Banewreaker (31 page)

He rose and turned away from her.

The marrow-fire dwindled. The Shaper's massive shoulders twitched; or was it a trick of the flickering shadows? "You did not know." His voice was rough-edged, pitched to an ordinary tone. "Cerelinde."

She fought back another wave of pity. "I have not lied to you, my Lord."

"No." Again he sighed, filling the chamber, and turned to face her, "Do not take too much hope from this, little Ellyl. What has happened, has happened. If my plans have gone awry, no less have my brother's. And if Tanaros Blacksword is trapped in the Marasoumië, so is the Wise Counselor."

"
Tanaros
?" The word escaped her unwittingly.

Something that might have been a smile shifted the Shaper's ebony features. "My Commander General is resourceful, Cerelinde. Let us hope together, you and I, for his safe return."

She gripped the arms of her chair and steeled her thoughts, willing them to fix where they belonged. Blue eyes, at once demanding and questioning, met hers in memory. A promise given, a promise made. It lent a sting to her words. "The Kingslayer has wrought his own fate, my Lord. What of Aracus Altorus? What of my betrothed?"

"Your betrothed." The Shaper turned away from her, resuming his pacing, his shoulders slumping as if beneath a heavy burden. "Ah, Cerelinde! He may fail, you know. Even in Beshtanag, he may yet fail."

Her chin rose. "And if he does not?"

From a far corner of the chamber, he regarded her with crimson eyes. "He will destroy something precious," he said softly. "And the fault will be mine."

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

Satoris Third-Born laughed his awful, hollow laugh. "Ah, Cerelinde! You want me to say he will pursue you in all haste; that he will come here, seeking you. That Aracus Altorus will lay siege to Darkhaven itself. Shall I say it? It is true, after all."

Hope and fear warred in her breast. "And what will become of me, if he does?"

"Do you care so little for what he will destroy?" The Shaper's voice was wistful. "Will you not even ask what it
is
?"

"My Lord—!"

"Never mind." He turned away from her again, a dark shape in a dark corner. One hand moved, dismissing her. "Begone from me, daughter of Erilonde. Your presence does not ease my grief this night."

She took her leave, then, rising and gathering her skirts. Beyond her the stairwell beckoned, the three-fold door at the top opening onto the shadowy, twisted passages that led back to her chambers, to the hidden door behind the tapestry. Hesitating on the first step, she glanced over her shoulder. He stood yet, motionless, a column of darkness, hands laced behind his back. "My Lord Satoris…"

"Go!"

His voice echoed like thunder.

Cerelinde fled. Behind her, the three-fold door closed with a mighty crash. On the far side, she found herself shaking.

In the thousands of years she had lived, she had never doubted the nature of truth. Now, uncertainty assailed her; doubt and insidious pity. A thing she had never before grasped had grown clear: the Sunderer believed his own lies. And in the irregular glimmer of the marrow-fire, a worm of doubt whispered a thought.

What if they were not lies?

"No." Cerelinde said aloud. "It is madness that speaks, not truth."

The words brought a measure of comfort; but only a measure. She made her way slowly through the walls of her prison, the sound of Satoris Banewreaker's terrible, despairing laughter still echoing in her ears.

THREE RAVENS CIRCLED OVERHEAD.

Ushahin watched them, shading his eyes with one hand. The skies above the plains of Rukhar were a merciless blue and the sun's bright light drove a spike of pain through his left eye. It didn't matter. He was used to such pain, and his awareness rode upon it as if borne upward on a warm draught, rising skyward.

Come, little brothers, he thought. What have you seen?

A flurry of images filled his mind in reply; stone, grey and barren. Straggling weeds, bitter ants crawling. There was a paucity of life on the plains, and the ravens did not want to land.

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. For that, he did not blame them.

