Banewreaker (17 page)

"How can you be sure?"

The emerald eyes stared unwinking. "I am sure."

Outside the mouth of the cavern, a troop of Gergon's wardsmen and her personal attendants huddled, waiting. What Lilias attempted this morning would draw strength from her, even with the aid of the Soumanië. It was Ellylon magic, and not meant to be undertaken by a Daughter of Men. "If we used only the eyes, if we watched them longer, we might learn more of their plans."

Calandor snorted smoke in a laugh. "Can you read the speech of their lipsss, little ssissster? Neither can I."

"I know." Lilias flicked the mirror with a fingernail in annoyance. "Haergan the Craftsman should have crafted ears onto his creation, instead of eyes and a mouth. It would have been more useful."

"Indeed." A nictitating membrane blinked over the dragon's eyes. "I might not have eaten him if he had been more ussseful."

"I would feel better if Lord Satoris' decoy had arrived in Beshtanag."

"Sso would I, little ssissster." Calandor sounded regretful. "But there is risssk in waiting. I would have gone, if you wished, to ssseek them."

"No." Lilias covered the mirror with her palm. On that point she had been adamant. Calandor was one of the last of his kind, the last known to the Lesser Shapers. In the Shapers' War, scores of dragons had died defending Satoris from his kin; after the Sundering, the Ellylon had hunted them mercilessly, slaying the weak and wounded. She would not allow Calandor to risk himself for a Shaper's machinations. "My spies have laid a trail of rumor from Pelmar to Vedasia, swearing the Dragon of Beshtanag was seen aloft and heading south. It is enough."

"Then it is enough," the dragon said gently. "Haomane's Allies will believe I ferried the Lady here on dragonback. If you ssspeak now, they will be ssertain of it. If you delay, it may be proved a lie."

"All right." Lilias sighed again. "It's time, it's time. I understand. I'll do it."

"You know the way… ?"

"Yes," she said shortly. "I know it."

She knew it because Calandor had showed her, as he had done so many times before. What the dragon consumed, he consumed wholly, knowledge and all. And long ago, in the First Age of the Sundered World, he had consumed Haergan the Craftsman, who had built a folly into the great hall of Meronil.

It was a head, the head of Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas; Haomane's brother and chiefest ally, patron of Meronil. And it adorned a marble pediment atop the doorway into the great hall, his hair wrought into white-capped waves. When the world was Sundered, Meronin had brought the seas to divide the body of Urulat from Torath, the Souma-crowned head of the world.

But truth be told, there was precious little to be seen in the great hall of Meronil. Lilias knew, having looked into the mirror, Haergan's mirror, through the sculpture's eyes. Ingolin the Wise convened his assembly, day in and day out. One day, he brought forth a stone in a casket. It blazed with a pale blue light, which seemed to impress those assembled. Well and good; what did it mean?

"I know not," Calandor had said, though he sounded uneasy, for a dragon. "But it is nothing to do with Beshtanag. This I ssswear, Liliasss."

She believed him, because she had no choice. If Calandor was false… ah, no. Best not to think of such things, for she would sooner die than believe it. Lilias gripped the mirror, letting her vision diffuse, sinking into its tarnished surface, sensing the marble eyes wrought by Haergan the Craftsman open.

There.

There.

A skewed view, seen from the pediment. Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, presiding over the argumentative assembly. Had it ever been otherwise? There, Bornin of Seahold, stout in his blue livery. There, Lord Cynifrid of Port Calibus, pounding the table with his gauntleted fist. There, two representatives of the Free Fishers of Harrington Bay, clad in homespun. And there, Aracus Altorus, taut with energy, willing the Council of War onward.

So few women, Lilias thought, gazing through the marbled eyes. So few!

"Liliassss."

"I know. I know." Drawing on the power of the Soumanië, feeling the fillet tighten on her brow, and speaking the words of invocation set forth by Haergon the Craftsman, who had left his knowledge in a dragon's belly.

In Meronil, Haomane's Allies gaped.

It was hard, at such a distance. Her flesh was mortal, and not meant to wield a Shaper's power nor Ellylon magics. Lilias closed her eyes and willed the marble lips to speak, stiff as stone, forming words that boomed in the distant hall.

"GREETINGS… TO… HAOMANE'S… ALLIES!"

