Godslayer

SIX

From his perch high atop a pine tree, Dani saw the Fjel.

It was the fourth time that day he had clambered up the tree, using it as a vantage point to survey the barren reach. Each time, he whispered a prayer to Uru-Alat, praying to find the landscape empty as it had been the day before, and the day before it.

On the third day, his luck ran out.

Although it was hard to tell from so far away, they appeared to be the same kind he had seen before—lean and predatory, with smooth, grey hides that were blended into the rocky terrain. If he hadn’t been keen-sighted, he might have missed them. But, no, there it was again—a steely flash in the distance, the northern sunlight glinting on armor plate. Clinging to the pine’s trunk with his good right arm, he stared intently at the direction of the Fjel. There were more of them this time, though only one wore armor. Save for the waterskins strapped over their torsos, the rest were unadorned.

They were traveling in a pack and they were traveling swiftly. For a moment, Dani watched, mesmerized by their steady, tireless lope. Even at a distance, an awful grace was in it.

Then fear returned in a rush, the sour taste of it in his mouth. Using both feet and the one hand, Dani descended the pine tree in awkward haste, heedless of the prickling needles and rough bark, and hurried into the hidden cave.

“Fjeltroll?” Uncle Thulu’s voice was faint and thready.

“Aye.” He met his uncle’s feverish gaze. “A dozen at least.”

“Did they see you?”

“No.” Dani shook his head. “They’re pretty far south of us and moving fast, all in a pack. It doesn’t even look like they’re hunting. I think they’ll miss us,” he added hopefully. “Maybe they’re not even looking.”

“No.” Uncle Thulu coughed weakly and wheezed, one hand scrabbling at his chest. In the dim light, his shirt was stained dark with seeping fluids. Despite Dani’s best efforts to clean and tend them, his wounds continued to fester. Yesterday, they had begun to slough dead flesh and the small space stank of it. “Help me sit.”

With alacrity, Dani eased him into a sitting position, propped against the cavern wall. “Better?”

“Aye,” Uncle Thulu whispered, licking his dry, cracked lips.

“Here.” Moving deftly and quietly, Dani made his way to the mouth of the cave. There, in a shallow depression to one side, was a cache of moss he had gathered. It had sustained them during the past three days. Grasping a smooth stone, he ground the spongy moss into a damp paste. Scooping up a handful, he returned to squat beside his uncle. With gentle care, he spread the paste on the elder Yarru’s parched lips. “Try to eat.”

Uncle Thulu’s mouth worked with difficulty, his sluggish tongue taking in the moss paste. Blinking back tears, Dani spread another fingerful on his lips. There was moisture in it, not much, but enough to live on. It was the only thing he had been able to find within half a day’s journey of their hiding place. And if he had not seen a single lost elk grazing on it, he might never have thought to try the moss. It was all that had kept his uncle alive.

And barely, at that.

“Enough.” Uncle Thulu grasped Dani’s wrist with urgent strength and drew in a deep, rattling breath. “Dani, listen to me.”

“Yes, Uncle.” His chest ached with fear and love.

“They’re starting over. That’s why they’re moving in a hurry. They’re going back to pick up our trail from the beginning. And if they’ve added to their numbers, they’re not going to miss us this time.” Thulu’s eyes were overbright in his wasted face. “Dani, you have to go. Now.”

“I won’t.” He refused to hear what Thulu was saying. “Not without you.”

His uncle said it anyway. “I’m dying, Dani.”

“What if we went back?” The thought struck him like an offer of salvation. “We could wait for them to pass, then head south! They wouldn’t hunt for us once we passed out of Fjel territory, and the Staccians … well, they’re just Men, we can hide from Men, Uncle! And get you home, where—”

“Dani.” Uncle Thulu’s grip tightened on his wrist. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said gently. “Do you understand? This is where the journey ends for me. I’m sorry, lad. You’ve got to go on without me.”

“No!” Pulling away, Dani clutched the clay vial around his neck. “For what?” he asked angrily. “For this? It’s not worth it! It’s not fair, uncle!” He yanked at the vial with all his strength. For a moment, the braided cord on which it was strung burned the skin of his neck; then it parted with a faint snap. Dani held the vial in one hand. Hot tears burned his eyes, and his voice trembled. “I didn’t ask to be the Bearer! What’s Satoris ever done to the Yarru-yami, anyway, that we should seek to destroy him? It’s not his fault Haomane’s Wrath scorched the desert, he was just trying to hide from it! And if he hadn’t … if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have found the Water of Life! We wouldn’t be the keepers of Birru-Uru-Alat. We wouldn’t even be what we are!”

The ghost of a smile moved Thulu’s cracked lips. “These are fitting questions for the Bearer to ask,” he whispered. “But you will have to answer them alone.”

Dani unclenched his hand, staring at the vial. It lay on the starry, radiating lines of his grimy palm; a simple object, fragile and crude. Clay, gathered from a scant deposit at one of the Stone Grove’s water-holes, fired with baari-wood and dung in a pit dug into the desert’s floor.

