Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  The kitchen erupted in indignant rage. Ushahin rode their anger like a wave, letting them seethe and rant until they subsided, turning toward him with expectant eyes, waiting to hear what he would say next. His madlings knew him. They understood him. He had been broken and had risen triumphant nonetheless; he bore the badges of his breaking—his uneven face, his twisted limbs—in painful solidarity with their aborted lives and shattered minds. It was for this that they loved him.

  A vast tenderness infused his heart, and he wondered if Shapers felt thusly toward their Children. It seemed it might be so.

  “It is well that you remember this,” he told them, “for war comes upon us. And we may put faces to those enemies we know, but ’tis harder to put faces to the enemies among us. Who among you would betray Lord Satoris?”

  No one, no one, arose the cries; at once both true and not-true. Somewhere, the seeds of betrayal had already taken root. Listening to the madlings’ protestations, Ushahin thought of Calanthrag the Eldest and the things of which she had spoken. A shadow of sorrow overlay the tenderness in his heart. The pattern was fixed and inevitable. He could only serve his Lordship as best he might and pray that these spreading roots would not bear fruit for many generations to come. The Eldest herself had borne the same hope. He remembered her words, uttered in her knowing, sibilant hiss: Yet may it come later than sssooner for ssuch as I and you.

  “Well done, my children,” Ushahin said to his madlings. “Keep faith, and hope. Remember that it is his Lordship’s mercy that protects us here.” He held up his hand to quiet them and made his voice stern once more. “Now, who will speak to me of the hole that pierces the bowels of Darkhaven? How is it that a gap has opened onto the marrow-fire itself?”

  This time, the silence was different.

  “We didn’t do it, my lord!” It was one of the stable lads who spoke, near the exits. He ducked his head with a furtive blush. “It was just there.”

  Madlings glanced at one another, catching each other’s eyes. The question was asked and answered. There were nods and murmurs all around. Each time, it was the same. They had had naught to do with it.

  A cold finger of fear brushed the length of Ushahin’s crooked spine. He thought of how Darkhaven had been built, of how Lord Satoris had used the power of Godslayer to raise the mountains that surrounded the Vale of Gorgantum and laid the foundation of Darkhaven itself. What did it mean if the foundation was crumbling? What did it mean if Lord Satoris himself had allowed it to happen—or worse, was unaware?

  For all things mussst be as they musst.

  “No.” He caught himself shaking his head, saying the word aloud. With an effort, Ushahin willed himself to stillness, breathing slowly. The madlings watched him with trepidation. “No, never mind, it’s all right.” He forced a lopsided smile. “You did no wrong, then. It is nothing that cannot be mended. All is well.”

  A collective sigh of relief ran through his madlings. With a final nod, Ushahin gave them license, permitted them to shuffle forward, a sea of humanity surging against the small island promontory of his chopping-block dais. He gave them his broken hands to clutch and stroke, offering no false promises nor comfort, only the sheltering shield of his stubborn, enduring pain.

  “Oh, lord!” It was a young woman who spoke, eyes bright with emotion. She kissed his fingertips and pressed his hand to her cheek. “I tried, my lord, I did. Forgive me my weakness!”

  “Ah, Meara.” Bending forward, Ushahin caressed her cheek. He touched the surface of her thoughts and saw the shadow of Tanaros’ face therein. He grasped a little of what it betokened and pitied her for it. What was love but a little piece of madness? “All is well. I forgive you.”

  She caught her breath in a gasping laugh. “You shouldn’t. I brought her there. We are weak. I am weak.” She cradled his hand, gazing up at him. “You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.”

  “Yes.” Ushahin grew still, hearing his own thoughts echoed. “I know.” For a moment, they remained thusly. Then his heart gave a twinge beneath the branded skin that circumscribed it, and he shook his head ruefully and withdrew his hand. “I cannot, little sister. I am sworn to his Lordship, and he would see her live. I cannot gainsay his will. Would you have it otherwise?”

  “No.” Unshed tears pooled like diamonds in her eyes.

  “Remember what you are,” he said gently to her, “and do not dwell on what-might-have-been. Remember that I love you for that-which-is.”

  “I will!” Her head bobbed, overbrimming tears forging swathes down her sallow cheeks. Meara sniffled and scrubbed at her tears. “I will try, lord.”

