Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  “He should never have defied your will.” Tanaros gazed up at the aching void. “He should never have added to your pain, my Lord.”

  The Shaper bowed his head, studying Godslayer as the shard pulsed between his hands, emitting a rubescent glow. “It was not without reason,” he mused. “And yet … ah, Tanaros! Is there no way to survive without becoming what they name me? I have fought so hard for so long. Ushahin Dreamspinner sought to take the burden on himself, but there is no escaping the pattern of destiny. Oh, loving traitor, traitorous love!” He gave a harsh echoing laugh, making the torches flare. “It is always the wound that cuts the deepest.”

  Tanaros frowned. “My Lord?”

  “Pay me no heed.” Lord Satoris passed one hand before his helm-shadowed eyes. “I am in darkness, my faithful general. I am surrounded by it. It is all I see, and it grows ever deeper. Pay me no heed. It is your time that is coming, the time of the Three. It is for this that I summoned you, so many years ago. I wonder, betimes, which one …” Glancing at Godslayer, he paused and gathered himself. “Vorax reports that it was done and the Staccian traitors dispatched. Have you ensured that the tunnels have been sealed?”

  “Aye, my Lord.” Tanaros touched the hilt of his sword for comfort, feeling its familiar solidity. “I pray you, know no fear. Darkhaven is secure.”

  “That is good, then.” The Shaper’s head fell back onto his carnelian throne as though it cost him too much to keep it upright. His shadowed eyes glimmered in the uptilted sockets of the Helm. He held Godslayer loosely in his grip. “Tell me, my faithful general. Did I ask it, did I return Godslayer to the Font, would you swear your oath anew?”

  Tanaros stared at the beating heart of the dagger; the rough knob of the hilt, the keen edges, ruby-bright and sharp as a razor. The scar on his chest ached at the memory. It had hurt when his Lordship had plucked the dagger from the marrow-fire and seared his flesh with the pact of binding—more than any mortal fire, more than any pain he had ever known. He raised his gaze. “I would, my Lord.”

  “Loyal Tanaros,” Lord Satoris whispered. “It is to you I entrust my honor.”

  “My Lord.” Tanaros bowed his head.

  The Shaper gave another laugh, weary and edged with despair. “It is no boon I grant, but a burden. Go, now, and tend to your duties. I must … I must think.” He glanced once more at Godslayer, a bitter resentment in his gaze. “Yes, that is it. I must think.”

  “Aye, my Lord.” Rising to his feet, Tanaros bowed and made to take his leave.

  “Tanaros.” The whisper stopped him.

  “My Lord?”

  Beneath the Helm, the Shaper’s shadowed features shifted. “Teach the Dreamspinner to hold a blade,” he said softly. “He may have need of the knowledge before the end.”

  TWELVE

  DAYS PASSED IN MERONIL.

  One, Lilias discovered, was much like the other. Sometimes the days were clear and the sun outside her tall windows sparkled on the Aven River far below. Betimes it rained; a gentle rain, silvery-grey, dappling the river’s surface.

  Little else changed.

  There was no news; or if there was, no one did her the courtesy of telling her. Still, she did not think there was. It was too soon. Somewhere to the north, Haomane’s Allies would be converging, gathering to march across the plains of Curonan and wage their great war. But in the west, the red star still rose in the evenings, a harbinger unfulfilled. It seemed so very long ago that she had watched it rise for the first time.

  What does it mean, Calandor?

  Trouble.

  She had been afraid, then, and for a long time afterward. No longer. Everything she had feared, every private terror, had come to pass. Now there was only waiting, and the slow march of mortality.

  She wondered what would happen in the north, but it was a distant, impersonal curiosity. Perhaps Satoris Banewreaker would prevail; perhaps he would restore her to Beshtanag. After all, she had kept their bargain. Perhaps he would even return into her keeping the Soumanië that she had wielded for so long, although she suspected not. No, he would not give such a gift lightly into mortal hands.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered without Calandor.

  How was it that in Beshtanag, days had passed so swiftly? Days had blended into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. A decade might pass in what seemed, in hindsight, like the blink of an eye. Ah, but it was a dragon’s eye, slow-lidded and amused, filled with amusement born of fathomless knowledge, gathered since before Shapers strode the earth.

