Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  Hyrgolf smiled ruefully, extending one hand. “For his Lordship’s honor, Lord General?”

  Tanaros clasped his hand. “For his Lordship’s honor.”

  On his order, the army of Darkhaven charged.

  MERONIL WAS FILLED WITH THE sound of distant horns.

  Lilias of Beshtanag stood before the tall windows in her tower chamber, opening them wide onto the open air to catch the strains of sound. Throughout the day, it seemed they blew without cease.

  The clarion call of challenge she heard many times over; and the undaunted call of defiance. Once, there was a peal of victory, brief and vaunting; but defiance and a rallying alarum followed, and she knew the battle was not ended.

  This was different.

  Triumph; a great triumph, resonant with joy, and a single note of sorrow threaded through it. Haomane’s Allies had won a great victory, and suffered a dire loss.

  Lilias rested her brow on the window-jamb, wondering who had died.

  She had been a sorceress, once; the Sorceress of the East. It was the Soumanië that had lent her power, but the art of using it she had mastered on her own merit, guided by Calandor’s long, patient teaching.

  It could not be Aracus Altorus who had fallen. Surely, she would sense it through the faint echo of the bond that remained, binding her to the Soumanië he bore. What victory had Haomane’s Allies won, and at what cost?

  A longing to know suffused her. Lilias clenched her fists, lifting her head to stare out the window. Below her the Aven River flowed, serene and unheeding. Around the tower, the sea-eagles circled on tilted wings, mocking her with their freedom. She hated them, hated her prison, hated the rotting mortal confines of the body in which she was trapped, bound tight in the Chain of Being.

  Closing her eyes, Lilias whispered words of power, words in the First Tongue, the Shapers’ Tongue, the language of dragons.

  For a heartbeat, for an exhilarating span of heartbeats, her spirit slipped the coil of flesh to which it was bound. She was aware, briefly, of the Soumanië—Ardrath’s Soumanië, her Soumanië—set in the pommel of Aracus Altorus’ sword, the hilt clenched tight in his fist. She saw, briefly, through his eyes.

  Blaise, dead.

  The Helm of Shadows, broken.

  And war; carnage and chaos and war, Men and Fjel and Ellylon swirling and fighting, and in the midst of it Tanaros Blacksword, Tanaros Kingslayer, the Soldier, looming larger than life, coming for Aracus astride a black horse, carrying a black blade dripping with Blaise’s blood, a blade capable of shearing metal as easily as flesh.

  No longer did it last, then Lilias was back, huddled on the floor, exhausted and sickened, trapped in her own flesh and weary to the bone. She saw again Blaise Caveros’ body, limp and bloodied; felt Aracus’ terror and determination, the desperate love that drove him. She remembered how Blaise had told her to look away when they passed what remained of Calandor, how he had forbidden the Pelmarans to desecrate the dragon’s corpse. How Aracus had shown her Meronin’s Children aboard the Dwarf-ship and treated her as an equal.

  It was hard, in the end, to hate them.

  “Calandor,” she whispered. “Will you not guide me once more?”

  There was no answer; there would never be an answer ever again. Only the echo, soft and faint, of her memory. All things musst be as they are, little sssister.

  All thingsss.

  Lilias rose, stiff and aching. The horns, the horns of the Rivenlost were still blowing, still rising and falling, singing of victory and loss, of the glory of Haomane’s Prophecy and the terrible price it exhorted. And yet it seemed to her that beneath it all another note sounded, dark and deep and wild, filled with a terrible promise. It reminded her of her childhood, long, long ago, in the deep fastness of Pelmar, where Oronin the Glad Hunter had once roamed the forests, Shaping his Children to be swift and deadly, with keen jaws and amber eyes.

  It sang her name.

  Over and over, it sang her name.

  “So be it,” Lilias whispered. A weary gladness filled her. The stories that were told in Pelmar were true after all. That was his Gift; Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter. She was mortal, and she was his to summon.

  She could resist his call, for a time. Hours, perhaps days. She was the Sorceress of the East and her will was strong. It might be enough to tip the outcome on the battlefield … and yet, in her heart, she no longer believed it. The Helm of Shadows was broken. The things that Calandor had shown her were coming to pass, and while the world that followed might not be the one that Haomane’s Allies envisioned, surely it would be one in which there was no place for Lilias of Beshtanag.

