“What are you doing, lad?” Uncle Thulu, rummaging through their packs, eyed him curiously. “We’re in enough danger without leaving a sign to point our trail.”
“With the two of us marching down the tunnel plain as day, I don’t think we need to worry about it, Uncle.” Scratching on the tunnel wall, Dani drew the marking of the Stone Grove clan, five monoliths in a rough circle. He frowned, settling back to squat on his heels, then leaned forward to sketch a small vessel with a cork stopper in it, adding a digging-stick for good measure. “There.”
Against his will, Uncle Thulu smiled. “There we are.”
“Aye.” Dani set down the stone and met his uncle’s gaze. “It’s just … if we fail, if we’re caught and slain out of hand, maybe someday someone will find this; Malthus, or one of the Haomane-gaali; they have long memories. Or maybe a Staccian from Gerflod who remembers the Lady Sorhild’s stories. And they will say, ‘Look, the Bearer was here and his Guide was with him. Two Yarru-yami from the Stone Grove clan. They made it this far. They tried. Can we not do as much?’”
“Ah, lad!” Thulu’s voice was rough. “I wish I had my digging-stick with me now. There may be no waterways to trace down here, but I hated to leave it in that Fjeltroll.”
“You’ll make another,” Dani said. “I’ll help you find it. After we go home. We’ll rise before dawn and chew gamal together, then when the stars begin to pale, we’ll go to the baari-grove and watch the dew form and pick just the right one.” He smiled at his uncle. “One with a thirst for water, straight and strong, that peels clean as a whistle and fits firm in the hand, so you can lean on it once you’ve grown fat again.”
Thulu laughed softly, deep in his chest “Do you think so?”
“No.” Dani’s smile turned wistful. “But we can pretend.”
“Then we shall.” Thulu stroked the clan markings on the wall with his strong, blunt fingertips. “And, aye, lad, I promise you. Whatever happens, one day the world will say, ‘Dani the Bearer was here, and his fat Uncle Thulu, too. They did their best. Let us do the same’”
USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER SAT CROSS-LEGGED ON a high crag overlooking the plains of Curonan, squeezing a rock in his right hand. The heavy sheepskin cloak he wore cut the worst of the wind, but his bones still ached in the cold.
All except his right arm.
It felt strange; a foreign thing, this straight and shapely limb that moved with effortless grace. This finely made hand, the fingers capable of nimble manipulation and a powerful grip alike. Gone was the familiar stiffness of joint and bone-deep ache that plagued the rest of his body. In its place was an easy, lithesome strength and the memory of an agony that surpassed any pain the rest of his body had known, living like a phantom beneath the surface of his skin. The bones did not merely ache. They remembered.
Tanaros had told him to squeeze the rock. It would strengthen the new sinew and muscle, toughen the soft skin of his palm and fingers. It seemed unnecessary to Ushahin, but it gave a focal point to the pain; to the memory of pain. So he squeezed, and each time his hand constricted around the rock, it sent a pulse through fiber and bone that remembered its own slow pulverization. There was a macabre comfort in it; and irony, too. Another memory, an image that lay over him like a shadow, and it, too, carried a pain his bones remembered. Now, a thousand years later, here he was, a rock clenched in his fist. It was strange the way time brought all things full circle. Ushahin wished he could speak to Calanthrag about it. The Eldest would have understood.
But time itself was the problem, for there was none to spare. Not for him, not for any of them. His ravens were streaking across the face of Urulat. Ushahin sat, squeezing a rock in his right hand, and gazed through the fragmented mosaic of their myriad eyes. He could not say which filled him with the most fear: that which they saw, or that which they did not.
Hoofbeats sounded on the winding, treacherous path behind him, drawing him out of his distant reverie. “Lord Dreamspinner?”
“Speros of Haimhault.” Ushahin acknowledged him without looking.
“General Tanaros has asked me to take you to the armory.” Although he was doing his best to conceal it, the Midlander’s voice held a complex mixture of emotions. Ushahin smiled to himself.
“Do you wonder that I still live?” he asked, dropping the rock and getting to his feet. “Is that it, Midlander? Would you see me dead for defying his Lordship’s wishes?”
