Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  Uncle Thulu eyed it. “You know, Dani—”

  “No.” Out of sheer weariness, he closed his eyes. With his right hand, he felt for the vial. “It’s not for that, Uncle. Anyway, there’s too little left.” Though his lids felt heavy as stones, Dani pried his eyes open. “Will you guide me?”

  “Aye, lad,” Thulu said gruffly. “Until the bitter end.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Still clutching the clay vial, Dani stumbled into the rain and Uncle Thulu followed, taking the lead.

  After that, it was one step, one step, then another. Dani kept his head down and clung to his uncle’s shirt. The rain, far from relenting, fell with violent intent. It plastered his black hair to his head and dripped into his eyes. Overhead, clouds continued to gather and roil, heaping one upon another, building to something fearful. The dull grey sky turned ominous and dark.

  Since there was no shelter, they kept going.

  They were toiling uphill; that much, Dani could tell. The calves of his legs informed him of it, shooting protesting pains with every step he took. Still, he labored. Above them, the roiling clouds began to rumble with thunder. Lightning flickered, illuminating their dark underbellies. What had been a steady downpour was giving way to a full-fledged storm.

  Beneath his feet, the steep incline was beginning to level. Although he could see nothing in the darkness, Dani’s aching calves told him that they had reached the hill’s crest. He began to breathe a bit easier.

  “Still with me, lad?” Uncle Thulu shouted the words.

  “Aye!” Dani tossed the wet hair from his eyes. “Still with you, Uncle!”

  Thunder pealed, and a forked bolt of lightning lit up the sky. For an instant, the terrain was revealed in all its harsh glory. And there, looming in the drumming rain, was one of the Fjeltroll.

  Its lean jaw was parted in a predator’s grin. In the glare of the forked lightning, its eyes shone yellow, bifurcated by a vertical pupil. Rain ran in sheets from its impervious grey hide. It said something in its own tongue, reaching for him with one taloned hand.

  Dani leapt backward with a wordless shout, grasping the flask at his throat. Beneath his bare feet, he felt the hill’s rocky crest crumble. And then it was gone, and there was nothing but a rough groove worn by flooding and him tumbling down it, the afterimage of the horrible Fjel grin seared into his mind.

  “Dani!”

  Borne by sluicing water, he slid down the hill, his uncle’s shout echoing in his ears, vaguely aware that Thulu had plunged after him. It was worse than being caught in the rapids of the Spume. Beneath the torrent of rainwater, rocks caught and tore at his flesh, tearing away the makeshift sling that had held his left arm immobilized. He grunted at the pain, conscious only of his momentum, until he fetched up hard at the base of the hill. There he lay in the pouring rain.

  “Dani.” Uncle Thulu, illuminated by flickering lightning, limped toward him. Reaching down, he grabbed Dani under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. Beyond them, a dark figure was picking its way down the slope. “Come on, lad, run. Run!”

  He ran.

  It was no longer a matter of pain. Pain was a fact of existence, a familiar sound in the background. His limbs worked, therefore no new bones were broken. The clay vial was intact, bouncing and thumping as he ran. For the first half a league, sheer terror fueled his flight. Then his steps began to slow.

  It was a matter of exhaustion.

  As hard as his lungs labored, Dani couldn’t get enough air into them. He gasped convulsively. Lurid flashes of lightning lit the sky, blinding him, until he could see nothing in the pouring rain but scintillating spots of brightness everywhere. Pain blossomed in his side, a keen shriek piercing the chorus of aches. Though he willed himself to ignore it, he couldn’t stand upright. Hunched and dizzy, he staggered onward until Uncle’s Thulu’s hands grasping his shoulders brought him to a halt.

  “Dani.”

  He peered under his dripping hair and fought to catch his breath. Blinking hard, he could make out his uncle’s face. “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Don’t argue with me, lad.”

  Before Dani could ask why, the last remaining air was driven from his lungs as Uncle Thulu hoisted him like a sack of grain and flung him over his shoulder. Without hesitating, Thulu set off at a steady trot.

  In the darkness behind them, loping through the falling rain, the Kaldjager Fjel grinned and gave its hunting cry. Across the reach, its brethren answered, passing on the cry, until all had received the word.

