Godslayer

NINETEEN

Darkhaven’s kitchens were filled with a fearsome clatter.

That was where Dani and Thulu found themselves herded once the long work of loading half-smoked sides of mutton onto the endless supply-wagons was done. It had been a long nightmare, filled with blood and smoke, the both of them staggering with laden arms along the stony trails. It seemed impossible that no one should notice them, but amid the horde of toiling madlings, they might as well have been invisible. Back and forth, back and forth, until the work was done and the army departed for the plains below.

And when it was, they were herded into the kitchens under the careless eye of a pair of Fjeltroll guards, who had larger matters on their minds. Darkhaven was buzzing like a hornets’ nest; no one paid heed to a pair of filthblackened Yarru huddled in a corner. The kitchens swarmed with such figures, swarthy with smoke and pitch and dried blood from the long night’s labors.

Madlings.

Dani heard the word without understanding. In the kitchens, he understood. The inhabitants—the human inhabitants—of Darkhaven were mad. They had no way to cope with what transpired. It was clear to him, and to Thulu, that the bulk of Darkhaven’s forces had abandoned the premises. Still, the madlings must cook; must prepare, must tend and be useful.

Pots boiled on stoves. Dishes roasted in ovens. It did not matter that there was no one to eat them. There was a kind of fearful safety amidst the mayhem, but it was not one that could last.

“Where to, lad?” Uncle Thulu whispered.

Dani, who had sunk his head onto pillowed arms, raised it with an effort. “I don’t know,” he said dully. “I would ask … I would ask …” He shook his head. “I’m tired.”

Thulu regarded him. “Would you ask, lad, or do?”

“I don’t know.” Dani raked his hands through his lank black hair. “Before … ah, Uncle! I wanted to ask. What has the Sunderer done to the Yarru that I should seek to destroy him? And yet …” He was still, remembering. Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions. “I fear perhaps we have passed such a point, and Malthus the Counselor had the right of it all along.”

“Hey!” A figure shouted at them, glowering, brandishing a ladle in one hand. “What idleness is this? Does it serve his Lordship?” A platter was thrust forward, a silver salver with a dish-dome upon it. “Here,” the figure said roughly. “Take it to her Ladyship. She’s been near forgotten in the uproar. Few enough folk want to take the risk of waiting on her now, but you’ll do in a pinch.”

Dani rose to his feet and took it unthinking, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head; Uncle Thulu was a step behind him.

“Well?” The cook’s figure loomed. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

They went.

Darkhaven’s halls made its kitchens seem a haven of comfort. They were massive and windowless, wrought entirely of gleaming black stone. No gentle lamplight alleviated the darkness; only veins of blue-white fire glittering in the walls. Cradling the tray against his hip, Dani laid one hand upon one wall and found it warm.

“Marrow-fire,” he murmured. “It must be.”

“Aye, but where’s the Source?”

“I don’t know.” Dani shook his head. “Below, Malthus said. Somewhere in the depths of the earth, below Darkhaven’s foundation.”

“I’ve seen no stair.” Thulu sighed. “We’ll have to search, Dani. Best we find a place to hide that tray and ourselves before our luck runs out.”

“The tray.” Dani glanced at it. “For her Ladyship, he said. Do you suppose …”

“The Lady Cerelinde?” Uncle Thulu whistled softly.

“She would know what to do,” Dani said, for it seemed to him it must be true. The Haomane-gaali Peldras had been wise; not as wise as Malthus, but wise and gentle, filled with the knowledge of his long years. Surely the Lady of the Ellylon must be no less! The thought of laying the burden of decision on the shoulders of someone wiser than he filled him with relief. “All we have to do is find her.”

The task proved easier than they reckoned. After a few more turns, they rounded a corner to see a quartet of Fjeltroll posted outside a door halfway down the hall. They were hulking Fjel with black, bristling hides and gleaming black armor. A madling was speaking to them; a woman.

Dani stopped with a mind to retreat. It was terrifying enough to have passed to and fro under the noses of the Fjeltroll amid a reeking crowd. This was too dangerous.

And too late.

The woman caught sight of them and raised her voice. “Time and more you came! Would you have her Ladyship starve?” She beckoned, impatient, as they stood frozen and staring. “Well, come on!”

Dani and his uncle exchanged a glance, then proceeded slowly.

For a moment, a brief moment, he thought they would get away with it. The madling woman snatched the tray from his hands, giving it to the Fjeltroll to inspect. One lifted the domed cover, and another leaned down to smell the dish. Dani began to back away unobtrusively, Thulu behind him.

“Wait.” One of the Fjel guards spoke. They froze where they stood. It sniffed the air, broad nostrils widening. “These two are new,” it said in its low, guttural voice. “What did the General say to do?”

Dani wished they had run, then; had run, had hidden, had never tried to find the Lady Cerelinde. The madling came toward them. Her eyes glittered with an unholy glee as she drew near, near enough that he could smell her, rank and unwashed.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Has General Tanaros been looking for you?”

Neither of the Yarru answered.

Slow and deliberate, the madling held up one hand and licked her forefinger, then swiped it down the side of Dani’s face. He held himself still and rigid, staring at her. A layer of soot and river mud came away, revealing the nut-brown skin beneath it.

