With his heart in his throat, half-anticipating a blow, he scrambled to his feet and glanced around wildly.
There was nothing there, for as far as the eye could see. Only the slanting shadows; rocks and pine trees, and a mountain thrush warbling somewhere in the branches. Overhead, the sky was turning a dusky hue.
Dani laughed with relief. “He’s gone, Uncle!”
The pine branches curtaining the cave rustled, then went still. Dani waited for a moment with a dawning sense of alarm. When Thulu failed to emerge, he wrenched the branches aside with his right hand, admitting light into the cavern.
“Uncle!”
The older Yarru squinted at him. “Sorry, boy. Thought the rest … do me good, at least.” He made an effort to rise and grimaced. “Seems not.”
A cold hand of fear closed around Dani’s heart. In the lowering light of sunset, Uncle Thulu looked bad. His eyes were fever-bright and his face was drawn and haggard. His lips were dry and cracked, and his ashen skin seemed to hang loose on his bones.
Dani took a deep breath, touching the clay vial in an instinctive gesture. He willed his fear to subside. Without meaning to, he found himself thinking of Carfax the Staccian, who had found the courage to save him at the end, when the Were had attacked them. It seemed like a very long time ago.
Still, he found courage in the memory.
“Let me see.” He knelt beside his uncle, untying the laces on the front of his woolen shirt. Folding back a corner to lay bare his uncle’s chest, he hissed involuntarily through his teeth. The three gashes left by a Fjel’s talons were angry and red, suppurating. Proud flesh swelled in ridges on either side, and a yellowish substance oozed from them.
“It’s nothing.” Uncle Thulu fumbled at his shirt. “I can go on, lad.”
“No.” Dani sat back on his heels. “No,” he said again more strongly. “You can’t.” He nodded, mostly to himself. “But we’re going to stay here until you can.”
FIVE
IT FELT GOOD TO HUNT with the Kaldjager.
Skragdal had shed his armor for the hunt; set aside his shield, unbuckled the leather straps to remove the unwieldy carapace of steel, laid down his battle-axe and his mace. Without them, he felt light as a pup, almost giddy with lightness.
Beyond the western outskirts of Drybone Reach, where the smallfolk had fled, ash trees grew and the White River tumbled from the heights in measured stages. Water gathered in foaming pools, a shining ribbon spilling over a worn granite lip only to gather and spill onward, lower and lower. In this fashion did it make its way to the field of Neherinach, several leagues hence.
It was beside one such pool that Skragdal crouched amid the roots of a tall ash, his talons digging into the rich loam. He was glad he had chosen to dally here. A cool breeze played over his exposed hide. He widened his nostrils, inhaling deeply.
There.
The odor of blood, living blood. A beating heart and the rank odor of fear, the distinctive scent of lanolin. He felt a keen hunter’s smile stretch his mouth. Late summer, when the young males among the mountain sheep vied for precedence and territory, staking their claim for the winter to come.
The Kaldjager were driving one his way.
Lifting his head, he saw it. A ram, descending in bounds. Its coat was shaggy and greyish-white. A pair of ridged horns rose from its brow in looping, massive curves, as thick as a Tungskulder’s forearm.
It saw him and froze.
And there were the Kaldjager, emerging from their pursuit, one on either side. They moved quickly and efficiently, sealing off the young ram’s avenue of retreat. One of them saw Skragdal as he rose from his crouch, stepping from beneath the shadow of the ash tree. Even at a distance, his yellow eyes glinted. He hunched his shoulders, opening one hand in an overt gesture. Tungskulder, the prey is yours.
Skragdal spread his arms gladly. They felt so light without armor.
Beside the pool, the ram halted, setting its forelegs and planting its cloven hooves. It was breathing hard. It lowered its head, the heavy, curling horns tilting as it glanced behind it to either side, catching sight of the grinning Kaldjager.
There was no way out.
Skragdal lowered his head and roared.
Everything else went away when the ram charged. It came hard and fast, its scent filling his nostrils. At the last moment, it rose upon its hind legs. For an instant, the ram’s head was silhouetted against the sky. He took in its amber-brown eyes, filled with determined fury of the will-to-survive, its narrow, triangular nostrils and oddly Man-like mouth set in a slender muzzle, the heavy, ridged spirals of its horns. It was for these moments that Fjel lived in the wild.