  It would be a relief, a blessed relief, to slip the coil of mortality forever. She had tried. She had cast her die and lost, but it did not matter. Not in the end. Whether Haomane’s Prophecy was fulfilled or thwarted, there was no winning for mortals in the Shapers’ War.

  And on the other side of death, Calandor awaited her.

  There were things even the Shapers did not know.

  Lilias embraced that thought as she climbed onto the window seat. She swayed there, leaning forward and spreading her arms. It was a clear day in Meronil, the white city sparkling beneath the sun. The wind fluttered her sleeves, her skirts. A sea-eagle veered away with a harsh cry, making her laugh. Far, far below, the silvery ribbon of the Aven River beckoned, flowing steadily toward the sea.

  It was a relief, a blessed relief, to lay down the burden of choice.

  “Calandor!” Lilias cried. “I am coming!”

  She stepped onto nothingness and plummeted.

  TWENTY-ONE

  DANI RACED DOWN THE HALLS of Darkhaven, his bare feet pounding the marble floors. Behind him, he could hear Uncle Thulu, breathing hard as they ran, accompanied by the blurred rush of their dim reflections in the glossy black walls, fractured by blue-white fire.

  The sound of the pursuing Fjeltroll was like a rockslide at their backs; roaring, thudding, jangling with weaponry. But they were slow, thanks be to Uru-Alat, they were slow! Massive and ponderous, not like the Fjel who had hunted them in the north, driving them like sheep to the slaughter.

  Still, they kept coming, tireless.

  And they summoned others.

  At every third corner Dani rounded, it seemed another squadron was advancing, grim and determined, forcing him to backtrack and pick another route. There were Fjel at entrances, guarding doors, joining the slow hunt. Soon, there would be no avenues left down which to flee … and he still had no idea how to find the marrow-fire.

  Sheer desperation led him to the alcove. They had passed it once already; a tall, arched niche inset with a sculpture in high relief. He glimpsed it briefly, caught a vague impression of two vast figures struggling. When more Fjel were around the next corner, Dani doubled back, nearly colliding with Thulu, only to hear the clamor of pursuit coming from the other end of the hall.

  “Here!” he gasped. “Hide!”

  Suiting actions to words, he flung himself toward the alcove in a slide, skidding feet-first on the slippery floor, passing beneath the locked arms of the grappling figures, between their planted legs into the shadowy recess behind them.

  There he found a small, hidden doorway, one that opened to his tug.

  Scrambling onto his bruised knees, Dani grabbed Thulu’s arm and hauled him into the alcove, into the narrow, hidden passage he had found. There was no time to close the door. He clamped one hand hard over his uncle’s mouth, stifling his panting breath.

  Together they huddled motionless, peering out of the shadows and watching the horny, taloned feet and the thick, armor-clad legs of the Fjel churn past. The parties met, with a sharp, frustrated exchange. Orders were barked and the Fjel separated, trotting back toward opposite ends of the hall, intent on further search.

  When all was silent, Dani closed the door carefully and pointed farther down the passage. Thulu nodded. Clambering to their feet, they began to explore behind the walls of Darkhaven.

  The
air was hot and close, growing hotter the farther they progressed. The narrow, winding path, rubble-strewn, slanted downward in a shallow slope. Where it branched, Dani took the lowermost path. From time to time, he heard skittering, scrabbling sounds in the other passages, but they saw nothing. Periodic nodes of marrow-fire, emerging in thick, pulsing knots from the walls, illuminated only darkness.

  Below, Malthus had said.

  Surely, this was below.

  Dani touched the clay vial at his throat, glancing uneasily at the walls. So much marrow-fire! If what permeated the fortress and its foundation was any indication, he could not imagine what lay at its Source. And he could not imagine how the scant mouthful of the Water of Life that remained in the vessel could have even the slightest impact upon it, beyond raising a brief puff of steam.

  Your courage will be tested, young Bearer, beyond anything you can imagine.

