Godslayer

THREE

On their second day on land, Haomane’s Allies compared notes as they rode along the coastal road that lay between Harrington Bay, where the dwarf-ship Yrinna’s Bounty had deposited them, and Meronil, the Rivenlost stronghold whence they were bound.

All of them had been plagued by strange visions in the night.

The Borderguardsmen spoke of it in murmurs, clustering together in their dun cloaks, bending their heads toward one another. Even the Ellylon spoke of it, when the tattered remnants of Malthus’ Company found themselves riding together on the broad road.

“’Twas as if I dreamed,” Peldras mused, “or so it seems, from what Men have told me; for we do not lose ourselves in sleep as Arahila’s Children do. And yet it seemed that I did wander therein, for I found myself watching a tale not of my own devising unfold. And a great wind blew toward me, hot and dry as the desert’s breath, and I beheld him emerge from it—the same, and not the same, for the Wise Counselor was somehow changed.”

“Yes!” Fianna breathed, her face aglow. “That’s what I saw!”

“’Twere as well if he were,” Lorenlasse of the Valmaré said shortly, coming abreast of her. “For all his vaunted wisdom, Haomane’s Counselor has led us into naught but folly, and we are no closer to restoring the Lady Cerelinde.”

Nudging his mount, he led the Rivenlost past them. Sunlight glittered on their armor and their shining standards. Peldras did not join his fellows, but gazed after them with a troubled mien. At the head of the long column of Allies, Aracus Altorus rode alone and spoke to no one. His dun cloak hung down his back in unassuming folds, but his bright hair and the gold circlet upon it marked him as their uncontested leader.

“What did you see?” Blaise Caveros asked Lilias abruptly.

Bowing her head, she studied her hands on the reins—chapped for lack of salve, her knuckles red and swollen. She preferred to listen, and not to remember. It had been an unpleasant dream. “What do my dreams matter?” she murmured. “What did you see, Borderguardsman?”

“I saw Malthus,” he said readily. “I saw what others saw. And you?”

Lifting her head, she met his dark, inquisitive gaze. What had she seen, dreaming beside the fire in their campsite? It had been a restless sleep, broken by the mutters and groans of Men rolled in their bedrolls, of Ellylon in their no-longer dreamless state.

A Man, or something like one; venerable with age. And yet … there had been something terrible in his eyes. Lightning had gathered in folds of his white robes beneath his outspread arms, in the creases of his beard. There was a gem on his breast as clear as water, and he had ridden into her dreams on the wings of a desert sirocco, on a horse as pale as death.

And he had raised one gnarled forefinger like a spear, his eyes as terrible as death, and pointed it at her.

“Nothing,” Lilias said to Blaise. “I saw nothing.”

On that night, the second night, the dream reoccurred; and again on the third. It kindled hope among the Men and unease among the Ellylon, and discussion and dissent among members of both races.

“This is some trick of the Misbegotten,” Lorenlasse announced with distaste.

“I do not think he would dare,” Peldras said softly. There were violet smudges of weariness in the hollows of his eyes. “For all his ill-gained magics, Ushahin the Misbegotten has never dared trespass in the minds of Haomane’s Children.”

On orders from Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard sent scouts to question commonfolk in the surrounding territories. They returned with a confusion of replies; yes, they had seen the Bright Rider, yes, and the other Rider, too, the horses the colors of blood, night, and smoke. A wedge of ravens flying, a desert wind. A stone in a child’s fist, crushing bone; a clear gem, and lightning.

They were afraid.

Lorenlasse of Valmaré listened and shook his fair head. “It is the Misbegotten,” he said with certainty. Others disagreed.

Only Aracus Altorus said nothing. Weariness was in the droop of his shoulders; but he set his chin against the weight of the Soumanië as he rode and glanced northward from time to time with a kind of desperate hope.

And Lilias, whom the visions filled with terror, watched him with a kind of desperate fear.

“You know more than you say, Sorceress,” Blaise said to her on the fourth day.

“Usually.” Lilias smiled with bitter irony. “Is that not why I am here?”

He studied her. “Is it Malthus?”

She shrugged. “Who am I to say? You knew him; I did not.”

Blaise rode for a while without speaking. “Is it Ushahin Dream-stalker?” he asked at length, adding, “You knew him; I did not.”