Inside it was the Water of Life, water he had drawn from the Well of the World and dipped from the bucket, holding it in his cupped palms as old Ngurra had told him to do, filling the vial with care. The lifeblood of Uru-Alat, the World God; the secret the Yarru-yami held in trust. A gift only the Bearer could draw; a burden only the Bearer could carry. A choice in the making.

In the apple orchards of Malumdoorn, while the sun slanted through the trees and the Dwarfs stood watching, a single drop had caused a dead stick to burst into green life; planting roots, sprouting leaves and blossoms.

A dawning certainty grew in him. For the first time, Dani saw clearly the divided path before him and understood that the choice between them was his, and his alone, to make. Not for the sake of Malthus, whose impassioned words had swayed him; not for the sake of Carfax, who had given his life to save him. Not even for his uncle, who would gainsay it. The choice was his, and his alone. This, and not the Water itself, was the Bearer’s true burden.

Dani lifted his head. “No, Uncle. Not just yet.”

“Ah, lad!” There was alarm in Thulu’s weak voice. “The Water of Life is too precious to waste—”

“Am I the Bearer?” Dani interrupted him. “You keep telling me it is my right to choose, Uncle, and yet you give me no guidance, no hint as to which choice is right. Well, I am choosing.” With one thumbnail, he pried at the tight cork, working it loose. The faint scent of water, life giving and mineral-rich, trickled into the small cavern. With his heart hammering in hope and fear, Dani bent over his uncle and smoothed his brow, putting the vial close to his lips. “I choose for you to live.”

Uncle Thulu exhaled one last, long, rattling breath and closed his eyes in surrender. “May it be as Uru-Alat wills,” he whispered.

At close range, the stench of his suppurating wounds vied for dominance with the odor of water. Dani ignored it, concentrating on tilting the flask. Under his breath, he chanted the Song of Being, the story of Uru-Alat and how the World God died to give birth to the world. It was an act of prayer; a Yarru prayer, the oldest prayer, a story learned and told in the deep places of the earth, where the veins of life pulsed and the Yarru had hidden from Haomane’s Wrath. It was an old story; older than the Shapers. It was as old as dragons, who were born in the deep places from the bones of Uru-Alat and carried a spark of marrow-fire in their bellies.

A single drop gathered on the clay lip of the vessel. It gathered and swelled; rounding, bottom-heavy. It shone like a translucent pearl, glimmering in the shadowy cavern, reflecting all the light in the world.

Beneath it were his uncle’s parted lips. Dark flesh, fissured and cracked, smeared with moss-paste. The tip of his tongue, a pink supplicant lying quiescent on the floor of his thirsting mouth.

Dani tilted the vial.

One drop; two, three!

They fell like stars through the dark air into the mortal void of Uncle Thulu’s waiting mouth. And, oh, Uru-Alat! A sweet odor burst forth as they fell, redoubled in strength; a scent like a chime, like the sharp clap of a pair of hands.

It happened almost too quickly for sight to follow. Uncle Thulu’s eyes sprang open, wide and amazed. His chest heaved as he drew in a great, whooping gasp of air. Dani cried aloud in astonishment, scrambling backward and nearly spilling the Water of Life. He shoved the cork into the clay flask, then shoved his knuckles into his mouth, fearful that his outcry would draw the Fjeltroll.

“Ah, Dani, lad!” Uncle Thulu sat upright. The brightness in his eyes owed nothing to fever—it was the brightness of sunlight on clear waters, a promise of life and health. “If this is folly, what a glorious folly it is!” He grinned, showing strong white teeth, and yanked his shirt aside to expose his chest. “Tell me what you see!”

Beneath the foul-crusted wool, Thulu’s skin was smooth and dark, gleaming with health. In the dim light, Dani could barely make out three faint lines, pale threads like long-healed scars. He sighed with relief. “They’re well and truly healed, aren’t they?”

“More than healed!” His uncle’s voice reverberated joyously from the cavern walls. “Ah, lad! I’ve never felt better in my life! Why, I could—”

“Shhh!” Dani laid one hand over Thulu’s lips. “The Fjeltroll.”

“Right.” His uncle nodded. “Aye, of course.”

“I’ll go look.” Without waiting for Thulu to argue, Dani turned to wriggle out of the cavern’s narrow opening. With the vial in one hand and the dirty sling still tied around his left arm, it was awkward going. He inched beneath the concealing pine branches and into the open, crawling on his belly until he had a clear view.

There, to the southeast, a moving smudge on the landscape; a dull glint of steel. He didn’t even need to climb the tree to spot them. The Fjel had already passed them. They were moving fast … and they would be returning fast, too.

“Have they gone?”

Dani winced at the sound of his uncle’s voice. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Thulu standing in front of the cave. “Aye, barely. Uncle, get down, please!”