  Here, the days passed slowly.

  Meronil was filled with women. There were a few men of the Rivenlost; an honor guard, rudimentary and sparse. Lilias watched them from her window as they passed, riding astride without need for saddle or reins. They looked stern and lovely in their bright armor. She wondered at their being left behind; wondered if they had volunteered, if they had been injured in previous battles. Perhaps they were reckoned too young to be on the front lines of a dire war; it was hard to gauge their age.

  Mostly, though, there were women.

  No children, or none that she saw. Few, precious few, children had been born to the Rivenlost in the last Age of Urulat. Few children had ever been born to the Ellylon; Haomane’s Children, created by the Lord-of-Thought, who had rejected the Gift of his brother Satoris Third-Born.

  And for that he was worshipped.

  The thought made Lilias shake her head in bemusement. She did not understand—would never understand. How was it that Men and Ellylon alike refused to see that behind their endless quarrels lay the Shapers’ War? It was pride, nothing but pride and folly; two things she had cause to know well.

  The women of Meronil spoke seldom to her. There were handmaidens who tended to her needs; Eamaire and others, who brought food, clean water to bathe, linens for her bed. They no longer bothered with disdain, which in some ways was even harder to bear. Captive and abandoned, her power broken, Lilias was beneath their notice; a burden to be tended, nothing more.

  When her heart was at its bleakest, Lilias imagined Meronil beset by the forces of Lord Satoris. She envisioned a horde of rampaging Fjel, besmirching its white towers and bridges with their broad, horny feet; bringing down its very stones with their powerful taloned hands, while Tanaros Kingslayer, the Soldier, sat astride his black destrier and watched and the Ellylon women fled, shrieking in disbelief that it come to this at the last.

  Betimes, there was a fierce joy in the vision.

  At other times, she remembered Aracus Altorus, with his wideset gaze; trusting, demanding. She remembered Blaise, dark-eyed Blaise, in all his fierce loyalty. They had treated her fairly, and in her heart of hearts she no longer wished to see them slain, lying in a welter of their own gore. It would not bring Calandor back, any more than Lord Satoris’ victory. When all was said and done, they were her people; Arahila’s Children. And yet both of them believed, believed so strongly. A hope, a vision, a world made whole; a faint spark nurtured and blown into a careful flame by Malthus the Wise Counselor, who was Haomane’s Weapon.

  Those were the times when Lilias leaned her forehead against the lintel of her window and wept, for she had too little belief and too much knowledge.

  One day alone was different, breaking the endless pattern of tedium. Long after Lilias had assumed such a thing would never happen, an Ellyl noblewoman paid a visit to her quarters. It was the Lady Nerinil, who had sat in at Malthus’ Council, who represented the scant survivors of the House of Numireth the Fleet, founder of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass.

  She came announced, filling the tower chamber with her unearthly beauty. Lilias had grown accustomed to the handmaidens; the Lady Nerinil was something else altogether. How was it, Lilias wondered, that even among the Rivenlost, one might outshine another? Perhaps it was a form of glamour, a remnant of the magics they had lost when the world was Sundered. She was glad she had asked the handmaidens to remove all mirrors from her room.

  “Sorceres
s of the East!” Nerinil paced the chamber, unwontedly restless for one of her kind. Her tone was belllike and abrupt. “There is a thing that troubles me.”

  Lilias laughed aloud. “Only one, Lady?”

  The Lady Nerinil frowned. It was an expression of exceeding delicacy, the fine skin between her wing-shaped brows creasing ever so slightly. “In the Council of Malthus, I asked a question of you; one to which you made no reply.”

  “Yes.” Lilias remembered; the sweet, ringing tones filled with anger and incomprehension. Why would you do such a thing? She looked curiously at her. “I answered with a question of my own. It was you who did not wish the conversation furthered, Lady. Why, now, do you care?”

  Nerinil’s luminous eyes met hers. “Because I am afraid.”

  Lilias nodded. “You have answered your question.”

  “Fear?” The Ellyl noblewoman gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Only fear? I am afraid, Sorceress, but I do not condemn thousands to death because of it.”

