Banewreaker (38 page)

But Aracus Altorus did not leave her to her own devices.

He didn't know how to use the Soumanië, and there was no one else to tell him. Even the Ellylon shook their heads, saying it was a thing only Ingolin the Wise might know. It afforded her a grim amusement. They were fools to think the Soumanië would be so easily claimed. And so, far from letting her retire in solitude and turn her face to the wall, Aracus kept her at his side, and Lilias kept her silence. He sought to woo her with sweet reason, he bullied her, he chivvied her, he offered her bargains she refused. He would not stoop to torture—there was that much, at least, to be said for Haomane's Allies—but neither would he let her out of his sight. He dragged her into the Cavern of the Marasoumië beneath Beshtanag Mountain, where he made an ill-guided attempt to use the gem to summon Malthus the Counselor.

Even if he had known its secret, he would have failed that day.

Lilias had laughed, close to hysteria, as the foundations of the world shifted and the node-point of the Marasoumië turned dull and inert, a dead hunk of grey granite. The bundled fibers of light that had traced the Ways went dead, leaving empty tunnels through solid rock. Aracus had cried aloud in pain, scrabbling at his forehead, removing the fillet from his brow and clutching it in his hand. As the Soumanië shone like a red star in his grasp, answering to the distant power of Godslayer, she knew what it was that the Sunderer had done, and that the Counselor was trapped within the Ways.

"Tell me how to reach him!" Aracus had raged. "Tell me how to
use
this!"

Lilias had shrugged. "Give me the Soumanië."

He didn't, of course; he wasn't a fool. He had merely glared at her, while the Ellylon spoke to him in hushed tones of what had transpired, explaining that not even one of the Soumanië could undo Godslayer's work. If they could not tap the Soumanië's power themselves, still, there were things they knew; things they
understood
, Haomane's Children. A death at the heart of Urulat was one such. They explained it to the would-be King of the West, their perfect faces strained and bone-white. The Ellylon did not love the deep places of the earth.

In the end, they trooped back to her warchamber, where Lilias was not allowed to leave. She was a piece of excess baggage, but one too valuable to discard. Dignity, along with privacy, was a thing from another life. She sat in the corner, covering her face with both hands, while Haomane's Allies spoke in portentous tones of assailing
Darkhaven. They let her hear their plans, so little did they fear her. A bitter irony, that.

"My lady," a voice whispered. "Is there aught I can bring you?"

Lilias gazed upward through the lank curtain of her hair. "Pietre!" It was appalling, the gratitude in her acknowledgment. Tears welled in her eyes. "Are you well? Have they treated you kindly?"

"Aye, my lady, well enough. It is as you said, they show us mercy." Stooping on one knee, Pietre offered the tray he held; a silver salver from her own cupboards, laden with cheese and dark Pelmaran bread. There was concern in his gaze. "Will you not eat? A bit of bread, at least? I can ask the cooks to sop it in wine, make a posset…"

"No," Lilias began, then paused. "Would you do this for me?"

"Anything."

She told him, whispering, her lips close to his ear. Pietre shook his head vehemently, his brown hair brushing her cheek. Only when one of the Ellylon glanced over in idle curiosity did he relent. Even then, his willingness was fitful. "Are you
sure
?" he asked, begging her with his eyes to say no.

"Yes." Lilias almost smiled. "I am sure."

It gave her reason to live, at least for a little while longer, and that, too, was a bitter irony. She huddled in her corner, arms wrapped around her knees, half-listening to the council of Haomane's Allies while awaiting Pietre's return. In time he came, carrying the silver platter. It made her proud to see the straight line of his back, the pride with which he performed his duties. Aracus Altorus and his peers accepted his service without thinking, reaching for a bite of bread and cheese, a cup of wine. Only Blaise remained on guard, distrustful, making certain Pietre was willing to taste aught he served to Haomane's Allies.

And he was, of course. All save the posset; that was reserved for her.

Pietre knelt to serve it to her, steadying the tray with one hand. There were tears in his eyes now, liquid and shining. "It is what you asked for," he murmured. "Sarika knew where it was kept. But, oh, please my lady! Both of us beg you…"

"You have my thanks, Pietre. And my blessing, for what it is worth." Lilias reached eagerly for the cup. Cradling it between her hands, she inhaled deeply of its aroma. Wine and hoarded spices, and an underlying bitterness. It was a fit drink for the occasion. "Both of you," she added. "Are you sure there is enough?"

"Yes, my lady." Swallowing tears, he nodded. "Enough for a whole colony of rats. It will suffice."