  Malthus had said that, too. At the time, Dani had accorded it little weight. It was the sort of tiresome warning Elders used to scare foolish boys into being cautious when there was an opportunity to do something worth doing, an opportunity for glory.

  Later, in the barren reaches, when he had come to understand something of the true nature of the Bearer’s burden, he had thought he understood it better. In the northern forests, in the terrible tunnels, he had been sure of it.

  In the bowels of Darkhaven, he realized he had not even begun to grasp it.

  Malthus had spoken truly. It was beyond anything he could imagine. In the stifling heat, Dani shivered to the bone. He had not expected to survive this journey, not for a long time. Still, the nearer he came to its end, the harder it was to continue.

  The path grew level, the passage wider. Rounding a bend, Dani froze.

  Ahead of him was a cavern; a rough-hewn chamber, enlarged by the crude efforts of many generations of human hands. Everywhere, lit candles flickered; butt-ends wedged into crevices. Writing was scratched and scrawled upon the walls, and scraps of carpet were strewn about.

  In the center of the room, the madling woman who had bid them to run sat waiting for them on an overturned crate. Her hands were folded in her lap, her skirts tucked around her ankles. Beneath her lank hair, her brow shone with sweat and her gaze was fever-bright.

  “You have found our place,” she said to them. “I thought you would. After all, you must be a little bit mad to have come here.”

  Dani took a step backward, bumping into Uncle Thulu.

  The madling woman shook her head. “No, not now. It’s not time to run, now. Behind the walls, they are all around you. They are coming. Do you not hear?” Her mouth twisted in a rictus of a smile. “They. We. Will you come hither or be taken?”

  “What do you want?” Dani asked cautiously.

  She laughed, a harsh and terrible sound, and he realized tears were in her eyes. “Me? Me? Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know.” Dani gazed at her. “Does it?”

  “Yes.” She whispered the word as though it hurt. “I think maybe it does. I think maybe it matters a great deal.”

  In the passages all around them, the sounds Dani had heard before were growing louder, drawing nearer. Scrabbling sounds, skittering sounds. Madlings, madlings behind the walls, coming for them. It didn’t matter. There had never been a way back, not after coming this far. There was only forward. The madling woman beckoned. Dani took a deep breath. Reaching behind him, he found the solid warmth of his uncle’s hand and clasped it hard.

  Together, they entered the chamber.

  MEARA WATCHED THE CHARRED FOLK enter.

  What do you want?

  Oh, she could have laughed, laughed and laughed, while the tears streamed down her face. Such a grimy little youth! What did she want? She wanted to raise an alarm, to summon the other madlings to hurry, hurry, take them now. She wanted to whisper in the Charred lad’s ear, tell him Darkhaven’s secrets.

  He was gazing at her with wide, dark eyes; liquid-dark, desert eyes. They should have been filled with innocence, but they weren’t. There was too much sorrow, too much knowledge. If he had been a boy once, he was no longer.

  The madlings could take them, take them both.

  General Tanaros would be proud, so proud … but he had never trusted her, never seen her. She had offered herself to him; her heart, her body, the passion that was his Lordship’s Gift to Arahila’s Children. But Tanaros was a Man and a fool, wanting what he could never have. What would he do once the burst of pride faded? Turn away, forgetting Meara, longing after her.

  The Lady Cerelinde’s kiss burned on her brow.

  Please, she had said.

  The other Charred One watched her warily, holding the lad’s hand. He looked as battered and exhausted as the lad. Clearly, they had been through much together. It was a pity. She did not want to betray them. She did not want to save them, either.

  Give them what aid you may …

  Not both of them, no. It was too much. Her head ached at the thought, splitting. She shook it hard and rose, approaching them. They stood fast, though the older tried to shield the younger. Meara ignored him, concentrating on the lad.

  “You’re a mess, you know,” she said, trying on a tone of tenderness, a tone she might have used on a lover or a child, if things had been otherwise. Lifting a corner of her skirt, she scrubbed at the lad’s face. They were almost exactly the same height. He stood very still, his narrow chest rising and falling. Dropping her skirts, she touched the clay vial that hung about his throat. It was an unprepossessing thing, crudely made, tied with a greasy thong. “Is this what his Lordship desires?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I reckon it is.”