“I met him,” Lilias corrected him. “I did not know him.”

“And?” He raised his eyebrows.

“What would you have me do?” she asked in exasperation. “You are a courteous enough keeper, Blaise Caveros, but I am a prisoner here. Would you have me aid you, my lord? After you destroyed my life and rendered me”—Lilias held up her wind-chafed, reddened hands—“this?”

“What?” Leaning over in the saddle, Blaise caught her wrist in a strong grip. Their mounts halted, flanks brushing. “Mortal? A woman?” His voice softened. “It is the lot to which you were born, Lilias of Beshtanag. No more, no less. Is it so cruel?”

Ahead of them, the Rivenlost rode in glittering panoply, ageless features keen beneath their fluttering pennants. “Yes,” Lilias whispered. “It is.”

Blaise loosed his grip and retrieved his dropped rein, resuming their pace. “I do not understand you,” he said flatly.

“Nor do I expect you to,” she retorted, rubbing her wrist.

He stared across at her. “Did we not show you mercy?”

Unwilling laughter arose from a hollow place within her. “Oh, yes!” Lilias gasped. “As it suited you to do so. Believe me, you’ll regret that, my lord!” She laughed again, a raw edge to the sound. “And the great jest of it is, I find that being forced to continue living, I have no desire to cease. I am afraid of dying, Blaise.”

He looked away. “You, who have sent so many to their death?”

“Not so many.” She considered his profile, stern and spare. “Beshtanag was left in peace, mostly. The Regents were afraid of Calandor. Do you think me a monster?”

“I don’t know.” Blaise shook his head. “As you say, I have met you, Sorceress. I do not know you. And of a surety, we are agreed: I do not understand you.” He rode for a time without speaking, then asked, “What was he like?”

“Calandor?” Her voice was wistful.

“No.” He glanced at her. “Ushahin.”

“Ah.” Lilias gave her bitter smile, watching her mount’s ears bob and twitch. “So you would pick over my thoughts like a pile of bones, gleaning for scraps of knowledge.”

He ignored her comment. “Is it true it is madness to meet his gaze?”

“No.” Lilias thought about her meeting on the balcony, the Soumanië heavy on her brow, and her desire to Shape the Dreamer into wholeness, taking away his bone-deep pain. And she remembered how he had looked at her, and her darkest fears had been reflected in his mismatched eyes. Everything he had seen had come to pass. Another hysterical laugh threatened her. “Yes, perhaps. Perhaps it is, after all.”

Blaise watched her. “Have you met others of the Three?”

“The Warrior.” Seeing him look blank, she clarified, “Tanaros Kingslayer. Your kinsman, Borderguardsman.”

“And?” His jaw was set hard.

“What do you wish me to say, my lord?” Lilias studied him. “He is a Man. Immortal, but a Man. No more, and no less. I think he gives his loyalty without reserve and takes betrayal hard.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fianna the Archer watching them with distaste and smiled. “And he does not understand women. You are much like him, Blaise Caveros.”

Blaise drew in a sharp breath to reply, wrenching unthinking at the reins. His mount arched its neck and sidled crabwise.

But before he could get the words out, the fabric of the world ripped.

A hot wind blew across the coastal road, setting the dust to swirling. Haomane’s Allies halted, their mounts freezing beneath them, prick-eared. Borderguardsmen shielded their eyes with their hands; Ellylon squinted. At the head of the column, Aracus Altorus lifted his chin.

A clap of lightning blinded the midday sun.

Out of the brightness, a figure emerged; the Galäinridder, the Bright Rider, astride a horse that shone like seafoam in starlight. The horse’s broad chest emerged like the crest of a wave, churning onto the world’s shoals. The Rider’s robes were white and his white beard flowed onto his chest. Nestled amid it was a gem as clear as water, as bright as a diamond, so bright it hurt to behold it.

“Borderguard!” Aracus’ voice rang as his sword cleared its sheath. “Surround him!”

They moved swiftly to obey, dun cloaks fluttering in the breeze as they encircled the shining Rider, who calmly drew rein and waited. Blaise nodded at Fianna as he moved to join them, entrusting Lilias to her care. At a gesture from Lorenlasse, the Rivenlost archers strung their bows, moving to reinforce the Borderguard.