Lilias did smile, then, lifting the cup in toast. "You've done a noble deed. Farewell, Pietre."

Bowing his head, he turned away without answering, unable to watch. Still, it gladdened her heart to have him there, loyal to the end. It hadn't all been the Soumanië's power, not all of it. She had loved them well, her pretty ones; as she had loved Beshtanag. Its grey crags, its green forests; hers, all hers. From the sheep grazing in mountain pastures to the Were skulking in the shadow of the pines, she had
known
it, more truly and deeply than anyone else ever would.

And now it was lost to her, all lost. Would it have been different if she had refused Satoris' emissary? A war to prevent a war, she thought, gazing at the cup's contents. So Tanaros Blacksword called it. He had been wrong; but he had been right, too. Ever since Dergail's Soumanië had risen in the West, she had known it; for what Calandor had known, she had shared.

All things must he as they are, little sssisster.

It was a glorious haven they had made in Beshtanag, but the dragon's wisdom held true. Sooner or later, they would have come for her. Better, perhaps, that it was Haomane's Allies than the Lord-of-Thought himself. If Haomane First-Born was coming, Lilias did not intend to wait for him.

"Farewell," she whispered, raising the cup to her lips.

A man's hand dashed it away, hard and swift.

Crockery shattered, and Lilias shrank backward into her corner beneath a sudden shadow. Blaise Caveros stood over her, having shoved Pietre out of his way. "Sorceress." He sighed, rumpling his dark hair. The bandage was gone from his brow and the gash on his temple was knitting cleanly, but he still looked tired and drawn. "Please don't make this difficult."

A wine-sodden piece of bread sat on the stone floor, while dark liquid pooled in the cracks between the flagstones. A pair of flies buzzed, sampling the dregs. As Lilias watched, one twitched in midair and fell. Its wings beat feebly, then went still. "You deny me a clean death," she said in a low voice. "Would you do so if I were a man?"

Blaise nodded at the spilled wine. "Poison? You call that a clean death?"

"It is what is allotted to me!" Lilias shouted, lifting her head. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. "Must I meet you on the battlefield? I'm no warrior, Borderguardsman! I don't
want
to wield a sword! You have won; why can you not let me die?"

Her words rang in a warchamber gone abruptly silent. They were staring, now; all of them, Aracus Altorus and the others, leaving off their poring over maps and plans. She hated them for it. The Ellylon were the worst, with their smug compassion, their eternal condescension toward all things mortal.

No; worst was the Archer, the Arduan woman, who stared aghast and uncomprehending.
She
wouldn't mind dying on a battlefield.

"You," Lilias said to her. "Do you think
you
would be here if you hadn't proved yourself with a sharp, pointy weapon?" Her voice broke as grief rose up to overwhelm her. "Ah, by all the Shapers! Do you even
know
what you destroyed?"

"Sorceress." Blaise moved wearily to block her view, interposing his tall figure between her and the rest of the room. Behind him, the Arduan Archer's voice rose in anxious query, swiftly hushed by others. Haomane's Allies resumed their council in more subdued tones. "We are sorry for your grief. Believe me, we are all of us well acquainted with the emotion. But we cannot allow you to take your life."

Defeated, Lilias let the back of her head rest against the stone wall, gazing up at him. "I have lived too long already, Borderguardsman. If you were truly an honorable man, you'd let me die." A short laugh escaped her. "And if you were a wise one, you'd do the same. I promise you, this is an action you will regret."

"If you were an honorable woman," Blaise said quietly, "you would not have conspired with the Sunderer to deceive and destroy us."

"All I wanted was to be left in peace," Lilias murmured. "To live, unmolested, in Beshtanag, as I have done for so long. Satoris himself in his fortress of Darkhaven desires nothing more. Is it so much to ask? We require so little space upon the face of Urulat. And yet it seems even that is too much for Haomane's pride to endure. Lord Satoris afforded an opportunity, and I seized it. In the end, it is still Haomane's Allies who raised the specter of war. Did you not seek to fulfill his Prophecy?"

Blaise frowned at her, uncomprehending. "We are neither cruel nor unreasonable, Lilias of Beshtanag. If you give us a chance, you may come to see it. If that is not your will… You know full well, lady, that you may have your freedom—to do whatever you wish with your life, including end it—for one simple price. Tell us how the powers of the Soumanië may be wielded. Give us the dragon's lore."

Lilias shook her head, aware of the solid wall behind her. Her home, her fortress. Her prison, now. Still, it stood, a testament to what she had achieved. A monument to Calandor's death. The irony in what had passed seemed no longer bitter, but fitting. "No, Borderguardsman. Whatever else you may accuse me of, that is one trust I will never betray, and one death I will never forgive."