Her face felt rigid and unfamiliar, inhabiting the sculpted relief more thoroughly than ever she had dared. She forced open the dense marble lids of her eyes, gazing down at the assembly. They were all on their feet, staring upward at the pediment, giving her a sense of vertigo.

"YOU SEEK… THE LADY… CERELINDE. SHE IS… SAFE… IN BESHTANAG." The words made a knot in her belly. It was the end of deniability, the beginning of blame. "SHE WILL BE RESTORED TO YOU… FOR A PRICE."

There was squabbling, then, in the great hall of Meronil. Lilias watched them through marble eyes, dimly aware that in a Beshtanagi cavern, the edges of a small mirror bit into her clutching palms. Some were shouting as if she could hear them. She watched and waited, and wished again that Haergan the Craftsman had given ears to his creation.

One knew better.

Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. Ignoring the chaos, he approached to stand beneath the pediment, his ageless face tilted upward.

Among the Ellylon, the best and brightest had stood nearest to the Souma. When the world was Sundered and the seas rushed in to fill the divide, they remained upon the isle Torath, and there they dwelt, singing the praises of Haomane and the Six Shapers. It was only those who dwelt upon the body of Urulat who were stranded, separated forever from Haomane First-Born who Shaped them.

They were the Rivenlost.

And Elterrion the Bold had been their Lord, once; but he was dead, and with him Cerion the Navigator and Numireth the Fleet, who were also Lords of the Rivenlost. Only Ingolin was left, who was called the Wise.

Lilias gazed down upon him and felt pity, which she had not expected. A simple fillet of gold bound his shining hair and his brow was marked with worry. His eyes were grey as a storm, and deep with sorrow. How not, when they bore the shadows of centuries unnumbered? Urulat had not been Sundered when Ingolin first walked the earth. Perhaps, if he had been Lord of the Rivenlost in the First Age of the Sundered World and not Elterrion the Bold, it might have been different. Ingolin the Wise spread his arms, his lips shaping words clear enough for her to read: What do you want?

Her marble lips moved, forming the answer.

"I WANT MALTHUS… AND HIS SOUMANIE. BRING THEM TO BESHTANAG." Chaos followed on the heels of her words. How they quarreled, the Sons of Men! Lilias kept her stone eyes fixed on the Lord of the Rivenlost. "THE LADY IS YOURS IN TRADE."

A flash of red-gold, caught in periphery. Aracus Altorus had leapt upon the table, his boot-heels scarring the polished wood, his sword-arm cocked. His face was lit with fury and in his hand he held the haft of a standard, snatched from a wall. With a soundless cry, he hurled it at her like a javelin.

A pennant fluttered in midflight. An argent scroll, half open upon a field of sage; the device of the House of Ingolin.

So much and no more did Lilias see before the pointed iron finial that tipped the standard struck, marble shattering at the force of the blow. She cried out loud, feeling her brow-bone splinter at the bridge of her nose, clapping both hands over her face.

"Aaahhhh!"

The pain was unspeakable. Dimly, Lilias was aware that in the great hall of Meronil, blow after blow was struck at the pediment, gouging chunks of marble, destroying forever the head of Meronin, Haergan's creation. For the most part, she was aware only of agony, of splintered bones piercing her flesh as she writhed on the floor of the dragon's cavern, the bronze mirror forgotten beside her.

"My lady, my lady!" It was Gergon's voice, uncharacteristically terrified. Her Ward Commander's strong hands covered hers, trying to draw them away from her face. "Are you injured? Lady, let me see!"

"Hurts," Lilias managed to whisper. "Oh blessed Haomane, it hurts!"

Lilias. Lilias, it is only an illusion.

"Calandor, help me!"

The dragon's bulk shifted, rasping on the stony floor. One mighty claw reached, talons closing delicately on the round mirror. "Ssstand back, Ssson of Man!"

Gergon scrambled backward, holding her against his chest with one strong arm. With pain-slitted eyes, Lilias peered through her fingers as the dragon bent his sinuous neck. Scales glinted dully as he lowered his head to the object he held in the talons of one uplifted claw. The pale armor of his underbelly expanded as he drew breath.

The dragon roared.

Fire shot from Calandor's gaping jaws; blue-hot at its core, the flames a fierce orange shading to yellow. Gripped in his talons, Haergan's mirror
melted
, droplets of bronze falling molten and sizzling to the cavern floor.

