Nothing.” Dani braced his palms on the ceiling of the tunnel and sighed. The pile was solid. There was no gap at the top; or at least, only inches. “We could try making a passage from here.” He reached forward with one hand to pry a few stones loose and tried to imagine it. Moving through the darkness, shifting rocks a scant few at a time, wriggling back and forth on their bellies, pinned against the ceiling. It was not a hopeful prospect.

“It might be quicker to walk back to Staccia,” Thulu said dourly. “And safer, too. Come down, Dani. We’ll find another way.”

“Wait.” There was something; a faint current of air, moving. Dani went still, holding his outspread hand over the rocks. He could feel it, a whisper against his skin. “There’s an air shaft.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Taking a better stance, Dani slid the vial around and tucked it under his collar at the back of his neck. “Stand clear, Uncle!”

It felt good, after days and days of grinding sameness, to be doing. He burrowed steadily into the pile, working with both hands, grabbing rocks and tossing them to either side. Those at the uttermost top were smaller, easier to move. They bounced down the rockpile in a rattling, satisfying procession. The larger ones were trickier. The first one he managed to expose was at chest height, twice as large around as his head. Whispering a swift prayer to Uru-Alat, Dani worked it loose.

Unbalanced, the pile shifted. His footholds vanished, sending him sliding and scrabbling downward on his belly, nails clinging ineffectually to stone. Bruised and banged, he fetched up hard, jarring one hip against a solid, immobile boulder.

“Dani!”

“I’m all right!” He checked the clay vial and found it safe, then peered upward. The hole had widened considerably. He could feel the air on his face now. Dani inhaled deeply. “Uncle! I smell grass!”

The light cast by Thulu’s torch flickered wildly. “Dani, lad, I’m coming up.”

It was painstaking. Once Thulu completed the treacherous journey, laden with packs and torches and moving with infinitesimal care, they set to work in tandem. They worked as swiftly as they dared, widening the hole one rock at a time, working in the direction of the air current. Torchlight aided, but it posed a hazard, too. Every time the rock-pile settled and their balance slipped, there was the added risk of setting themselves ablaze.

“All this work, and I don’t suppose we’ve any idea how big the shaft is,” Uncle Thulu observed. “It will be a hard blow if we don’t fit.”

Covered in rock dust, Dani grinned at him. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not so fat anymore!”

After further hours of labor, there was no jest left in either of them. Feeling with careful fingertips, they found the bottom of the ventilation shaft, clearing around and beneath it. There was no sign of daylight, which hopefully meant nothing worse than that night had fallen while they worked. The shaft was wide enough, barely; a scant three feet across. Whether it narrowed and how high it went was another matter.

“You found it,” Thulu said somberly. “You look.”

“All right.” Returning the flask to its customary place at his throat, Dani eased himself onto his back and ducked his head under the opening. At first, his eyes grown used to torchlight, he saw only blackness and his heart sank. But gradually, his vision cleared, and he laughed aloud. The shaft was deep, but it cut an unswerving path through the solid rock. And far, far above him …

“What do you see?”

“Stars!” A patch of starlight, faint and distant. He ducked back out, eyes shining. “We can do this, Uncle. It’s a long climb, but we can do it.”

Uncle Thulu gave him a worried smile. “We’ll try.”

Squatting atop the rock-pile, they sorted through their gear, paring down supplies to the barest of essentials. A parcel of food and a waterskin apiece lashed around their waists, belt daggers, and the warm Staccian cloaks the Lady of Gerflod had given them. Dani kept his slingshot, and Thulu his flint striker. Everything else, they would leave.

“I’m smaller and lighter,” Dani said. “I’ll go first.”

Thulu nodded, fidgeting with his pack. “You know, lad, a drop of the Water—”

“No.” Dani shook his head, touching the flask. “We can’t, Uncle. I don’t dare. I don’t even know if there’s enough left for … for what I’m supposed to do. Will you at least try? If I can do it, you can.”

Uncle Thulu sighed. “Go on, then.”

There was only one way to do it. Squirming under the opening, Dani stood up inside the ventilation shaft. If he craned his head, he could see the stars. It seemed a longer way up than it had at first glance. Setting his back firmly against one wall of the shaft, he braced his legs on the opposite wall and began to inch his way upward.

It was torturous going. He had underestimated; underestimated the distance, the difficulty, the sheer exhaustion of his muscles. Within minutes, his legs were cramping and his breath was coming hard. It made him thirsty, and he could not help but think about the Water of Life and the scent of it, the scent of all life and green growing things. Three drops, and Uncle Thulu had healed almost as completely as though he had never been injured, had gained the energy to run and run and run without tiring, carrying Dani on his back. It wouldn’t take that much to make this climb infinitely easier.

One drop. How much harm would it do to take one drop of the Water? To restore vigor to his weary body, to uncramp his painful muscles, to quench his parched tissues, to erase the plaguing ache near his collarbone.