He sighed. "Then you remain with us."

"RIGHT HERE, LADS." VORAX TAPPED the map with one thick forefinger. "In the Northern Harrow. There's a node-point in the middle of the range; or was, at any rate. That's where Lord Satoris suspects they landed, based on their trajectory through the Ways."

He glanced up to make sure they were following. Osric and the other Staccians were no worry, but one was never certain with Fjeltroll. A few of them had a look of cheerful incomprehension, or at least one he'd come to recognize as such. For someone unacquainted with their features, it was hard to tell. Still, the one Hyrgolf had recommended to lead their contingent—Skragdal, the young Tungskulder—seemed alert and attentive.

"Now, these are desert folk," Vorax continued. "And bear in mind, they've never been out of their desert before; or at least not that we know of. So they're likely to stick with what they know, which is lowlands. See here, where the Harrow dips." He traced a line on the map. "If they're coming for us, and we have every reason to think they are, they're like to take the valleys, follow the riverbeds."

"Lord Vorax." Osric, bending over the map, met his eyes. The Staccian lieutenant was a man of middle years, solid and reliable. Not the best or boldest of his lads—that had been Carfax, entrusted to lead the decoys—but sensible, a man one could trust. "What if they're
not
coming for us?"

"Well, then we've nothing to worry about, have we?" Vorax grinned through his beard, clapping Osric's shoulder. "Let's say they are, lad. If we're wrong, you retrace your steps. Pick up their trail at the node-point, or what's left of it, and follow them south. Do you see?"

Osric nodded. "Aye, my lord."

"General." Skragdal frowned at the map. "I know the Northern Harrow, though I do not understand how this shape on paper shows it. This I know to be true. Even if we hurry, we will be many days behind their departure. There are valleys and valleys, routes and routes. How do we know which these smallfolk will take?"

"We don't," Vorax said bluntly. "That's why his Lordship wanted Fjel on this mission. See, here." He pointed. "This line is where Fjel territory ends, and Staccia proper begins. That's what it means."

"Neherinach." The Tungskulder's deep voice was sombre. It was a place the Fjel knew well, the ancient battleground where Haomane's Allies had fallen upon them in the First Age of the Sundered World. Their fate had been sealed at Neherinach, for it was there that they had retrieved Godslayer from the hands of the Rivenlost and brought it to Lord Satoris.

"Aye," Vorax said. "Neherinach. If these… smallfolk… travel southward, Staccians will note their passage. But if they stay to the north, it will be Fjeltroll who track their progress. Either way, they should be easy to mark. They are the Charred Ones, desert folk, dark of skin and unskilled in the ways of mountains." He splayed his hands on the map, gazing at Skragdal. "You may need to divide your forces. That is why I asked both contingents to be present. Hyrgolf said the tribes would give you aid if needed. Is it true, Tungskulder? Does the old oath still stand?"

"Aye, General," the Fjel rumbled. Skragdal's small eyes were grave under the bulging ridge of his brow, the thick hide scarred where Lord Satoris' sulfuric rain had fallen. "We are not like you. Neheris' Children do not forget."

It stung him, though it shouldn't have. "Then you will find aid along the way!" Vorax snapped. "Let the tribes be your guide. I don't care how you find them, Tungskulder, just
find them
. Find them, and kill them, and spill the Water upon barren ground. Do you understand?"

"Aye," the Fjel said softly. "I do."

"General?" Osric cleared his throat. "Lord Vorax, sir? I told my lads there would be hazard pay in this for them."

"Hazard pay." Vorax eyed him wryly. "We're preparing for the whole of Urulat to descend on us, and you want hazard pay for tracking a pair of desert rats through the mountains? This ought to be a pleasure jaunt, my boy."

Osric shrugged. "And we ought to have taken Haomane's Allies at Beshtanag, sir, but we didn't. Instead we lost General Tanaros, and Shapers only know what's become of Carfax and his lot. You say it's just a pair of Charred Folk, but that's just guesswork. What if the Altorian king sent an army to guard them? What if the wizard is with them?"

"It's not
guesswork
!" Vorax brought one fist down hard on the map-table, making his lieutenant jump. "Listen to me, lads. His Lordship took up Godslayer itself, do you hear? What he knows, he
knows
. Haomane's damnable wizard is trapped in the Ways, and like to stay there. The Charred Folk are alone, and as for Tanaros Blacksword, he's about his Lordship's business." He glared at Osric. "Do you think the Three are that easy to kill?"