“How is this, Aracus?” The Rider smiled into his beard. “Am I so changed that you do not know me?”

“I pray that I do.” Aracus nudged his mount’s flanks, bringing him within striking range. His voice was steady, the point of his blade leveled at the Rider. “And I fear that I do not. Are you Malthus, or some trick of the Sunderer?”

The Rider opened his arms. “I am as you see me.”

Sunlight dazzled on the clear gem. Lilias flinched. On her right, Fianna unslung Oronin’s Bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at Lilias’ heart.

No one else moved.

Aracus Altorus broke into an unexpected grin. “That’s a wizard’s answer if ever I’ve heard one.” He sheathed his sword, leaning forward to extend his hand. “Welcome back, my lord Counselor! We feared you dead.”

“Ah, land.” Malthus’ eyes crinkled as he clasped Aracus’ hand. “I’m harder to kill than that.”

The Borderguard gave a cheer, unbidden. There was no cheering among the Rivenlost, but they lowered their bows, returning arrows to their quivers. Turning her head, Lilias saw that Fianna kept an arrow loosely nocked, aimed in her direction. There was lingering distrust in her gaze.

“How?” Aracus asked simply.

“It took many long days,” Malthus said, “for I spent my strength in maintaining the spell of concealment that hides the Bearer from the Sunderer’s eyes. What strength remained to me, I lost in my battle with his Kingslayer. When the Sunderer destroyed the Marasoumië, I was trapped within it, scarce knowing who I was, let alone where. And yet, in the end, I won free.” He touched the white gem on his breast, his face somber. “I fear the cost was high, my friends. As I am changed, so is the Soumanië. It is a bright light in a dark place, one that may illuminate Men’s souls, but no longer does it possess the power to Shape.”

A murmur of concern ran through the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.

“Is that all?” Aracus Altorus laughed, and removed the gold fillet from his head. A gladness was in his manner for the first time since Cerelinde had been taken from him. “Here,” he said, offering it. “The spoils of Beshtanag. It’s useless to me. I’d thought to ask you teach me how to wield it, but it’s better off in your hands, Malthus. I’m a warrior, not a wizard.”

Toward the rear of the company, Lilias made a choked sound.

“Ah, lad.” Malthus gazed at the fillet in Aracus’ palm, the gold bright in the sunlight, the Soumanië dull and lifeless. “Truly,” he murmured, “you have the heart of a king. Would that the gem could be given as easily. No.” He shook his head. “It is not truly yours to give, Aracus. The Soumanid must be inherited from the dead or surrendered freely by a living owner. Until that happens, I can wield it no more than you.”

Aracus frowned. “Then—”

“No one can wield it.” Malthus lifted his head, and his gaze was filled with a terrible pity. With one gnarled forefinger, he pointed at Lilias, who sat motionless, conscious of the Archer’s arrow pointed at her heart. “Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.”

Dani opened his eyes to see a dark blot swimming in a pool of light hovering above him. His head ached and the bright, blurred light made him feel nauseated. He blinked and squinted until his vision began to clear, and the dark blot resolved itself into the worried face of his uncle, silhouetted against the blue Staccian sky.

“Dani!” Thulu’s face creased into a grin. “Are you alive, lad?”

There seemed to be a stone upon his chest. He tried an experimental cough. It hurt in a number of places. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Are you?”

“Barely.” Thulu sat back, nodding at him. “You can let go of it now, lad. It’s safe enough.”

“What?” He realized his right hand was clutching the flask containing the Water of Life so hard it ached, pressing it hard against his flesh. His fingers had cramped frozen, and it took an effort to open them. The pressure on his chest eased when he released the flask. He tried to sit and floundered, finding his left arm bound and useless.

“Careful.” Uncle Thulu moved to assist him. “There you go.”

“What’s that for?” Sitting upright, Dani looked at his left arm in bewilderment. It was secured in a damp makeshift sling torn from one of their cloaks, knotted around his neck. He tried moving it. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. “Ow!”

“Careful,” Thulu repeated. “What do you remember, lad?”

“The river.” He could hear it roaring nearby. The sound of it cleared some of the mist from his thoughts. “The Fjeltroll. We were attacked.” He blinked at his uncle, remembering red blood swirling in the river foam. “You were wounded.”

