Godslayer (10 page)

The valley in which the Rivenlost haven of Meronil lay was a green cleft shrouded in mist. By all appearances, it filled the valley to the brim, moving in gentle eddies, sun-shot and lovely, a veil of rainbow droplets.

Lilias caught her breath at the sight of it.

Blaise Caveros glanced at her. "I felt the same when I first saw it."

She made no reply, watching as Aracus Altorus and Malthus the Counselor rode to the valley's edge, peering into the mists. There, they conferred. Aracus inclined his head, the Soumanië dull on his brow. Mist dampened his red-gold hair, making it curl into ringlets at the nape of his neck.

He needs a haircut, Lilias thought.

Aracus didn't look at her. She wished that he would, but he hadn't. Not since the day the Counselor had appeared before them, pointing his gnarled finger at her, and spoken those fateful words.

Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.

It was Aracus Altorus who had placed his hand on the Counselor's forearm, lowering his pointing finger. It was Aracus who had raised his voice in a fierce shout, bidding Fianna the Archer to lower her bow. And it was Aracus who had brought his mount alongside hers, fixing her with his wide-set gaze. All the words that had passed between them were in that gaze. He was not a bad man, nor a cruel one. He had extended trust to her, and mercy, too.

"Will you not release your claim upon it, Lilias?" he had asked her simply.

In the back of her mind there arose the image of Calandor as she had seen him last; a vast mound of grey stone, the crumpled shape of one broken wing pinned beneath him, the sinuous neck stretched out in death. To join him in death was one thing; to relinquish the Soumanië willingly? It would be a betrayal of that memory. While she lived, she could not do it. Tears had filled her eyes as she shook her head. "I cannot," she whispered. "You should have let me die when you had the chance."

Aracus had turned away from her then, giving a curt order to Blaise to ensure her safety. There had been dissent—not from Blaise, but among the others, and the Archer foremost among them. Arguing voices had arisen, calling
for her death. In the end. Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West, had shouted them down.

"
I will not become like our Enemy
!"

Throughout it all. Malthus the Counselor had said nothing; only listened and watched. A horrible compassion was in his gaze, and Lilias flinched when it touched her. It had clone so all too much since he had rejoined them. She wished he would turn his gaze elsewhere.

Now, on the edge of the valley. Malthus turned in the saddle, beckoning to the commander of the Rivenlost, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré. The clear gem at Malthus' breast Hashed as he did so, making the mist that filled the valley sparkle.

Lorenlasse rode forward, placing the mouthpiece of a silver horn to his lips.

A single call issued forth, silvery and unsubstantial.

For a moment, nothing happened; then an echoing call arose from the valley's depths, and the mists parted like a veil, revealing that the paved road continued onward in descent. Below them lay the cleft green valley, divided by a gleaming river that widened as it flowed toward the sea harbor, spanned by an intricate series of bridges that joined fanciful towers spiring on either side. It was white, white as a gull's wing. White walls curved to surround both hemispheres, and the city itself was wrought of white marble, structures more delicate than Men's arts could compass.

Through it all ran the Aven River, toward the silvery sea. Sunlight gilded its surface, broken into arrowing ripples by the low, elegant boats being poled here and there. And on an island in the center of the river stood the Hall of Ingolin the Wise, his pennant flying from the highest tower, depicting the argent scroll of knowledge on a field of sage green. A trio of white-headed sea eagles circled the spire in a lazy gyre, borne aloft on broad wings.

"Meronil." There was deep satisfaction in Blaise's voice. "Have you ever .seen anything so lovely?"

Lilias remembered Calandor alive and the majesty of his presence. How he had looked perched on the cliff's edge: sunlight glittering on his bronze scales, the glint of his green-gilt eyes, filled with knowledge. Love. A trickle of smoke, twin plumes arising in the clear air. The moment when he launched his mighty form into flight, the gold vanes of his outspread pinions defying the void below. So impossible, so beautiful.

"Perhaps," she murmured.

In the valley below, a company of Ellylon warriors emerged from the eastern gate, riding forth to meet them. They wore Ingolin's livery over their armor, sage-green tunics with his argent scroll on the breast. Their horses were caparisoned in sage and silver, and their hooves beat a rhythmic tattoo on the paving stones as they drew near.