“No, my lord!” Speros’ brown eyes widened. He sat astride the horse he had ridden during their flight to Darkhaven; the ghostly grey horse Ushahin had lent him. Behind him was the blood-bay stallion, its head raised and alert. “I would not presume to think such a thing.”
“No?” Ushahin made his way to the stallion’s side. Its once rough hide was glossy with tending, a deep sanguine hue. He felt it shudder beneath his touch, but it stood without flinching and let him mount, slewing around one wary eye. It was much easier to pull himself astride with one strong right arm. “How is it, then? Are you, like our dear general, ensorcelled by the Lady of the Ellylon’s beauty?”
Speros kneed his horse around to face Ushahin, his jaw set, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “You do me an injustice,” he said through gritted teeth, “and a greater one to the Lord General.”
Ushahin gazed at him without answering, reaching out to sift through the Midlander’s thoughts. Ignoring Speros’ jolt of horror at the invasion, he tasted the deep and abiding awe with which the young man had first beheld the Lady of the Ellylon, weighing it judiciously against his fierce loyalty to Tanaros, born of their travail in the desert and his own inner demons. “So,” he said softly. “It is loyalty that wins. Or need I search further? Shall I tell you your deepest fears, your darkest nightmares?”
“Don’t.” Speros choked out the word. The blood had drained from his face, and his wide-stretched brown eyes were stark against his pallor. “Please don’t, my lord! It hurts.”
Ushahin sighed and released him. “Then speak truth to me, Speros of Haimhault. What troubles you?”
Speros shuddered, tucking his chin into the collar of his cloak; heavy sheepskin like Ushahin’s own. “You betrayed him,” he said in a low voice. “Lord Satoris.”
“No.” Ushahin shook his head, gazing past the Midlander toward the plains. “I defied him, which is a different matter altogether.” He looked back at Speros. So young, and so mortal! Why was it that he seemed so much more vulnerable than his own madlings? He had come here unwelcome, had braved far worse than his madlings, who were admitted unharmed. And yet. There was something touching about it; his fear, his loyalty. “Do you know what is coming, child?”
“War.” Speros lifted his chin defiantly, the color returning to his face. “I’m not a child, Lord Dreamspinner.”
“War,” Ushahin echoed. “War, such as the world has not seen since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.” He pointed to the east. “Do you know what I have seen today, Midlander? Dwarfs, on the march. An entire company, following a column of Vedasian knights.”
Speros laughed. “Dwarfs, my lord?”
“You laugh,” Ushahin murmured. “Yrinna’s Children have broken their Peace, and you laugh. You should not laugh, Midlander. They are strong and stubborn, as sturdy as the roots of an ancient tree. Once, long ago, before the world was Sundered, they made war upon the Ellylon.”
“They are very … short,” Speros said cautiously. “Or so it is said.”
Ushahin gave him a grim smile. “We are all smallfolk to the Fjel, and yet they can be defeated. Do you know what I have not seen? An entire company of Fjel sent to hunt a pair of smallfolk. Not today, nor yesterday, nor for many days now. So, yes, Midlander, I defied his Lordship. I am uneasy at the signs converging upon us. I do not have a Shaper’s pride; no, nor even a Man’s, to scruple at a dishonorable course. If there was another chance to avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single stroke, I would take it.”
For a long moment, Speros was silent. “I understand,” he said at length.
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“Good.” Ushahin turned his mount. “Then take me to the armory.”
They rode in single file along the path, and the Tordenstem Fjel on sentry duty saluted them as they passed. Speros glanced at the fortifications he had built at the edge of the Defile; the wooden ricks laden with boulders, levers primed and ready. “Darkhaven is well-guarded, Lord Dreamspinner,” he said. “I do not discount your fears, but we are prepared for any army, whether it be Men, Ellylon, or Dwarfs.”
“What of Shapers?” Ushahin inquired.
Speros shot him an alarmed look. “Shapers?”
“To be sure.” Ushahin laughed mirthlessly. “Who do you think we are fighting, Speros of Haimhault? Aracus Altorus? Malthus the Counselor? The Lord of the Rivenlost?” He shook his head. “Our enemy is Haomane First-Born.”