With Tanaros and Malthus both trapped within them and struggling for mastery, the Ways of the Marasoumië were too dangerous to enter. He had walked out of Jakar; walked a day and a night across the plains, sifting through the dreams of Men as he went, until his ill-knit bones protested at every step. That didn't matter to him either. The only pain that mattered was the one that circumscribed his heart; Godslayer's branding beckoning him
home
, to the only home left to him. But without the Ways, his path was uncertain. To the west lay the Unknown Desert, its blazing sands forbidding. To the north lay the encampments of the Rukhari tribesmen and their scorn. To the east… ah, to the east lay Pelmar, where once the Grey Dam had called him her son, and there he did not dare go.

So he had gone south.

You need not land, Ushahin told the ravens. Only tell me what you have seen.

The ravens dipped lower, sunlight glinting violet and green on the edges of their wings as they circled in a narrowing gyre. Flickering images flitted from mind to mind; of the tops of pines like a dark green ocean; of columns of Men and Ellylon winding through the dense forest, amassing at the base of a mountain; of a fortress hunkered on the mountain's swell; of a seamless wall of granite. Of the explosion of sunlight refracting on bronze scales and a sinuous neck lifting a vast-jawed head, amusement in one slitted green eye.

Yes, little brothers, he thought; I know. What of the south?

Their vision skirted the edges of Arduan, where men and women gathered in the marketplaces and exchanged news, waiting; waiting, with longbows close at hand. There the ravens dared not go, remembering the arrows that had felled their brethren. But beyond, the marshes of the Delta unfurled like a rich, grey-green carpet, fecund and plentiful. There, they landed and fed. The shiny carapaces of beetles loomed large in memory, crunching with satisfaction under beaks; small snails, sweet and tasty.

At that, Ushahin smiled.

And further… one had flown, only one, following the sluggish path of the Verdine River as it emerged from the marshes. There, where the sharp-toothed sedge grass grew in abundance, three horses grazed. They were tall and strong and clean of limb, with dark, glossy hides and ill-kept manes and tails, tangled from the remnants of a long-abandoned disguise. Whatever had become of the Staccians who had entered the Delta, they had left their mounts behind and no one had succeeded in laying possessive hands on the horses of Dark-haven. One tossed its head as the raven swooped low, nostrils flaring and sharp teeth bared, a preternatural gleam of intelligence in its eyes.

Yes.

Ushahin Dreamspinner laughed. "So, my Lord Satoris," he said aloud. "It seems my path lies through the place of your birth."

Free of his mind's hold, the ravens broke from their tight spiral and soared, winging higher, rising to become specks in the blue sky.

Go, he sent a final thought after them. Go, little brothers, and I will meet you anon!

EVEN IN SUMMER, IT WAS cold in the mountains.

It had not seemed so bad when they emerged, though he reckoned that was due to the relief at finding themselves alive. Frightened, yes. He was frightened. One moment, they had been in the Ways of the Marasoumië, under Malthus' protection. He hadn't been afraid, then, after they escaped the Were. Not for himself, only for those they left behind. The Ways were fearful and strange, but Malthus was there.

And then they had encountered the others, with a jolt he still felt in his bones. Thousands and thousands of them, huge and hulking, like creatures from a nightmare. The red light of the Marasoumië illuminated their jutting tusks, their massive talons, the heavy armor that encased their hide-covered bodies. A column of Fjeltroll, an army of Fjeltroll, winding back into the Ways as far as the eye could see.

It was a man on a black horse who led them, and he did not have to be told to know it was one of the Three. The Slayer, who had throttled love with his bare hands. And the sword he bore, the black blade, was forged in the marrow-fire itself and quenched in the blood of Satoris the Sunderer.

Everything the Counselor had said was true.

Whatever Malthus had done with the Soumanië had swept them into the Ways, driving them backward—but not the Slayer. Though he had been unhorsed, the Soumanië's power could not touch him. There was a circle of burning shadow that surrounded and protected him.

He had drawn his black sword, preparing to slay the Counselor.