The ram descended.
Skragdal met it head-on; head to head, brow to brow. It made a clap like thunder breaking. The shock of it reverberated through the thick ledge of bone protecting his brow, through his whole body. His shoulders sang with echoing might. Digging his taloned feet into the loam, he reached out with both arms, filling his hands with lanolin greasy wool.
They grappled, swaying.
And then the ram’s legs trembled. Its amber-brown eyes were dazed. With another surge of strength, Skragdal roared and wrenched sideways, breaking its neck. He swiped at the ram’s throat as he flung it to the ground. Red furrows gaped in the wake of his talons. The ram lay without moving, blood seeping slowly over the rocks without a beating heart to pump it.
Truly, Neheris had Shaped her Children well.
Skragdal grinned as the wild Kaldjager approached. “My thanks, brethren. That is how the Tungskulder hunt,” he said to them. “What do the Kaldjager say?”
They eyed his kill with respect. “We say it is well done, Skragdal of Darkhaven,” one of them said. “Our clan will feast well tonight; aye, and your lads, too. As for the rest?” He nodded to the east. “One comes. One of yours.”
Skragdal straightened, feeling the tug of absent armor on his shoulders where the straps had worn his hide smooth and shiny. It was Blagen, coming at a trot, his arms and armor jangling, a half-empty waterskin sloshing at his belt. He was unaccompanied.
“Boss,” Blågen said briefly, saluting as General Tanaros had taught them.
Everything that had gone away came crashing back. He was not free from the constraints of command. Skragdal sighed and pulled at the pointed lobe of one ear, willing the act to stimulate words, thoughts. “Where are they?”
“We lost their trail in Drybone Reach.”
Skragdal stared at him. “How?”
Blågen shrugged, glancing sidelong at the dead ram. “It is a large area. They are Arahila’s Children, cunning enough to hide and let us pass. Ulrig and Ruric have gone back to begin at the beginning. We will find them.” He glanced then at the other Kaldjager and showed the tips of his eyetusks. “We could use the aid of our brethren if they are willing to undertake a different kind of hunt.”
The wild Kaldjager exchanged slow smiles.
Skragdal considered them. “How many of you?”
“Twelve,” one replied. He nodded at Blågen’s waterskin. “If we had those. Twelve and your three would be enough to sweep the Reach. Your smallfolk could not hide.” He pointed at the dead ram. “You see how we herd our prey.”
Others from Skragdal’s company began to arrive, straggling; Gulnagel, Nåltannen, the strapping young Tungskulder Thorun. Not taking part in the hunt, they had retained their arms, and their gear rattled and sloshed about them. Skragdal suppressed another sigh. He had hoped it would have ended sooner, more simply, but was not to be. He squinted at the sun, which seemed so bright after the Vale of Gorgantum. Although he misliked entrusting the task to Fjel he had not seen trained himself, too much time had passed to equivocate.
Anyway, old Mulprek was right. There were no better hunters than the Kaldjager. Although they were not as swift as the Gulnagel nor as strong as the Tungskulder, they were swifter and stronger than any of the other tribes. Kaldjager were strange and solitary for Fjel, living in roaming clans instead of proper de
ns, but they were unflagging in the chase, and utterly ruthless. Not even General Tanaros could improve upon their skills. If the Cold Hunters could not do it, it could not be done.
“All right, then.” Stooping, Skragdal picked up the ram’s corpse and slung it over his shoulder. Its head lolled, blood gathering to fall in slow drops from its gashed throat. It had seemed like a gift, this fine, clean kill, and now it was spoiled. Feeling obscurely cheated, he glared at the other Fjel. “Why is it so hard to kill these smallfolk?”
For a long moment, no one answered.
“Don’t worry, boss.” Blågen broke the silence with the fearless insouciance of the Cold Hunters. “We’ll find them.”
“You had better,” Skragdal said grimly. “It is the only thing his Lordship has asked of us.” He held Blågen’s gaze until the Kaldjager blinked. “Back to the clan’s gatheringplace,” he said. “We will share out our gear there.”
“Then we hunt?”
“Yes.” Skragdal grunted, shifting the ram’s corpse on his shoulder. “And we go to Neherinach to lay a trap.”