  “Good.” Ushahin gazed past her at the faces of the madlings still awaiting his regard. “Well done, my child.” So many of them! How had their numbers come to swell so large? Their pain made his heart ache. He understood them, understood their weaknesses. What-might-have-been. A rock, clutched in a boy’s hand, descending. What if it had never fallen? A trader’s shadow, darkening the alley before withdrawing; his father, a tall shadow, turning away with averted face. What if someone—anyone—had intervened? It was a dream, a sweet dream, a bittersweet dream.

  He understood.

  And as for the other thing …

  Ushahin shuddered, thinking of the foundations of Darkhaven giving way beneath him. The passages were too narrow to allow the Fjel masons access, and any patchwork Vorax’s Staccians had done was merely a stopgap. If the foundation crumbled, it was symptomatic of things to come. Only his Lordship could root out this decay—if he retained the will and the power and the sanity to do so. Ushahin would speak to him. He prayed his Lordship would hear his words and act upon them, for if he did not …

  “May it come later than sooner,” he whispered, opening his arms to his throng. “Oh, please, may it!”

  THREE

  ON THEIR SECOND DAY ON land, Haomane’s Allies compared notes as they rode along the coastal road that lay between Harrington Bay, where the dwarf-ship Yrinna’s Bounty had deposited them, and Meronil, the Rivenlost stronghold whence they were bound.

  All of them had been plagued by strange visions in the night.

  The Borderguardsmen spoke of it in murmurs, clustering together in their dun cloaks, bending their heads toward one another. Even the Ellylon spoke of it, when the tattered remnants of Malthus’ Company found themselves riding together on the broad road.

  “’Twas as if I dreamed,” Peldras mused, “or so it seems, from what Men have told me; for we do not lose ourselves in sleep as Arahila’s Children do. And yet it seemed that I did wander therein, for I found myself watching a tale not of my own devising unfold. And a great wind blew toward me, hot and dry as the desert’s breath, and I beheld him emerge from it—the same, and not the same, for the Wise Counselor was somehow changed.”

  “Yes!” Fianna breathed, her face aglow. “That’s what I saw!”

  “’Twere as well if he were,” Lorenlasse of the Valmaré said shortly, coming abreast of her. “For all his vaunted wisdom, Haomane’s Counselor has led us into naught but folly, and we are no closer to restoring the Lady Cerelinde.”

  Nudging his mount, he led the Rivenlost past them. Sunlight glittered on their armor and their shining standards. Peldras did not join his fellows, but gazed after them with a troubled mien. At the head of the long column of Allies, Aracus Altorus rode alone and spoke to no one. His dun cloak hung down his back in unassuming folds, but his bright hair and the gold circlet upon it marked him as their uncontested leader.

  “What did you see?” Blaise Caveros asked Lilias abruptly.

  Bowing her head, she studied her hands on the reins—chapped for lack of salve, her knuckles red and swollen. She preferred to listen, and not to remember. It had been an unpleasant dream. “What do my dreams matter?” she murmured. “What did you see, Borderguardsman?”

  “I saw Malthus,” he said readily. “I saw what others saw. And you?”

  Lifting her head, she met his dark, inquisitive gaze.
What had she seen, dreaming beside the fire in their campsite? It had been a restless sleep, broken by the mutters and groans of Men rolled in their bedrolls, of Ellylon in their no-longer dreamless state.

  A Man, or something like one; venerable with age. And yet … there had been something terrible in his eyes. Lightning had gathered in folds of his white robes beneath his outspread arms, in the creases of his beard. There was a gem on his breast as clear as water, and he had ridden into her dreams on the wings of a desert sirocco, on a horse as pale as death.

  And he had raised one gnarled forefinger like a spear, his eyes as terrible as death, and pointed it at her.

  “Nothing,” Lilias said to Blaise. “I saw nothing.”

  On that night, the second night, the dream reoccurred; and again on the third. It kindled hope among the Men and unease among the Ellylon, and discussion and dissent among members of both races.

  “This is some trick of the Misbegotten,” Lorenlasse announced with distaste.