Trust me
, Malthus had said.

And then the world had exploded in a rush of crimson light, and stone had swallowed them whole, sending them hurtling. Away, away, farther than he had dreamed possible. Swallowed them and digested them and spat them out in the cavern in the mountains, so far north that pockets of snow lay in the gulches. And here they had to fight for their survival.

"Dani, you need to eat."

Uncle Thulu's face was worried. He extended a roasted haunch of hare on a spit. It had taken him the better part of a day to catch it.

"Yes, Uncle."

The meat was hot and greasy. Dani picked at it, burning his fingers. It felt slick on his tongue and juices filled his mouth as he chewed. He swallowed, feeling the meat slide down his throat. His belly growled and contracted around it, and he took another bite, suddenly voracious.

Uncle Thulu's dark face creased in a grin. "The Bearer is hungry!"

"Yes." He smiled back around a mouthful of meat. "I am."

"Good."

For a long time, neither of them spoke. There was only the sound of teeth rending meat, the murmurs of gladdened bellies. Between them they picked the bones clean and sucked them. Their little fire crackled merrily. Dani had lit it himself, twirling a sharpened stick between his palms until the pine mast he had gathered caught and glowed, sending a tendril of smoke into the clean air. A good thing, as cold as they were.

When they had done, Uncle Thulu leaned back and patted his belly. "Ah," he sighed. "That's good."

"Uncle." Dani hunched forward, wrapping his arms about his knees, staring at their fire. Afternoon shadows played over his features and the clay vial strung about his neck bumped his bare, bony kneecaps. "Where are we? What has become of us? What has become of Malthus?" He rested his chin on his knees, his expression miserable. "What do I do now, Uncle?"

"I don't know, lad." Uncle Thulu's voice was brusque. Leaning forward he placed another deadfall on the fire. "We're in Staccia, I think. Or Fjeltroll country. North."

"It's cold." Dani shivered.

"Aye." Uncle Thulu watched a shower of sparks rise. "A good job that Blaise bought cloaks for us. Wish I'd taken him up on the boots. Might have, if they'd fit."

Dani regarded his own feet, bare and calloused, broadened by a lifetime of walking on the desert floor. He did not mind the stones, but the beds of his toenails were faintly blue. "It's cold here."

"Aye." Uncle Thulu nodded. "We're in the north, all right."

He lifted his head. "He must have had a plan."

"Malthus?"

Dani nodded.

"I don't know, Dani." His uncle picked at his teeth with a splintered bone, thoughtful and frowning. "I don't think he reckoned on the Sunderer's army being in the tunnels. I think he did his best to protect us, that's all. Sent us as far away as he could. As to what happens next, that's up to you."

"I don't
want
to decide!"

His voice sounded childish. Uncle Thulu gazed at him silently. He sighed and bowed his head, cupping his hands in front of him. The radiating lines that marred his palms conjoined, forming a perfect star. What a simple, silly thing! Why should it mean he, and he alone, could draw the bucket from the well? But it did, and he had. The proof of it was bound on a cord around his neck. Dani swallowed, remembering the words that had first stirred him, spoken by Malthus.
Yet in the end, the fate of Urulat rests in your hands, Bearer
. He had heeded the Counselor's words. He had drawn the Water of Life. He had borne it. In Malumdoorn, it had drawn life out of death. He remembered that, the green leaves springing from dead wood, the surge of joy he had felt at the sight.

"The choice is yours, Dani." Uncle Thulu's voice was gentle. "Always and forever. That is the trust Uru-Alat bequeathed to the Yarru-yami, revealed to us by Haomane's Wrath. We ward the Well of the World. You are the Bearer."

Dani hunched his shoulders. "What if I refuse?"

"Then that is your choice. Do you want to go home?" With the tip of his bone-splinter toothpick, Uncle Thulu pointed southward, to the left of the lowering sun. "It lies that way, Dani. The rivers of Neheris run south. We have but to follow them until they sink beneath the earth and the desert begins."