“Aye.” Uncle Thulu showed him the gashes, three lines gouged across his chest. He had packed them with clay from the riverbank to stop the bleeding. It had worked, but his skin had a greyish cast. “I had a time getting you out of the river.”

“We hit a rock.” Dani felt at his head, finding a painful lump. It throbbed beneath his fingertips. He winced.

“You hit a rock,” his uncle corrected him. “I fished you out.” He padded out of sight and returned to hand Dani a much-battered bowl. “Here. Drink.”

Dani sipped broth, made from strips of dried hare boiled in river water, and felt a measure of warmth in his belly, a measure of strength return to his limbs. He glanced around the makeshift campsite. It was sparse, little more than a sheltered fire and a few garments drying on the rocks. Their pine-branch float was nowhere in sight. He shifted his shoulders and felt the pain lance through him. It was bad, but bearable. “How badly am I hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Thulu’s gaze was unflinching. “I think you broke a bone, here.” One calloused finger brushed Dani’s collarbone on the left side. “I bound it as best I could. How’s your head?”

“It hurts.” Dani squinted. “We’re not safe here, are we?”

“No.” A deep compassion was in his uncle’s gaze, as deep as the Well of the World. “They’re after us, lad. They’ll follow the river. It won’t be long. If you mean to continue, we’ll have to flee.” He opened his empty hands. “Across dry land, those places the Fjel do not believe sustain life.”

“You lost your digging-stick!” Dani remembered seeing it, the length of peeled baari-wood jutting from the rib cage of a Fjel corpse. It had saved his life. “Can you still find water’s path beneath the earth?”

“I believe it.” His uncle stared at his empty palms, then clenched them into fists. “We are Yarru-yami, are we not?” He bared his teeth in a grin made fearful by the loss of fatty flesh, his face gaunt and hollow. “As Uru-Alat wills, I am your guide, Dani. Though we cross dry land, and our enemies pursue us, we will survive. We will flee, cunning as desert rats, until we come to the source of illness. If it is your will to follow the veins of Uru-Alat, I will lead you.”

“It is, Uncle.” In a gesture of trust, Dani set down his bowl and laid his right hand open like an upturned cup over his uncle’s clenched fists. The radiating lines that intersected his pale palm formed a half a star. “Lead, and I will follow.”

Thulu nodded, swallowing hard. The apple of his throat moved beneath his skin, and tears shone in his dark eyes. “Finish your broth,” he said gently, “then gather yourself. We dare not wait. The Fjeltroll will not be far behind.”

“Aye, Uncle.” Dani nodded and picked up the bowl, finishing the last of his broth. With his free hand, he levered himself to his feet. For an instant, the world swam around him—then it steadied, anchored around the pain in his left shoulder, and the weight that hung suspended from his throat. He drew a deep breath. “I am ready.”

“All right, then.” Rising from a squat, his uncle scattered the fire with one well-placed kick of a calloused heel. Seizing their lone cooking-pot, he trampled on the coals, grinding them beneath his feet, then kicked pebbles and debris over the site until nothing of it remained. The River Spume surged past, heedless. Thulu exhaled, hard, and doubled over, catching at his chest. Bits of clay mingled with blood flaked loose. “All right,” he said, straightening. “Let’s go, lad.”

They went.

Skragdal roared.

The Fjel under his command kept silent and out of his way, keeping to the walls of the Nåltannen moot-hall. A Tungskulder in a rage was a thing to be avoided. Skragdal stormed in a circle, stomping and roaring, waving his arms in an excess of rage. The Nåltannen Elders glanced uneasily at the trembling stalactites on the ceiling of their den’s central chamber. The Gulnagel runner who had brought news of the sighting crouched and covered his head, waiting for Skragdal’s fury to pass.

Eventually, it did.

The blood in his frustrated veins cooled from anger’s boiling-point. Skragdal willed himself to stillness and drew a deep breath. Rationality seeped back into his thoughts, the cool battle logic that General Tanaros had tried so hard to instill in him, that Field Marshal Hyrgolf had entrusted him to maintain.

“Tell me again,” he rumbled.

