It didn’t.
“Uncle!” he called. “Hurry!”
What faint light the shaft admitted was blocked by Thulu’s body. Muffled sounds of scraping and banging ensued, accompanied by a muttered stream of Yarru invective. Dani clutched the rope to hold it steady, his heart in his throat until he saw daylight once more and, at the apex of the tunnel, his uncle’s battered figure clinging to the rope, lowering himself at a dangerous pace.
Then he was down, a broad grin visible on his dark face. “Think I left half my skin on that damned rock, lad!”
“Did they see us?” Dani asked anxiously.
Thulu shook his head. “I don’t think so. Uru-Alat, boy! You were as quick as a rabbit. I followed as best I could.” He touched Dani’s shoulder. “Well done, Bearer.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.” He hugged Uncle Thulu, wrapping both arms around his solid warmth, feeling his embrace returned. For a moment, the world was a familiar place, safe and loving.
“So am I, Dani.” Thulu’s breath stirred his hair. “So am I.” Squeezing Dani’s arms, he released him. “You know it only gets harder, don’t you?” His expression had turned somber. “We left the torches in the other tunnel. In a dozen paces, we’ll be traveling blind into Darkhaven. And I do not know the way, or what branchings lie along it.”
“I know. And I am afraid. But you are my guide, and I trust you to guide me.” Dani laughed softly, stroking the grass-plaited rope that hung beside him. “I have been traveling blind from the beginning, Uncle. It is only now I begin to see, at least a little bit.”
The plaited rope shivered beneath his touch. It was dwindling, the sere grass stalks crackling as they returned to their natural length. There had not been enough of the Water of Life to sustain its impossible growth, not with winter’s breath at their necks. Dani released it, and the Yarru watched in silence as it shrank, the loose end retreating into the dimly lit shaft high above their heads.
There it hung, brittle and useless. There would be no pursuit from that quarter—and no escape.
Thulu shuddered. “I told you it wouldn’t hold us!”
“Aye.” Dani grasped the flask at his throat, feeling at the cork to ensure it was firmly in place. “But it did.” He squared his shoulders beneath the burden of the Bearer’s responsibility and set his face toward the unknown. “Let’s go.”
Together, they set out into the impenetrable dark.
THEY WERE COMING.
In the swirling, gleaming darkness that encircled the Tower of Ravens, it was all the Ravensmirror showed.
It was nothing they had not seen before, in bits and pieces. And yet here it was in its entirety. The promise of the red star had come to fruition. Upon the outskirts of Curonan, Haomane’s Allies had converged into an army the likes of which had not been seen since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.
And perhaps not even then, Tanaros thought, watching the images emerge. Dwarfs. Yrinna’s Children, who had maintained her Peace since before the world was Sundered. They had turned their back on Lord Satoris’ Gift, refusing to increase their numbers, refusing to take part in the Shapers’ War, tending instead to the earth’s fecundity, to the bounty that Yrinna’s Gift brought forth.
No more.
He gazed at them in the Ravensmirror; small figures, but doughty, gnarled, and weathered as ancient roots, trudging through the tall grass alongside the gleaming knights of Vedasia. Their strong hands clutched axes and scythes; good for cutting stock, good for shearing flesh. What had inspired them to war?
“Malthus,” Lord Satoris whispered, his fists clenching. “What have you done?”
Malthus the Wise Counselor was there, the clear gem ablaze on his breast, the Spear of Light upright in his hand; he was there, they all were. Aracus Altorus, riding beneath the ancient insignia of his House; Blaise Caveros beside him, steady and loyal. There was the Borderguard of Curonan, with their dun-grey cloaks. There were all the others; Pelmarans in forest-green, Duke Bornin of Seahold in blue and silver, a motley assortment of others. Midlanders, Free Fishers, Arduan Archers. Ah, so many! Ingolin the Wise, and his Rivenlost Host, shining in stern challenge. There was no attempt to hide. Not now, no longer. Even the archers paid the circling ravens no heed; conserving their arrows, concealing nothing.
They were coming, parting the tall grass as they rode.
“Come,” Lord Satoris crooned. “Come.”