The temptation was almost overwhelming. Gritting his teeth, Dani remembered how much had spilled in Neherinach, where the Fjeltroll had caught them. Rivulets of water, gleaming silver in the sunlight, trickling over the Fjel’s horny palm. If it hadn’t … perhaps. But it had, and there was too little left to waste; not unless it was a matter of life or death. It wasn’t, not yet.

He forced himself to keep inching upward, to remember instead the look of stark disbelief in the eyes of the last Fjel to die, the one who had spoken to him. The Water of Life was not to be taken lightly; never, ever. Old Ngurra had told him that many times. In the womb of the world, Life and Death were twins. To invoke one was to summon the other’s shadow.

Inch by inch, Dani of the Yarru resisted temptation and climbed.

He had not known his eyes were clenched shut until he felt the tickle of grass upon his face and a cold wind stirring his hair and realized he had reached the top of the shaft. An involuntary cry escaped him as he opened his eyes.

“Dani!” Uncle Thulu’s voice sounded ghostly far below. “Are you all right?”

“Aye!” He shouted down between his braced legs. “Uncle, it’s beautiful!”

In a final surge of strength, he wriggled upward a few more inches and got his arms free of the shaft, levering his body out and onto solid earth. For a moment, Dani simply lay on his back, willing his muscles to uncramp. The sky overhead seemed enormous, a vast black vault spangled with a million stars, and Arahila’s moon floating in it like a pale and lovely ship. In the distance there were mountains, tall and jagged, but all around there was nothing but grass; a sea of grass, sweet-smelling, silvery in the moonlight, swaying in waves.

“All right, lad!” Thulu’s words echoed faintly from the shaft “My turn.”

Dani rolled onto his belly and peered down. “One inch at a time, Uncle.” Reaching to one side, he tore out a handful of grass. “Just keep moving.”

It was impossible, of course. He had known that before he’d made it halfway up the shaft. Uncle Thulu, he suspected, had known it all along. He was thin enough to fit in the shaft, but too big to make the climb. His longer limbs would be too cramped. His muscles, supporting his greater weight, would begin to quiver. He would be forced to give up and tell Dani to continue on his own. Dani should have given him a drop of the Water of Life. Now, it was too late.

Sitting upright, Dani began plaiting grass.

It was not as sturdy as thukka-vine, but it was strong and pliant. Head bowed, he worked feverishly. Over and under, fingers flying. It was one of the earliest skills the Yarru learned. From time to time he paused, wrenching up more handfuls of the tough, sweet-smelling plains grass, weaving new stalks into his pattern. Arahila’s moon continued to sail serenely across the sky, and a length of plaited rope emerged steadily beneath his hands.

“Dani.” Uncle Thulu’s voice, low and exhausted, emerged from the shaft. “Dani, lad.”

“I know.” He peered over the edge and saw his uncle’s figure lodged in place. Thulu had not quite made it halfway. “Stay where you are.” Kneeling, he paid out the rope, hand over hand. It dangled, a few inches too short. “Can you hold on a little while longer?”

“Dani, listen to me …” Angling his head, Thulu saw the rope and fell silent. Moonlight caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “Ah, lad!”

“Hold on,” Dani repeated, coiling the rope. “A little while.”

The words of the Song of Being whispered through his mind as he worked. Although his lips were silent, he spoke them with his fingertips, plaiting grass into rope; each strand, each loop, each growing inch a prayer to Uru-Alat. He did not measure a second time. The rope was a prayer. It would be as long as the prayer. That was the length that was needed.

When it was done, he knelt beside the shaft and lowered the rope. Wedged between the walls, Uncle Thulu braced himself in place with his legs and lashed the rope around his waist, tying it securely.

“Ready?” Dani called.

Thulu nodded. “Ready.”

Dani got to his feet. He could feel the words of the Song of Being beneath his hands, chanting in his veins. As he hauled, slowly and steadily, hand over hand, he listened to them. There was wisdom in them, old Ngurra had said; the secrets of Life and Death, twined together in the death of Uru-Alat the World God and the birth of the world. Dani was not wise enough to understand them. But he was trying.

It was part of the Bearer’s burden.

Arahila’s moon was riding low when Thulu clambered clear of the shaft. As Dani had done, he could do no more than roll onto the grass and stare at the stars. For his part, Dani dropped where he stood and sat heavily in the grass. He felt as though his limbs were made of stone. It was a long time before he could summon the strength to speak. “Where are we, Uncle?”

Thulu sat up with an effort, rubbing the aching, cramped muscles of his legs and glanced around him. “The plains of Curonan, lad.”

“And Darkhaven?”

Thulu pointed westward across the plains, toward the distant mountains that rose, black and jagged, blotting out the stars. “There.”