Obliging, the Gulnagel stood and repeated his story. The smallfolk had been sighted in the southwestern verge of the Northern Harrow, where the Spume River reemerged from its journey underground. A Tordenstem sentry had given the alarm, and a pack under the command of Yagmar of the Tungskulder had cornered them beside the river. The smallfolk had held them off long enough to make an escape down the river.

“That,” Skragdal said ominously, “is the part I do not understand.”

The Gulnagel raised his hands in a shrug. “Who expects a cornered rabbit to fight? It was a narrow path and Yagmar’s folk were taken by surprise. Besides”—he eyed Skragdal’s plated armor, the axe and mace that hung at his belt, “they were not armed by Darkhaven.”

“Still,” Skragdal said. “They are Fjel.”

“Yes.” The Gulnagel shrugged. “It happened swiftly. Yagmar followed. He caught them where the river bends. He told them if they gave him the flask you seek, he would let them go. They paid him no heed.”

Skragdal closed his eyes. “They are Men,” he said softly. “Smallfolk from the desert. They do not speak Fjel.”

“Oh!” The Gulnagel considered. “Some Men do.”

“Staccians, yes.” Skragdal opened his eyes. “These are not. And Yagmar should not have tried to bargain. His Lordship’s orders are to kill them.”

“Yagmar stood this deep,” the Gulnagel said, placing the edge of one hand against his throat. “The river runs fast.” There was a murmur of comprehension among the gathered Fjel. They appreciated the power of the northern rivers, which Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters had Shaped herself. Some could be forded; not all, not even by a Tungskulder. And none of them could swim. The density of their body-mass would not permit it.

Skragdal sighed. “So Yagmar tried to take the flask.”

“Yes.” The Gulnagel nodded. “And although it was no bigger than his thumb, it make him sink like a stone.”

“Where are they now?” Skragdal stared at the messenger.

“Fled.” The Gulnagel grimaced. “Away from the river, back into the dry mountains. It is what I am sent to tell you. Yagmar found their trail, but it leads away from water. After a day and a half, he had to turn back.” He pointed at the waterskin slung from Skragdal’s belt. “Neheris’ bounty provides. We do not carry tools for hunting far from her rivers, where only small prey dwells.”

“We are hunting small prey,” Skragdal growled.

The Gulnagel gave another shrug. “What would you have us do?”

Skragdal considered the smaller Fjel, then glanced around at his companions. They returned his gaze impassively. None of them would dare advise him; not even Thorun, on whom he relied as a fellow Tungskulder. Dim light filtering through the air-shafts of the moot-hall glinted on their armor and weapons. This was the third den they had visited since leaving Neherinach. It felt strange to be among free-living members of his own people. They seemed vulnerable to him. It was not only the lack of arms, but the simplicity, the innocence. They remembered Neherinach—but that had been before Haomane had sent his Wise Counselors, armed with the Soumanië. Skragdal remembered what had happened in the Marasoumië, and the blasted node-point they had found, the carnage in Earl Coenred’s hall. Those of Neheris’ Children who did not serve Darkhaven had no idea of the forces arrayed against them.

He wished, very much, to be one of them.

The thought made him turn to the Nåltannen Elders. They were gathered in a group, watching and waiting to hear what he would decide. Skragdal bowed his head and addressed Mulprek, who was senior in this den. She was a female, her withered dugs giving testament to the myriad pups she had born. Her mate, he knew, was some years her junior. “Old mother,” he said humbly. “Give me your counsel.”

“Does the great warrior seek advice?” Mulprek wrinkled her lip and bared dull, yellowing eyetusks. She shuffled forward to peer up at him, laying a hand on his forearm. Her worn talons gleamed like steel against his hide, and she smelled of musk. Despite her age, her eyes were keen and bright. “This is a hunt, not a battle. Your prey has left a trail. You know where they are bound.” She nodded at the Kaldjager Fjel in his company. “Use the Cold Hunters. Flush the prey, and herd them. Lay a trap. So we have always done. So I say.”

It was good advice.

Skragdal nodded. “Let all the tribes remain vigilant,” he said. “All hands may be needed for this.” He turned to Blågen, whom he knew best among the Kaldjager. “Can your lads do this thing?”

“Aye. If you don’t mind losing your scouts.” The Kaldjager’s eyes gleamed yellow. He slapped his waterskin. It made a heavy, sloshing sound. “We’ve no fear of dry land. If the Gulnagel will lead us to the trail, we’ll hunt. We’ll kill them if we can and herd them if we can’t. Where do you want the smallfolk?”