The Ravensmirror turned and turned, and there was a reflection of ravens in it; a twice-mirrored image of dark wings rising in a beating cloud, carried on a glossy current of dark wings. Tanaros frowned and blinked, then understood. They had been feasting on the pile of Staccian dead he had left on the plains for Haomane’s Allies to find. There were the headless bodies, heaped and abandoned. There were Haomane’s Allies, reading the message he had scratched onto the marker stone. A ripple ran through their ranks. There was Malthus, bowing his head in sorrow, grasping his gem and murmuring a prayer, white light blazing red between his fingers. There was Aracus Altorus, turning to face them, drawing his sword and speaking fierce words; an oath of vengeance, perhaps.
Vorax licked dry lips and glanced sidelong at Tanaros. “How long?”
“A day’s ride,” Tanaros said. “At their pace, perhaps two.” He watched fixedly, trying to decide which of them he despised the most. Aracus Altorus, with his arrogant stare and Calista’s faithless blood running in his veins? Malthus the Counselor, Haomane’s Weapon, the architect of this war? Or perhaps Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. What an honor it was he had deigned to lead his people into battle, how conscious he was of it!
And then there was Blaise of the Borderguard; his own kinsman, many generations removed. How proud he was to be at the right hand of the Scion of House Altorus! How determined he was to make amends for his ancestor’s treachery! Tanaros narrowed his eyes, studying the Borderguardsman’s seat, the way his hand hovered near his hilt, gauging his skills.
“You’re better than he is, aren’t you?” Tanaros murmured. “I was always better than Roscus, too. But we must keep the positions to which we were born, mustn’t we?” Hatred coiled like a serpent in his entrails. “All things in their place,” he said bitterly. “Order must be preserved as the Lord-of-Thought decrees.”
“Haomane.” The Shaper’s low voice made the stones vibrate. In the center of the Tower, he gave a mirthless laugh. “Enough! I have seen enough.”
The Ravensmirror dispersed.
“You know your jobs.” Lord Satoris turned away. “Prepare.”
A weight settled on Tanaros’ shoulder; he startled, seeing Fetch’s eye so near his own, black and beady. There had been none of the disconcerting echo of doubled vision he had experienced before. “Fetch!” he said, his heart gladdening unexpectedly. “I did not know you were here.”
The raven wiped its beak on his doublet. Its thoughts nudged at his own. Grass, an ocean of grass, the swift, tilting journey across the plains of Curonan to report … and, what? A stirring, a tendril of scent wafting on the high drafts. Water, all the fresh water the raven had ever seen; the sluggish Gorgantus, the leaping flume of the White, the broad, shining path of the Aven. A hidden Staccian lake, a blue eye reflecting sky; a water-hole in the Unknown Desert. Rain, falling in grey veils.
Water, mineral-rich, smelling of life.
Green things growing.
Tanaros swallowed. “What do you seek to tell me?”
The raven’s thoughts flickered and the plains rushed up toward him, stalks of rustling grass growing huge. Rustling. Something was sliding through the grass; a viper, sliding over the edge of a stone lip. No. A length of braided rope, vanishing.
Then it was gone and there was only the wind and the plains, and then that too was gone, and there was only Fetch, his claws pricking Tanaros’ shoulder. His Lordship had gone, and Vorax, too. Ushahin alone remained in the Tower of Ravens with them, his new sword awkward at his side, a glitter of fear in his mismatched eyes.
�
��You saw?” Tanaros asked hoarsely.
“Yes.”
Tanaros pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Do we tell his Lordship?”
“It is for γou to decide, cousin.” Ushahin’s voice was quiet. “You know well the course I would advocate.”
“No.” Tanaros lowered his hands. On his shoulder, Fetch chuckled uneasily deep in his throat. “She has nothing to do with this, Dreamspinner.”
Ushahin shrugged and said nothing.
“All right.” Tanaros took a deep breath. “I will tell him.”
He made his way through the fortress, following his Lordship’s path. To his surprise, Fetch remained with him, riding his shoulder with familiar comfort. Where the Shaper had passed, his presence hung in the air, the copper-sweet tang of his blood mixed with the lowering sense of thunder. Approaching the threefold doors to the Chamber of the Font, Tanaros felt as though he were swimming in it, and his branded heart ached with love and sorrow. Through the door, he heard his Lordship’s summons.
“Come, Blacksword.”