“Sorry, lad.” Thulu drew a shuddering breath and dropped to a squat. In the open light of day, he looked even more hale—unnervingly hale. The muscles in his sturdy thighs bunched and twitched with vigor. “It’s just … I don’t know if I can explain, but it’s like a fire in my veins, Dani. I can’t hold still.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Just as well, isn’t it? We’ve no time to waste.”

“You’ll have to sit for a minute.” Dani sat in a hunched pose and concentrated on splicing the broken thukka-vine thong on which the vial was strung, braiding the strong fibers. “VVe’re not going anywhere until those Fjeltroll are long out of sight.”

“And where shall we go when we do, Bearer?” Despite it all, Uncle Thulu put the question to him gently, remembering the words Dani had spoken in fear and anger. “It seems, against the odds, that I am still here to guide you. Where is it you would go?”

Dani bowed his head, his coarse black hair hiding his expression. “Darkhaven,” he murmured. “We go to Darkhaven, Uncle.”

“You’re sure?”

“Aye.” He stroked the pit-fired clay vessel with one fingertip. “I made a choice, Uncle. I’m responsible for it now. And if there are questions the Bearer should ask …” He shrugged. “Perhaps I should ask them in Darkhaven.”

Uncle Thulu watched him. “It is Darkhaven’s agents who seek your life.”

“I know.” Dani tested the spliced thong’s strength and gauged that it would hold. Raising his good arm, he slipped the vial around his neck, feeling it nestle into place against his chest. “I have given them reason.”

“You know, lad.” Uncle Thulu nodded at Dani’s left arm, bound in its sling. “I know what I said before. But we’ve a long way to go, and Fjeltroll to outrun. Whatever questions you might ask, it’s not going to alter their orders; not here and now. A single drop from that flask—”

“No.” Dani shook his head. Fear had passed from him; in its wake, he felt tired and resigned. “You were right, Uncle. It is too precious to waste. And how terrible might we become if the Bearer chose to use it thusly? No,” he said again. “It was my choice to use it to save your life. It is enough.” He glanced behind him, surveying the horizon. There was no glint of sunlight on steel; the moving smudge had gone. “Shall we go?”

“Aye, lad.” Uncle Thulu sprang to his feet, then paused. He fumbled at his chest with blunt fingertips, finding no wound, but only the pale ridges of long-healed scars. An expression of perplexity crossed his broad face. “What was I saying? It was a folly of some sort, I fear. Something has changed here, Dani, has it not? I should be dead, and yet I live. And you, you …”

“I am the Bearer,” Dani finished softly. For the first time, he had a glimmering of what the words meant, and it made him feel very, very alone. With an effort, he used his good arm as a lever, clambering upright. Once standing, he touched the clay vial at his throat, aware of his burden. “Will you be my guide, Uncle?”

“I will,” said his uncle. And he bowed, low. “Aye, lad, I will.”

The wall was like a dragon’s spine, coiled and sinuous. It stretched for league upon league around Darkhaven, clinging with determination to every sinking valley and rising ridge in the Vale that surrounded Lord Satoris’ fortress.

It was taller than the height of three men, and broad enough for four horsemen to ride astride atop it; or four Fjel to run at a trot. Within its confines lay all that Darkhaven encompassed. There, to the north, were the mines where the Fjeltroll labored, digging iron from the earth. There, closer, were the furnaces where it was smelted, the forges where it was beaten into steel. The Gorgantus River made its sluggish way beneath a pall of grey-black smoke, tapped by the cunning of Speros of Haimhault, who had built a waterwheel and made it serve Darkhaven’s purposes.

There was the training-field, the expanse of beaten ground where Tanaros drilled his army, day upon day. And there, southward, were the pastures where Staccian sheep grazed on dark, wiry grass, fattening to fill Fjel bellies, drinking tainted water from the Gorgantus River and thriving upon it. From their blood the foul-smelling svartblod, dearly loved by the Fjel, was fermented.

And there, far to the west—a gleam in the distance—was the shoreline of the Sundering Sea, where Dergail the Counselor had met his death at the hands of the Were. Beyond it, somewhere in the shining sea-swell of the distance, lay Torath, the Crown of Urulat, home of the Souma, where the Six Shapers dwelled and Haomane First-Born ruled over them.

It was all visible from the wall, interrupted at regular intervals by the watchtowers, manned by the faithful Havenguard, who kept a watch over the whole of Lord Satoris’ empire.

On an empty stretch of wall between towers stood Tanaros Blacksword, who was gazing at none of it. A brisk breeze whipped at his dark hair, lashing it against his cheeks. He was one of the Three, and he was dangerous. Lest it be forgotten, one hand hovered over the hilt of his black sword.

“Tell me,” he said to his companion, “of this corruption.”

