Godslayer (30 page)

"Lady." Tanaros bowed. "Are you well?"

She stood very straight, and her luminous grey eyes were watchful and wary. Her travail in Darkhaven had only honed her beauty, he thought; paring it to its essence, until the bright flame of her spirit was almost visible beneath translucent flesh.

"I am," she said. "Thank you, General Tanaros."

"Good." He cleared his throat, remembering how he had burst into the room and feeling ill at ease. "On behalf of his Lordship, I tender apologies. Please know that the attempt upon your life was made against his orders."

"Yes," Cerelinde said. "I know."

"You seem very certain."

Her face, already fair as ivory, turned a paler hue. "I heard the screams."

"It's not what you think." The words were impulsive. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Ah, Cerelinde! His Lordship did what was necessary. If you saw Ushahin's… punishment… you would understand."

Her chin lifted a notch. "The Ellylon do not condone torture."

"He healed his arm," Tanaros said abruptly.

Cerelinde stared at him, uncomprehending. "Forgive me. I do not understand."

"Slowly," Tanaros said, "and painfully. Very painfully." He gave a short laugh. "It matters not. Ushahin understood what he did. He bore his Lordship's punishment that his madlings might not. He did not want them to suffer for serving his will." A stifled sound came from the corner; turning his head. Tanaros saw Meara huddled there. A cold burning suspicion suffused his chest. "Do you have something to say Meara?"

She shook her head in frantic denial, hiding her face against her knees.

"
Let her be."
Cerelinde stepped between them, her face alight with anger. "Do you think I would permit her in my presence did I not trust her. Tanaros?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. "
Do
you trust her?"

The Ellylon could not lie. She stood close to him, close enough to touch, her chin still lifted. He could feel the heat of her body, could almost smell her skin. Her eyes were level with his. He could see the pleated irises, the subtle colors that illuminated them; violet, blue, and green, and the indeterminate hue that lies in the innermost curve of a rainbow.

"Yes," Cerelinde said, her voice steady and certain. "I do."

There was a sob, then; a raw sound, wrenched from Meara's throat. She launched herself toward the door with unexpected speed, low to the ground and scuttling. Taken by surprise. Tanaros let her go. He caught only a glimpse of her face as she passed, an accusatory gaze between strands of lank, untended hair. Her hands scrabbled at the door, and the
Mørkhar Fjel beyond it allowed her passage.

"What passes here, Lady?" Tanaros asked simply.

"You frighten her." Cerelinde raised her brows. "Is there more?"

"No." He thought about Meara; her weight, straddling him. The heat of her flesh, the touch of her mouth against his. Her teeth, nipping at his lower lip. The memory made him shift in discomfort. "Nothing that concerns you."

Cerelinde moved away from him, taking a seat and keeping her disconcerting gaze upon him. "You do not know me well enough to know what concerns me, Tanaros Blacksword."

"Lady, I know you better than you think," he murmured. "But I will not seek to force the truth you are unwilling to reveal. Since I am here in good faith, is there aught in which I may serve you?"

Yearning flared in her eyes and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Her voice trembled as she answered. "You might tell me what passes in the world beyond these walls."

Tanaros nodded. "I would thirst for knowledge, too, did I stand in your shoes, Cerelinde. Never say I denied you unkindly. Yrinna's Children are on the march."

"
What
?" Yearning turned to hope; Cerelinde leaned forward, fingers whitening on the arms of the chair. There were tears in her bright eyes. "Tanaros, I pray you, play no jests with me."

He smiled sadly at her. "Would that I did."

"Yrinna's Children have broken her Peace!" she marveled. "And…" Her voice faltered, then continued, adamant with resolve. "And Aracus?"

"He is coming." Tanaros sighed. "They are all coming, Cerelinde."

"You know it is not too late—"

"No." He cut her off with a word. It hurt to see such hope, such joy, in her face. When all was said and done, it was true; he was a fool. But he was a loyal fool, and his loyalty was to Lord Satoris: and to others, who trusted him. Tanaros fingered the
rhios
that hung in a pouch at his belt. "Save your words. Lady. If you have need of aught else, send for me, and I will come."

With that he left her, because it was easier than staying. The Mørkhar Fjel at her door gave him their usual salute. Tanaros stared hard at them. Too much suspicion and longing was tangled in his heart.

"See to it that no one passes unnoted."' he said. "Even the Dreamspinner's madlings, do you understand? It was one such who served the Lady poison."

"Lord General." It was Krognar, one of his most trusted among the Havenguard, who answered in a deep rumble. "Forgive us. One looks much like another."

"Do they
smell
alike?" Tanaros asked sharply.

The Mørkhar exchanged glances. "No," Krognar said. "But you did not ask us to note their scent. They are Lord Ushahin's madlings. You never troubled at them before."

"I'm asking you now."

The Mørkhar bowed. "It will be done," said Krognar.

Leaving them, Tanaros paced the halls. His heart was uneasy, his feet restless. He half-thought to track down Meara and question her, but there was no telling where she might be in the maze of corridors behind the wall. And did it matter? She was Ushahin's creature. If it had been her, she had only been doing his bidding. He had paid the price for it; for all of them. His Lordship was content. Could Tanaros be less?