  Their prey was found.

  MERONIL WAS FILLED WITH SONG.

  A vast contingent of Haomane’s Allies would be departing on the morrow. For the past two days, delegates from other nations had met in the great hall of Ingolin the Wise. Seahold, the Midlands, Arduan, Vedasia, Pelmar, the Free Fishers—all of them had sent pledges. Their armies were on the march.

  They would converge on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan, and there their forces would be forged into a single army under the command of Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. From there, they would march to Darkhaven.

  While they would march under many banners, two would fly above all others. One was the Crown and Souma of Elterrion the Bold, and it would be carried by the host of the Rivenlost. Ingolin the Wise would command them himself, forgoing his scholar’s robes for Ellylon armor, and the argent scroll of his own house would fly lower than that of Elterrion’s.

  The other banner was that of the ancient Kings of Altoria, a gilt sword upon a field of sable, its tangs curved to the shape of eyes. It would be carried by the Borderguard of Curonan, for their leader, Aracus Altorus, had sworn that he would take up the banner of his forefathers the day he led the Borderguard against Satoris Banewreaker. So it would be carried, as Aracus would carry the sword of his ancestors; the sword of Altorus Farseer, with its gilded tangs shaped like eyes and a Soumanië set as its pommelstone. And at his side would be Malthus the Counselor, whose Soumanië shone bright as a diamond, who carried the Spear of Light, the last of Haomane’s Weapons.

  Tomorrow, it began.

  Tonight, Meronil was filled with song.

  It began as darkness encroached from the east and Haomane’s sun settled in the west in a dwindling blaze of golden splendor. As the last rays faded like embers, purple dusk settled over Meronil, turning its ivory towers and turrets, its arching bridges, to a pale lavender that darkened to a violet hue.

  At her lonely window, Lilias sat and watched.

  Throughout the city, lights were kindled. Tiny glass lights, smaller than a woman’s fist, burning without smoke. The Rivenlost placed them in fretted lamps; hung from doorways, in windows, on bridges, carried by hand. A thousand points of light shone throughout the city, as though Arahila the Fair had cast a net of stars over Meronil. And as the lamps were kindled, Ellylon voices were raised in song.

  She had been right, it was a city meant for music. The sound was inhumanly beautiful. A thousand voices, each one as clear and true as a bell. Lilias rested her chin on one hand and listened. She was not alone. Even the Eagles of Meronil ceased their vigilant circling and settled on the rooftops to listen, folding their wings.

  A city of Men would have sung war songs. Not the Ellylon. These were laments, songs of loss and mourning, songs of remembrance of passing glory. From each quarter of Meronil, a different song arose; and yet, somehow, they formed a vast and complex harmony. One melody answered another in a deep, resonant antiphony; the simple refrain of a third wound between the two, stitching them together and making them part of the whole. A fourth melody soared above the rest, a heartbreaking descant.

  “And Haomane asks us not to envy them,” Lilias whispered.

  One by one, the melodies died and faded into silence. In the lucid stillness that followed, she saw the first barge glide onto the Aven River and understood. The Pelmaran delegates had brought more than a pledge of aid in the coming war. Traveling in the wake of Aracus and his swiftmoving vanguard, they had come mo
re slowly, bearing wagons in their train. They had brought home the casualties of the last war, the Ellylon dead of Beshtanag.

  There were only nine of them. The Host of the Rivenlost was a small company, but a doughty one. They had fought bravely. Only two had been slain by her Beshtanagi wardsmen. Their faces were uncovered, and even from her tower chamber, Lilias could see that they were as serene and beautiful in death as they had been in life. The bodies of the Ellylon did not wither and rot with mortality as did those of Men.

  Three barges, three dead to a barge. A single lamp hung from the prow of each vessel, their light gleaming on the water. The barges glided on a river of stars, moved by no visible hand. The bodies of the nine lay motionless. Seven of them were draped in silken shrouds, their forms hidden, their faces covered.

  Those would be the ones Calandor had slain with fire.

  Alone at her window, Lilias shuddered. “Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” she whispered, knowing it was a futile question, at once false and true. They had come to Beshtanag because she had lured them there. The reason did not alter their deaths.