His look and his tone would have intimidated any sane comrade. Ushahin Dreamspinner sighed and hugged himself instead, warding off the autumn chill. His thin arms wrapped about his torso, his sharp elbows protruded. Cold seemed to bite deeper since his time in the Delta. It had not been his choice to meet on the wall. “Tell me,” he said to Tanaros, “what you know of Darkhaven’s construction.”

“What is there to know?” Tanaros frowned. “Lord Satoris caused it to be created. After the Battle of Curonan, he retreated to the Vale of Gorgantum and raised up these mountains, using Godslayer’s might. And he conceived of Darkhaven, and the Fjel delved deep into the earth and built high into the sky, building it in accordance with his plan. So it was done, and we Three were summoned to it.”

“Yes.” Ushahin extended one crooked hand and waggled it in a gesture of ambivalence. “And no. Darkhaven was not built by Fjel labor alone, and it is made of more than stone and mortar. It is an extension of its Shaper’s will. It exists here because it exists in his Lordship’s mind. Do you understand?”

“No,” Tanaros said bluntly. “Do you say it is illusion?” He rapped his knuckles on the solid stone ramparts. “It seems solid enough to me, Dreamspinner.”

Ushahin shook his head. “Not illusion, no.”

“What, then?” Tanaros raised his brows. “Is it Fjel craftsmanship you question, cousin? I tell you, I am no mason, but I would not hesitate to pit their labors against the craftsmanship of Men; aye, or Ellylon, either.”

“Then why is it that in two thousand years the Fjel have never built anything else?” Ushahin asked him.

Tanaros opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, considering. “Why would they?” he asked at length. “The Fjel are delvers by nature, not builders. They built Darkhaven for him, for his Lordship, according to his design. I say they made a fine job of it, cousin. What is it that you say?”

Ushahin shrugged. “You are too much of one thing, Tanaros, and not enough of another. It is not a matter of questioning the Fjel, but a matter of what causes Darkhaven to be. There are places that exist between things; between waking and sleep, between being and not-being. Darkhaven is such a place.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps you spend too much time among your madlings, cousin.” Tanaros eyed him. “What has this do with corruption?”

“Come,” said Ushahin. “I will show you.”

He walked with Tanaros along the wall, past the watchtowers where the Fjel saluted them, descending the curving stair at the inner gates of the keep. By the time they reached the entryway, Ushahin’s bones ached fiercely with the cold. It was a relief to enter Darkhaven proper, to hear the bronze-bound doors close with a thud and the bar drop into place, the clank and rattle of the Havenguard resuming their posts. The black marble walls shut out every breath of wind, and the flickering blue-white veins of marrow-fire warmed the halls and lit them with an eldritch gleam that was gentle to his light-sensitive gaze.

“This way.” Ushahin led Tanaros toward the section of the fortress in which his own austere quarters were housed. Madlings skittered from their approach. Although their fealty was unquestioned, he seldom brought anyone this way and it made them wary—even of the Lord General.

“If you wanted to meet in your quarters—” Tanaros began.

“Here.” Ushahin halted in front of a niche. The arch that framed it rose almost to the vast ceiling above. On the back wall of the niche was a sculpture depicting the Wounding of Satoris, standing out in high relief, the outer limbs reaching across the arch into open air to engage one another.

Two figures were in opposition, tall enough to dwarf even a Fjel onlooker; Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter, and Lord Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. They grappled like giants, both figures shimmering with a fine network of marrow-fire. Satoris’ hands were raised to parry a blow, one catching Oronin’s left wrist; Oronin’s right leg was extended, indicating how he had slipped as he lunged, planting the Shard of the Souma in Satoris’ thigh with his right hand. Where Godslayer’s haft stood out from his Lordship’s marble flesh, a node of marrow-fire shone, brighter than the rest, and a bright vein trickled down his thigh.

“Forgive me, Dreamspinner,” Tanaros said. “It is a mighty piece of work, but I don’t understand—”

“Look closely.” Ushahin waited patiently as Tanaros examined the niche. It was not easy to spot the opening, a low, narrow doorway hidden in the recesses and rendered almost invisible by the deep shadow cast by the bright figures.

“Ah.” Tanaros saw it at last. “One of your madlings’ passageways?”

“Yes.”

“What would you have me say?” Tanaros shrugged. “I would that there were none, cousin, but they do no harm as long as they are confined within the inner walls. Indeed, forbid it be so, but were Darkhaven ever to face invasion, they might serve a purpose. Did not Lord Satoris himself cede you such rights?”

“Yes,” said Ushahin. “To the spaces in between, where creatures such as I belong. But Tanaros, who built the passageways?” Watching the other’s expression, he shook his head. “They were not here when I was first summoned, cousin. My madlings did not build them; others, yes, but not one such as this, built into the very structure of the wall. It would require inhuman strength.”

“The Fjel …”

Ushahin pointed at the narrow gap, accessible only between the braced legs of the two Shapers’ figures. “What Fjeltroll could fit in that space? I have asked and the Fjel have no knowledge of it, not in any generation. It was not there, and then it was. Darkhaven changes, Tanaros; its design shifts as his Lordship’s thoughts change. This is what I seek to tell you.”