"No, sir." Osric held his ground. "But mortal men are, Lord Vorax. And we hear the rumors, same as anyone. They say the lost weapon's been found." There was no guile in his grey eyes, only steady honesty and a measure of fear. "A son of Altorus looking to wed a daughter of Elterrion. The lost weapon. Now this Bearer, and you say he's carrying water could put out the marrow-fire. I'm a Staccian, sir, and I'm as true to my word as any lug-headed, leather-hided Fjel. But if I'm going into the teeth of Haomane's Prophecy, I want what I was promised. Battle-glory, and fair recompense for the fallen."

The other Staccians murmured agreement. Vorax blew out his cheeks in a huge sigh, calculating sums in his head. He would be glad beyond words when Tanaros returned. Vorax didn't mind leading a good skirmish, but this business of serving as General was wearying. Bargaining was his strength, not overseeing morale. How could he do one while worrying about the other? Blacksword might be dour company, still mooning over his dead wife's betrayal a thousand years later, but he had the knack of commanding an army. "Fine," he said. "Triple pay. How does that sound, Lieutenant Osric?"

"In advance, sir?"

Vorax stared at the ceiling. "In advance." Lowering his gaze, he fixed it on Skragdal. "What about you, Tungskulder? Are the Fjeltroll afraid of Haomane's Prophecy?"

"Aye, General," Skragdal said simply. "That's why we go."

"Good lad." He clapped a hand on the Fjel's hulking arm, his shoulder being too high to reach. It was like slapping a boulder; ye Shapers, but the lad was huge! "There's nothing wrong with being afraid. His Lordship has powerful enemies, and they'll stop at naught to see him destroyed. They've waited a long time for this. But we haven't exactly been sitting idle, have we, lads? We're ready for them. That's the important thing to remember. Beshtanag may have gone awry, but we
did
succeed at Lindanen Dale, and we'll succeed in this, too." He grinned at them, showing his eyeteeth like a Fjel. "You want to know where our General Tanaros Blacksword is this very moment? His Lordship knows. Our Tanaros is in the heart of the Unknown Desert itself, putting the Charred Folk who sent the Bearer to the sword and silting that cursed well they guard! How do you like
that
news?"

They liked it, well enough to cheer.

"Haomane's Prophecy might be fulfilled someday, lads." Vorax shook his head. "But not today," he said with satisfaction. "Not on
my
watch! And not on yours, damn your eyes. Mark my words, Darkhaven will prevail!"

It braced them like strong drink, and the cheering continued. Vorax grinned some more, slapped a few more sturdy shoulders, ordered a keg of
svartblod
breached and raised a cup to the success of their mission. The Fjeltroll drank deep, roaring toasts in their guttural tongue. Nåltannen, most of them; a few Kaldjager for scouting work, and a pair of Gulnagel from the lowlands. Skragdal was the only Tungskulder, save one. The other Staccians drank the
svartblod
too, gasping and sputtering. It was a matter of pride with them to keep it down.

"Right," Vorax said, gauging the moment. "You have your orders, lads. Report to field marshal Hyrgolf for weapons and supplies, and head out at dawn."

THE DELTA'S WARMTH WAS A GLORUIOUS thing.

Against all likelihood, Ushahin found himself humming as he poled the skiff along the waterways. Dip and push; dip and push. It was a soothing motion. The flat-bottomed skiff he'd purchased in Arduan glided effortlessly over the still water. Caitlin's Da, he reflected, was a fine craftsman.

Passing beneath a stand of mangroves there was a green snake, unlooping itself lazily from a limb. Its blunt head quested in the air beside his face, forked tongue flickering.

"Hello, little cousin." Leaning on his pole, Ushahin smiled at the snake. "Good hunting to you, though you may wish to seek smaller prey."

The questing head withdrew and he pushed onward. Dip and push; dip and push. The hot, humid environs of the Delta were kind to his aching, ill-knit bones. For once, his joints felt oiled and smooth. He had not felt such ease in his flesh since he had been a child; indeed, had forgotten it existed. Out of sight of Arduan, he had shed the concealing cloak with its itchy hood. It was good to be unveiled in the open air. Sunlight usually made his head ache, but the dense foliage filtered it to a green dimness gentle to his eyes. That terrible awakening on the plains of Rukhar seemed distant, here.

"
Kaugh
!" Atop the highest branches of a further mangrove, a raven landed and perched there, swaying, its claws clenched on a too-slim branch. It clung there a moment, then launched itself in a flurry of wings, finding a similar perch a few yards to the south. "
Kaugh
!"

