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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JACQUELINE CAREY
Copyright Page
Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber’d,—wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
SEVEN SHAPERS
Haomane, Lord-of-Thought
Arahila the Fair
Satoris the Sower
Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters
Meronin the Deep
Yrinna-of-the-Fruits
Oronin the Glad Hunter
DARKHAVEN’S FORCES
Tanaros Blacksword—General, one of the Three
Ushahin—Dreamspinner, one of the Three
Vorax—Glutton, one of the Three
Hyrgolf—Fjel field marshal
Carfax—Staccian captain
Skragdal—Fjel squadron commander
Speros—Midlander, recent arrival
Meara—madling, attendant to Cerelinde
HAOMANE’S ALLIES
Malthus the Counselor—Haomane’s emissary
Ingolin the Wise—Lord of the Rivenlost
Cerelinde—Lady of the Ellylon
Aracus Altorus—heir to Kingdom of the West
Blaise Caveros—Aracus’ second-in-command, member of
Malthus’ Company
Fianna—the Archer of Arduan, member of Malthus’ Company
Peldras—Ellyl, member of Malthus’ Company
Lorenlasse of Valmaré—Leader of the Host of the Rivenlost
Dani—Yarru, the Bearer
Thulu—Yarru, Dani’s uncle and guide
OTHERS
Lilias—Sorceress of the East
Calandor—dragon, one of the Eldest
Calanthrag—dragon, the Eldest
Grey Dam—ruler of the Were
ONE
ALL THINGS CONVERGE.
In the last Great Age of the Sundered World of Urulat, which was once called Uru-Alat after the World God that gave birth to it, they began to converge upon Darkhaven.
It began with a red star rising in the west; Dergail’s Soumanië, a polished stone that had once been a chip of the Souma itself—that mighty gem that rested on the sundered isle of Torath, the Eye in the Brow of Uru-Alat, source of the Shapers’ power.
Satoris the Shaper took it for a warning, a message from a sister who had loved him, once upon a time; Arahila the Fair, whose children were the race of Men. His enemies took it as a declaration of war.
Whatever the truth, war ensued.
Haomane, First-Born among Shapers, long ago uttered a Prophecy.
“When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found, when the marrow-fire is quenched and Godslayer is freed, when a daughter of Elterrion weds a son of Altorus, when the Spear of Light is brought forth and the Helm of Shadows is broken, the Fjeltroll shall fall, the Were shall be defeated ere they rise, and the Sunderer shall be no more, the Souma shall be restored and the Sundered World made whole and Haomane’s Children shall endure.”
It began with the rising of Dergail’s Soumanië. Cerelinde, the Lady of the Ellylon, a daughter of Elterrion’s line, plighted her troth to Aracus Altorus. It was the first step toward fulfilling Haomane’s Prophecy; Arahila’s Children and Haomane’s conjoined, their lines inextricably mingled. But in Lindanen Dale, their nuptials were disrupted.
Bloodshed ensued.
It was a trap; a trap that went awry. It seemed at first that all the pieces fell into place. Driven by vengeance, the Grey Dam of the Were spent her life in an attack, and the half-breed Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed madness and illusion. Under its cover, Tanaros Blacksword abducted the Lady Cerelinde and took her to Darkhaven.
Haomane’s Allies were misled. Pursuing a rumor of dragons, under the command of Aracus Altorus, they raised an army and launched an assault on Beshtanag and Lilias, Sorceress of the East. And there the trap went awry. The Ways were closed, and the Army of Darkhaven was turned back, their company’s leadership scattered. In Beshtanag, Haomane’s Allies took to the field.
There, they prevailed.
They were not supposed to do so.
They were coming; all of them.
They came on foot and on horseback and by sailing ship, for the Ways of the Marasoumië had been destroyed. Lord Satoris had done this in his wrath. The Dragon of Beshtanag was no more, slain by the Arrow of Fire; the lost weapon, found. Bereft of her Soumanië, the Sorceress of the East was nothing more than an ordinary woman; Lilias, mortal and powerless. The Were had struck a bitter bargain with Aracus Altorus, ceding to his terms; defeated ere they rose. Aracus was coming, his heart filled with righteous fury, knowing he had been duped.
Malthus the Wise Counselor, trapped in the Ways, had vanished beyond the sight of even Godslayer itself … but rumor whispered of a new figure. The Galäinridder, the Bright Rider, whose words bred fear in the hearts of Men, inspiring them to betray their ancient oaths to Lord Satoris.
But Haomane’s Allies had not won yet.
On the westernmost verge of the Unknown Desert, Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven, made camp alongside a creek. There he slaked the thirst of his long-parched flesh and made ready to rally his surviving troops and set his face toward home. Immortal though he was, he could have died in the desert. Thanks to a raven’s gratitude, he lived.
When he dreamed, he dreamed of the Lady Cerelinde.
On the back of a blood-bay horse, Ushahin Dreamspinner rode the pathways between waking and dreaming, plunging into the Midlands and leaving a trail of nightmares in his wake. A wedge of ravens forged his path, and on either side, a riderless horse flanked him; one a spectral grey, the other as black as coal.