“Ah, well.” Tanaros gazed at the sculpted face of Lord Satoris. The Shaper’s expression was one of agony, both at Godslayer’s plunge and the greater loss. Oronin’s blow had dealt him his unhealing wound, that which had stolen his Gift. “He is a Shaper, cousin. Is it such a surprise?”

“No, Blacksword. Not this. I’ve known about this for centuries.” Ushahin shook his head in disgust Ducking beneath Oronin’s outstretched arm, he opened the hidden door onto the passageways between the walls. “Come with me.”

Once behind the walls, he led with greater confidence, following a winding path with a shallow downward slope. The air grew closer and hotter the farther they went, then leveled once more. Tanaros followed without comment, his footsteps crunching on rubble. When they reached the rough-hewn chamber the madlings had claimed for their own, Tanaros paused. The madlings had not gathered here since the day Vorax had found them with the Lady of the Ellylon, and his Staccians had cleared much of the debris, but the evidence of their presence remained—scratched gibberish on the walls, overlooked candle-butts wedged into crevices.

Tanaros sighed. “Will you tell me this is his Lordship’s doing? I have spoken with Vorax, cousin; and I have spoken with Cerelinde, too. I know what happened here.”

“Oh, I know you’ve spoken with Cerelinde, cousin.” A dark tone edged Ushahin’s voice. “No, it’s not this. Further.”

They squeezed through a narrow portion of the passage. A few paces beyond it, the level path dropped into a sharp decline. Ushahin led them onward, down and down, until a blue-white glow was visible ahead, as bright and concentrated as the sculpted node of Godslayer’s dagger.

“Do you see it?” he asked.

“Aye.” Tanaros’ jaw was set and hard. “It is no more than Vorax told me.”

A roaring sound was in the air, and an acrid odor, like the breath of dragons. Ushahin grinned, his mismatched eyes glittering with reflected marrow-light. “Come see it, then.”

They descended the remainder of the way with Ushahin leading, sure-footed on the pathways that were his own, his aching joints at ease in the hot, stifling air. There, all the way to the bottom of the decline.

A new chasm had erupted.

There was the old one, patched over by Vorax’s Staccians. They had made a fair job of it for mortal Men. The old path was clearly visible, scuffed with gouges where a slab of stone had been dragged with great effort, capping the breach. It was braced by beams that had been soaked in water, already faintly charred by the heat of the marrow-fire, but holding. Rocks and rubble had filled the gaps.

And there, to the left of it—a gaping wound, emitting a violent, erratic light. Above it, a vaulted hollow soared. At the bottom, far, far below, the Source of the marrow-fire blazed and roared like a furnace. Heedless of danger, Tanaros stood at the edge and looked downward.

The sides of the sheer drop beneath his feet were jagged and raw. The marrow-fire was so bright it seared his eyes. He gazed upward, where his shadow was cast large and stark, flickering upon the hollow chamber of the ceiling. It, too, appeared new, as though hunks of rock had been sheared away.

Tanaros frowned. “There is some fault in the foundation that causes this. Small wonder, cousin, when it is built upon this.” He turned to Ushahin. “Have you spoken of it to his Lordship?”

“Yes,” Ushahin said simply.

“And?”

In the stifling heat, Ushahin wrapped his arms around himself as if to ward off a chill. His voice, when he answered, held an unwonted note of fear. “His Lordship says the foundation is sound.”

Tanaros returned his gaze to the fiery, seething depths of the chasm. For a long moment, he was silent. When he spoke, it was without turning. “I will ask again, Dream-spinner. What does this have to do with corruption?”

“There is a canker of brightness at the core of this place,” Ushahin said quietly. “Even as it festers in the thoughts of my madlings, even as it festers in your very heart, cousin, it festers in his Lordship’s soul, gnawing at his pride, driving him to stubborn folly. There is no fault in the structure, Blacksword. Lord Satoris is the foundation of Darkhaven. How plainly would you have me speak?”

“You speak treason,” Tanaros murmured.

“He caused rain to fall like acid.”

The words, filled with unspoken meaning, lay between them. Tanaros turned around slowly. His dark eyes were bright with tears. “I know,” he said. “I know. He had reason to be wroth, Ushahin!” He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “There is madness in fury, aye. No one knows it better than I. Everything I have, everything I am, his Lordship has made me. Would you have me abandon him now?”

“No!” Ushahin’s head jerked, his uneven eyes ablaze. “Do not mistake my meaning, cousin.”

“What, then?” Tanaros stared at him and shook his head. “No. Oh, no. This is not Cerelinde’s fault. She is a pawn, nothing more. And I will not gainsay his Lordship’s orders to indulge your hatred of the Ellylon, cousin.”

