Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  “No!” Cerelinde shrank from his touch. She found the wall of the tunnel at her back and levered herself upright. “If I must walk,” she said, summoning her dignity and gathering it around her, “I shall walk.”

  “Lady.” Hyrgolf uttered a few words in the guttural Fjel tongue, and the others shook off their apparent torpor. The light of their torches receded as they began to trot down the tunnel at a steady pace. The other figure, beside the horse, stood unmoving. Hyrgolf gestured for her to precede him. “As you will.”

  The rocky floor of the tunnel was harsh beneath her feet, clad in the embroidered slippers of her wedding finery. As they passed the motionless figure with the pale hair, she glanced sidelong.

  Ushahin the Misbegotten raised his head, his mismatched eyes glittering with unshed tears and hatred. His combined heritage was stamped on his face, as clearly as the marks of violence left by those who had sought to erase his existence.

  “Ah, Haomane!” She breathed the word like a prayer, faltering.

  “Come, Lady,” Hyrgolf said low in his throat. His talons were on her arm, hurrying her past. “Leave the Dreamspinner to his grief.”

  She went without arguing.

  Behind them, she heard the sound of hooves shuffling and stamping, a horse’s snort. And then hoofbeats, following in their wake. When she dared glance behind once more, he was there, riding astride with the leather case in his lap. He stared hard at her, his twisted face a parody of Haomane’s Children, of almost all she held dear.

  And there were no more tears in his eyes, only hatred.

  She was alone among the Sunderer’s minions.

  The Fjel were not swift, but they were steady and tireless. They spoke little, keeping to their pace, and the Misbegotten spoke not at all. Cerelinde walked among them for hours, feeling Ushahin’s hatred at her back, as palpable as the heat of a blazing hearth. The tunnel sloped downward, and with each step she felt herself taken further from the surface, from Aracus and her kinfolk, from clean air and the light of Haomane’s blessed, life-giving sun. The air within the tunnels was dank and close, growing ever more so the further they went Only a handful of shafts pierced the stifling darkness, providing barely enough air to keep them alive, to keep the torches alight

  Within the first hour, they passed beneath the Aven River.

  The sound, a deep, muffled rushing sound, announced it. The walls of the tunnel thrummed and groaned. Cerelinde started in terror even as the Fjel tramped onward, unperturbed.

  “Peace, lass,” Hyrgolf rumbled. “It is only the river above us.”

  “Above us?” Cerelinde echoed the words, feeling ill. The weight of all that water, rushing overhead, was incomprehensible. She knew the river well. Some leagues to the south, Meronil, the white city, sat on its banks.

  “Aye, far above.” Hyrgolf regarded her. “The Fjel know tunnels, lass. You’re safe with us. You’ve no need to fear.”

  “Lass!” A despairing laugh escaped her. “Ah, Marshal! So you call me, and yet I have lived long enough for ten score of your generations to toil and die in the Sunderer’s name. Have you any idea what it is you do here?”

  He gave another shrug, as though her words glanced off his impervious hide. “As you will, Lady. Can you continue?”

  “Yes,” Cerelinde whispered.

  Onward they tramped, and the sound of the Aven River grew louder and more terrifying, then faded and vanished. Cerelinde thought of Meronil, of her home, passing steadily beyond her reach, and fought against despair.

  After many hours, they reached a vast, open cavern where Hyrgolf called a halt. Cerelinde stood on battered and aching feet, watching as his Fjel made camp, dispersing the supplies they bore. There were food and water, as well as bedrolls and fodder for horses. Others, it seemed, were anticipated. Only the Misbegotten took no part in the preparations, retreating to a dark alcove and crouching in misery, arms wrapped around the case he carried.

  Cerelinde was too weary to care. Whatever ailed him, there was no room in her heart for compassion, save for those she had left behind. When Hyrgolf pointed to a hide tent his Fjel had erected for her, pounding tent-pegs into rock with sheer might, she crawled into it without a word, drawing the flap closed behind her. There she lay, staring open-eyed at the tent’s peak, and reliving the bloody memories of Lindanen Dale.

  Hours passed.

  The hoofbeats, when they came, were weary and slow. Cerelinde lay tense and quiet, listening to the sounds of the camp. There was a Man’s voice speaking in the common tongue, tired, yet filled with command. “How is she?”

  “Quiet, Lord General,” answered Hyrgolf’s deep tone.

  The voice spoke in Staccian, giving orders. For a moment, Cerelinde relaxed; then came the sound of booted feet drawing near her tent.

  “Lady,” the Man’s voice said. “I bring you greetings from my Lord Satoris.”

  Her fingers trembled as she drew back the tent’s flap. He averted his gaze as she emerged, allowing her to study him. The sight made her stomach clench. His was the face she had seen through the opening of a Pelmaran helm, bearing down upon her, a bloody sword in his fist.