THEY WERE WAITING FOR HER in the great hall.
Sunlight blazed through the tall windows that surrounded it, glistening on the polished amber wood of the long table and the marble floor with its intricately laid pattern of white and a pale, veined blue. In the center of the table was a gilded coffer inlaid with gems. Between the windows, pennants hung from gilded poles. The clear windows were bordered with narrow panes of sea-blue glass, and the slanting sunlight threw bars of cerulean across the room.
It looked, Lilias thought, like a beautiful prison-chamber.
Ingolin the Wise presided at the head of the table, with Malthus the Counselor at his right hand and Aracus Altorus at his left. The others were Ellylon. Lorenlasse of Valmaré she knew; the others, she did not, although their faces were familiar. All of it was familiar. One of the Ellylon was a woman, with features so lovely at close range that Lilias could have wept.
Instead, under the combined weight of their regard, she froze in the doorway.
“Go on.” Blaise prodded her from behind. He pointed to an empty chair on one side of the table, isolated from the rest. “Take your seat.”
Lilias took a deep breath and entered the room, crossing through the bars of blue light. She drew out the chair and sat, glancing back at Blaise. He had positioned himself like a guard beside the tall doorway. High above him, on the pediment that capped the entrance, was the room’s sole imperfection: a shattered marble relief that had once depicted the head of Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas.
The memory evoked pain—the splintering pain she had endured when the sculpture had been demolished—but it evoked other memories, too. Lilias raised her chin a fraction, daring to face the assembly.
“Lilias of Beshtanag,” Ingolin said. “You have been brought here before us that we might gain knowledge of one another.”
“Am I on trial here, my lord?” she inquired.
“You are not.” His voice was somber. “We seek the truth, yes. Not to punish, but only to know. Willing or no, you are a guest in Meronil and I have vouched for your well-being.” He pointed at the ruined pediment. “You see here that which was once the work of Haergan the Craftsman. I think, perhaps, that it is not unfamiliar to you, Sorceress. Did you speak to us in this place using Haergan’s creation, claiming that the Lady Cerelinde was in Beshtanag?”
“Yes.” She threw out the truth. Let them make of it what they would. Around the table, glances were exchanged. Aracus Altorus gritted his teeth. She remembered how he had reacted when she had made Meronin’s head speak words he despised, leaping onto the table, hurling an Ellylon standard like a javelin.
“How did you accomplish such a thing?” Ingolin frowned in thought. “It is Ellyl magic Haergan wrought, and not sympathetic to Men’s workings. Even the Soumanië should not have been able to command matter at such a distance.”
“No, my lord.” Lilias shook her head. “I used Haergan’s mirror.”
“Ah.” The Lord of the Rivenlost nodded. “It was in the dragon’s hoard.” Sorrow darkened his grey eyes. “We have always wondered at Haergan’s end. It is a difficult gift to bear, the gift of genius. A dangerous gift.”
“To be sure,” Lilias said absently. Although she did not know the details of Haergan’s end, Calandor’s words echoed in her thoughts, accompanied by the memory of his slow, amused blink. I might not have eaten him if he had been more ussseful.
“Why?” It was the Ellyl woman who spoke, and the sound of her voice was like bells; bells, or silver horns, a sound to make mortal flesh shiver in delight, were it not infused with anger. She leaned forward, her lambent eyes aglow with passion. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Her words hung in the air. No one else spoke. Lilias glanced from face to face around the table. Plainly, it was a question all of them wanted answered; and as clearly, it was an answer none of them would understand.
“Why do you seek to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy?” she asked them. “Tell me that, and perhaps we may understand one another.”
“Lilias.” Malthus spoke her name gently. “These things are not the same, and well you know it. Urulat is Sundered from itself. We seek that which Haomane the Lord-of-Thought himself seeks—to heal the land, so restore it to the wholeness and glory to which it was Shaped, and which Satoris Banewreaker has perverted.”
“Why?” Lilias repeated. They stared at her in disbelief, except for Malthus, who looked thoughtful. She folded her hands on the table and met their stares. “I ask in earnest, my lords, my lady. Was Urulat such a paradise before it was Sundered?”