  A fourth barge glided into view, larger than the others. It was poled by Ellyl hands and it carried a living cargo. In the prow stood Malthus the Counselor, distinguished by his white robes and his flowing beard, holding a staff in one hand. On his right stood Aracus Altorus, his bright hair dimmed by darkness, and on his left stood Ingolin the Wise. Others were behind them: Lorenlasse of Valmaré, kindred of the slain. There was a quiet liquid murmur as the Ellylon polemen halted the barge.

  Malthus raised his staff and spoke a single word.

  It was no staff he bore, but the Spear of Light itself. As he spoke, the clear Soumanië on his breast burst into effulgence, radiating white light It kindled the Spear in his hand. Tendrils of white-gold brilliance wrapped its length, tracing images on the darkness. At the tip, its keen blade shone like a star. By its light, all of Meronil could see the retreating sterns of the three barges making their silent way down the Aven River, carrying their silent passengers. The barges would carry them all the way to the Sundering Sea, in the hope that the sea would carry them to Torath, the Crown, where they might be reunited in death with Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought.

  A voice, a single voice, was lifted.

  It was a woman’s voice, Lilias thought; too high, too pure to be a man’s. The sound of it was like crystal, translucent and fragile. No mortal voice had ever made such a sound nor ever would. It wavered as it rose, taut with grief, and Lilias, listening, was caught by the fear it would break. It must be a woman’s voice, for what man had ever known such grief? It pierced the heart as surely as any spear. Who was it that sang? She could not see. The voice held the anguish of a mother’s loss, or a wife’s.

  Surely it must break under the weight of its pain.

  But it held and steadied, and the single note swelled.

  It soared above its own anguish and found, impossibly, hope. The hope of the dwindling Rivenlost, who longed for Haomane’s presence and the light of the Souma. The hope of Aracus Altorus, who dreamed of atoning for Men’s deeds with a world made whole. Hope, raised aloft like the Spear of Light, sent forth like a beacon, that it might give heart to the Lady Cerelinde and bid her not to despair.

  Other voices arose, one by one. A song, one song. Raising their clear voices, the Ellylon sang, shaping hope out of despair, shaping beauty out of sorrow. Three barges glided down the Aven River, growing small in the distance. In the prow of the fourth barge, Malthus the Counselor leaned on the Spear and bowed his head, keeping his counsel. Ingolin the Wise, who had watched the Sundering of the world, stood unwavering. Aracus Altorus laid one hand on the hilt of his ancestors’ sword, the Soumanië dull in its pommel.

  Around and above them, the song continued, scaling further and further, ascending impossible heights of beauty. Inside the city, delegates from the nations of Men listened to it and wept and laughed. They turned to one another and nodded with shining eyes, understanding one another without words. In the fields outside Meronil’s gates, the Borderguard of Curonan heard it and wept without knowing why, tears glistening on cheeks weathered by wind and sun. The Rivenlost of Meronil, grieving, made ready for war.

  In her lonely chamber, Lilias of Beshtanag wept, too.

  Only she knew why.

  EIGHT

  “TELL ME AGAIN.”

  The Shaper’s voice was deep and resonant, with no trace of anger or madness. It loosened something tight and knotted in Ushahin’s chest, even as the warmth of the Chamber of the Font eased his aching joints. The blue-white blaze of the Font made his head ache, but the pulse of Godslayer within it soothed him. Between the heat and the sweet, coppery odor of blood, the Chamber was almost as pleasant as the Delta. Ushahin sat in a high-backed chair, both crooked hands laced around one updrawn knee, and related all he had seen and knew.

  Armies were making their way across the face of Urulat.

  His ravens had scattered to the four corners and seen it. It would be better to recall them and summon the Ravensmirror, but they were yet too far afield. Still, Ushahin perceived their flickering thoughts. He could not render their multitude of impressions into a whole, but what glimpses they saw, he described for his Lord. Pelmarans, marching like ants in a double row. Vedasian knights riding astride, encased like beetles in steel carapaces. Arduan archers in leather caps, accorded a wary distance. Midlanders laying down their plows, taking up rusted swords.