The leader inclined his head. "Lord Aracus, Lorenlasse of Valmaré," he said, then inclined his head toward Malthus. "Wise Counselor. Be welcome to Meronil. My Lord Ingolin awaits you."

With a gesture, he turned his mount and his men fell into two lines, flanking their guests to form an escort. With Aracus. Lorenlasse, and Malthus at the head, the company began the descent.

Lilias found herself in the middle of the column; behind the Rivenlost, but at the forefront of the Borderguard of Curonan. She twisted in the saddle to look behind her, and Blaise, ever mindful, leaned over to claim her mount's reins. Riding at her immediate rear, Fianna the Archer gazed at her with smoldering distrust. Lilias ignored her, watching what transpired. As the last Borderguardsman cleared the lip of the valley, the pearly mist arose. Dense as a shroud, it closed behind the last man. Once again, the green valley was curtained; and yet, overhead the sky was clear and blue, the sun shining upon Meronil.

There was magic at work here she did not understand; Ellylon magic. What was true Shaping, and what was illusion? She could not tell, only that she was captive within its borders. Lilias shuddered. Without thinking, she lifted one hand to feel her brow, keenly aware of the Soumanië's absence.

"Are you well. Sorceress?" Blaise asked without looking at her.

"Well enough." Lilias dropped her hand. "Lead on."

They completed their descent. There was fanfare at the gate. Lorenlasse blew his silvery horn; other horns sounded in answer. The leader of their escort spoke courteously to the Gate's Keeper; the Gate's Keeper replied. Rivenlost guards stood with unreadable faces, crossing their spears. Aracus sat his mount with his jaw set and a hard expression in his eyes. The Gate's Keeper inclined his head. Malthus the Counselor smiled into his beard, fingering the bright gem at his breast. Fianna the Archer scowled, trying hard not to look overwhelmed by Ellylon splendor. Blaise conferred with his second-in-command, delegating The bulk of the Borderguard withdrew to make camp in the green fields outside Meronil's eastern gate.

All of it gave Lilias a headache.

The Gate's Keeper spoke a word, and there was a faint scintillation in the air. The gate opened. They rode through, and the gate closed behind them.

They had entered Meronil.

The Rivenlost had turned out to see them. They were Ellylon; they did not gape. But they stood along their route—on balconies, in doorways, upright in shallow boats—and watched. Male and female, clad in elegant garb, they watched. Some raised their hands in silent salute; others made no gesture. Their age was unknowable. They were tall and fair, with grave eyes and a terrible light in their faces, a terrible grief in their hearts. Their silence carried a weight.

There should have been music playing.

Meronil was a city made for music, a symphony in architecture, its soaring towers and arching bridges echoing one another, carrying on a dialogue across the murmuring undertone of the Aven River.

Instead, there was only mourning silence.

In the city, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré dismissed his company. They parted ways, returning to their homes; to regroup, to await new orders. Lorenlasse bowed low to Aracus Altorus before he took his leave, promising to see him anon. Was there mockery in his bow? Lilias could not say.

Then, they were few. Haomane's Allies; Malthus' Company. There was Aracus and Malthus, and Blaise and Fianna, keeping watch over Lilias. Among the Ellylon, only Peldras accompanied them. Ingolin's escort led them across a wide bridge toward the island, while the River Aven flowed tranquilly below and the denizens of Meronil watched. No longer hidden amid a large party, Lilias shrank under their regard, feeling herself small and filthy beneath it, aware of the stain of her own mortality.

She imagined their disdain.

So
this
is the Sorceress of the East
?

She reclaimed her reins from Blaise and concentrated on holding them, fixing her gaze upon her own reddened, chapped knuckles. It was better to meet no one's eyes. The Bridge's Keeper granted them passage. The company alighted on the island. When the doors to the Hall of Ingolin were thrown wide open, Lilias kept her gaze lowered. She dismounted at Blaise's quiet order and bore out the exchange of courtesies, the embraces given and returned, with little heed. None of it mattered. She wished she were anywhere in the world but this too-fair city.

"
Sorceress
."

A voice, a single voice, speaking the common tongue, infused with deep music and bottomless wisdom, a host of magic at its command. It jerked her head upright. Lilias met the eyes of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost.

