Godslayer

TWO

For days, their path had taken them westward on an arid course through the Northern Harrow, following an underground branch of the Spume River.

Thulu led the way, probing with his digging-stick and listening, listening to the lifeblood coursing through Uru-Alat’s veins, deep below the surface. Dani did not question his uncle’s guidance. All children of the Yarru-yami were taught to follow the deep veins of Uru-Alat, but the skill was honed by age and practice, and this was a task for which the Yarru elders had trained his uncle for many years.

Although it was a hardship, at least it was one to which the Yarru were suited. Dani and his uncle sipped sparingly from their waterskins, their bodies accustomed to eking the most from every precious drop. When ordinary folk would have faltered, the Yarru pressed onward with only a touch of discomfort.

They kept to low ground, to dry gorges and valleys. Away from the leaping rivers there was scant sign of any other living thing, save the tall spruce that dotted the mountainsides. It was a mercy, for it meant they saw no sign of Fjeltroll. Here and there, Uncle Thulu found a tiny spring, like an unexpected gift of Neheris, a sparkling trickle of water darkening a narrow cleft amid the rocks.

Where there were springs, there was small game; hare and ptarmigan. Using Yarru-style slings Thulu had made with strips of hide, both of them took turns shooting for the pot. It was harder to get a clean shot than it was in the open desert, but to his pleasure, Dani found his keen eye held him in good stead as a marksman.

After clambering amid the mountain peaks, it was almost easy going. Their feet, already hardened by the desert, grew accustomed to the harsh terrain. The nights were cool, but nowhere near as chill as they had been in the heights. After some debate, they gauged it safe to build a brisk fire, which dispelled the worst of the cold; for the rest, they shared their wool cloaks and huddled together, doubling their warmth.

On the morning of the seventh day, they heard a distant roar. Uncle Thulu, leaning on his freshly sharpened digging-stick, turned to Dani with a grin. “That’s it, lad. That’s our river!”

The trail wound through a torturous series of switchbacks, and it was an afternoon’s hard tramping before they reached the source, standing upon a promontory of rock and beholding what lay below.

When they did, Dani gazed at it with awe.

The Spume River burst out of the side of a mountain, plunging in a mighty cascade to the churning riverbed below. At close range, the sound of it was deafening. It was like a living thing, foam-crested and green-thewed, boiling around the boulders that dared disrupt its course. On the edge of the near bank, the barren limbs of a half-fallen spruce tree struggled desperately against the current.

“We’re going to follow that?” Dani asked, agape.

“Aye, lad!” Uncle Thulu widened his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He shouted his reply. “Can’t you smell the taint of it? One way or another, it will lead us to Darkhaven!”

Opening his mouth to respond, Dani gazed past his uncle and paused. Forty yards downriver, hunkered on a ledge, a squat figure was watching them.

At a passing glance, it looked like a boulder, perched and stolid, the color of dull granite; then it flung out one massive arm to point at them, its barrel chest swelled and swelled, increasing vastly in girth, and its mouth gaped to reveal a cavernous gullet.

The roar of a Tordenstem Fjel split the gorge.

Dani’s blood ran cold.

It was a wordless roar, and it echoed between the walls of the gorge, drowning out the sound of the river, impossible though it seemed. Dani clapped both hands over his aching ears, his insides reverberating like a struck gong. His teeth, the very marrow of his bones, vibrated at the cacophonous howl.

“Fjeltroll!” he shouted unnecessarily.

Again the roar sounded, making his innards quiver. And, oh, worse, even worse! On the ridge above it, other heads popped up, silhouetted against the sky; inhuman heads, misshapen and hideous. There were at least a score of them. The sentry repeated its deafening howl and the Fjeltroll began to descend with horrible speed, jamming talons into narrow fissures and swarming down the cliffs.

“Dani!” He could see Uncle Thulu’s mouth shaping his name as he pointed toward the banks of the churning river. “This way!” Without waiting, Thulu plunged downward, slithering through a gap in the rocks.

“Don’t leave me!” Fighting panic, Dani scrambled after his uncle. It was hard to hold a thought while his insides churned, and he could scarce feel his fingertips. The paralyzing roar sounded again. Glancing behind him, Dani saw the Fjel drawing closer. They wore nothing over their coarse hide, and their leathery lips were drawn back to reveal long tusks. Small yellow eyes glinted with ruthless cunning under their bulging brows. “Uru-Alat,” he whispered, freezing.