If he had dreamed, which he did not, he would dream of the counsel of dragons.
Vorax the Glutton, muttering over his stores, awaited them in Darkhaven.
The immortal Three were soon to be reunited.
Haomane’s Prophecy was yet to be fulfilled.
In the mighty fortress of Darkhaven, where the Lady Cerelinde endured imprisonment and fought against a rising tide of doubt, the marrow-fire yet burned. Within it hung the dagger, Godslayer; ruby-red, a Shard of the Souma. Once, it had wounded Satoris; the wound that would not heal. Godslayer alone could end a Shaper’s life; the life of Lord Satoris, the life of any of the Shapers
. And while the marrow-fire burned, no mortal hand could touch it. None but a Shaper would dare.
Only the Water of Life, drawn from the Well of the World, could extinguish the marrow-fire. The Water had been drawn, but its Bearer was lost.
Thrust out of the Ways by Malthus the Counselor in a desperate gambit, abandoned and lost, Dani of the Yarru wandered the cold lands of the Northern Harrow, deep in Fjeltroll territory, with only his uncle to guide him. Together, they sought to follow the rivers, the lifeblood of Urulat, to Darkhaven.
And they, too, were being hunted … .
Led by Skragdal of the Tungskulder, the Fjel were on the hunt. Their loyalty to Lord Satoris was beyond question. Haomane’s Prophecy promised them nothing but death. No matter where it led them, they would not abandon their quest. They would succeed or die trying.
All things converge.
NEHERINACH WAS A GREEN BOWL cradled in the mountain’s hands. Here and there, small boulders breached its surface; elsewhere, a half dozen small hillocks arose, covered in flowering ivy. A small river, spring-fed, wound through the center of it, meandering westward to sink belowground. Low mountains, sloping upward with a deceptively gentle grade, surrounded it. Patches of gorse offered grazing to fallow deer, shelter to hare that crouched in the shadow of small crags.
It was a peaceful place, and a terrible one.
On the verges, the Kaldjager scouts waited, glancing sidelong out of yellow eyes to watch the others’ straggling progress. Skragdal, leading them, knew what the Kaldjager felt. This was where it had begun.
They assembled in silence on the field of Neherinach. The green grass was soft beneath their feet. Water sparkled under the bright sun. Birds stirred in the trees, insects took flight from grass stems.
“Come,” Skragdal said quietly.
They crossed the field together, and the grass flattened beneath their approach, springing back once they had passed. It smelled clean and sweet. Skragdal felt his talons breach the surface of the soil beneath, rich and crumbling. It filled him with an ancient fury. There was old blood in that soil. Thousand upon thousand of Fjel had died in this place, fighting without weapons against a vast army of Men and Ellylon, attacked without quarter for the crime of giving shelter to the wounded Shaper who had taught them the measure of their own worth. The ivy-covered hillocks that dotted the field marked the cairns of Fjel dead; one for each of the six tribes.
In the end, they had won; by treachery and stealth, according to the songs of Haomane’s Allies. It was true, they had laid traps, but what was treachery to a people invaded without provocation? It had been a bitter victory.
Near the riverbank, where the ground was soft enough to hold an impression, they found a trace of old hoofprints. Skragdal frowned. Only Men and Ellylon rode horses, and he did not like the idea of either despoiling Neherinach.
“A rider,” Thorun said.
“Aye.
“The earl’s Galäinridder?”
“Perhaps.”
Led by the Kaldjager, they followed the tracks to their origin. At the northern tip of Neherinach, a node-point of the Marasoumië had lain buried in a hollow place. Now, a great crater had been gouged from the earth. Splintered rock thrust outward in every direction. Whatever had emerged had done so with great force. The innermost surfaces of the granite were smooth and gleaming, as if the rock itself had become molten. It had not happened all that long ago. There were fresh scratches on the rock, and the remnants of hoofprints were still visible on the churned ground.
“That’s not good,” Thorun said.
“No.” Staring into the hole, Skragdal thought of Osric’s Men gossiping in the tunnels, and of Osric in Gerflod Hall, grinning his dead grin at the ceiling. The ragged hole gaped like a wound in the green field of Neherinach, exposing the ashen remains of the node far below. Earl Coenred’s final words echoed in his memory, making his hide crawl with unease. Dead, and you don’t even know it! “It’s not.”
He thought about changing their course, setting the Kaldjager to track the Galäinridder; but General Tanaros had told them, again and again, the importance of obeying orders. It was important to obey orders, even those Lord Vorax had given. Anyway, it was already too late. Gerflod Keep lay a day behind them, and the Rider had some days’ start. Not even the Gulnagel could catch him now.
But they could warn Darkhaven.
“Rhilmar,” he said decisively. “Morstag. Go back. If General Tanaros has returned, tell him what we have seen here. Tell him what happened in Gerflod. If he is not there, tell Lord Vorax. And if he will not listen, tell Marshal Hyrgolf. No; tell him anyway. He needs to know. This is a matter that concerns the Fjel.”