“It would preclude the Prophecy—”

“No!” Tanaros’ voice rang in the cavern, echoes blending into the roar of the marrow-fire. He pointed at Ushahin, jabbing his finger. “Do not think it, Dreamspinner. Mad or sane, his will prevails here. And, aye, his pride, too!” He drew a shaking breath. “Would you have him become less than Haomane? I will not ask his Lordship to bend his pride, not for your sake nor mine. It has kept him alive this long, though he suffers agonies untold with every breath he takes. Where would any of the Three be without it?”

“As for that, cousin,” Ushahin said in a low voice, “you would have to ask the Lady Cerelinde. It lies in the realm of what-might-have-been.” Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, touching his lids like a blind man. “So be it. Remember, one day, that I showed you this.”

Turning, he began to make his way back toward the upper reaches.

“I’ll bring Speros down to have a look at it,” Tanaros called after him. “He’s a knack for such things. It’s a flaw in the structure, Dreamspinner! No more and no less. You’re mad if you think otherwise!”

In the glimmering darkness, Ushahin gave his twisted smile and answered without pausing, the words trailing behind him. “Mad? Me, cousin? Oh, I think that should be the least of our fears.”

Lilias sat beside an open window.

The chambers to which she was confined in the Hall of Ingolin were lovely. The parlor, in which she sat, was bright and airy, encircled with tall windows that ended in pointed arches; twin panes that could be opened or closed, depending on whether one secured the bronze clasps that looked like vine-tendrils. The Rivenlost did love their light and open air.

A carpet of fine-combed wool lay on the floor, woven with an intricate pattern in which the argent scroll insignia of the House of Ingolin was repeated and intertwined. It gave off a faint, sweet odor when she walked upon it, like grass warmed by the sun.

In one corner of the parlor was a spinning-wheel. A bundle of the same soft, sweet-smelling wool lay in a basket beside it, untouched. Ellylon noblewomen took pride in their ability to spin wool as fine as silk.

There had been a spinning-wheel in Beshtanag. In a thousand years, she had scarce laid a hand to it.

On the southern wall was a shelf containing half a dozen books, bound in supple leather polished to a mellow gleam. They were Rivenlost volumes—an annotated history of the House of Ingolin, the Lost Voyage of Cerion the Navigator, the Lament of Neherinach—crisp parchment pages inscribed with Ellylon characters inked in a flowing hand. Although Calandor had taught Lilias to speak and read the Ellylon tongue, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to read any of them.

It was clear that these rooms were designed to house a treasured guest, and not a prisoner. Still, a lock was on the outer door, and beyond her lovely windows awaited a drop of several hundred feet.

The rooms were at the top of one of the outer towers. From her seated vantage point, Lilias could watch the sea-eagles circling the central spire. Their wings were as grey as stormclouds, but their heads and underbellies were pristine white, white as winter’s first snowfall on Beshtanag Mountain.

Every thirty seconds, they completed another circuit, riding the updrafts and soaring past on vast, outspread wings. They made broad circles, coming so close it almost seemed she could touch them as they passed. Close enough to see the downy white leggings above their yellow feet, talons curved and trailing as they flew. Close enough to make out the fierce golden rings encircling the round, black pupils of their eyes. She felt their gaze upon her; watching her as she watched them. Like as not it was true. The Eagles of Meronil served the Rivenlost.

“And why not?” Lilias said, addressing the circling sea-eagles. “That is what we do, we Lesser Shapers. We impose our wills upon the world, and shape it to our satisfaction. After all, are you so different from the ravens of Darkhaven?”

The sea-eagles tilted their wings, soaring past without comment.

“Perhaps not.” Since the eagles did not deign to reply, Lilias answered her own question, reaching out one hand to touch the glass panes of the open window. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Far below, the Aven River beckoned, a silvery ribbon dividing to encompass the island upon which the Hall of Ingolin was built, winding its way toward the sea. “In the end, it is a question of who chooses to use you, is it not?”

There was a scraping sound; in the antechamber, the outermost door to her quarters was unlatched, swinging open.

“Lady Lilias.”

It was an Ellyl voice, fluted and musical. There was much to be discerned from the layering of tones within it That was one of the hardest parts of her captivity; enduring the unspoken disdain and muted hatred of those Rivenlost whom Ingolin had assigned to attend her. “Lady,” yes; after a thousand years of rule, they would accord her that much. Not “my lady,” no. Nobleborn or no, she was none of theirs. Still, it was better than their compassion. Her words in the great hall had put an end to that particular torment. Lilias got to her feet, inclining her head as her attendant entered the parlor.

“Eamaire,” she said. “What is it?”

Her attendant’s nostrils flared. It was a very fine nose, chiseled and straight. Her skin was as pale as milk. She had wide-set, green eyes, beneath gracefully arching brows. The colors of her irises appeared to shift, like sunlight on moving grasses, on the rustling leaves of birch-trees. “There is a Man here to see you,” she said.