“Come on!” Uncle Thulu shouted. At the bottom of the gorge, he had made his way to the fallen spruce and was wrenching at its uppermost branches, breaking them loose. “Dani, come on!”

Half-sliding, half-falling, the Water of Life banging against his chest in its clay flask, Dani made the descent. The plunging Spume boiled like a cauldron, then snarled and raged in its narrow bed, spitting geysers in his path. He stumbled across rocks slick with spray to his uncle’s side.

“Hold these.” Sparing a quick glance up the gorge, Thulu thrust a load of spruce branches into his arms. “No, like so. Good lad.”

“Are they … ?”Dani clenched his jaw to still his chattering teeth.

“Aye. Fast.” As calm as though he were braiding thukka-vine in the desert, Thulu wove a length of rabbit-hide rope amid the branches, deftly knotting and tightening. “We have to try the river, Dani. It’s our only chance.” He met Dani’s gaze. “Whatever happens, hold tight to the branches. They’ll keep you afloat.”

Dani nodded, understanding.

“Good lad.” With a single, quick motion, Thulu stooped and grabbed his digging-stick, shouldering past Dani. “Now go!”

The Fjeltroll were on them.

The path was narrow, and even the sure-footed Fjel could only attack two at a time. Uncle Thulu fought like a tiger at bay, wielding his stick in a blur. The unarmed Fjel hissed in fury, swiping with their terrible talons, unable to get within reach. The largest among them barked a guttural order, and two pair split away, clambering up the gorge in order to flank the older Yarru on his left. Dani, clutching his makeshift float, stared in horror. The one who had given the order grinned, a malicious intelligence in his yellow eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” Thulu shouted over his shoulder. “Go, Dani! Go!”

“No.” Deep within him, an unexpected wave of fury surged. Dani dropped the spruce bundle and reached for his sling. “Not without you!”

Busy fighting for his life, Uncle Thulu grunted.

It was a clean rage, clearing Dani’s head and making the blood sing in his ears. Somehow, although fear was still present, it seemed distant and unimportant. He reached into his pouch and withdrew a smooth stone, fitting it into the sling. He spun it, taking careful aim at the nearest Fjeltroll approaching on the left. Uru-Alat, but they were hideous! With a grimace, the Fjel pointed at the flask on his chest with one grimy talon, saying something in its harsh tongue. Dani let fly with the sling.

His aim was true. Clasping one hand over its right eye, the Fjeltroll roared and staggered. Grabbing a handful of stones, Dani flung a barrage in quick succession, driving the Fjel several paces backward. The others regrouped, watching. “Leave us alone!” he shouted at them.

It was a brief respite. Lowering their heads, the uninjured Fjel renewed their approach, grimacing as Dani’s slingflung rocks bounced from their tough hides, from the dense ridge of bone on their brows. In a few seconds, they would reach him.

On his right, he heard rather than saw it; Thulu’s sharp exclamation of pain, then a grunt of effort and a heavy thud. A Fjel voice roared in agony. An arm clamped hard about Dani’s waist, wrenching him off-balance. “Now, lad!”

And then he was falling.

The river smacked him like a mighty fist. It was like a living thing; a malevolent one that sought his life at every avenue, seeking to extinguish the spark of vital fire that made his heart beat and his lungs draw breath. Water filled his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, more water then he had known in a lifetime. Dani flailed and the river rolled him over like a piece of debris, driving him into its depths.

If not for his uncle, he would surely have drowned. It was Thulu’s strong arm around his waist that hauled him up until his head broke water and he gasped for air. With his other arm, Uncle Thulu held tight to the spruce-branch float, his fingers wedged under the hide ropes. “Hold on!” he shouted above the river’s din. “Hold on to the branches!”

Dani did.

It was barely large enough to let them keep their heads above water. The river spun them and Dani saw the Fjel on the banks, arguing amongst themselves. One lay fallen and motionless, Uncle Thulu’s digging-stick jutting from its torso. On the ledge above the gorge, the lone sentry howled in fury, receding quickly from view.

The biggest Fjel, the one who had given the orders, gave pursuit.

“Uru-Alat!” Clinging to the float, Dani watched the Fjel race along the narrow path, using all four limbs, scrambling and hurdling. His heart sank. Its mouth was open and panting hard, but it was outpacing the very current. “Can they swim?”