“I thought the Six Shapers would not leave Torath!”
“Nor will they,” Ushahin said. “Not while his Lordship holds Godslayer. But make no mistake, this war is of Haomane’s making. It is the wise man who can name his enemy.”
The Midlander was quiet and thoughtful as they made their way back to within Darkhaven’s walls and rode toward the armory. Alongside the Gorgantus River, the waterwheel built at Speros’ suggestion creaked in a steady circle, powering the bellows. Grey-black smoke was churning from the smelting furnaces, and nearby, the forges were going at full blast, sending up a fearful din and clatter. Teams of Fjel handled the work of heating and reheating cast-iron rods and plates, beating and folding them back onto themselves until the iron hardened. Elsewhere, red-hot metal was plunged into troughs of water, sending up clouds of acrid steam, and grinding wheels shrieked, scattering showers of sparks. The Fjel worked heedless amid it all, their thick hides impervious. A Staccian smith clad in a heavy leather apron strolled through the chaos, supervising their efforts.
In the presence of so much martial clamor, Speros’ spirits rose visibly. “Come, my lord,” he shouted. “We’ll find you a weapon that suits!”
Inside the armory, the thick stone walls diminished the racket outside. Weapons were stacked like firewood; piles of bucklers and full-body shields, racks of spears, bits and pieces of plate armor on every surface. Whistling through his gapped teeth, Speros strode toward a row of swords, hefting one and then another, pausing to eye Ushahin. At last he nodded, satisfied, and offered one, laying it over his forearm and extending the hilt. “Try this one, my lord.”
It was strange to watch his hand, his finely made hand, close on the hilt. Ushahin raised the sword, wondering what he was supposed to discern from it, wondering what his Lordship expected him to do with it.
“Very nice!” Speros grinned at him. “Shall I teach you a few strokes, my lord?”
“I have seen it done,” Ushahin said wryly.
“Ah, come now, Lord Dreamspinner.” Speros plucked another blade from the row and tossed aside his sheepskin cloak, taking up an offensive stance. “If I were to come at you thusly,” he said, aiming a slow strike at Ushahin’s left side, “you would parry by—”
Ushahin brought his blade down hard and fast, knocking the Midlander’s aside. “I have seen it done, Speros!” The impact made every misshapen bone in his body ache. He sighed. “This war will not be won with swords.”
“Maybe not, my lord.” The tip of Speros’ sword had lodged in the wooden floor. Lowering his head until his brown hair spilled over his brow, he pried it loose and laid the blade back in its place. “But it won’t be lost by them either.”
“I pray you are right,” Ushahin murmured. “You have done your duty to Tanaros, Midlander. I am armed. Go, now, and leave me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Speros went.
Ushahin gazed at the blade in his right hand. The edges were keen, gleaming blue in the dim light of the armory. He wished, again, he knew what his Lordship expected of him. Since he did not, he found a scabbard for the blade and a swordbelt that fit about his waist and left the armory.
Outside, the blood-bay stallion was waiting, its reins looped over a hitching rail. Beneath the murky pall of smoke that hung over the place, its coat glowed with dark fire, as though it had emerged molten from the furnace and were slowly cooling. It stood unnaturally still, watching him with its wary, intelligent gaze.
“Have we come to a truce, you and I?” Ushahin asked aloud. “Then we are wiser, in our way, than our masters.”
Perhaps it was so; or perhaps Ushahin, who had been abjured by the Grey Dam, no longer carried the taint of the Were on him like a scent. It grieved him to think it might be so. The horse merely gazed at him, thinking its own abstruse equine thoughts. He did not trouble its mind, but instead stroked its mane, wondering at the way his fingers slid through the coarse, black, hair. It had been a long time since he had taken pleasure in touch, in the sensation of texture against his skin.
“All things must be as they must,” he said to the stallion, then mounted and went to tell Lord Satoris that the Dwarfs had broken Yrinna’s Peace.
THIRTEEN
“LADY.” TANAROS BOWED. “ARE YOU well?”
She stood very straight, and her luminous grey eyes were watchful and wary. Her travail in Darkhaven had only honed her beauty, he thought; paring it to its essence, until the bright flame of her spirit was almost visible beneath translucent flesh.