  “Yes,” Lilias said wearily. “You do. You, and all of Haomane’s Allies. What do you think will happen when they march upon Darkhaven?”

  The Lady Nerinil shook her head, her dark hair stirring. Tiny diamonds were woven into it, and it gleamed like the Aven River reflecting stars at night. “Your question was asked and answered, Sorceress. You know our plight and our dream. We march upon Darkhaven despite our fear, and not because of it.”

  Lilias shrugged. “Doubtless that will prove great comfort to the wives and mothers of the slain. I’m sure they will be pleased to know a Midlander farmer’s son died so that the Rivenlost may behold the face of Haomane once more.”

  A flash of anger crossed the Lady Nerinil’s features. “You are swift to condemn Haomane’s Allies for leading soldiers to take arms against the Sunderer, Sorceress. And yet you deceived us and sought to lead us into the Sunderer’s trap to be slaughtered. Is this not hypocrisy? The Rivenlost had done nothing to threaten or harm you.”

  “No,” Lilias agreed, gazing out the window. “But I would have been next.”

  There was silence, then. For a long time, the Lady Nerinil said nothing, for the Ellylon were incapable of lying. “Perhaps,” she said at last, and her voice was low and melodious. “Like the Sunderer, you were a dragon-friend.”

  “I was that.” Lilias swallowed, tasting the salt of her tears. Oh, Calandor!

  “And your life was worth the lives of thousands?”

  “It was to me.” Lilias turned her gaze on the Ellyl noblewoman. “As you say, Lady, I had done nothing to threaten or harm you. I wished only to be left in peace. Did Beshtanag deserve to be destroyed because of it?”

  “For that, no,” the Lady Nerinil said quietly. “But the Soumanië was never meant to be yours to wield, and never in such a manner. You set yourself against Haomane’s will when you did so. Surely you must have known such defiance could not go unanswered forever.”

  “Ah, Haomane.” Lilias curled her lip. “We spoke of fear, Lady. What is it Haomane fears? Why is he so jealous of his power that he will not share even the smallest portion of it with a mortal woman?” She paused. “Or is it knowledge the Lord-of-Thought fears? Even Haomane’s Allies seem passing fearful of the wisdom of dragons. Perhaps it is that he sought to extinguish.”

  “No.” The Ellyl spoke tentatively, then frowned and repeated the word more strongly. “No.” Scintillant points of light danced around the room as she shook her head once more. “I will not fall prey to your sophistry and lies. You seek but to justify your actions, which served only your own ends.”

  “Can Haomane First-Born claim otherwise?” Lilias laughed shortly, feeling old and haggard, and wishing the Ellyl would depart. “At least, unlike the Lord-of-Thought, I know it. Have I ever denied as much?”

  The Lady Nerinil looked at her with a fathomless expression in her dark, lambent eyes. “It seems to me that you spoke true words in the Council of Malthus, Sorceress. You are a proud woman, and a vain one.”

  “Yes,” Lilias said. “I know.”

  “Arahila the Fair bids us to be compassionate,” the Lady Nerinil mused. “May she in her infinite mercy forgive me, for I cannot find it in my heart to pity you, Lilias of Beshtanag.”

  The words carried a familiar sting. “I do not want your pity,” Lilias murmured.

  “I know.” The Lady Nerinil of the House of Numireth the Fleet inclined her head with grace. “But it is all that you deserve.”

  THE TUNNEL WENT ON FOREVER.

  After the unforgiving terrain of the northern Fjel territories, it should have been easy. Beyond the initial descent, the tunnel was level. Its floor was worn almost smooth by the passage of countless generations; broad Fjeltroll feet, the booted feet of Men, even horses’ shod hooves, for it was vast enough for two Men to ride abreast. It was warmer beneath the earth than it was above it, out of the elements of wind and rain. They had food and water, and torches to light their way.

  Set against that was a sense of stifling fear, and Dani would have traded all of the comforts the tunnel afforded to be rid of it In the desert, one could see for leagues all around. Here, there was only the endless black throat of the tunnel. Stone below and stone above, ton upon ton of it. They used the torches sparingly, a tiny pool of firelight moving through the darkness.