“I don’t know.” His uncle grimaced. Glancing at him, Dani saw trails of blood winding through the foam that churned around his submerged chest.

“You’re injured!”

“A scratch.” Thulu pointed with his chin toward a bend in the river. “Here he comes. Kick with your legs, Dani! I don’t think he can swim. If we can swing wide left, maybe the current will carry us past him.”

There where the bend created a shallow apron of shoreline and the current slowed a fraction, the Fjel was fording the river, wading with dogged persistence to intercept their course. Water parted to surge around the mighty thews of its thighs, around its waist. The force of it would have swept anything else off its feet.

Not the Fjel.

Step by step, it continued its steady advance.

Dani kicked frantically, felt the float’s course shift. His uncle grunted, beating at the river with one arm. The trails of red in the foam surrounding him spread and widened. Almost …

Neck-deep in the river, the Fjel raised one dripping arm and reached out with a taloned hand to catch a branch of their float, halting its progress. It had to tilt its chin to keep its mouth clear of the river’s surface. It was close enough that Dani was staring into its slitted yellow eyes, mere inches away.

It said something in the Fjel tongue.

“Go away!” Dani kicked at it.

The Fjel grinned and said something else, reaching with its other hand for the clay flask that hung about his neck. Water surged all around them on every side. Its taloned hand closed around the flask …

… and dropped, sinking below the surface of the river as though it held a boulder in its grasp. The Fjel sank, its head vanishing beneath the river. Its grip was torn loose from the float, and the current restaked its claim. Dani choked, feeling the thong tighten around his neck and burn his skin; then that, too, eased as the Fjel let go.

The float rotated lazily as it cleared the bend, its passengers clinging for dear life. Behind them, a column of bubbles broke the surface. The big Fjel rose, dripping and staring after them.

Too late.

They had rounded the bend.

Struggling to stay afloat, Dani watched it until it was out of sight and wondered what the Fjel had said. And then the river’s course took a steep drop and it turned once more to a white-water torrent, and he obeyed his uncle’s desperate, shouted orders and clung to the float and thought of water and how to stay alive in it and nothing else, until the raging current flung them hard against a boulder.

Something broke with an inaudible snap, and Dani felt an acute pain in his shoulder and a dull one in his head. As the world went slowly black in his vision, he worked one hand free to fumble at the clay vial around his throat. It was intact.

It was his last conscious thought.

The roar of the Tordenstem Fjel echoed through Defile’s Maw, scattering the ravens into a circling black cloud, setting the shrouded webs of Weavers’ Gulch to trembling, welcoming them back to Darkhaven.

Speros glanced at the figures crouching on the heights, remembering all too well his ungentle reception at their hands. He ran his tongue over his teeth, probing the gap where a front one was missing.

“Last chance, Midlander.” General Tanaros drew rein beside him, an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes. “I mean it. Turn around now, and ride away without looking back. You can keep the horse.”

Speros shook his head. “No.”

“You know what’s coming?”

“Aye, Lord General.” He kept his gaze steady. “War.”

Tanaros sighed. “If you had an ounce of sense, you’d take my advice and go.”

“Where, sir?” Speros shook his head again. “There’s no place for me out there. Should I join Haomane’s Allies and ride against you? I would sooner cut off my right arm.” Alarm squeezed his chest. “Do you seek to be rid of me? Is it because of what happened with the Yarru? I promised, I’ll not fail you again. And I did help, after all; you’d not have gotten the Well sealed without my aid.”

“Aye.” The General’s strong hand rested on his shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Speros. I do you no kindness in accepting your loyalty.”

“Did I ask for kindness?” Anger mixed with the alarm. “Sir?”

“No.” The General lifted his gaze, watching the ravens circle overhead. An errant lock of hair fell over his brow. Behind his austere features was a shadow of sorrow. “Perhaps it is a piece of wisdom that you do not.”

Something in Speros’ heart ached. The General feared for him. His family had reckoned him shiftless, an idler whose goals would never amount to aught. They had never showed as much concern for his well-being as the General did. They cared nothing for the ideas that fired his imagination. He had met their expectations accordingly and paid the price for it.

General Tanaros was different. He had believed in Speros, taken a chance on him. He knew, in a wordless way, that he would do anything to see General Tanaros smile, to see his expression lighten with approval.