The Font’s brilliance hurt his eyes. Facing away from it and squinting, he told Lord Satoris what he had sensed in Fetch’s thoughts. In the Tower, it had seemed a fearful concern with which to burden his Lordship, but as he spoke the words, they began to sound foolish.
“A scent,” the Shaper said thoughtfully. “A rope.”
“My Lord, I believe it was the odor of the Water of Life,” Tanaros said, remembering the Well of the World. “And the rope … the rope was of Yarru making. I have seen its like before.” He was grateful for the slight weight of the raven on his shoulder, steadying him. “My Lord, I fear the Bearer is making his way toward Darkhaven.”
“Yes.” In the darkness beyond the Font, the Shaper sighed and the shadows seemed to sigh with him. “He is coming, Tanaros Blacksword. They are all coming, all my Elder Brother’s little puppets.”
“My Lord?”
“They are always coming, and they have always been coming, since long before the world was Sundered, since before there was a world to dream of Sundering. I have always known. It is only the when of it that remains uncertain; even here, even now. But they are mistaken if they believe this is the end. This time, or any other time. There is no end, save in beginning. Even the Lord-of-Thought cannot change this pattern.” The Shaper drew near, waves of power emanating from him. “Curious little raven,” he said to Fetch. “Whose thoughts have you been thinking?”
Fetch chuckled.
“Ah.” A long, silent moment passed between them. The dark ghost of a smile crossed Lord Satoris’ ruined visage. “Thank you, loyal Tanaros, for bringing me this small guest.” He inclined his head. “For this small kindness.”
“My Lord?” Tanaros repeated, confused and fearful that his Lordship was succumbing to madness after all.
“It comes and goes, my general, the way of all things.” The Shaper raised one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “As you, now, shall go.”
“What of the Bearer, my Lord?”
“Malthus’ spell hides him even from the eyes of the Souma.” Lord Satoris shook his head. “There is nothing I can do. Would you have me tell you your business, Blacksword? Double your patrols in the tunnels between here and the blockage.”
“My Lord.” Bowing carefully, mindful of Fetch, Tanaros took his leave.
Aboveground once more, he made his way to the great entrance, where the Havenguard admitted him passage through the tall doors. It was another cold, clear night. Standing in the courtyard, he moved Fetch to his forearm and stood for a moment, thinking about the oncoming army, about a length of plaited rope, old Ngurra’s face beneath the shadow of his sword, and the dark-skinned boy he had seen in the Ways, the questioning look on his face. He thought about Cerelinde in her chambers, praying for rescue, and his Lordship’s strange mood, and about Fetch.
“Whose thoughts have you been thinking?” he asked the raven, stroking him with one finger. Fetch ducked his head, shifting from foot to foot. “What happened to you before you found me in the desert?”
For an instant, Tanaros saw himself once more through the raven’s vision: a stark, noble figure with haunted eyes, mantled in passions that flickered like dark fire around the edges of his being, a doom he carried like embers in his cupped hands. Scarred hands and a scarred heart, capable of tenderness or violence, and behind him stars falling endlessly, lovely and dying.
Somewhere, a dragon roared.
“So be it,” Tanaros whispered. “Go, little brother, and find shelter from the coming storm.” Lifting his arm, he watched the raven take flight, black wings glossy in the starlight. “Good-bye, Fetch.”
A small kindness.
His eyes stung; touching them, he found them wet with tears. Hyrgolf was right, he would feel better once the battle was joined. Gathering himself, Tanaros went to rouse Speros and give him new orders.
IN THE SMALL HOURS OF the night, Malthus the Wise Counselor sat silently on a narrow folding stool in a corner of Aracus Altorus’ tent, watching the pupil he had taught for so many years pace its confines, restless and unable to sleep.
“Out with it,” he said at last. “You cannot afford to ride into battle already weary, Aracus.”
Aracus’ gaze lit, as it had many times that night, on the coffer that held the tourmaline stone linked to the Bearer of the Water of Life. “It was dimmer,” he said. “Not by much, but a little. Others did not notice, but I did. I saw it, Malthus.”
“Yes.” The Counselor folded his hands in his sleeves. “I know.”
“Does it mean the Bearer is failing?” His tone was harsh. “Dying?”