  Once, Dani had watched an enormous blacksnake swallow a hopping-mouse. Its hind legs were still twitching as it disappeared into the snake’s gullet. Afterward, it made a visible lump as it moved through the long, sinuous body.

  That was what it felt like.

  The tunnel smelled of Fjeltroll; musky, faintly rank. Old or fresh? There was no way of knowing. They could see nothing beyond the edge of the torchlight. Every step forward was fraught with tension. If they could have done without the torches, they would have, but it was impossible. They would have been bumbling into the walls with every other step; or worse, wandered into one of the smaller side tunnels.

  From time to time, they came upon ventilation shafts cut into the ceiling high above. When they did, they would pause, breathing deeply of the clean air and gazing upward at the slanting rays of daylight filtering into the tunnel. Uncle Thulu would snuff his torch, and for a precious span of yards they would continue by virtue of the faint illumination, no longer an excruciatingly visible target.

  Then the air would grow stale and darkness thicker, until they could no longer see their hands before their faces, and they would pause again, straining their ears for any sound of approaching Fjeltroll. The sound of the flint striking, the violent spray of sparks as Uncle Thulu relit the torch, always seemed too loud, too bright.

  There was no way of marking the passage of days. Although they tried counting the ventilation shafts, they had no idea how far apart they were. When they grew too weary to continue, they rested, taking turns sleeping in shifts, huddled in one of the side tunnels. Sometimes in their endless trudging, they felt a whisper of cool air on their faces though the darkness remained unalleviated. When that happened, Dani reckoned it was night aboveground.

  In the tunnel, it made no difference.

  They found resting-places where the forces of Darkhaven had made camp; broad caverns with traces of old campfires. There they found supply-caches, as Sorhild of Gerflod had told them. At the first such site they reached, Dani lingered beneath the ventilation shaft, studying marks scratched onto the cavern wall above the cold ashes of an abandoned campfire.

  “Can you read what it says, Uncle?” he asked.

  Uncle Thulu shook his head. “No, lad. I don’t have the art of it.”

  Dani traced the markings with his fingertips, wondering. “Is it a spell, do you think? Or a warning?”

  His uncle gave them a second glance. “It looks like clan markings as much as anything. Come on, let’s be on our way.”

  Afterward, they did not linger in these places, for the scent of Fjeltroll was strongest where they had eaten and slept, but took aught that might be of use and hurried onward. Dani found hi
mself thinking about the marks; wondering who had written them, wondering what they meant. It was true, they did look like clan markings. Among the Six Clans of the Yarru-yami, it was a courtesy to leave such signs in territories they hunted in common, letting others know where a new drought-eater had taken root, when a waterhole had silted closed, where a patch of gamal might be found. Or it could simply be a sign to let Lizard Rock Clan know that the Stone Grove had already passed through, hunting such prey as might be found.

  It hurt to think of home.

  He wondered what would be worth marking in the endless tunnel. Caches, perhaps; or perhaps it was notes about the other tunnels, the side tunnels Sorhild had warned them not to venture far into. Maybe it was nothing, only marks to show someone had passed this way. It was easy, in the tunnels, to believe the outside world could forget you ever existed.

  He wondered if there was anyone left in the outside world to remember him. Surely the Fjeltroll could not have slain all of the Yarru-yami, not unless all of the Six Clans had remained at the Stone Grove. The desert was vast and Fjeltroll were not suited to traveling in an arid clime. Perhaps some of the Yarru lived.

  Or perhaps they did not. Who, then, would remember Dam of the Yarru and his fat Uncle Thulu if they died beneath the earth? Blaise? Fianna? Hobard? Peldras, the Haomane-gaali? Carfax, who had saved him after all? He held out little hope that any of them had survived. There had been too few of them, and the Were too swift, too deadly. Even Malthus had deemed it imperative to flee.

  There was Malthus, if it was true, if he was the Galäinridder after all. Dani thought he must be, even though the gem was the wrong color. But the Galäinridder had gone south without looking for them. He must think they were dead already, or lost forever in the Ways.

  He was still thinking about it when they broke for a rest, laying their bedrolls a short, safe distance inside one of the side tunnels. It took a bit of searching to find a stone with a sharp point that fit nicely in the hand.