It was heavy, the vial. It hung about his neck like a stone. The water in it—the Water of Life—could extinguish the very marrow-fire. It had seemed like a glorious destiny at Birru-Uru-Alat. To think he held the power, cupped in his hands, to heal the world! The danger had seemed very far away. Even on the marsh-plains, when they had been attacked, it seemed there was no danger from which Malthus could not protect them. Not any more. Not since the Were had come out of the forest, silent and deadly. Not since he had seen the army of Darkhaven in the Ways in its incomprehensible numbers, led by one of the Three. All that Malthus said; it was true. Satoris the Sunderer had raised a vast legion and he meant to conquer the world.

And the Company that had sworn to protect the Bearer…

"Do you think any of them are left alive?" he asked.

"I don't know, Dani," Uncle Thulu said. "It didn't look good."

He turned his head and gazed in the direction of the setting sun, thinking about their companions. Malthus, whom he had believed could do anything. Blaise, steady and competent. The Haomane-gaali, Peldras, so gentle and wise. Proud Hobard, whose anger was not really anger, but a thing driven by fear. Fianna, who was kind and beautiful. And Carfax—oh, Carfax! The Staccian had saved him in the end. Tears stung Dani's eyes. A golden wash of light lay over the mountain peaks, casting the valleys in shadow. Already the sun's warmth was fading. He dashed away his tears with the back of one hand and took a deep breath. "How far is it to Darkhaven?"

Uncle Thulu shook his head. "I cannot be sure. A long way."

"Can you find it?"

There was a pause. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Yes." Dani laced his fingers about his knees to hide their trembling and met his uncle's somber gaze. "If they died, they died trying to protect me. And if they did not…" He swallowed. "I would be ashamed to have them know I failed without trying."

Picking up his digging-stick, his uncle hummed deep in his chest, a reassuring and resonant sound. "Then we will find it, Dani. You are the Bearer, and I have promised the Yarru-yami to remain at your side, to guide your steps no matter how you choose." He turned the stick in his hands, humming absently. "Where water flows beneath the earth, I will chart the ways. When we find the taint of the Shaper's blood, we will follow it to Darkhaven."

"Good." His burden felt lighter for having decided. He edged closer to his uncle. They sat in companionable silence, sharing the warmth of their cloaks, watching blue twilight descend over the mountains. "Uncle?"

"Aye, lad?"

"We're not likely to live through this, are we?"

The deep humming faltered. He looked up to meet his uncle's gaze. "No," Uncle Thulu said quietly. "Venturing into the bowels of Darkhaven? Not likely, lad."

He nodded, remembering the gleam of moonlight on the pelts of the Were, the companions they had abandoned. "That's what I thought."

"I'm sorry, Dani."

"It's all right." Beneath his cloak, Dani fumbled for the vial at his throat, closing his fingers about its strange weight, obscurely comforted by his burden. "Uncle, what do you think he meant?"

"Who?"

He shivered. "The Slayer. The man with the black sword. 'Listen,' he said."

Uncle Thulu gazed at the fire, his hands gone still on his digging-stick. It was dark now, and the flickering light cast shadows in the hollows of his eyes and the crease beside his broad nose. "I don't know, Dani," he murmured. "I am only the guide. You are the Bearer."

"He sought to kill Malthus."

"Aye." His uncle nodded. "Aye, that I believe he did."

He held the vial, pondering its heft. "Well," he said at length. "It is a long way to Darkhaven. We will see."

"Aye," his uncle said softly. "That we will."

THE MARASOUMIE WAS LOOSENING ITS grip on Tanaros.

The terrible will he exerted was only part of it. In truth, he should not have been able to prevail against Malthus; not with the wizard wielding the Soumanië. Once he regained a measure of his depleted strength, Malthus should have been able to wrest himself into the Ways, sealing Tanaros in the Marasoumië.