Even if it led to defeat, it would be worthwhile.

“I’m staying.” Setting his heels to his mount’s flanks, he shook off Tanaros’ hand and jogged ahead before the Lord General could say aught else to dissuade him. One of the trotting Gulnagel grinned at him, and Speros grinned back, his sense of alarm fading. These were his comrades, his companions. One had given his life for him. They had given him the honor and respect his own family had denied him. They had labored side by side together, laying the dead to rest. How could he think of leaving?

He would find a way to prove himself to General Tanaros.

Ahead of him, Ushahin Dreamspinner rode astride, swaying as his blood-bay mount picked its way along the path of the Defile. Hearing Speros approach, he glanced languidly over his shoulder. “Weavers’ Gulch, Midlander.” He waved a crabbed hand at the sticky strands crossing the vast loom of the Defile, the scuttling weavers that spun the warp and weft of it. “Does it evoke fond memories for you?”

“Not especially, Lord Dreamspinner.” Speros eyed the hanging veils of webbing and swallowed hard. He touched his bare neck, remembering the sharp sting of a spider’s bite and awakening trussed and bound. “Not especially.”

Ushahin gave his lopsided smile. “The ones who come to me pass through untouched. Such is the protection I afford them in the purity of their madness. Still, I think you must be a little bit mad to attempt it at all.”

Speros shivered and fell back, following in the half-breed’s wake, though it was no longer necessary now that they traveled by ordinary day, and not on the path between dreaming and waking that had carried them through the Midlands and across the plains of Curonan. “Perhaps,” he said.

“Oh, I think it is more than perhaps.” Amid the ghostly veils of webbing, Ushahin smiled once more. “Tanaros Blacksword might disagree, but he’s a little bit mad, too, isn’t he? We will see, in time.”

They made steady progress through the Defile. The Gulnagel breathed deeply through widened nostrils, inhaling the odor of the ichor-tainted waters, the welcome scent of home. Beyond the Weavers’ Gulch, the Defile Gate and its flanking towers loomed amid the vast, encircling wall. Alerted by the Tordenstem, teams of Fjel were already at work opening the gate. Overhead, the ravens circled in grim triumph. The walls were crowded with Fjel, armed to the teeth, waving axes and maces in the air, shields held high. They were shouting.

“Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros!”

“Go on, cousin.” Ushahin nodded. “You’re the one they’ve been awaiting.”

Giving him a deep look, General Tanaros nudged his mount forward. He lifted one hand as he rode between the gates, acknowledging the cries. He looked weary, Speros thought. And why not? He had done a hero’s work, carrying out his Lordship’s bitter orders, keeping them alive in the desert. He had earned a rest.

“You love him, don’t you?” Ushahin asked in a low voice.

“No,” Speros said automatically, then thought of the General’s shoulder beneath his arm, urging him to keep going, step by torturous step. The General’s hands, cradling his head, placing the drought-fruit to his lips. The General, stooping under the starlight, scooping sand in a battered helmet, helping dig a grave for poor Freg. “Aye!” he said then, defiant. “I have a care for him. Why shouldn’t I, after all? My own Da never did half as much for me as the Lord General’s done.”

“Ah, well, then.” The Dreamspinner’s mismatched eyes glittered. “There’s a little piece of madness for you.”

Speros flung his head back. “What would you know of it, my lord?”

“Love?” the half-breed mused. He shook his head, fair hair shimmering. “Not much, Speros of Haimhault. What love I had, I have betrayed. The Grey Dam Vashuka will attest to that. But heed my advice, and make a good job of it.” He nodded at Tanaros. “There’s a hunger in him for the son he never had. And there’s a hunger in him for the woman whose love he lost. One, it would seem, is greater than the other. But who knows? If it comes to a choice, you may find yourself an unexpected fulcrum.”

With that, Ushahin took his leave, passing through the Defile Gate. Speros stared after him while the Gulnagel who had accompanied them passed him by on either side. With a start, he touched his heels to his mount’s flanks. It stepped forward, the color of smoke, obedient to his will.

The Gate closed behind them.

He was home.

It felt strange to be alone in his quarters. They had been tended, and recently; that much was clear. His dining table gleamed with hand-rubbed beeswax, the floors had been swept clean and the carpets beaten. The lamps were lit and a fire was laid. Hot water steamed in the tub in his bathing-chamber, but not a madling was in sight.