“Aye, boss.” Rhilmar, the smaller of the two, shivered in the bright sun. In this place of green grass, sparkling rivers, and old bones, fear had caught up to him; the reek of it oozed from him, tainting the air. “Just … just the two of us?”
One of the Kaldjager snorted with contempt. Skragdal ignored it. “Haomane’s Allies didn’t fear to send only two, and smallfolk at that,” he said to Rhilmar. “Go fast, and avoid Men’s keeps.” He turned to the Kaldjager. “Blågen, where is the nearest Fjel den?”
The Kaldjager pointed to the east. “Half a league.” His yellow eyes gleamed. “Are we hunting?”
“Aye.” Skragdal nodded. “We follow orders. We will spread word among the tribes until there is nowhere safe and no place for them to hide. Whoever—whatever—this Galäinridder is, he did well to flee Fjel territories and put himself beyond our reach.” Standing beside the desecrated earth, he bared his eyetusks in a grim smile. “Pity the smallfolk he left behind.”
THEY SPENT AN ENTIRE DAY camped beneath the jack pines, reveling in the presence of water and shade. Red squirrels chattered in the trees, providing easy prey for the Gulnagel. Speros, ranging along the course of the creek, discovered a patch of wild onion. Tanaros’ much-dented helmet, having served as bucket and shovel, served now as a makeshift cooking pot for a hearty stew.
By Tanaros’ reckoning, they had emerged to the southeast of Darkhaven. Between them lay the fertile territories of the Midlands, then the sweeping plains of Curonan. It was possible that they could locate an entrance to the tunnels on the outskirts of the Midlands, but there was still a great deal of open ground to cover. It would be an easy journey by the standards of the desert; but there was the problem of the Fjel. Two Men traveling in enemy territory were easily disguised.
Not so, three large Gulnagel.
“We’ll have to travel by night,” Tanaros said ruefully. “At least we’re well used to it.” He eyed Speros. “Do you still remember how to steal horses?”
The Midlander looked uncertain. “Is that a jest, sir?”
Tanaros shook his head. “No.”
They passed a farmstead on the first night and stole close enough to make out the shape of a stable, but at a hundred paces the sound of barking dogs filled the air. When a lamp was kindled in the cottage and silhouetted figures moved before the windows, Tanaros ordered a hasty, ignominious retreat, racing across fields, while the Gulnagel accompanied them at a slow jog.
Not until they had put a good distance between themselves and the farmstead did he order a halt. Back on the dusty road, Speros doubled over, bracing his hands on his thighs and catching his breath. “Why … not just … kill them? Surely … farmers wouldn’t be much trouble.”
Tanaros cocked a brow at him. “And have their deaths discovered? We’ve leagues to go before we’re in the clear, and all of the Midlands standing on alert. You were the one served in the volunteer militia, Speros of Haimhault. Do you want one such on our trail?”
“Right.” Speros straightened. “Shank’s mare it is, General.”
They walked in silence for several hours. After the desert, Tanaros reflected, it was almost pleasant. Their waterskins were full, and the fields provided ample hunting for the Gulnagel. The air was balmy and moist, and the stars overhead provided enough light to make out the rutted r
oad. On such a night, one could imagine walking forever. He thought about the farmstead they had passed and smiled to himself. While his motive for having done so was reasoned, there was a luxuriant pleasure in having spared its inhabitants’ lives. Such choices seldom came his way. He wondered what story they would tell in the morning. They’d pass a sleepless night if they knew the truth. Likely the scent of the Gulnagel had set the dogs to barking; better to send Speros alone, next time. He wondered if Fetch, who had flown ahead, might be able to scout a likely candidate for horse-thievery.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Speros remarked. “I never could have imagined this.”
“What’s that?”
“This.” The Midlander waved one hand, indicating the empty road, the quiet fields. “Us, here. Tramping across the country like common beggars. I’d have thought … I don’t know, Lord General.” He shrugged. “I’d have thought there’d be more magic.”
“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “There’s precious little magic in war, Speros.”
“But you’re … one of the Three, sir!” Speros protested. “Tanaros Blacksword, Tanaros …” His voice trailed off.
“Kingslayer,” Tanaros said equably. “Aye. An ordinary man, rendered extraordinary only by the grace of Lord Satoris.” He touched the hilt of his sword. “This blade cannot be broken by mortal means, Speros, but I wield no power but that which lies in reach of it. Are you disappointed?”
“No.” Speros studied his boots as he walked, scuffing the ruts in the road with cracked heels. “No,” he repeated more strongly, lifting his head. “I’m not.” He grinned, the glint of starlight revealing the gap amid his teeth. “It gives me hope. After all, Lord General, I could be you!”
As Tanaros opened his mouth to reply, one of the Gulnagel raised a hand and grunted. The others froze, listening. Motioning for silence, Tanaros strained his ears. Not the farmsteaders, he hoped. Surely, they had seen nothing. There had been only the warning of the dogs to disturb their sleep. Like as not, they had cast a weary gaze over the empty fields, scolded the dogs, and gone back to sleep. What, then? The Fjel had keener ears than Men, but all three wore perplexed expressions. Speros, by contrast, bore a look of glazed horror.
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