Godslayer (18 page)

"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. I! 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…" Fie 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, "it 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 pommel-stone. 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 snared, tracing an endless parabola around the tower. Beyond her door, the sound of his receding footsteps began to fade.

Already, she was lonely.

Peering into the chasm, Speros gave a low whistle. The brilliant flicker of the marrow-fire far below cast a masklike shadow on his face. "
That's
what this place is built on?"

"That's it," Tanaros said. "What do you think? Is there aught we can do?"

The Midlander glanced up at raw rock exposed on the ceiling, then back at the chasm, frowning. "It's beyond my skills, Lord General. I can make a better job of patching it than Lord Vorax's Staccians did, but it's only a matter of time."

"Where does the fault lie?"

Speros shrugged. "There's no fault, not exactly. Only the heat of the marrow-fire is so intense, it's causing the rock to crack. Do you feel it? There's no forge in the world throws off that kind of heat. I'd wager it's nearly hot enough to melt stone down there at the Source."

Tanaros' brand itched beneath his doublet. He suppressed an urge to scratch it. "Aye, and so it has been for a thousand years and more. Why does it crack
now
?"

"I reckon it took that long to reach the breaking point." Speros stamped on the stony floor. "This is hard rock. Lord General. Or it may be…" He hesitated. "Hyrgolf said there was a rain that fell while we were away, a rain like sulfur."

"Aye." Tanaros said quietly. "So I heard."

"Well," The Midlander gave another shrug. "Rain sinks into the earth. It may have weakened the stone itself." He glanced at Tanaros.

"Begging your pardon. Lord General, but why is it that Lord Satoris chose to erect Darkhaven above the marrow-fire?"

"Gorgantum, the Throat, the Pulse of Uru-Alat." Tanaros favored him with a grim smile. "You have heard of the dagger Godslayer, have you not, Speros of Haimhault? The Shard of the Souma?"

"General Tanaros!" Speros sounded wounded. "What manner of ignorant fool do you take me for? I know the stories well."

"I know what they say in the Midlands," Tanaros said. "I am telling you that the legends are true, lad. It is Godslayer that wounded his Lordship. It is Godslayer, and Godslayer alone, that holds the power to destroy him. And it is
that"
—he pointed into the flickering depths—"which protects it."

"From whom?" Speros gazed into the bright void.

"Anyone." Tanaros said harshly. "
Everyone
. Godslayer hangs in the marrow-fire in the Chamber of the Font because his Lordship placed it there. And there, no mortal hand may touch it; no, nor immortal, either. Believe me, lad,
for I know it well. Your flesh would be burned to the bone simply for making the attempt, and your bones would crumble ere they grasped its hilt. So would any flesh among the Lesser Shapers."

"Even yours?" Speros asked curiously. "Being one of the Three and all?"

"Even mine," Tanaros said. "Mine, aye; and Lord Vorax's, and Ushahin Dreamspinner's. Godslayer's brand does not protect us from the marrow-fire." His scar burned with new ferocity at the searing memory. "Even the Lady Cerelinde, lest you ask it. Not the Three, not the Rivenlost. Another Shaper, perhaps, or one of the Eldest, the dragons." He shook his head. "Elsewise, no one."

"Ah, well." The Midlander tore his gaze away from the marrow-fire. "I can't imagine anyone being fool enough to try. I wouldn't, not if I had a hundred buckets of that cursed water."

"The Water of Life." Tanaros remembered the taste of the Water in his mouth; water, the
essence
of water, infusing him with vigor. If the Well of the World were before him now, he would dip his finger into it and sooth the burning tissue of his brand. "Did you taste it?"

"Are you mad?" Speros' eyes widened. "The cursed stuff nearly killed me. I wouldn't put it in my mouth for love nor money!" He laughed. "I can't imagine what those poor little Yarru folk think to do with it. Haomane's Prophecy doesn't exactly say
how
they're to use it, does it?"

"No," Tanaros murmured. "It doesn't."

Well, then." Speros shrugged. 'If you ask me. Lord General, I think you worry too much. This is a problem, aye, but you see that?" He pointed to the ceiling. "By my gauge, there's a good twenty fathoms of solid rock there. At this rate, it ought to hold until Aracus Altorus is old and grey. And by
that
time. Haomane's Allies may as well call off the siege—and make no mistake, Lord General. Darkhaven can hold out that long, fortified as it is!—because now that I've seen her with my own two eyes, I don't see the Lady Cerelinde taking some doddering old mortal relic into her bed. Prophecy or no. So then it's too bad for them, try again in another generation or three, and meanwhile Lord Satoris can pluck Godslayer out of the marrow-fire and put this right. Do you see?"

Tanaros laughed. "Clear as day. My thanks, lad."

"Aye, sir." Speros grinned at him. "So what would you have me do here?"

"Seal the breach." Tanaros said, "If it is all we can do, we will do it."

By the second day, it seemed to Dani that his entire life had consisted of running, stumbling and exhausted, across a barren grey landscape. It was hard to remember there had ever been anything else. The sun, rising in the east and moving westward, meant nothing. Time was measured by the rasp of air in his dry throat, by one foot placed in front of another.

He would never have made it without Uncle Thulu. What vigor the Water of Life had imparted, his uncle was determined not to waste. He was Yarru-yami, and he knew the virtue of making the most of water. His desert-born flesh, accustomed to privation, hoarded the Water of Life. When Dani flagged. Uncle Thulu cajoled and exhorted him. When his strength gave way altogether, Thulu gathered moss while Dani rested, grinding it to a paste and making him eat until he found the will to continue.

On they went, on and on and on.

The terrain was unforgiving. Each footfall was jarring, setting off a new ache in every bone of Dani's body, every weary joint. His half-healed collarbone throbbed unceasingly, every step sending a jolt of pain down his left arm. On those patches of ground where the moss cushioned his steps, it also concealed sharp rocks that bruised the tough soles of his feet.