“I cannot say, Aracus,” Malthus replied quietly. “No more than I could before. I lack the knowledge, for this is a thing that has never been done. But if you would ask what thought is in my heart, it is that the Water of Life dwindles as the Bearer perseveres. Dani used it in Malumdoorn to answer the Dwarfs’ challenge of the Greening. He knows its power.”
“Dwindles,” Aracus repeated, following a path worn by his restless feet. He shot a glance at the Counselor. “By how much, Malthus? How much is required to extinguish the marrow-fire? How much remains? Enough?”
Malthus shook his hoary head. “I know not, and cannot say.”
“No?” Aracus eyed him. “How many times have you withheld the fullness of your knowledge from me, Malthus? Your plots have ever been deep-laid. I wonder, betimes, what you fail to tell me now.”
“There is nothing.” Malthus touched the gem on his breast. Its clear blaze underscored the deep lines graven on his features. “Forgive me, Son of Altorus. The Lord-of-Thought’s will is set in motion, and I, like this Soumanië I bear, will soon be spent. There is some service I may yet do to lure the Sunderer’s minions from his lair. But I have no more knowledge to conceal.” He smiled sadly. “The unknown is made known. There is nothing more I may tell you.”
“Would that there was!” The words burst from Aracus. He fetched up before Malthus and flung himself to his knees, his face pale and strained. “Wise Counselor, I am leading men, good men, unto their deaths; Men, aye, and Ellylon and Dwarfs. Whatever else happens, this much is certain. And they are trusting me to do it because I was born to it; because of a Prophecy spoken a thousand years before my birth.” He gave a choked laugh, his wide-set eyes pleading. “Tell me it is necessary, Malthus! Tell me, whatever happens, that it is all worthwhile.”
A man’s face, holding the phantom of the boy he had been, reckoning the cost of youth’s dreams. How many generations had it taken for one such as him to come? Malthus the Counselor reached out, cupping the cheek of the boy he remembered, speaking to the man he had become.
“All things,” he said gently, “must be as they are.”
Aracus bowed his head, red-gold hair falling to hide his expression. “Is that all the comfort you have to offer?”
“Yes,” Malthus said, filled with a terrible pity. “It is.”
“So be it.” Aracus Altorus
touched the hilt of his sword; the sword of his ancestors, a dull and lifeless Soumanië set in its pommel. “Strange,” he murmured. “It seems to me I have heard those words before, only it was the Sorceress who spoke them. Perhaps I should have listened more closely.”
“We all choose our paths,” Malthus said. “Unless you wish to follow hers, soaked in innocent blood, it is the better part of wisdom to pay her words scant heed; for such truth as they held, the Sorceress twisted to justify her own deeds. Yet there was more folly in her than evil, and even one such as she may have a role to play in the end. Do not discount Lilias of Beshtanag.”
“You counsel hope?” Aracus lifted his head.
“Yes,” said Malthus. “Always.” He smiled at Aracus. “Come. Since sleep evades you, let us review the ways in which the Soumanië’s power may be invoked and used, for it is my hope that such knowledge may yet be needful.”
With a sigh, Aracus Altorus began to repeat his mentor’s teaching.
FIFTEEN
THE GULNAGEL WERE IN HIGH spirits, and Speros’ lifted accordingly. He was grateful for the assignment, grateful for the show of trust on General Tanaros’ part. And truth be told, he was grateful to be away from Darkhaven and the presence of the Lady Cerelinde. It made him feel at once awestruck and insignificant, vile and ashamed, and between the General’s fierce glare and Ushahin Dreamspinner’s insinuations, it was altogether too unnerving.
This, now; this was more the thing. The camaraderie of the Fjel and a purpose to achieve. A warrior’s purpose, serving Darkhaven’s needs. He’d had only a small glimpse of the tunnels underlying Urulat when they’d traveled through the Ways. The Vesdarlig Passage was bigger than he could have imagined; wide enough for two Fjel to run abreast, tall enough for Speros to ride his tall grey horse.
Ghost, he had named her, because of her coloring. She moved like one, smooth and gliding. After his first mount had been lost in the Ways, Speros had thought he might never be given another such to ride, but the General had let him keep Ghost for his own. She bore him willingly, though Speros was uncertain whether she liked him. She had a trick of gazing at him out of the corner of one limpid eye as if wondering how he would taste, and her teeth were unnaturally sharp.
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