  “I do not think he would dare,” Peldras said softly. There were violet smudges of weariness in the hollows of his eyes. “For all his ill-gained magics, Ushahin the Misbegotten has never dared trespass in the minds of Haomane’s Children.”

  On orders from Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard sent scouts to question commonfolk in the surrounding territories. They returned with a confusion of replies; yes, they had seen the Bright Rider, yes, and the other Rider, too, the horses the colors of blood, night, and smoke. A wedge of ravens flying, a desert wind. A stone in a child’s fist, crushing bone; a clear gem, and lightning.

  They were afraid.

  Lorenlasse of Valmaré listened and shook his fair head. “It is the Misbegotten,” he said with certainty. Others disagreed.

  Only Aracus Altorus said nothing. Weariness was in the droop of his shoulders; but he set his chin against the weight of the Soumanië as he rode and glanced northward from time to time with a kind of desperate hope.

  And Lilias, whom the visions filled with terror, watched him with a kind of desperate fear.

  “You know more than you say, Sorceress,” Blaise said to her on the fourth day.

  “Usually.” Lilias smiled with bitter irony. “Is that not why I am here?”

  He studied her. “Is it Malthus?”

  She shrugged. “Who am I to say? You knew him; I did not.”

  Blaise rode for a while without speaking. “Is it Ushahin Dream-stalker?” he asked at length, adding, “You knew him; I did not.”

  “I met him,” Lilias corrected him. “I did not know him.”

  “And?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “What would you have me do?” she asked in exasperation. “You are a courteous enough keeper, Blaise Caveros, but I am a prisoner here. Would you have me aid you, my lord? After you destroyed my life and rendered me”—Lilias held up her wind-chafed, reddened hands—“this?”

  “What?” Leaning over in the saddle, Blaise caught her wrist in a strong grip. Their mounts halted, flanks brushing. “Mortal? A woman?” His voice softened. “It is the lot to which you were born, Lilias of Beshtanag. No more, no less. Is it so cruel?”

  Ahead of them, the Rivenlost rode in glittering panoply, ageless features keen beneath their fluttering pennants. “Yes,” Lilias whispered. “It is.”

  Blaise loosed his grip and retrieved his dropped rein, resuming their pace. “I do not understand you,” he said flatly.

  “Nor do I expect you to,” she retorted, rubbing her wrist.

  He stared across at her. “Did we not show you mercy?”

  Unwilling laughter arose from a hollow place within her. “Oh, yes!” Lilias gasped. “As it suited you to do so. Believe me, you’ll regret that, my lord!” She laughed again, a raw edge to the sound. “And the great jest of it is, I find that being forced to continue living, I have no desire to cease. I am afraid of dying, Blaise.”

  He looked away. “You, who have sent so many to their death?”

  “Not so many.” She considered his profile, stern and spare. “Beshtanag was left in peace, mostly. The Regents were afraid of Calandor. Do you think me a monster?”

  “I don’t know.” Blaise shook his head. “As you say, I have met you, Sorceress. I do not know you. And of a surety, we are agreed: I do not understand you.” He rode for a time without speaking, then asked, “What was he like?”

  “Calandor?” Her voice was wistful.

  “No.” He glanced at her. “Ushahin.”

  “Ah.” Lilias gave her bitter smile, watching her mount’s ears bob and twitch. “So you would pick over my thoughts like a pile of bones, gleaning for scraps of knowledge.”

  He ignored her comment. “Is it true it is madness to meet his gaze?”

  “No.” Lilias thought about her meeting on the balcony, the Soumanië heavy on her brow, and her desire to Shape the Dreamer into wholeness, taking away his bone-deep pain. And she remembered how he had looked at her, and her darkest fears had been reflected in his mismatched eyes. Everything he had seen had come to pass. Another hysterical laugh threatened her. “Yes, perhaps. Perhaps it is, after all.”

  Blaise watched her. “Have you met others of the Three?”

  “The Warrior.” Seeing him look blank, she clarified, “Tanaros Kingslayer. Your kinsman, Borderguardsman.”

  “And?” His jaw was set hard.

  “What do you wish me to say, my lord?” Lilias studied him. “He is a Man. Immortal, but a Man. No more, and no less. I think he gives his loyalty without reserve and takes betrayal hard.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fianna the Archer watching them with distaste and smiled. “And he does not understand women. You are much like him, Blaise Caveros.”