He hadn't, though. Foolish wizard. It seemed his priorities lay with his Companions. Even now he struggled like a fly caught in amber, sending his strength
elsewhere
to shore up a fading spell, using the dregs of his exhausted power to cast a pall of protection over those who had none. Sensing it, Tanaros grinned without knowing it, the memory of his face shaping a rictus. With his right hand clenched on his sword-hilt, feeling the annealing power of a Shaper's blood temper his will, he fought for mastery of the Ways.

Fought, and won.

It came all of a rush, a node-point opening to his command. Gathering himself and his will, Tanaros scrambled for selfhood, wresting his shape out of the molten
nowhere
of the Marasoumië, reclaiming the mortal form he had worn for more than a thousand years. If there was a hand to grip a sword-hilt, there must be an arm to wield it. If there was a mouth to grin, there must be a face to wear it. If there was a heart to beat, there must be a breast to contain it. Bit by bit, Tanaros gathered himself until he was a man, standing, his feet beneath him.

There.

His lungs opened, drawing in a sobbing breath. Without a second thought, he hurled himself into the Ways, into the constricting passage. One step, two, three; my Lord, I am
coming
, he thought, an ecstatic rush surging into his palm, fueling his veins. The black blade trembled, keening its own song. Stone rushed past him, disorienting.

Crimson light pulsed.

Tanaros stumbled, staggering, into open air.

It was a cavern. That much he saw, as his mastery of the Marasoumië faded. He set his feet and turned slowly in a circle, his sword extended. The sound of his breathing filled the empty space. The node-light went grey and lifeless, and darkness reclaimed the cavern. Somewhere in the Marasoumië, Malthus the Counselor had realized his error and managed to close the Ways at last.

Wherever Tanaros was, he was trapped.

He gave a short laugh at the irony of it. The cavern lay within the Ways, so there must be tunnels—but he was deep, deep below the surface, with no idea in which direction an egress might lie. No food, no water. There was air, for the moment. How long could he endure without them? What would become of his immortal flesh? Tanaros closed his eyes, remembering another journey beneath the earth, and beauty and terror commingled. "Cerelinde," he mused aloud. "Have I found the death you feared?"

His voice echoed in the vaulted space, punctuated by the sound of a drop of water falling; amplified, louder than any drip should be.

Tanaros opened his eyes.

It was dark in the cavern, but not wholly so. And it smelled of water; of the essence of water, of something that was to water as the Shaper's ichor was to mortal blood. Like water, only
sweeter
.

With dark-adjusted eyes he saw it—there, on the far side, a pool of water and a tiny point of light upon it, refracting a distant glitter of sun. Putting up his sword, Tanaros approached it. Deep, that cistern; unknowably deep. A single stalactite overhung it, glistening with gathering moisture. Leaning over the pool and craning his neck, he saw fresh marks gouged into the wall of the cistern. He knew those gouges. Deep and plunging, taking bites from stone as if from a hunk of stale bread; that was the work of a Fjeltroll's talons. A man could climb using those handholds, if he were strong enough to hoist himself up there.

Far, far above was sky, a blue disk no larger than a teacup.

Sheathing his sword, Tanaros reached out into the air above the cistern. The narrow shaft of sunlight illuminated his hand. It was warm on his skin; hot and dry. He rotated his hand. Sunlight lay cupped in his calloused palm. On the underside, the air that kissed his knuckles was cooler and moist, rising from the pool below. He could almost taste it.

"The Well of the World," he whispered.

It seemed impossible… and yet. What other water was so still, so motionless? Surely this must be the very navel of Urulat. He crouched beside the pool and watched the motionless water. It was folly to be here, and folly to linger. Still, he could not leave. If it was true, this water was old. It had been old when the world was Sundered; it had been old when the world was Shaped. With the utmost care he extended his arm and dipped the tip of one finger into the water, which didn't even ripple.