Tanaros hadn’t been truly alone since he had birthed himself from the Marasoumië and climbed up the wellshaft of the Water of Life. The silence, the absence of another’s heartbeat, was deafening. He found himself wishing Fetch had stayed with him, but the raven had rejoined his own kin.

Piece by piece, he removed his dirty, dented armor. The straps were stiff with grime. He placed each piece carefully on the stand, then unbuckled his sword belt and propped the sword in the corner. There was no scratch at the door, no madling coming to beg to touch the black blade tempered in his Lordship’s blood. Tanaros frowned and sat on the low stool to pry off his boots.

It wasn’t easy to get them off and it wasn’t pleasant once he did. For a time, he simply sat on the stool. All the weariness of the long, long journey he had endured settled into his bones. There was no part of him that did not ache; save for his branded heart, which no longer tugged like a yearning compass toward the fortress of Darkhaven. He was home, and he was grateful beyond telling that his Lordship had given them a night’s respite before requiring their report.

“Truly, my Lord is merciful.” He spoke the words aloud, half-listening for a murmured chorus of agreement.

No one answered.

With an effort, Tanaros levered himself upright and padded to the bathing-chamber, where he peeled off clothing so filthy it defied description. From one pocket, he withdrew the rhios Hyrgolf had given him, setting it gently upon a shelf. Everything else he left in a stinking pile on the tiled floor.

Beneath the clothing, his naked body was gaunt. The Chain of Being only stretched so far; privation had taken its toll. His ribs made ridges along the sides of his torso. Skin that had not seen daylight for weeks on end was shockingly pale, grey as a ghost. Tanaros sank into the tub, watching the water turn cloudy.

A long, long time ago, when he would return from a hard day’s labor of training Roscus Altorus’ troops, Calista had drawn his bath with her own hands. At least, she had always made a show of pouring the last bucket of steaming water, smiling at him under her lashes. See what I do for you, my love? And then she would draw a stool alongside the tub so she might sit beside him and scrub his back and add a few drops of scented oil to the water. It had smelled like … like vulnus-blossom, only sweet and harmless.

The memory made his eyes sting. Tanaros ducked his head underwater and came up dripping. He grabbed a scouring cloth and a ball of soap and set to work mercilessly on his grimy skin. The water in which he sat grew murkier. Grey skin turned grub-white, in marked contrast to his strong, sun-scorched hands. He had wrapped those hands around her throat.

Slayer. The Yarru Elder Ngurra’s voice stirred in his memory, prompted by the odor of vulnus-blossom. Dark eyes in a creased face, filled with wisdom and sorrow, beneath the hanging shadow of a black sword. Old men, old women, hanging back and clinging to one another’s hands. You do not have to choose this.

Tanaros scoured harder.

He wished he were Vorax. It would be simpler, thus. He would have come home to a bevy of Staccian maidens and reveled in it. Simple pleasures. The Staccian asked nothing more and never had. Only to enjoy them in abundance, forever. It was a good way to live. Even Ushahin had his madlings … oh, yes, of course.

That was where they were. Rejoicing in the return of their own particular master, in the camaraderie of souls twisted out of true. Settling back into the warm water, Tanaros closed his eyes. Since he was alone, he might as well indulge in his memories.

The bath-oil had smelled like vulnus-blossom …

He tried to summon it; the rage, the old, old anger. Calista’s gaze meeting his as she lay in her birthing-bed, eyes stretched wide with guilty fear as she held the babe with red-gold hair close to her breast. Roscus, looking surprised, the hand he had extended so often in false brotherhood clutching uncomprehending at the length of steel that had pierced his belly. Remembering the scent of vulnus-blossom, Tanaros tried to summon the bitter satisfaction that moment had engendered.

It wouldn’t come.

Too far away, and he was tired, too tired for rage. There was too much to be done, here and now. Calista had been dead for a long, long time; aye, and Roscus, too. Somewhere, somehow, the fearsome womb of the Marasoumië, the blazing sands and merciless sun of the Unknown Desert, had rendered their ghosts into pallid shadows. It was the living who commanded his attention. One, more than others.

Since the comfort of anger was denied him, he sought to turn his mind to matters at hand, to the report he must make on the morrow to Lord Satoris and the preparations for battle to come; but the odor of vulnus-blossom wove a distracting thread through his thoughts. He shied away from the memory of Ngurra’s uplifted face and the old Yarru’s words. Why was there such pain in the memory, enough to displace the murder of his wife? His thoughts fled to the moon-garden and he saw her face, luminous and terrible with beauty. The Lady of the Ellylon.