He was old; so old, though it was not in his features, no. Or if it was, it was not in such a way that mortal Men understood. It was true, his hair was silver-white, falling like a shining river past his shoulders. Still, his shoulders were broad, and his features unlined. Time's footprints did not touch the Ellylon as they did the rest of the Lesser Shapers. But his eyes… ah!

Fathomless and grey, eyes that had seen the world Sundered.

They met hers, measured and
knew
her. They saw the hopeless tangle of grief and envy knotted in her heart. Ingolin was not called the Wise for nothing. He bent his head a fraction in acknowledgment of the status she had once held. "Lilias of Beshtanag. We welcome you to Meronil as our guest."

Others watched her; Aracus, with the dead Soumanië on his brow, filled with longing. Fianna, seething with resentment. Malthus and the Ellyl Peldras, both with that awful compassion. And Blaise; what of Blaise? He sat his mount quietly, scarred hands holding the reins, avoiding her eyes.

Lilias drew a deep breath. "You put a pleasant face upon my captivity, Lord Ingolin."

"Yes." Ingolin offered the word simply. "You know who you are. Sorceress; what you have been, what you have done. You know who we are and what we seek." He indicated the open door. "You will be granted hospitality within these walls; and sanctuary, too. Of that. I assure you. No more, and no less."

Lilias' head ached. There was too much light in this place, too much whiteness. She rubbed at her temples with fumbling fingers. "I don't want it."

There was no pity in his face, in the eyes that had beheld the Sundering of the world. "Nonetheless, you shall have it."

"It's
him
!" Meara hissed.

Cerelinde's heart clenched in a spasm of fear. She willed herself to a semblance of calm before glancing up from the embroidery in her lap. "Has Lord Satoris summoned me, Meara?"

"Not his
Lordship
!" The madling grimaced and jerked her head at the doorway. "General Tanaros. He's
here
."

This time, it was a surge of gladness that quickened her heart. It was more disturbing than the fear. Cerelinde laid aside her embroidery and folded her hands. "Thank you, Meara. Please make him welcome."

She did, muttering to herself, and made a hasty exit without apology.

And then he was there.

He was taller than she remembered; or perhaps it was the gauntness his travail had left that made him seem so. The room seemed smaller with him in it. Muted lamplight reflected dimly on the glossy surface of his ceremonial black armor. He bowed, exacting and courtly. "Lady Cerelinde."

"General Tanaros." She inclined her head, indicating the empty chair opposite her. "Will you sit?"

"Thank you." Encased in unyielding metal, Tanaros sat upright, resting his hands on his knees. He regarded her in silence for a moment, as though he'd forgotten what he'd come to say. "I trust you are well?"

"As well as I may be." Cerelinde smiled faintly. "Meara has obtained materials that I might indulge in needlework to alleviate the tedium. His Lordship has not permitted Lord Vorax to kill me."

"Vorax?" The straps of Tanaros' armor creaked as he shifted. "He wouldn't."

"He would like to."

"He won't."

Another silence stretched between them. Cerelinde studied him. He looked tired, his face bearing the marks of sun and wind. The hollows of his eyes looked bruised, and beneath the errant lock of dark hair that fell across his brow, there were furrows that had not been there before. It stirred pity in her heart, an emotion she sought to repress. He was Tanaros Kingslayer, one of the Three, ford General of the Army of Darkhaven.

Still, he was here, sitting in her well-appointed prison cell, and he was the only sane person she had seen in this place who did not appear to wish her dead.

"In Haomane's name," she said quietly, "or any you might honor, will you please tell me what is happening?"

"War." Tanaros held her gaze without blinking. "Not yet, but soon. Even now, they are gathering in Meronil to plot strategy. They are coming for you, Lady."

Cerelinde nodded once. "Do they have a chance?"

He shrugged, making his armor creak. "Do I think they can take Darkhaven? No, Lady, I do not. But nothing in war is certain save bloodshed."

"It could be averted."

"By letting you go?" Tanaros gave a short laugh. "To wed Aracus Altorus?"

She made no reply.

"Ah, Lady." His voice roughened. "Even if your answer were no… how long? One mortal generation? Ten? How long do you suppose it will be until another scion of Altorus is born who sets your heart to racing—"