"I see you, little brother," Ushahin called to the raven, one of those serving to guide him through the swamp. He thrust strongly on his pole and the skiff turned, edging southward. "I am coming."

Satisfied, the raven pecked at something unseen.

In truth, it would be easy for a man to lose his way in the Delta. And would that be such an ill fate? Pausing to swig from his waterskin, Ushahin pondered the matter. There was something… pleasant… about the swamp. He felt
good
here. It wasn't merely a question of the moist air being kind to his bones, no. Something else was at work, something
deeper
. There was a pulse beating in his veins that hadn't surged since… since when?

Never, perhaps. One half of his blood, after all, was Ellylon. Haomane's Children did not know desire of the flesh, not in the same way other races among the Lesser Shapers did. The Lord-of-Thought had Shaped them, and the Lord-of-Thought had refused Satoris' Gift, that which was freely bestowed on other Shapers' Children.

The other half… ah.

Arahila Second-Born, Arahila the Fair. She had accepted his Lordship's Gift for her Children; and Haomane's, too, that which he had withheld from all but his beloved Sister's Children. Thus the race of Men, gifted with thought, quick with desire.

Ushahin had never reveled in the mortal parentage of his father, in his possession of Lord Satoris' Gift. Here, in the Delta, it was different. The songs he crooned under his breath were cradle-songs, sung to him by his mother aeons ago, before his body was beaten, broken and twisted.

"So, Haomane!" Ushahin addressed his words to a cloud of midges that hung in the air before him, standing in lieu of the First-Born among Shapers. "You're afraid, eh? What's the matter? Was Lord Satoris' Gift more powerful than you reckoned?" Pushing hard on his pole, he hummed, watching the midges dance. "Seems to me mayhap it was, Lord-of-Thought. At least in this place."

"Kaugh, kaugh!"

Ravens burst from the tops of the mangroves; one, two; half a dozen. They circled in the dank air above the center of the swamp, and sunlight glinted purple on their wings. Ushahin paused and rested on his pole, gazing upward. Images of a hillock, vast and mossy, flickered through his mind.

"What's this?" he mused aloud. "What do you wish me to see? All right, all right, little brothers! I come apace."

He shoved hard on the pole, anchoring its butt in the sludge beneath the waterways. The skiff answered, gliding over still waters made ruddy by the afternoon sun. In the center of a watery glade stood a single palodus tree, tall and solitary. In the shadow of its spreading canopy arose the mossy hillock he had glimpsed. For no reason he could name, Ushahin's mouth grew dry, and his pulse beat in his loins. It was a strange sensation; so strange it took him long minutes to recognize it as carnal desire.

Such desire! He was tumescent with it. The image, all unbidden, of the Lady of the Ellylon, slid into his mind. Cerelinde, bent over the saddle, the tips of her fair hair brushing the earth.

"Oh," Ushahin said, grinding his teeth, "I think
not
."

Sluggish bubbles rose in the murky water before him; rose, and burst, carrying the sound of laughter, slow and deep. In the branches, ravens arose in a clatter, yammering. Beneath the surface of the water, a pair of greenish eyes opened, slit with a vertical pupil and covered by the thin film of an inner lid.

Gripped by sudden fear, Ushahin propelled the skiff backward.

Iron-grey and slick with moss, the dragon's head emerged from the water. It was twice the size of the skiff, dripping with muck. Droplets slid down its bearded jaw, plunking into the water, creating circular ripples. It stirred one unseen foreleg, then another, and Ushahin struggled to steady his craft as the swamp surged in response. The dragon's inner lids blinked with slow amusement as it regarded him, waiting until the waters had quieted and he had regained control of the skiff. Only then did the massive jaws, hung on either side with strands of rotting greenery, part to speak.

"Is thisss desire ssso disstasssteful to you, little brother?"

Ushahin laid the pole across the prow of the skiff and made a careful bow. "Eldest," he said. "Forgive me, Lord Dragon. I did not know you were here."

Overhead, ravens circled and yammered.

The dragon's gaze held, this time unblinking. "You bear Sssatoriss' mark. You are one of his. You have ssseen my brother and know his fate."

"Yes," Ushahin said quietly. "Calandor of Beshtanag is no more."

Turning its head, the dragon sighed. A gout of bluish flame jetted from its dripping nostrils, dancing eerily over the oily waters to set a stand of mangrove alight. A single tree flamed, black and skeletal within a cocoon of fire. The circling ravens squawked and regrouped at a distance. In the skiff, Ushahin scrambled for his pole.