“If I were you,” the madling said almost kindly, “I would run.”

They took her advice, pelting down the hall. Behind them came the clamor of a laden tray falling, and the deep roar of Fjel pursuit.

Meara watched the Charred Folk run. The sight made her laugh as few things did in these dire times. Lord Ushahin Dreamspinner would be proud if he were here; even Tanaros himself would be proud. She took a moment to imagine it—his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes filled with fondness, a rare smile on his lips as he said, “Meara, today your deeds fill me with pride.”

Of course, the Fjel had to catch them first. The thought caused her laughter to falter and vanish, replaced by a frown. She shouldn’t have told them to run. She hadn’t thought they really would. The Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard were tireless, but not swift, not like the Gulnagel.

But then, if the Charred Folk hid, the madlings could find them. Meara brightened at the thought. There was nowhere in Darkhaven anyone could hide that the madlings could not find them. Her smile was quite restored by the time the Lady opened the door.

Suddenly, Meara did not feel proud anymore.

The Lady Cerelinde looked at the silver dishes, the remains of her meal spattered over the gleaming marble floor of the hall. “Meara, what has happened here?” she asked in her gentle voice.

“Danger, Lady.” She ducked her head and mumbled. “Strange Men. The Fjel will find them.”

“What Men?” The Lady’s voice rose when Meara remained silent. It was not harsh, no, it could never be harsh, but it held an edge as keen and bright as a sword. “Meara, what Men?”

“Charred Folk,” Meara whispered, lifting her head.

The Lady Cerelinde took a sharp breath, and something in her face changed. A connection was made, a piece of the puzzle falling into place at last. It was nothing Meara understood, and yet she bore witness to it. “The Unknown Desert!” The Lady’s slender fingers closed on Meara’s arm, unexpectedly strong. “Come inside.”

Meara followed, helpless and obedient. Behind closed doors, the Lady laid her hands on Meara’s shoulders. It was just as she had imagined, only it was wrong, all wrong. No General Tanaros, no warm glow of pride. Only the Lady Cerelinde, her face filled with bright urgency. The world seemed to tilt and sway as she spoke. “Tell me about these Men. Did they come bearing anything that you might have noted? Waterskins? Vessels?”

Meara gaped at her. “No, Lady! They were … Men, dirty Men!”

The Lady’s face changed again as hope went out of it, and it was as though someone had blown out all the lamps in the room. “Thank you, Meara,” she said, releasing her.

“I’ll go see about your dinner, Lady,” Meara said humbly. Everything was normal and the world was no longer tilting; and yet it seemed as though something precious had been lost. A memory came unbidden and she offered it up. “The younger one did have a flask, Lady. A little one made of clay, tied on a thong around his neck.”

There was a long pause, a not-daring-to-hope pause. “You’re certain of this, Meara?”

She nodded, miserable. She should not have spoken.

The world spun crazily as hope returned in a blaze; brightness, brightness in the room, brightness in the Lady Cerelinde’s face. The Lady was speaking, more words that rang like swords, bright and terrible, and Meara longed for the black pit to open, for the tide of gibberish to rise in her head, silencing words she did not want to hear. Anything, anything to drown out the awful charge. But no black pit opened, no tide arose. The voices were silent, driven into abeyance by the Lady’s fierce glory.

“ … must find them, Meara, seek them out and find them, hide them from the Sunderer’s minions! Give them what aid you may, for unless I am sore mistaken, the fate of the world rests upon their shoulders.” She stooped to gaze into Meara’s face. “Do you understand?”

Meara freed her tongue from the roof of her mouth to answer. “No,” she whispered.

“I speak of healing the world,” the Lady Cerelinde said gravely. She touched Meara, cupping her head in her fair, white hands. “All the world, Meara; Urulat and all that lies within it. Even you. All that might have been may yet be.”

Fire, cool fire. Why did Haomane have to Shape such majesty into his Children? Why must it be given to us to know, to compare? No wonder Tanaros ached for her; and he did, he did. Meara knew he did. I told him you would break our hearts. She felt tears well in her eyes, her nose running. Ugly, unglamorous; a filthy madling, no more. She longed to wipe it, longed to break away from the horrible burden of trust in the Lady’s glorious eyes.

“I can’t!” she gasped. “I can’t!”

“You can.” Still stooping, the Lady Cerelinde touched her lips to Meara’s damp brow. An oath, a promise, a lance of cool fire piercing her fevered brain. “Haomane’s Prophecy is at work here. And there is goodness in you, Meara of Darkhaven. In that, I believe.”

She staggered when the Lady loosed her; staggered and caught herself, staring dumbfounded as the Lady went to the tapestry that concealed the hidden passage, drawing back its bolts. So she had done once before, saving Meara from certain discovery. A debt had been incurred, returning threefold. She had not wanted it, had not wanted any of it. And yet, still it was.

Cerelinde, Lady of the Ellylon, stood upright and tall, shining like a candle in the confines of Darkhaven. She breathed a single word; but all the pride, all the hope, all the terrible, yearning beauty of the Rivenlost lay behind it.

“Please.”

Stumbling and numb, wiping her nose, Meara went.