The candles burned low in Hyrgolf’s chamber, until the rocky niches held little more than blue flames dancing above puddles of tallow. For long hours, they had conferred on matters regarding the defense of Darkhaven; the posting of sentries, scouting parties of Gulnagel, inspections of the tunnels, manning of the fortifications, battletactics useful against Men and Ellylon and Dwarfs. The night was already old when Hyrgolf rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a half-empty skin of svartblod.

“General,” he said, holding it forth in one enormous hand. “Drink.”

Tanaros hesitated, then accepted it. Uncorking the skin, he took a deep swig. It burned all the way down to his belly, and the foul taste made his eyes water. “My thanks!” he gasped, handing it back.

The Tungskulder Fjel studied him. “I have never smelled fear on you before.”

“Fear.” Tanaros gave a harsh laugh, his throat seared by the svartblod’s heat. “Hyrgolf, my skin crawls with it. There is too much I mislike afoot in this place.”

“The Dreamspinner’s betrayal troubles you,” Hyrgolf said.

“Yes.” Tanaros met his eyes; the Fjel’s familiar gaze, small as a boar’s and steady as a rock. “More than I can say, for I fear there is reason in his madness. Would you do such a thing, Hyrgolf? Would you defy his Lordship’s will and betray his wishes if it would avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single stroke?”

“No,” Hyrgolf said simply. “I do not have the wisdom to meddle in the affairs of Shapers. The Fjel made their choice long ago, General. Haomane’s Prophecy binds us to it.” He smiled with hideous gentleness. “How did you tell me it went? The Fjeltroll shall fall.”

“Yet you do not fear,” Tanaros murmured.

“Death in battle?” Hyrgolf shook his massive head. “No, not that. Lord Satoris …” He paused, raising the skin to drink. “He made us a promise, once. He said one day Men would covet our gifts.” Lowering the skin, he handed it back to Tanaros. “He said Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped us well.”

“She did.” Tanaros took another scalding swig. “She did at that, Marshal.” He wiped his lips and sighed. “Do you think we are so different in the end, Hyrgolf? You and I, Haomane’s Allies?”

“No.” The Fjel shrugged his heavy shoulders, gazing past Tanaros at the crudely carved rhios in a niche behind one of the dwindling candles. His boy’s first effort. Not bad for a mere pup, eh? “Not in the end, General.” He smiled ruefully, a shadow beneath the dense ridge of his brow. “Problem is, we seem to be somewhere in the middle, don’t we?”

“Aye.” Tanaros got unsteadily to his feet, returning the skin to Hyrgolf. He clapped one hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, reassured by the solid warmth of it, the unwavering loyalty. “His Lordship has the right of it, Hyrgolf. Even now, I envy you.”

“General.” Hyrgolf heaved his massive body upright. His taloned hands were surprisingly delicate as they closed around Tanaros’ arm. “Go, and sleep. You have need of it. His Lordship has need of you.”

“He entrusted me with his honor,” Tanaros whispered.

“Aye.” Hyrgolf nodded. “He is wise that way. And you entrust us with yours.”

Tanaros shivered. “At what price, Hyrgolf?”

The Fjel smiled one last time, sad and slow. “I do not think that is ever given to us to know, General. We rejoice in it, for it is all we have, all we have chosen.” He gave Tanaros a gentle shove, and the advice given to the rawest of recruits. “Go now, and sleep. You will feel better once the battle is joined.”

Tanaros went, stumbling slightly. Outside, the cold air struck like a blow, diminishing the intoxicating effects of the svartblod he had drunk. He gazed at the horizon, where Arahila’s moon swam low, a tarnished silver coin, and remembered the night his Lordship had first called them to the tower to see the red star that had arisen. His soft words, the pain in his voice.

Oh, Arahila!

“Why didn’t you stay at his side?” Tanaros, wavering on his feet, addressed the moon. “You, any of you! Neheris, whom the Fjel still worship! Were you frightened? Is that it? Was Haomane Lord-of-Thought that powerful? What did you know that his Lordship did not?”

There was no answer, only a pair of Mørkhar Fjel on patrol, confirming his identity and giving him a wide berth.

Tanaros laughed softly. The air was cold, but the svartblod in his veins insulated him from it. Although he was not drunk, his flesh felt warm. “Or what did he know that Haomane First-Born did not?” he asked the moon. “Tell me that, O my Shaper!”

Light, only light; the light of the Souma, a lesser light, but no less lovely for it. It shed its silent benison. Things grew by it; things that blossomed in his Lordship’s gardens. Tanaros sighed and set his feet on a homeward course.

“He loves you still,” he informed the moon, glancing over his shoulder. “But he has made his choices. As I have made mine, as the Fjel have made theirs. The difference is, we made them freely. And he allowed us to do it. The Lord-of-Thought would not have done as much.”

The moon, the beautiful moon, made no reply.