The image of a green field dotted with vine-laced barrows rose in his mind. It lay on their route, and it would be a fitting place to make an end to it. Why these desert smallfolk had chosen to oppose his Lordship, he could not fathom. Already, they had paid a terrible price for their folly.

But it didn’t matter, only that the thing was done.

“Neherinach,” Skragdal said grimly. “Bring them to Neherinach.”

A river of wings filled the Tower of Ravens, black and beating.

Flying in a circle.

Tanaros stood outside himself, watching through Fetch’s eyes. He was part and parcel of the endless river, riding the silent current. Curving along the basalt walls. Wings, overlapping like scales, glossy feathers reflecting the blue-white flicker of the marrow-fire. He saw his brethren, bright eyes and sharp beaks. It was important that the wings overlap, beating in intricate layers.

His Lordship had summoned the Ravensmirror.

There he stood, at its center. A core of looming darkness, darkness visible. The Ravensmirror revolved around him. He had spoken the words in the ancient Shapers’ tongue. His blood was a tang in the air.

Through doubled eyes, Tanaros beheld him; and the Three. He saw Vorax, who stood sturdy as a bulwark in the raven’s gaze. To his eyes, the Staccian looked tired and worn. The news out of Gerflod had taken its toll. He saw Ushahin, who shone like a beacon in Fetch’s eyes. Tanaros saw a feverish glitter in the half-breed’s mien. There was power there, gathering and unspent. Where, he wondered, did it come from?

He saw himself.

A circling vision, glimpsed in the round. A pale face upraised, tracking the ravens’ progress. A furrowed brow, a lock of hair falling, so. A pair of hands, strong and capable, gentle enough to cup a scrap of life wrought of hollow bones and feathers, a quick-beating heart. The fingers of one hand curled tenderly about the hilt of his black sword, holding it like a nestling.

Tanaros blinked, clearing his doubled vision. He tightened his grip on his sword-hilt, knuckles whitening.

Lord Satoris uttered the word. “Show!”

Around and around the ravens surged, and images formed in the reflection of their glossy wings.

None of them were good.

The last time Lord Satoris had summoned the Ravensmirror, it had shown armies of Haomane’s Allies gathering. Now, they were on the move. In every quarter of Urulat, they had departed. In Pelmar, the Five Regents had assembled a massive delegation; they issued forth like a stream of ants, bent on honoring the pacts made at the overthrow of Beshtanag. In Vedasia, long trains of knights wound along the orchard-lined roads, flanked by their squires and attendants. A corps of archers marched forth from the tiny nation of Arduan. Along Harrington Inlet, the Free Fishers drew lots to determine who would stay, and who would fight On the ruffled waters of the bay, ships hurried toward Port Calibus, where Duke Bornin of Seahold awaited with the foot soldiers under his command, returning from the Siege of Beshtanag.

Vorax cleared his throat. “They’re coming here this time, aren’t they?”

“Soon.” Lord Satoris stared at the Ravensmirror. “Not yet.” He turned his unblinking gaze on Vorax. “Shall we see what transpires in the north, my Staccian?”

The Ravensmirror tilted, images fragmenting, reforming in the shape of mountains and pines, leaping rivers. Where they bordered Fjel territory, the stone fortresses of Staccia were sealed tight in adamant defense. To the southwest, along a narrow swath …

Vorax grunted at the sight of Staccian lordlings arming themselves for battle, preparing to venture southward. “Too long,” he said. “It has been too long since I went among them and reminded them of our bargain, and the peace and prosperity it has garnered Staccia.”

“Do not despair.” Tanaros watched the unfolding vision as it veered farther north. All across the peaks and valleys Neheris had Shaped, Fjel hunted; a collection of tough hides and bared eyeteeth, seeking their quarry. There were too many, and the territory too vast, for the ravens of Darkhaven to encompass, but it showed enough for hope. “The Fjel are loyal. If this Bearer is to be found, they will find him.”

“But Staccia—”

“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “Do not blame yourself, cousin. The Galäinridder made that path, bursting from the field of Neherinach, if my vision and the Fjel’s tale holds true. I felt him as I rode, sifting through the dreams of Men.”