  A company of Rivenlost, bright and shining, emerging from the vale of Meronil. Behind them were the Borderguard of Curonan, grim-faced and dire. Above them flew two pennants; the Crown and Souma, and the gilt-eyed Sword of Altorus Farseer. And among the forefront rode Malthus the Counselor, who carried no staff, but a spear whose blade was a nimbus of light.

  Lord Satoris heaved a mighty sigh. “So he has brought it forth. Ah, Malthus! I knew you had it hidden. Would that I dared pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire. I would not be loath to face you on the field of battle once more.”

  Sitting in his chair, Ushahin watched the Shaper pace, a vast moving shadow in the flickering chamber. There was a question none of them had dared to ask, fearful of the answer. It had been on the tip of his tongue many times. And when all was said and done, the fears of Ushahin Dreamspinner, who had made a friend of madness, were not like those of other men. This time, he asked it. “Will it come to that, my Lord?”

  “It will not.” The Shaper ceased to pace and went still. Shadows seethed in the corners of the chamber, thickening. Darkness settled like a mantle on Satoris, and his eyes shone from it like twin coals. “For if it came to that, Dreamspinner—if it became necessary that I must venture onto the field of battle myself—it would mean we had already lost. It is not the defense I intended, nor have spent these many years building. Do you understand?”

  “Perhaps, my Lord,” Ushahin offered. “You have spent much of yourself.”

  “Spent!” Lord Satoris gave a harsh laugh. “Spent, yes. I raised Darkhaven, I bound it beneath a shroud of clouds! I summoned my Three and bent the Chain of Being to encompass them! I bent my Brother’s weapon to my own will and tuned the Helm of Shadows to the pitch of my despair. I brought down the Marasoumië! I am a Shaper, and such lies within my reach. It is not what I have spent willingly that I fear, Dreamspinner.”

  The blue-white glare of the Font gleamed on the trickle of ichor that bled down the black column of the Shaper’s thigh. At his feet, a dark pool was beginning to accumulate, spreading like ink over the stone floor. How much of the Shaper’s power had his unhealing wound leached from him over the ages?

  “My Lord.” Ushahin swallowed, the scent of blood thick in his throat. “I spoke to you of my time in the Delta. There is power there, in the place of your birth. Might you not find healing there?”

  “Once, perhaps.” Satoris’ voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Ah, Dream-spinner! If I had fled there when Haomane’s Wrath scorched me, instead of quenching my pain i
n the cool snows of the north … perhaps. But I did not. And now it is Calanthrag’s place, and not mine. The dragons have paid a terrible price for taking part in this battle between my brethren and I. I do not think the Eldest would welcome my return.”

  “She—” Ushahin remembered the endless vastness behind the dragon’s gaze and fell silent. There were no words for it.

  “You have seen.”

  Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

  “All things must be as they must,” the Shaper mused. “It is the one truth my Brother refuses to grasp, the one thought the Lord-of-Thought will not think. Perhaps it is easier, thus. Perhaps I should have spent less time speaking with dragons when the world was young, and more time among my own kind.”

  “My Lord?” Ushahin found his voice. “All of Seven … each of your brethren, they Shaped Children after their own desires, yet you did not. Why is it so?”

  Lord Satoris, Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, smiled and opened his arms. In his ravaged visage, beneath the red glare of his eyes and his wrathscorched form, there lay the bright shadow of what he had been when the world was young. Of what he had been when he had walked upon it and ventured into the deep places his brethren feared, and he had spoken with dragons and given his Gift to many. “Did I not?” he asked softly. “Hear me, Dreamspinner, and remember. All of you are my Children; all that live and walk upon the face of Urulat, thinking thoughts and wondering at them. Do you deny it?”

  There was madness in it; and there was not. The madness of Shapers could not be measured by the standards of Men—no, nor Were, nor Ellylon, nor any of the Lesser Shapers. The foundations of Darkhaven shifted; the foundations of Darkhaven held. Which was true?

  All things must be as they must.

  Ushahin shuddered and glanced sideways, his gaze falling upon Godslayer. There it hung in the glittering Font, beating like a heart. A Shard of the Souma, its rough handle a knob of rock. It would fit a child’s hand, such a child as might raise it and bring it crashing down, heedless of what it crushed. Heedless of what it pierced. The pattern, the Great Story, was present in every pulse of light it emitted.