  Blaise drew in a sharp breath to reply, wrenching unthinking at the reins. His mount arched its neck and sidled crabwise.

  But before he could get the words out, the fabric of the world ripped.

  A hot wind blew across the coastal road, setting the dust to swirling. Haomane’s Allies halted, their mounts freezing beneath them, prick-eared. Borderguardsmen shielded their eyes with their hands; Ellylon squinted. At the head of the column, Aracus Altorus lifted his chin.

  A clap of lightning blinded the midday sun.

  Out of the brightness, a figure emerged; the Galäinridder, the Bright Rider, astride a horse that shone like seafoam in starlight. The horse’s broad chest emerged like the crest of a wave, churning onto the world’s shoals. The Rider’s robes were white and his white beard flowed onto his chest. Nestled amid it was a gem as clear as water, as bright as a diamond, so bright it hurt to behold it.

  “Borderguard!” Aracus’ voice rang as his sword cleared its sheath. “Surround him!”

  They moved swiftly to obey, dun cloaks fluttering in the breeze as they encircled the shining Rider, who calmly drew rein and waited. Blaise nodded at Fianna as he moved to join them, entrusting Lilias to her care. At a gesture from Lorenlasse, the Rivenlost archers strung their bows, moving to reinforce the Borderguard.

  “How is this, Aracus?” The Rider smiled into his beard. “Am I so changed that you do not know me?”

  “I pray that I do.” Aracus nudged his mount’s flanks, bringing him within striking range. His voice was steady, the point of his blade leveled at the Rider. “And I fear that I do not. Are you Malthus, or some trick of the Sunderer?”

  The Rider opened his arms. “I am as you see me.”

  Sunlight dazzled on the clear gem. Lilias flinched. On her right, Fianna unslung Oronin’s Bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at Lilias’ heart.

  No one else moved.

  Aracus Altorus broke into an unexpected grin. “That’s a wizard’s answer if ever I’ve heard one.” He sheathed his sword, leaning forward to extend his hand. “Welcome back, my lord Counselor! We feared you dead.”

  “Ah, land.” Malthus’ eyes crinkled as he clasped Aracus’ hand. “I’m harder to kill than that.”

  The Borderguard gave a cheer, unbidden. There was no cheering among the Ri
venlost, but they lowered their bows, returning arrows to their quivers. Turning her head, Lilias saw that Fianna kept an arrow loosely nocked, aimed in her direction. There was lingering distrust in her gaze.

  “How?” Aracus asked simply.

  “It took many long days,” Malthus said, “for I spent my strength in maintaining the spell of concealment that hides the Bearer from the Sunderer’s eyes. What strength remained to me, I lost in my battle with his Kingslayer. When the Sunderer destroyed the Marasoumië, I was trapped within it, scarce knowing who I was, let alone where. And yet, in the end, I won free.” He touched the white gem on his breast, his face somber. “I fear the cost was high, my friends. As I am changed, so is the Soumanië. It is a bright light in a dark place, one that may illuminate Men’s souls, but no longer does it possess the power to Shape.”

  A murmur of concern ran through the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.

  “Is that all?” Aracus Altorus laughed, and removed the gold fillet from his head. A gladness was in his manner for the first time since Cerelinde had been taken from him. “Here,” he said, offering it. “The spoils of Beshtanag. It’s useless to me. I’d thought to ask you teach me how to wield it, but it’s better off in your hands, Malthus. I’m a warrior, not a wizard.”

  Toward the rear of the company, Lilias made a choked sound.

  “Ah, lad.” Malthus gazed at the fillet in Aracus’ palm, the gold bright in the sunlight, the Soumanië dull and lifeless. “Truly,” he murmured, “you have the heart of a king. Would that the gem could be given as easily. No.” He shook his head. “It is not truly yours to give, Aracus. The Soumanid must be inherited from the dead or surrendered freely by a living owner. Until that happens, I can wield it no more than you.”

  Aracus frowned. “Then—”

  “No one can wield it.” Malthus lifted his head, and his gaze was filled with a terrible pity. With one gnarled forefinger, he pointed at Lilias, who sat motionless, conscious of the Archer’s arrow pointed at her heart. “Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.”