The connection was broken.

The pain stopped.

Cautiously, Lilias felt at her face. It was whole and intact, no bone-splinters piercing her smooth skin. No pain, only the ghost of its memory. There, on her brow, was the Soumanië, nearly lifeless. "Calandor?"

"Forgive me, Liliasss." The dragon sounded contrite. "I did not… antissssipate… such violence."

"You're all right then, my lady?" Gergon asked with gruff solicitude.

"My lady!" Pietre burst into the cavern, flinging himself to his knees. There were tears in his eyes. "I thought you were killed!"

"Not yet, sweetling." She smiled at him through deep-rooted exhaustion. They were there, they were all there, her pretty ones, crowding behind Pietre. Not wholly willing, not all of them, no, she had not always chosen wisely—there was Radovan, scowling, near time to release him, and sullen Marija—but there was worried Stepan, dusky-eyed Anna, and dear Sarika biting her trembling lip. "Only tired, now."

"I'll take you to your quarters, my lady." Without waiting for permission, Pietre scooped her into his arms and stood. To his credit, he only shivered a little at the dragon's amused regard.

Too weary to object, Lilias allowed it. Gergon snapped orders, his wardsmen falling in around them. It was a frightening thing, to be this weak, even with a Soumanië in her possession. Now, more than ever, Beshtanag needed her.

Rest, Lilias. Recover.

She nodded in silent answer, knowing the dragon understood. Beneath her cheek, the bare skin of Pietre's chest was warm and resilient. Such a heady elixir, youth! Lilias felt her thousand years of age. It came at a price, cheating death. If her flesh did not show it, still, she felt it in her bones, now as never before. Had she invoked Haomane's name in her agony? Yes, and there was something fearful in it. Pietre murmured endearments under his breath, walking as though he held something precious in his arms. I should let him go, Lilias thought. I should let them all go, before danger comes. But I am old, and I am afraid of being alone.

Calandor?

I am here, Lilias.

It was enough. It had to be enough. It was the bargain she had made, a thousand years ago. And it had always, always endured. As long as it did, nothing else mattered. The thing was done, the die cast. Why, then, this foreboding?

Calandor?

Lilias, you must rest.

Calandor, where are Lord Satoris' men?

"RIGHT." CARFAX SURVEYED HIS MEN with a sharp eye. "Vilbar, scrub your face again. Use marsh-root if you have to. You're still spatch-cocked with dye."

"That river water stinks, Lieutenant!"

"I don't care," he said ruthlessly. "Scrub it! Turin, Mantuas, Hunric�you understand your mission?" There was silence in answer. Mantuas, holding his mount's reins, kicked stubbornly at a clump of sedge grass. "You understand?"

"Don't worry, sir." Hunric leaned on his pommel. "I'll see 'em through the Delta and on to Beshtanag."

"Good. With luck, we'll be no more than a day behind you. But whatever happens here, you need to report what we've seen to the Sorceress of the East. Now,"—Carfax drew a deep breath—"are the rest of you ready?"

They shouted a resounding yes. With the last remnants of dye washed from their skin, and beards beginning to grow, they looked more like Staccians, members of the boldest nation on earth; Fjel-friends, frost-warriors, allies of the Banewreaker himself. Had they not slain scores of the enemy at Lindanen Dale? And if they could do this thing, if they could capture Malthus' Company and prevent the Prophecy from being fulfilled…

A grin stretched Carfax's face. Lord Satoris would be pleased, mightily pleased. Mayhap pleased enough to consider making the Three into Four. Immortality would be a fine thing, indeed.

He drew his sword. "For the honor of Darkhaven!"

THE GARRISON HAD TURNED OUT for their return, rank upon rank of Fjel flanking the approach to Darkhaven, holding formation with military discipline, issuing crisp salutes.

It was an imposing sight. It was meant to be.

All the tribes were represented; Tungskulder, M�rkhar, Gulnagel, Tordenstem, Nåltannen, Kaldjager. Tanaros gazed over a sea of Fjel, with thick hides of smooth grey, of a pebbled greenish-brown, or black with bristles. His troops, his men. They wore their armor with pride, pounding the butts of their spears in steady rhythm. They kept their shields raised.