What did you see? he had asked her.

You. I saw you …

“No.” Shaking his head, scattering droplets of water, Tanaros arose. He stepped dripping from the tub and toweled himself dry, donning a dressing-robe. Despite the fire laid in his hearth, he shivered. She was here in Darkhaven, separated from him only by a few thick walls, burning like a pale flame. Alone and waiting. Had she heard word of his return? Did she care if he lived or died? Or did she think only of Aracus Altorus? Gritting his teeth, he willed himself not to think of it. “Ah, no.”

There was a crisp knock at the door to his chambers.

He padded barefoot to answer it, feeling the luxury of Rukhari carpets beneath his feet. Meara was there when he opened the doors, eyes downcast. Another madling accompanied her, carrying a tray. Savory odors seeped from beneath the covering domes.

“Meara!” His mood lightened. “’Tis good to see you. Come in.” He opened the doors wider, inhaling deeply. His stomach rumbled in sympathy, hunger awakening in his starved tissues. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself a proper meal. “What have you brought? It smells delicious.”

“Squab, my lord.” Her tone was short. “And other thing.” She watched the second madling lay the table with care. “Forgive us, Lord General, that we cannot stay. Others will return in time to tend to everything.”

Tanaros frowned. “Does the Dreamspinner demand your presence, Meara? Or is it that I have offended you in some way?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “Does my lord even remember?”

He did, then; her weight, straddling him. The smell of her; of womanflesh, warm and earthy. Her teeth nipping at his lip, her tongue probing. His hand, striking her face, hard enough to draw blood. Tanaros flushed to the roots of his hair.

He had forgotten.

“Aye.” Meara nodded. “That.”

“Please.” He made a deep courtier’s bow, according her the full measure of dignity any woman deserved. “Allow me to apologize again, Meara. Forgive me, for I never meant to strike you.”

“Oh, and it’s that you think demands apology the most, my lord?” She put one hand on her hip. “Never mind. I forgave you that from the beginning.”

“What, then?” Tanaros asked gravely. “Tell me, and I will make amends.”

“No.” Gnawing her lip, she shook her head. “I don’t think so, my lord. Not if you have to ask. Some things cannot be mended. I know, I am one of them.” Meara shivered and gripped her elbows, then gave a harsh laugh. “Ask the Lady, if you want to know. She’s heard word of your return. She is waiting, although she does not say it.”

“Is she?” He kept his voice polite.

“Oh, yes.” She eyed him. “She does not fear you as she does the others. I think she has seen some kindness in you that she believes might be redeemed. Be wary, my lord. There is danger in it.”

Tanaros shrugged. “She is a hostage, Meara. She can do no harm.”

The bitten lips curved in a mirthless smile. “Go to her, then. One day, you will remember I warned you. I did from the first. It was a mistake to bring her here.” She beckoned to her companion and turned to depart.

“Meara,” Tanaros called after her.

“I have to go, my lord.” She walked away without looking back. “Use the bellpull if you have need of aught else.”

He stared after her a moment, then closed the doors. The aroma of his supper called him to the table. Despite the accumulated hunger of weeks of privation, he delayed for a moment, savoring her words.

Cerelinde was waiting for him.

Ushahin Dreamspinner sat cross-legged on a high chopping block.

All around him, his madlings pressed and swarmed, jostling for position, reaching out to touch his knee or his foot in reassurance. He sat and waited for all of them to assemble—not just the cooks and servants, but the launderers, the maids, the stable lads. All of the folk who tended to his Lordship’s glorious fortress.

His people.

Darkhaven’s kitchens were roasting hot and greasy, redolent of cooking odors. For the madlings, it was a safe haven, one of the few places in the fortress in which they enjoyed the comfort of domestic familiarity. Here, they established their own society, their own hierarchy. Cooks possessed by mad culinary genius worked cheek by jowl with half-witted assistants and found common ground. All took pride in their labor, knowing that Darkhaven could not function without them; and the kitchens represented the pinnacle of that pride.

Ushahin did not mind being there. The atmosphere soothed his aching joints, reminding him of the moist, fecund air at the heart of the Delta. The belching ovens might have been Calanthrag’s nostrils. The thought gave him pleasure, though he hid it from his madlings.