  “Dani,” the other said warningly.

  “Dani.” Meara touched his face. His skin was soft and warm, and though he was afraid, it was not her that he feared. “Is that your name?”

  “Yes. What’s yours?”

  “Meara. Do you like it?”

  He smiled. “I do.”

  “Why are you here, Dani?” she asked curiously.

  He let go the other’s hand, raising both of his and cupping them, palms together. The skin was pale, paler than the rest of him. It was marred by dirt and calluses, a myriad of scrapes and half-scabbed wounds. Still, she could discern radiating lines creasing his palms. They met, converging on the joined edges, forming a starburst.

  “I am the Bearer,” he said simply. “It is mine to do.”

  Meara nodded. She did not understand, not really; and yet, she did. Madlings heard things. The Charred lad was a piece of a puzzle, a terrible puzzle that should never be assembled. For the second time in her life, she wished the tide of madness would arise, the black pit would open.

  Again, it did not happen. The Lady’s kiss burned on her brow, a silvery mark, keeping the tide at bay. She had branded Meara as surely as his Lordship had branded his Three, but there was no gift in it. There was only this moment, this crux, and Meara balanced upon it as if on the edge of a blade. The splitting pain in her head intensified, until it felt as though it would cleave her very skull in twain. She wished it would.

  The others were drawing nearer. Shuddering, Meara spoke.

  “You are going to have to choose.” The words came quickly, spilling from her lips. It was the only way to make the pain stop. “I cannot do this, not all of it. Please, the Lady said. And I owe her, I owe her, but I owe his Lordship, too. His Lordship and Lord Ushahin, who has always understood what we are.” They did not understand, but it didn’t matter. Like her, they understood enough. Meara pointed toward the far end of the chamber. “What you seek lies beyond. And in a moment, I am going to scream and betray you. One of you.” She felt her face twist into a smile. “One may flee. One must stay. Do you understand?”

  The Charred Folk exchanged a glance, silent

  Meara’s voice rose. “Do you understand? Now, now, or I betray you both! You will die, the Lady will die, all of you, all of Haomane’s Allies, dead, you should be dead.” She swiped angril
y at her weeping eyes. “Do you understand? I am breaking, broken, I cannot do this!”

  The older one laid his hands upon the shoulders of the younger, speaking urgently in their tongue. His face was somber, filled with pride. So much love there! It twisted in Meara’s guts like a serpent. She hated them both; hated them, hated Tanaros, hated the Lady, hated the very world that had brought her to such an impasse. Ah, what-might-have-been! She might have been elsewhere, might have been a pretty woman in an apron, kneading dough, while a handsome man embraced her, laughing. It would have been a good life, her life, but it was not to be. It never had.

  “Go,” she said, grinding out the word. “Go!”

  The Charred lad sent her a single glance, and fled.

  Meara drew in her breath, filling her lungs. The other, the older Charred One, stood braced with his legs astraddle, waiting for what would come. There was a calm acceptance in his dark eyes.

  Loosing her breath, Meara screamed.

  BLINDED BY TEARS, DANI RAN.

  It felt like leaving a piece of himself behind. It was leaving a part of himself behind. He felt the rocks of the passage tear at his skin, scraping away patches. It seemed only fair, having left the better part of himself to the madlings’ mercy. He heard Meara’s scream arise, awful and piercing, filled with all the pain of her divided soul. He heard the shrieks descend, the sound of shouting and struggling.

  Uncle Thulu!

  A thousand memories crowded his thoughts; Uncle Thulu, guiding and protecting him; Uncle Thulu, teaching him to hunt; Uncle Thulu, still fat, laughing as he tried to mount a horse for the first time, floundering so badly even Malthus laughed, too; Uncle Thulu, fighting Fjeltroll by the river; Uncle Thulu, carrying him on his back in the dry reaches.

  What would the madlings do to him?

  Better not to know, better not to think. The path sloped sharply downward. Dani navigated it blindly, feeling the way with both hands. It was hot, so hot. He dragged his forearm across his brow, clearing his vision.