Blaise Caveros stood a few paces behind her. “Lilias.”

“Thank you, Eamaire,” Lilias said. “You may leave us.”

With a rigid nod, she left. Lilias watched her go, thinking with longing of her quarters in Beshtanag with their soft, muted lighting, a warm fire in the brazier, and her own attendants, her pretty ones. If she had it to do over, she would do it differently; choose only the willing ones, like Stepan and Sarika, and her dear Pietre. No more surly charms, no.

No more like Radovan.

It hurt to remember him, a flash of memory as sharp and bright as the gleam of a honed paring-knife. On its heels came the crash of the falling wall and Calandor’s voice in her mind, his terrible brightness rousing atop Beshtanag Mountain.

It is time, Lilias.

With an effort, she pushed the memory away and concentrated on Blaise. “My lord Blaise.” She raised her brows. “Have you come to make one last plea?”

“No, not that.” He looked ill at ease amid the graceful Ellylon furnishings. “I don’t know, perhaps. Would it do any good?”

“No,” Lilias said quietly. “But you could sit and talk with me all the same.”

“You’re a stubborn woman.” Blaise glanced away. “I don’t know why I came, Lilias. I suppose … I feel a responsibility for you. After all, I kept you from taking your life.” He smiled bitterly. “You did try to warn me that I would regret it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” He met her eyes, unflinching. “Perhaps not entirely for the reasons you believe.”

Lilias tilted her head, considering him. “Will you not sit and tell me why?”

He sat in one of the parlor’s four chairs, which were wrought of a pale, gleaming wood that seemed not to have been carved so much as woven, the slender branches wrought into an elegant form with arms like the curled ends of a scroll. The chair, made for an Ellyl’s slighter weight, creaked beneath him. Blaise ignored it, waiting for her.

She took her seat by the window. “Well?”

“It was something you said.” He cleared his throat. “That you had the right to seek death in defeat. That I wouldn’t have denied you a clean death on the battlefield if you had been a man.”

“Nor would you,” Lilias murmured.

“No.” Blaise picked restlessly at a loose thread on the knee of his breeches. “There was a man I wanted to kill,” he said abruptly. “A Staccian, Carfax, one of the Sunderer’s minions. His men attacked us outside Vedasia. Malthus … Malthus handled the others. Him, we took prisoner. I thought he was too dangerous to live, especially …”

“In company with the Bearer?” Lilias suggested. She laughed tiredly at his wary glance. “Ah, Blaise! Did you think I didn’t know?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“So you let him live.”

He nodded. “On Malthus’ orders. And in the end … do you know that, too?”

“Yes.” Lilias swallowed against the sudden swelling in her throat. Brightness, falling. All the brightness in the world. “I know all that Calandor knew, Blaise. I know it all, even unto the cruel end.” She rubbed the tears from her eyes, contempt shading her voice. “Will you tell me now what lesson lies within your tale? How even I am not so far gone that Arahila’s mercy cannot redeem me?”

“No.” He shook his head. “That wasn’t my purpose.”

“What, then?”

Blaise shrugged. “To say … what? Although I maintain poison is an unclean death, I do regret depriving you of the dignity of your choice. It was unfairly done; perhaps, even, at cross-purposes with Haomane’s will. Who can say?” He smiled crookedly. “If Malthus had not maintained that Carfax of Staccia had the right to choose, we would not be having this conversation.”

“No,” Lilias said quietly. “We wouldn’t.”

Blaise sighed and rumpled his hair. “I raised the hackles of your pride, Lilias; aye, and your grief, too. I know it, and I know what it has cost us. I know the Counselor’s words in the great hall stroked you against the grain. I knew it when he spoke them. I am here to tell you it was ill-considered.”

Lilias glanced out the window. The Eagles of Meronil soared past on tilted wings, watching her with their goldringed gazes. “Do you suppose any of this will change my mind?” she asked.

“No. Not really, no.” There were circles around his eyes, too; dark circles, born of weariness and long effort. “Lilias …” He hesitated. “Did you know that Darkhaven’s army wasn’t coming?”

There must, she thought, be a great sense of freedom in riding the winds’ drafts; and yet, how free were they, confined to this endless gyre? Lilias thought about that day, during the siege, when she had dared the node-point of the Marasoumië beneath Beshtanag and found it blocked, hopelessly blocked.

“Yes,” she said. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you surrender, then?” Blaise furrowed his brow. “That’s the part I don’t understand. The battle was all but lost. You could have told us that the Lady Cerelinde was in Darkhaven. And if you had—”

“I know!” Lilias cut him off, and drew a shuddering breath. “I would still be a prisoner, but Calandor would live. Might live. How many other things might have happened, Borderguardsman? If you had arrived a day later, Calandor would have prevailed against Aracus’ army. Or we might have escaped together, he and I. Did you never wonder at that?” They could have fled; they could have hidden. For a time, Liliass. Only that. The too-ready tears burned her eyes. “Aye, I regret it! Is that what you want to hear? A few months, a few years. Would that I had them, now. But you had reclaimed the Arrow of Fire. Could it have ended otherwise?”