“We had the light of the Souma!” Lorenlasse of Valmaré’s voice was taut with fury, his bright eyes glittering. “We are Haomane’s Children and we were torn from his side, from all that sustained us.” He regarded her with profound contempt. “You cannot possibly know how that feels.”
“Lorenlasse,” Ingolin murmured.
Lilias laughed aloud. There was freedom in having nothing left to lose. She pointed at the lifeless Soumanië on Aracus’ brow. “My lord Lorenlasse, until very recently, I held a piece of the Souma itself. I stretched the Chain of Being and held mortality at bay. I had power to Shape the very stuff of life, and I could have twisted your bones like jackstraws for addressing me in such a tone. Do not speak to me of what I can or cannot know.”
“My lord Ingolin,” The Ellyl woman turned to the Lord of the Rivenlost. The rigid lines of her body expressed her distaste. “It seems to me that there is naught to be gained in furthering this discussion.”
“Hold, Lady Nerinil” Malthus lifted one hand, forestalling her. “There may yet be merit in it Lilias.” He fixed his gaze upon her. Seated among Ellylon, he looked old and weary. “Your questions are worthy ones,” he said. “Let me answer one of them. Yes, Urulat was a paradise, once. In the First Age, before the world was Sundered, when the world was new-made and the Shapers dwelled among us.” Malthus smiled, gladness transforming his face. “When Men had yet to discover envy and delighted in the skills of the Ellylon; when the Were hunted only with Oronin’s blessing and the Fjeltroll heeded Neheris, and the Dwarfs tilled the land and coaxed forth Yrinna’s bounty.” On his breast, the clear Soumanië blazed into life. “That is the world the Lord-of-Thought shaped,” he said quietly. “That is the world we seek to restore.”
Lilias blinked, willing away an onslaught of tears. “It may be, Counselor. But that world was lost long before Urulat was Sundered.”
“Through folly,” Aracus said unexpectedly. “Men’s folly; our folly. What Haomane wrought, we unmade through covetousness and greed.”
“Men did not begin the Shapers’ War,” Lilias murmured.
“I am not so sure.” Aracus shook his head. “It was Men who made war upon the Ellylon, believing they withheld the secret of immortality from us. If we had not done so, perhaps Haomane First-Born would not have been forced to ask the Sunderer to withdraw his Gift from us.”
Ingolin laid a hand upon Aracus’ arm. “Do not take so much upon yourself. The House of Altorus has never been an enemy to the Ellylon.”
“Perhaps not,” Aracus said. “But I would atone for the deeds of my race by working to see Haomane’s Prophecy fulfilled. And then perhaps, in a world made whole, we might become what once we were.”
A silence followed upon his words. Even Lorenlasse of the Valmaré was respectful in the face of Aracus’ passion.
Malthus smiled at Lilias. White light flashed in the depths of his transfigured Soumanië, casting scintillating points of brightness around the room. “Is your question answered in full, Lilias of Beshtanag?”
“Yes, Counselor.” Lilias rubbed at the familiar ache in her temples. “Your point is made. I understand the purpose of this meeting. You may now ask me once more to relinquish the Soumanië.”
“I do not ask on my own behalf.” Resonant power filled Malthus’ voice, making her lift her head to meet his eyes. “I ask it on behalf of the Lady Cerelinde, who suffers even as we speak. I ask it on behalf of the Rivenlost, who endure the pain of separation, dwindling year by year. I ask it on behalf of those noble Men who would atone for the misdeeds of their race. I ask it on behalf of all Urulat, that this vision we share might come to pass. And I ask it, yes, on behalf of those poor souls who have fallen into folly, through the lies of Satoris Banewreaker, that they might know redemption. The Soumanië that Aracus Altorus bears was Shaped by Haomane himself, carried into battle by Ardrath the Wise Counselor, who was like unto a brother to me. Lilias of Beshtanag, will you release your claim upon it?”
“No.” The word dropped like a stone from her lips. Despite the welling tears and the ache in her head, Lilias laughed. “It is a pleasant fiction, Counselor. But there is a problem with your story. You are Haomane’s Weapon, Shaped after the world was Sundered. How can you claim knowledge of the First Age of Urulat?”
At the head of the table, Ingolin stirred. With a frown creasing his brow, the Lord of the Rivenlost bent his gaze on Malthus. “How do you answer, old friend?”
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