Lord Satoris clenched his fists. “Malthus!”

The Three exchanged a glance.

“Where is he?” Tanaros asked aloud. “I thought him trapped and done.” He bent his gaze on the shifting Ravensmirror. “Where’s Aracus Altorus? Where are the Borderguard? Where are the Rivenlost?”

The fragmented visions shattered like a dark mirror, reforming to show something new. Wings beat and whispered, flitting among a copse of trees along the road, keeping a careful distance and staying hidden. The Arrow of Fire was spent, but the Archer’s gaze endured. It was best to be wary. A group; a small group, measured against the numbers they had been shown, but a doughty one. There was the Borderguard of Curonan, in their dun-grey cloaks. There were the Rivenlost, tall and fair, radiant in silver armor. They were leaving Seahold behind them, with all its pennants flying. Toward Meronil they rode, the stronghold of Ingolin the Wise, steeped in Ellylon magic.

Tanaros drew in his breath in a hiss.

At the head of the company rode two Men; one mortal, with a Soumanië dull and ashen on his brow. He knew him, knew that demanding, wide-set gaze. And the other—the other it hurt to behold, robes rustling like a storm, a diamond-bright gem nestled in his white beard. Tanaros knew him, too. He remembered the shock that had resonated through his arms when the black blade of his sword had bitten deep into the old one’s staff and stuck there. So close, it had been.

And then the Marasoumië had exploded.

“Malthus,” he whispered, watching. “Would that I had killed you.” The Counselor rode a mount as white as foam, and something in the arch of its neck, the placement of its hooves and the silvery fall of its mane, made his heart ache. Tanaros remembered it differently, cast in hues of night, as willful as this mount was tranquil. “That’s my horse! What have you done to it?”

“What, indeed?” Lord Satoris’ smile was like the edge of a knife. “Ah, Malthus! It is a violent resurrection you performed to escape entombment in the Ways. I did not believe it could be done. But it came at a price, did it not? Not dead, but almost as good.”

Ushahin squinted crookedly at the vision in the Ravensmirror. “He’s spent its power, hasn’t he? The Soumanië. He’s spent it all.”

“Not all.” The Shaper studied his adversary. “But that which remains is a brightness cast by the Souma, even as matter casts shadow. My Elder Brother’s weapon Malthus no longer has the power to Shape matter, only the spirit.”

“Dangerous enough,” Tanaros murmured, thinking of the Staccian exodus they had witnessed, the tale Skragdal’s Gulnagel had brought of Earl Coenred’s betrayal. “Where the spirit wills, the flesh follows.”

“Yes.” Lord Satoris nodded. “But no longer is Malthus the Wise Counselor capable of bringing down the very gates of Darkhaven.”

Vorax stirred. “He had such power?”

“Oh, yes, my Staccian.” In the center of the tower room, the Shaper turned to him. “Malthus had such power, though not enough to defeat me in the bargain.” His words hung in the darkling air. “For that, he would need an army.”

“My Lord, he has an army,” Vorax said bluntly. “And another Soumanië.”

“Yes.” Lord Satoris gave his knife-edged smile. “Useless to him, now. None can use it, unless its living holder surrenders it, or dies. It will be a fascinating thing to see, how my Brother’s weapon deals with this dilemma.” He turned back to consider the swirling visions, forgetful of the presence of his Three. “What will you do, Malthus?” he asked the Counselor’s image. “Will you let the Sorceress live, seek to sway her heart, and endure the consequence if you fail? Or will you see her judged and condemned to death for her crimes?” The Shaper laughed aloud, a sound that made the foundations of Darkhaven vibrate. “Oh, it would be an amusing thing if it were the latter!”

A shudder ran over Tanaros’ skin. He glanced sidelong at the Ravensmirror, where Aracus Altorus still rode alongside Malthus. There, farther back in the train, he saw her: Lilias of Beshtanag, the Sorceress of the East. She was much changed from the woman he had met in Beshtanag; pale and haggard, with fear-haunted eyes. Tanaros was aware of his heart beating within his branded chest, a solid and endless pulse.

He wondered what it would be like to have that stripped away after so long, to know, suddenly, that his heartbeats were numbered, that each one brought him a step closer to death.