“No.” Blaise Caveros murmured the word, bowing his head. A lock of dark hair fell across his brow. “Not really.”

“Ask yourself the same question,” Lilias said harshly. “What is it worth, this victory? Aracus could buy peace for the price of his wedding vows.”

“Aye.” He ran both hands through his dark, springing hair to push it back, peering at her. “For a time, Lilias. And then what? It begins anew. A red star appears on the horizon, and the Sunderer raises his army and plots anew to destroy us. If not in our lifetimes, then our children’s, or their descendants’. You heard Malthus’ words in the council, Lilias. You may disdain his methods, but it is a true dream; Urulat made whole, and the power to forge peace—a lasting peace—in our hands. Aracus believes it, and I do, too.”

“Malthus …” Lilias broke off her words, too weary to argue. “Ah, Blaise! Satoris didn’t raise the red star.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “What now, Sorceress? Do you claim it is not Dergail’s Soumanië?”

“No.” Outside her window, the sea-eagles circled while the Aven River unfurled beneath them, making its serene way to the sea. She sighed. “Dergail flung himself into the Sundering Sea, Blaise. It was never Satoris who reclaimed his Soumanië.”

There was genuine perplexity in his frown. “Who, then?”

“This is the Shapers’ War,” Lilias said in a gentle tone. “It has never been anything else. And in the end, it has very little to do with us.”

“No.” Blaise shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” Something mute and intransigent surfaced in his expression. “Aracus was right about you. ’Tis dangerous to listen to your words.” He heaved himself to his feet, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. “Never mind. You’ve made your choice, Sorceress, insofar as you were able. In the end, well …” He gestured around her quarters. “’Tis yours to endure.”

Lilias gazed up at him. “Aracus said that?”

“Aye.” He gave her a wry smile. “He did. I’m sorry, Lilias. Would that I could have found words that would make your heart relent. In truth, it’s not why I came here today. Still, I do not think it is a choice you would have regretted.”

“Blaise.” Lilias found herself on her feet. One step; two, three, closing the distance between them. She raised her hand, touching the collar of his shirt. Beneath it, his pulse beat in the hollow of his throat.

“Don’t.” He captured her hand in his, holding it gently. “I am loyal to the House of Altorus, Lilias. It is all I have to cling to, all that defines me. And you have seen that brightness in Aracus, that makes him worthy of it.” Blaise favored her with one last smile, tinged with bitter sorrow. “I have seen it in your face and heard it in your words. You find him worthy of admiration; perhaps, even, of love. If I understand my enemy a little better, I have you to thank for it.”

“Blaise,” she whispered again; but it was a broken whisper. Lilias sank back into her chair. “If you would but listen—”

“What is there to say that has not been said?” He gave a helpless shrug. “I put no faith in the counsel of dragons. Without them, the world would never have been Sundered.”

It was true; too true. And yet, there was so much to explain. Lilias struggled for the words to articulate the understanding Calandor had imparted to her. From the beginning, from the moment the red star had first risen, he had shared knowledge with her, terrible knowledge.

All things musst be as they musst.

The words did not come; would never come. Fearful mortality crowded her thoughts. A void yawned between them, and the effort of bridging it was beyond her. “Go,” she said to him. “Just … go, and be gone from here.”

Blaise Caveros bowed, precise and exacting. “You should know,” he said, hesitating. “The Soumanië, your Soumanië—”

“Ardrath’s Soumanië,” Lilias said wearily. “I know its provenance, Borderguardsman. Have you listened to nothing I say?”

“Your pardon.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You should know, having once possessed, having still possession of it—it is being set into a sword. It was Aracus’ choice,” he added, “with Malthus’ approval. ’Tis to be set in the hilt of his ancestral sword, as a pommelstone. Malthus is teaching him the use of it, that he might draw upon its power should your heart relent. Does it not, Aracus will carry it into battle against the Sunderer nonetheless.”

“How men do love their sharp, pointy toys. I wish him the joy of it.” Lilias turned her head to gaze out the window. “You may go, Blaise.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he went. “Good-bye, Lilias.”

Although he did not say it, she knew he would not return. He would go forth to live or die a hero, to find love or squander it among others who shared the same fierce, hard-edged certainty of his faith. And so it would continue, generation upon generation, living and dying, his children and his children’s children bound to the yoke of the Shapers’ endless battle, never reckoning the cost of a war not of their making. She would tell them, if only they had ears to hear. It was not worth the cost; nor ever would be. But they would never hear, and Lilias, who had lived a life of immortality surrounded by mortals, was doomed to spend her mortality among the ageless.

Outside her window, the sea-eagles soared, tracing an endless parabola around the tower. Beyond her door, the sound of his receding footsteps began to fade.

Already, she was lonely.