"So many!" Cerelinde whispered.

Tanaros bowed from the saddle. "Welcome to Darkhaven, Lady."

Before them loomed the edifice itself, twin towers rearing against an overcast sky, dwarfing the entrance until they drew near enough to see that the portal itself was massive; thrice the height of any Fjel. The bar had been raised and the brass-bound inner doors flung open.

In the entrance stood Vorax of Staccia, gleaming in ceremonial armor.

"Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost!" he called. "Lord Satoris welcomes you."

At his words, a stream of madlings spewed forth from the interior of the fortress, surging into their midst to lay hands on the bridles of their horses. Tanaros dismounted, and helped the Lady down. He felt her trembling underneath his touch.

Her gaze was locked with the Staccian's. "This hospitality is a gift unwanted, Lord Glutton."

Vorax shrugged. "It is a gift nonetheless, Lady. Do not disdain it. Hey! Dreamspinner!" He clapped Ushahin on the shoulder. "Still sky-gazing? I hear you did well in the Dale, wielding the Helm of Shadows."

The half-breed muttered some reply, moving away from the Stac-cian's touch, the helm's case clutched under his arm. Tanaros frowned. Why were the ravens circling? He spared a thought for Fetch as he approached the entrance, hoping the scapegrace was unharmed.

"Blacksword." The Staccian clasped his forearm.

"Vorax. Your men did well. Commend them for me."

"I'll do that." Vorax paused, lowering his voice. "His Lordship awaits you, Blacksword; you and the Ellyl. Come see me when he's done."

"The captive?"

"Aye."

"I'll be there." An escort of M�rkhar Fjel stood waiting just inside the vast doors; four brethren all of a height, the silver inlay on their weapons-harnesses contrasting with their dark, bristling hides. "Dreamspinner?"

"You go, cousin." Ushahin thrust the helm's case into his unready arms. "You took the risks, not I. Tell Lord Satoris… tell him I am in the rookery. I will make my report anon."

"All right." Tanaros frowned again. It should have been a glorious homecoming, this moment; it
was
a glorious homecoming. The Prophecy had been averted, and the Lady of the Ellylon was theirs. She didn't look it, though. As frightened as Cerelinde was—and she
was
frightened, he'd felt it in his fingertips—she held herself with dignity. "Lady. Are you ready?"

Wide, her eyes; wide and grey, luminous as mist. "I do not fear the Sunderer."

"Then come," Tanaros said grimly, "and meet him."

THE SEDGE GRASS APPEARED TO bow at their approach, flattening as if a great wind preceded them. Carfax, sword in hand, found a Staccian battle-song on his lips as he rode. He sang it aloud, heard other voices echoing the words.

To battle, to battle, to battle! What a glorious thing it was! The horses of Darkhaven, who had borne them so faithfully, were bred to this purpose. His mount sensed it, nostrils flaring, the broad chest swelling with air as its hooves battered the marshy plains.

And there, ahead: The Enemy.

Malthus' Company had heard their approach, the hooves drumming like thunder. They prepared, as best they could, making a stand on the open sedge. Carfax watched them encircle the Charred Ones, back to back to back.

"Fan out!" he cried, seeking to pick his target.

The Staccian riders divided, two wings opening to encompass the tight-knit company, which they outnumbered nearly three to one. Which one, which one? The old Counselor, staff in hand? The Vedasian, glaring defiance? The Archer, coolly nocking arrows? The Ellyl lordling with his bright eyes, sword braced over his shoulder?

Ah, no, Carfax thought. You, Borderguardsman. You, in your dun cloak and false modesty. Unless I am much mistaken, I think you are charged with the protection of this Company, Blaise Caveros, my General's kinsman. We are of an age, you and I; but I am Tanaros' disciple, and you are Altorus' dog. Let us cross steel, shall we?

He swung close, close enough to exchange blows. His round Pelmaran shield rang with the force of the Borderguard's strength; rang, and held true. Carfax kneed his mount and swung away, exultant. In the center of their circle, the Charred lad looked wild-eyed, clutching a flask at his throat. Only his kinsman, the fat one, stood at his side, wielding a digging-stick like a quarterstaff, huffing as he did.

Carfax laughed aloud.

Thrum, thrum, thrum.