Their mood, at once ebullient and penitent, disturbed him. It came as no surprise, in light of what Vorax had told him. Sifting through the endless tangle of their waking thoughts, Ushahin saw a single image repeated: Cerelinde, the Lady of the Ellylon.

He kept a stern visage until all were assembled. When Meara and the lad who accompanied her returned from their errand, he raised one hand for silence. With whispers and broken murmurs, a sea of madlings obeyed. Their twitching faces were raised to listen, gleaming gazes fixed upon him.

“My children,” Ushahin addressed them. “I have labored long and hard, through countless dangers, to return to you. And now I find Lord Vorax is wroth. How do you account for yourselves in my absence?”

A hundred faces crumpled, a hundred mouths opened to shape a keening wail of guilt. It surged through the kitchens, echoing from the grease-blackened rafters and the bright copper pots and kettles, scoured to an obsessive shine. Some went to their knees, hands outstretched in a plea for forgiveness.

“So.” Ushahin nodded. “You know of what I speak. Did you bring her here?”

A wail of protest rose in answer. Heads shook in vehement denial, matted hair flying. No, no. They had not brought her here.

“Where?” he asked.

The wailing trickled into shuffling silence. Ushahin waited.

“A place.” One of them offered it in a mutter, eyes downcast. “A place behind the walls, lord, that we made bigger.”

Another looked up, pleading. “You said those were our places, lord!”

“The spaces in between.” Ushahin nodded again. “I did. Those are the places we occupy, my children; those of us whom the world has failed to claim. No one knows it better than I. And I entrusted those places to you, with Lord Satoris’ blessing. Why, then, did you bring the Ellyl woman there?”

The hundredfold answer was there in the forefront of their thoughts, in their hungry, staring eyes. None of them gave voice to it. It didn’t matter; he knew. Lives of happy normalcy, wives and husbands, sons and daughters. An honest livelihood filled with the myriad mundane joys of living. What-might-have-been.

Oh, yes, Ushahin Dreamspinner knew.

“’Tis a bittersweet joy,” he said softly, “is it not? What might have been. I, too, have wondered, my children. What might I have been, had my Ellyl kin claimed me?” He lifted his gnarled hands, gazing at them, then at his madlings. “A bridge, perhaps, with limbs straight and true, built to span the divide between Haomane’s Children and Arahila’s. Instead”—he shook his head—“I am the abyss. And when they seek to gaze into the spaces in between and stake a claim there, they will find me gazing back at them. I am the dark mirror that reflects their most fearful desires. I am the dark underbelly of Haomane’s Prophecy.”

The madlings were silent, rapt.

“Never forget.” Ushahin’s voice hardened. “It was the Ellylon who rejected me, who wanted no part of a child of mixed blood, gotten in violence and tainted—tainted, they say—by Lord Satoris’ Gift. I am the very future they court in fear and loathing. I am the shadow that precedes the children of the Prophecy they seek to fulfill. And who can say that they will not despise their own offspring? For they, too, will carry the taint of Lord Satoris’ Gift with them.”

Someone hissed.

Ushahin smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “For they despise his Lordship above all else; always and forever. They may grieve at your pain, and they may offer pleasant visions, but they are Haomane’s Children, and they will not lift one finger”—he raised one crooked finger—“to aid you unless Haomane profits by it.”

The kitchen erupted in indignant rage. Ushahin rode their anger like a wave, letting them seethe and rant until they subsided, turning toward him with expectant eyes, waiting to hear what he would say next. His madlings knew him. They understood him. He had been broken and had risen triumphant nonetheless; he bore the badges of his breaking—his uneven face, his twisted limbs—in painful solidarity with their aborted lives and shattered minds. It was for this that they loved him.

A vast tenderness infused his heart, and he wondered if Shapers felt thusly toward their Children. It seemed it might be so.

“It is well that you remember this,” he told them, “for war comes upon us. And we may put faces to those enemies we know, but ’tis harder to put faces to the enemies among us. Who among you would betray Lord Satoris?”