Since he had no answers, he went to see Hyrgolf instead.

There was always merit in inspecting the barracks. Tanaros exited Darkhaven proper, making his way to the Fjel delvings north of the fortress. He strode through tunneled corridors, pausing here and there to visit the vast, communal sleeping chambers. They were glad of his visit, proud of their preparations, showing him armor stacked in neat readiness, weapons honed to a killing edge. Word traveled ahead of him, and he had not gone a hundred paces before the Fjel began spilling into the corridors, baring eyetusks in broad grins and beckoning him onward.

"Hey, Lord General!"

"Hey, boss!"

"Come check
our
weapons!"

"When are we going to war?"

The sheer weight of their enthusiasm settled his nerves and made him smile. The Fjel, who had the most to lose in accordance with Haomane's Prophecy, were with him. No sign of faltering there; their loyalty was unswerving. "Soon enough, lads!" he shouted to them. "I'm off to see Marshal Hyrgolf."

They cheered the mention of his name. One of theirs, one of their own.

And then there was Hyrgolf, standing in the entryway of his private chamber, his broad shoulders touching on either side of it. His leathery lips were curved in a smile of acknowledgment, but the squinting eyes beneath the heavy ridge of his brow held a deeper concern.

"General Tanaros," he rumbled. "Come."

Vorax walked along the northeastern wall of the auxiliary larder, touching items stacked alongside it; kegs of Vedasian wine, vast wheels of cheese wrapped in burlap piled into columns. Sacks of wheat, bushels of root vegetables; so much food it could not be stored within the confines of Darkhaven proper, but space must be found outside its walls. The towering cavern was filled to bursting with them.

All his, all his doing.

He was proud of it. There was no glamour in it: no, nor glory. There was something better: sustenance. Glutton, Haomane's Allies called him. Let them. He had earned his appetite, earned his right to indulge it. For a thousand years, Vorax had provided
sustenance
. Food did not fall on the plate and beg to be eaten, no matter who you were; peasant. Rivenlost lord, or one of the Three.

No, it had to be obtained; somehow, somewhere. In Staccia, they had always understood it. Precious little could be grown in the northern mountains. Neheris had not Shaped her lands with Men in mind. There was fish and game, and sheep and goats were tended. Never enough, not for as many Men dwelled in Staccia. For aught else, they had to trade; and they had little with which to trade. There was proud living in the mountains, but it was hard living, too. It had made them hungry, and it had made them shrewd.

And Vorax was the hungriest and shrewdest of them all. He had made the bargain to end all bargains—and he had kept it, too. Staccia had done naught but profit by it, and Darkhaven done naught but prosper. The betrayal of the Staccian lordlings incited by the Galäinridder was the only blot on his record, and that had been dealt with swiftly and irrevocably. He had earned the right to be proud.

"Do you see this, Dreamspinner?" He slapped a wheel of cheese with one meaty hand. It made a resounding echo in the vaulted cavern. "We could feed the Fjel for a month on cheese alone!"

"I don't imagine they'd thank you for it," Ushahin muttered, wrapped in his sheepskin cloak. Darkhaven's larders were built into the mountains of Gorgantum, deep enough that they remained cool even in the warmth of summer; not Fjel work, but older, part of the tunnel system that lore held was dragon-made.

"They would if their bellies pinched," Vorax said pragmatically. "And it may come to it, does this siege last. Meanwhile, who procured the flocks that keeps them in mutton?"

"Would you have me sing your glory?" The half-breed shivered. "I would as soon be done with it, Staccian."

"As you will," Vorax grumbled, and went back to counting kegs. "Third row, fifth barrel… here." He reached between the wooden kegs, grunting, and drew forth a parcel thrice-wrapped in waxed parchment, which he tossed onto the stony floor. "I had to bargain dearly for it, Dreamspinner. Are you sure we ought to destroy it?"

"I'm sure." Ushahin squatted next to the packet, bowing his head The ends of his pale hair trailed on the ground; he glanced upward with his mismatched eyes. "We had our chance and took it. The time has passed. Do you want to risk Tanaros finding it? He is asking questions, cousin, and in time he may think of your outermost larder, or learn it from my madlings. Do you want his Lordship to know your involvement? Would you risk
that
?"

"No." Vorax shook his head and shuddered. "No. I would not."

"So." With his newly cleft right hand. Ushahin unfolded the parcel. A scant pile of herbs lay in the center of the creased parchment. There had been more, once. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. "All-Bane," he murmured. "Sprung from the death-mound of a Were corpse I have not smelled it since I dwelled in the forests of Pelmar."

"Aye," Vorax said. "Or so the Rukhari swore. I demanded it in compensation for our aborted bargain. They were loath to part with it." He shrugged. "Do you think it would have killed her?"

"Yes," the half-breed said. "Oh, yes, cousin. All-Bane, Oronin's Foil. To taste of it is to hear the Glad Hunter's horn call your name. Death rides in his train, and not even the Ellylon are exempt from its touch." He regarded the herbs with his twisted smile. "Would that Oronin Last-Born had protected his Children as well in life as he does in death. The Lady would have died had she sampled the broth."