In the Ravensmirror, the company of Malthus drew farther away, their image dwindling. They were passing the copse, into a stretch of open road. Among the ravens, a shared memory flitted from mind to mind: Arrow, arrow, arrow! Bodies tumbling from the sky. The ravens of Darkhaven dared not follow.

“Enough.”

Lord Satoris made an abrupt gesture, and the Ravensmirror splintered into myriad bits of feathered darkness, scattering about the tower. Black eyes gleamed from every nook and cranny, watching as the Shaper paced in thought.

“It is bad, my Three,” he said in time. “And yet, it is better than I feared. We have strong walls, and the Fjel to withstand their numbers. Malthus’ power is not as it was. What we have seen is not enough to destroy us.” He halted, a column of darkness, and tilted his head to gaze out the window toward the red star of Dergail’s Soumanië. “It is what we have not seen that troubles me.”

“The Bearer,” Ushahin said.

“Yes.” The single word fell like a stone.

“My Lord.” Tanaros felt a pang of love constrict his heart. “The Fjel are hunting. He will be found, I swear it to you.”

The Shaper bent his head toward him. “You understand why this thing must be done, my General?”

“I do, my Lord.” Tanaros did not say it aloud; none of them did. The Prophecy hovered over them like a shroud.

“Perhaps the lad’s dead.” Vorax offered the words hopefully. “The travails of the Marasoumië, a hard journey in a harsh land—they’re desert-folk, they wouldn’t know how to survive in the mountains.” He warmed to the idea. “After all, think on it. Why else would the damnable wizard head south, if his precious Bearer was lost in the northlands?”

“Because Malthus cannot find his Bearer, my Staccian.” Grim amusement was in Lord Satoris’ voice. “The lad is hidden by the Counselor’s own well-wrought spell—from my eyes, and the eyes of Ushahin Dreamspinner. Now that the Soumanië is altered, Malthus cannot breach his own spell. And so he trusts the Bearer to the workings of my Elder Brother’s Prophecy and goes to Meronil to plot war, and because there is a thing there he must retrieve.”

No one asked. After a moment, Ushahin sighed. “The Spear of Light.”

“Yes.” Lord Satoris returned to the window, gazing westward. “I believe it to be true.” His shoulders, blotting out the stars, moved in a slight shrug. “It matters not. Malthus has ever had it in his keeping.”

Tanaros’ mouth was dry. “What is your will, my Lord?”

The Shaper replied without turning around. “Send the runners back to Fjel territory, accompanied by as many Kaldjager as you can spare. The hunt must continue. Once they have gone, set a team to blocking the tunnels. Too many in Staccia know the way, and traitors among them. Tell the Fjel to return overland when they have succeeded.” He did turn then, and his eyes glared red against the darkness. “Tell them to bring me the Bearer’s head. I want to see it. And I want to see Malthus’ face when it is laid at his feet.”

Tanaros bowed his head. “My Lord.”

“Good.” The Shaper moved one hand in dismissal. “The rest you know, my Three. They are coming. Prepare for war.”

They left him there, a dark figure silhouetted against darkness. Wet darkness seeped from his unhealing wound, trickling steadily to form a gleaming pool around his feet. Twin streaks of shadow streamed past his massive shoulders into the night as Ushahin bid the ravens to leave the Tower. Watching them go, Tanaros had an urge to call Fetch back, though he didn’t.

“Well.” Descending the winding stair, Vorax exhaled heavily and wiped his brow. “That’s that, then.”

“War.” Ushahin tasted the word. “Here.”

“Aye.” Vorax grunted. His footsteps were heavy on the stairs. “I still think there’s a fine chance that little Charred lad may be dead, and this a lot of fuss over nothing. It would be like that damnable wizard to play us for fools.” He nudged Tanaros. “What do you say, cousin? Are the Charred Folk that hard to kill?”

Tanaros thought of the boy he had seen in the Ways, with a clay vial at his throat and a question in his eyes. He thought of the Yarru elders; of Ngurra, calm and sorrowful beneath the shadow of his black sword.

I can only give you the choice, Slayer.

“Yes,” he said. “They are.”

After that, the Three continued in silence. What his companions thought, Tanaros could not guess with any certitude. They had never spoken of what would befall them if Haomane’s Allies were to prevail.

It had never seemed possible until now.