Arrows, flying level as a bee to clover. Two Staccians cried out, fell. The Archer of Arduan had dismounted, kneeling on the marshy soil; the Vedasian knight protected her, swinging his father's sword with ferocious blows.

"Take the Archer!" Carfax cried, readying for another pass at the Borderguard.

He was aware, distantly, of his men closing in on Malthus' Company, overwhelming them by sheer force; surging past the old Counselor, peeling the Vedasian away from the Archer and surrounding her, penetrating the silvery circle of defense the Ellyl wove with the point of his blade. A surprise, there on the inside, how deftly the fat one wielded his digging-stick, protecting his young kinsman.

It didn't matter, though. They were too few, and Carfax's men too many. He watched Blaise Caveros angle for position, setting his sword a touch too high. A good trick, that, good for luring in an overconfident enemy. General Tanaros had devised it a thousand years ago and taught it to his troops, as well as how to evade it.

All those hours on the practice-field paid a reward.

Carfax shifted his grip on his sword, digging his heels into his mount's sides. Let him believe, he thought, bearing down on his dun-cloaked opponent. Let him believe I have taken the gambit, and at the last moment, I shall strike high where he looks for low…

"Enough!"

It was Malthus who spoke, and the Counselor spread his arms, his staff in his right hand. There, gleaming through the parted strands of his beard, was the Soumanië. Red, it was, like a star, and it shone upon his breast, until no one could look away. A ruddy glow rippled in the air and a force struck like a hammer.

And the world… changed.

Carfax felt it, felt his mount's knees buckle beneath him, shifting and…
changing
. He hit the ground, hard, flung from the saddle. Like a vast wave, the might of the Souma overtook them all. Horses fell, and Men. The Counselor closed his eyes as if in pain, wielding the Soumanië. In the space of a shrieked breath, Staccian and equine flesh crumbled to loam, fingers sprouted tendrils and strands of hair sank rootlets into the earth. Shaped from their bodies, hummocks arose on the flat marshes, marking the territory forevermore.

Where they fell, sedge grass grew.

Except for Carfax.

He tried to move, the cheek-plates of his Pelmaran helmet scraping the rich loam. No more could he do; the strength had left his limbs. Only his senses worked. Through helpless eyes, he watched as the Borderguardsman's booted feet approached. Ungentle hands rolled him onto his back and patted him down, taking his belt-knife. His sword had been lost when he fell. Lying on his back, Carfax stared helpless at a circle of empty sky.

"Is he… dead?" A soft voice, an unplaceable accent.

"No."

A face hovered above him; young and dark, rough-hewn, with wide-set eyes. Sunlight made a nimbus of his coarse black hair and an earthenware flask dangled around his neck, swinging in the air above Carfax.

"Stand back, Dani." It was a weary shadow of the Counselor's voice. "It may yet be a trap."

The face withdrew. A boot-tip prodded his side. "Shall I finish him?"

"No." Unseen, Malthus the Counselor drew a deep breath. "We'll bring him with us. Let me regain a measure of strength, and I'll place a binding upon him. There may be aught to learn from this one."

Unable even to blink, Carfax knew despair.

MADLINGS SKITTERED ALONG THE HALLS of Darkhaven, their soft voices echoing in counterpoint to the steady tramp of the Fjel escort's feet. Old and young, male and female, they crept almost near enough to touch the hem of the Lady Cerelinde's cloak before dashing away in an ecstasy of terror.

It had been a long time, Tanaros realized, since he'd seen Dark-haven through an outsider's eyes. It must seem strange and fearful.

Inward and inward wound their course, through hallways that spiraled like the inner workings of a nautilus shell. There were other passageways, of course; secret ones, doors hidden in alcoves, behind tapestries, in cunning reliefs. Some were in common usage, like those that led to the kitchens. Some were half-forgotten, and others existed only as rumor. Madlings used many, of course, taking care not to be seen. Vorax disdained them, and Ushahin preferred them. Tanaros used them at need. The Fjel used them not at all, for the passages were too winding and narrow to admit them. No one knew all their secrets.

Only Lord Satoris, who conceived them—or their beginnings.

And so the main halls spiraled, vast curving expanses of polished black marble, lit only by the veins of marrow-fire along the walls. It was a winding trap for would-be invaders, Fjel guards posted at regular intervals like hideous statues. It should have awed even the Lady of the Ellylon.