No one, no one, arose the cries; at once both true and not-true. Somewhere, the seeds of betrayal had already taken root. Listening to the madlings’ protestations, Ushahin thought of Calanthrag the Eldest and the things of which she had spoken. A shadow of sorrow overlay the tenderness in his heart. The pattern was fixed and inevitable. He could only serve his Lordship as best he might and pray that these spreading roots would not bear fruit for many generations to come. The Eldest herself had borne the same hope. He remembered her words, uttered in her knowing, sibilant hiss: Yet may it come later than sssooner for ssuch as I and you.

“Well done, my children,” Ushahin said to his madlings. “Keep faith, and hope. Remember that it is his Lordship’s mercy that protects us here.” He held up his hand to quiet them and made his voice stern once more. “Now, who will speak to me of the hole that pierces the bowels of Darkhaven? How is it that a gap has opened onto the marrow-fire itself?”

This time, the silence was different.

“We didn’t do it, my lord!” It was one of the stable lads who spoke, near the exits. He ducked his head with a furtive blush. “It was just there.”

Madlings glanced at one another, catching each other’s eyes. The question was asked and answered. There were nods and murmurs all around. Each time, it was the same. They had had naught to do with it.

A cold finger of fear brushed the length of Ushahin’s crooked spine. He thought of how Darkhaven had been built, of how Lord Satoris had used the power of Godslayer to raise the mountains that surrounded the Vale of Gorgantum and laid the foundation of Darkhaven itself. What did it mean if the foundation was crumbling? What did it mean if Lord Satoris himself had allowed it to happen—or worse, was unaware?

For all things mussst be as they musst.

“No.” He caught himself shaking his head, saying the word aloud. With an effort, Ushahin willed himself to stillness, breathing slowly. The madlings watched him with trepidation. “No, never mind, it’s all right.” He forced a lopsided smile. “You did no wrong, then. It is nothing that cannot be mended. All is well.”

A collective sigh of relief ran through his madlings. With a final nod, Ushahin gave them license, permitted them to shuffle forward, a sea of humanity surging against the small island promontory of his chopping-block dais. He gave them his broken hands to clutch and stroke, offering no false promises nor comfort, only the sheltering shield of his stubborn, enduring pain.

“Oh, lord!” It was a young woman who spoke, eyes bright with emotion. She kissed his fingertips and pressed his hand to her cheek. “I tried, my lord, I did. Forgive me my weakness!”

“Ah, Meara.” Bending forward, Ushahin caressed her cheek. He touched the surface of her thoughts and saw the shadow of Tanaros’ face therein. He grasped a little of what it betokened and pitied her for it. What was love but a little piece of madness? “All is well. I forgive you.”

She caught her breath in a gasping laugh. “You shouldn’t. I brought her there. We are weak. I am weak.” She cradled his hand, gazing up at him. “You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.”

“Yes.” Ushahin grew still, hearing his own thoughts echoed. “I know.” For a moment, they remained thusly. Then his heart gave a twinge beneath the branded skin that circumscribed it, and he shook his head ruefully and withdrew his hand. “I cannot, little sister. I am sworn to his Lordship, and he would see her live. I cannot gainsay his will. Would you have it otherwise?”

“No.” Unshed tears pooled like diamonds in her eyes.

“Remember what you are,” he said gently to her, “and do not dwell on what-might-have-been. Remember that I love you for that-which-is.”

“I will!” Her head bobbed, overbrimming tears forging swathes down her sallow cheeks. Meara sniffled and scrubbed at her tears. “I will try, lord.”

“Good.” Ushahin gazed past her at the faces of the madlings still awaiting his regard. “Well done, my child.” So many of them! How had their numbers come to swell so large? Their pain made his heart ache. He understood them, understood their weaknesses. What-might-have-been. A rock, clutched in a boy’s hand, descending. What if it had never fallen? A trader’s shadow, darkening the alley before withdrawing; his father, a tall shadow, turning away with averted face. What if someone—anyone—had intervened? It was a dream, a sweet dream, a bittersweet dream.

He understood.

And as for the other thing …

Ushahin shuddered, thinking of the foundations of Darkhaven giving way beneath him. The passages were too narrow to allow the Fjel masons access, and any patchwork Vorax’s Staccians had done was merely a stopgap. If the foundation crumbled, it was symptomatic of things to come. Only his Lordship could root out this decay—if he retained the will and the power and the sanity to do so. Ushahin would speak to him. He prayed his Lordship would hear his words and act upon them, for if he did not …

“May it come later than sooner,” he whispered, opening his arms to his throng. “Oh, please, may it!”