“I am,” she said. “Thank you, General Tanaros.”
“Good.” He cleared his throat, remembering how he had burst into the room and feeling ill at ease. “On behalf of his Lordship, I tender apologies. Please know that the attempt upon your life was made against his orders.”
“Yes,” Cerelinde said. “I know.”
“You seem very certain.”
Her face, already fair as ivory, turned a paler hue. “I heard the screams.”
“It’s not what you think.” The words were impulsive. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, Cerelinde! His Lordship did what was necessary. If you saw Ushahin’s … punishment … you would understand.”
Her chin lifted a notch. “The Ellylon do not condone torture.”
“He healed his arm,” Tanaros said abruptly.
Cerelinde stared at him, uncomprehending. “Forgive me. I do not understand.”
“Slowly,” Tanaros said, “and painfully. Very painfully.” He gave a short laugh. “It matters not Ushahin understood what he did. He bore his Lordship’s punishment that his madlings might not He did not want them to suffer for serving his will.” A stifled sound came from the corner; turning his head, Tanaros saw Meara huddled there. A cold, burning suspicion suffused his chest. “Do you have something to say, Meara?”
She shook her head in frantic denial, hiding her face against her knees.
“Let her be.” Cerelinde stepped between them, her face alight with anger. “Do you think I would permit her in my presence did I not trust her, Tanaros?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Do you trust her?”
The Ellylon could not lie. She stood close to him, close enough to touch, her chin still lifted. He could feel the heat of her body; could almost smell her skin. Her eyes were level with his. He could see the pleated irises, the subtle colors that illuminated them; violet, blue, and green, and the indeterminate hue that lies in the innermost curve of a rainbow.
“Yes,” Cerelinde said, her voice steady and certain. “I do.”
There was a sob, then; a raw sound, wrenched from Meara’s throat. She launched herself toward the door with unexpected speed, low to the ground and scuttling. Taken by surprise, Tanaros let her go. He caught only a glimpse of her face as she passed, an accusatory gaze between strands of lank, untended hair. Her hands scrabbled at the door, and the Mørkhar Fjel beyond it allowed her passage.
“What passes here, Lady?” Tanaros asked simply.
“You frighten her.” Cerelinde raised her brows. “Is there more?”
“No.” He thought about Meara; her weight, straddling him. The heat of her flesh, the touch of her mouth agains
t his. Her teeth, nipping at his lower lip. The memory made him shift in discomfort. “Nothing that concerns you.”
Cerelinde moved away from him, taking a seat and keeping her disconcerting gaze upon him. “You do not know me well enough to know what concerns me, Tanaros Blacksword.”
“Lady, I know you better than you think,” he murmured. “But I will not seek to force the truth you are unwilling to reveal. Since I am here in good faith, is there aught in which I may serve you?”
Yearning flared in her eyes and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Her voice trembled as she answered, “You might tell me what passes in the world beyond these walls.”
Tanaros nodded. “I would thirst for knowledge, too, did I stand in your shoes, Cerelinde. Never say I denied you unkindly. Yrinna’s Children are on the march.”
“what?” Yearning turned to hope; Cerelinde leaned forward, fingers whitening on the arms of the chair. There were tears in her bright eyes. “Tanaros, I pray you, play no jests with me.”
He smiled sadly at her. “Would that I did.”
“Yrinna’s Children have broken her Peace!” she marveled. “And …” Her voice faltered, then continued, adamant with resolve. “And Aracus?”
“He is coming.” Tanaros sighed. “They are all coming, Cerelinde.”
“You know it is not too late—”
“No.” He cut her off with a word. It hurt to see such hope, such joy, in her face. When all was said and done, it was true; he was a fool. But he was a loyal fool, and his loyalty was to Lord Satoris; and to others, who trusted him. Tanaros fingered the rhios that hung in a pouch at his belt. “Save your words, Lady. If you have need of aught else, send for me, and I will come.”
With that he left her, because it was easier than staying. The Mørkhar Fjel at her door gave him their usual salute. Tanaros stared hard at them. Too much suspicion and longing was tangled in his heart.
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