Tanaros stole a sidelong glance at her to see if it did.

There were tears in her luminous eyes. "So many!" she whispered, and he thought she meant the Fjel again; then he saw how her gaze fell on the madlings. She paused, one hand extended, letting them draw near enough to touch and turning a reproachful look upon him. "Merciful Arahila! What manner of cruelty is this, Tanaros? What has been done to these folk?"

"Done?" He stared at her. "They sought sanctuary here."

"Sanctuary?" Her brows, shaped like birds' wings, rose. "From
what
?"

"From the world's cruelty, which drove them to madness." Tanaros reached out, grabbing the arm of the nearest madling; by chance, it was one he knew. A woman, young when she came to Darkhaven, elderly now, with a birthmark like a dark stain that covered half her wrinkled face. "This, my Lady, is Sharit. Her parents sold her into marriage to a man who was ashamed of her, and beat her for his shame. Do you see, here?" He touched her skull beneath wispy hair, tracing a dent. "He flung her against a door-jamb. Here, no one will harm her, on pain of death. Is that
cruelty
?"

"You're frightening her," Cerelinde said softly.

It was true. Repentant, he released the madling. Sharit keened, creeping to crouch at Cerelinde's skirts, fingers plucking. The
M�rkhar escort waited, eyeing Tanaros. "I didn't mean to," he said.

"I know." She smiled kindly at the madling, laying a gentle hand on the withered cheek, then glanced at Tanaros. "Very well. I do not deny the world's cruelty, General. But your Lord, were he compassionate, could have healed her suffering. You said as much; he offered to heal the half-breed." Her delicate fingers stroked Sharit's birthmark, and the madling leaned into her touch. "He could have made her beautiful."

"Like you?" Tanaros asked quietly.

Cerelinde's hands fell still. "No," she said. "Like
you
."

"Like Arahila's Children. Not Haomane's." Shifting the Helm of Shadows under one arm, Tanaros stooped, meeting the old woman's eyes. They were milky with cataracts, blinking under his regard. "You don't understand," he said to Cerelinde, gazing at Sharit. "To Lord Satoris, she
is
beautiful."

There was magic in the words, enough to summon a smile that broke like dawn across the withered face. Taking his hand, she rose, proceeding down the hall with upright dignity.

Tanaros bowed to Cerelinde.

Her chin lifted a notch. "It would still be kinder to heal her. Do you deny it?"

"You have charged my Lord with Sundering the world," he said. "Will you charge him now with healing it?"

One of the M�rkhar shifted position, coughing conspicuously into a taloned fist.

"It's in his power, Tanaros." Passion and a light like hope lit Cerelinde's eyes. "It
is
, you know! Did he but surrender to Haomane and abide his will—"

Tanaros laughed aloud. "And Haomane's Children accuse his Lordship of pride! Be sure to tell him that, Lady."

She drew her cloak around her. "I shall."

USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER STEPPED AS LIGHTLY as any Ellyl under the canopy of beech leaves, grown thicker and darker with the advent of summer. Setting loose his awareness, he let it float amid the trunks and branches, using the ancient magic the Grey Dam Sorash had taught him so long ago.

Ah, mother!

Tiny sparks of mind were caught in his net; feathered thoughts, bright-eyed and darting. One, two, three… five. Folding his legs, Ushahin sat in the beech loam, asking and waiting. What is it, little brothers? What has befallen your kin?

A raven landed on a nearby branch, wiped its beak twice.

Another sidled close.

Three perched on the verge of an abandoned nest.

Thoughts, passed from mind to mind, flickered through his awareness. Not a thing seen, no; none who had
seen
lived to show what had happened in the dark shimmering of the Ravensmirror. Only these traces remained, drifting like down in the flock's awareness. Marshes, an endless plain of sedge grass. A high draft, warm under outspread wings. A target found, a goal attained. One two three four seven, circling lower, a good draft, good to catch, wings tilting, still high, so high, only close enough to see—

Arrow!

Arrow!

Arrow!

And death, sharp-pointed and shining, arcing from an impossible distance; the
thump
of death, a sharp blow to the breast, a shaft transfixed, wings failing, a useless plummet, down and down and down, blue sky fading to darkness, down and down and down—