  Not until she stood did he meet her eyes, and she knew, then, that she had seen his likeness elsewhere, in the shadow of features worn by his distant kinsman. The dark hair was the same, falling over his brow; the stern mouth, the face, austere and handsome by the standards of Men. Only the eyes were different, weary with the knowledge of centuries beyond mortal telling.

  Her voice shook. “You!”

  “Lady.” He bowed, correct and exacting. “I am General Tanaros of Darkhaven, and I mean you no harm.”

  “Harm!” Cerelinde passed her hands over her face, another wild laugh threatening to choke her. “O blessed Haomane, Arahila the Fair, what does such a word mean to you people? I know you, Tanaros Kingslayer, Banewreaker’s Servant.”

  “So you name me.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I did not choose such names, Lady. Is this how you return a greeting fairly given?”

  “You cut down my guardsmen where they stood, sent one of Oronin’s Hunters against my husband-to-be, unarmed in his wedding bower. How can you say you mean me no harm?” Anger set her words ablaze. “What happens to me matters naught, Kingslayer. I am resolved to die. But do not slay my kinsmen and tell me you mean no harm! In cold blood, unprovoked—”

  Tanaros interrupted her. “Why did you agree to wed him?”

  Cerelinde looked away, gazing past him, through the impenetrable cavern walls.

  “Why?”

  She flinched at his tone; the granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold. Yet there was steel in her—courage, and heart. Oh yes, Haomane’s Children had heart. It had been Arahila’s Gift to them, the only one Haomane had permitted. “You need to ask?” Her backbone rigid, she stood straight and tall. “There is valor in him, and a noble spirit. I am a woman, Tanaros Kingslayer, Ellyl or no.” Color flushed her cheekbones. “And there is naught in him a woman would not—”

  He cut her short. “You sought to fulfill the Prophecy.”

  Cerelinde opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Tanaros laughed, a dry sound. “You sought to fulfill the Prophecy. Make no mistake. It was an act of war.”

  “I seek to preserve the lives of my people, Tanaros Blacksword.” Her grey eyes were somber. “Can you say the same?”

  “Aye, I can and do. You are a pawn, Lady, in a war of Haomane First-Born’s devising.” He raked a hand through his hair; it was greasy, after days under a helm. “Who talked you into the wedding? Ingolin the Wise? Malthus the Counselor, Haomane’s Servant and Weapon?” Tanaros gave a bitter smile at her expression. “See how their wisdom availed them! Well, now I have taken you, and you are Lord Satoris’ pawn. At least he is honest about it. And as his emissary, I tell you this: He means you no harm.”

  “I have been abducted.” Cerelinde’s voice trembled, with anger and the effort of holding her fear at bay. “Abducted by force, brought here against my will, h
eld captive by—” Catching sight of Ushahin huddled against the far wall, she pointed with a shaking finger. “By creatures, by Fjeltroll and that foul Misbegotten—”

  “Enough!” Tanaros struck her hand down, a sharp, shocking blow.

  Too close for comfort, they stared at one another.

  “Your people abandoned Ushahin, Lady,” Tanaros said to her. “Remember that. Such as he is, your own children would have been, had you wed Aracus Altorus.”

  “Never!” She flung the denial out in defiance, his words touching on her darkest fear. “They will be conceived in love, in accordance with Haomane’s Prophecy.” Cerelinde shook her head. “It is not the same, not the same at all. Why do you think we name him thusly? It is not for the mixing of the races. Ushahin the Misbegotten was conceived in lust, in base desire.” She pronounced the words with distaste. “The Sunderer’s Gift, not fair Arahila’s.”

  Tanaros raised his brows. “Thus you hold him accountable for his birth?”

  “Not his birth, but what he has made of the ill-conceived life he was given,” Cerelinde said evenly. “And my folk gave him into the care of yours, Tanaros Kingslayer. We are not to blame for the cruelty wrought by the children of Men.”

  “No.” He looked away from her, gazing at Ushahin. “And yet you were quicker to abandon him than the children of Men were to assail him. Only Oronin’s Children rose above such pettiness. The Were took him in when none other would.” His gaze returned to hers. “Leave him be. He lost more than any of us in Lindanen Dale.”

  She remembered the grey forms in their midst, Aracus engaged in combat. Her breath was quick and shallow. “The one who attacked my betrothed …”

  “The Dreamspinner called her ‘mother,’” Tanaros said quietly. “Remember that, when you condemn us in Haomane’s name, Lady. You have my word as surety: No harm will come to you here.”

  Bowing stiffly, he took his leave.

  Cerelinde watched him go. A part of her heart soared, for if his words were true, it meant that Aracus lived. As dire as her prospects appeared, while they both drew breath, hope must not be abandoned. Haomane’s Prophecy might yet be fulfilled, and Satoris Banewreaker destroyed through his own folly.

  And yet she was troubled.

  Tanaros moved through the encampment, greeting the Fjel, checking on his injured Men, making his way to Ushahin’s side. There he squatted on his heels, speaking in low tones, one hand on the Misbegotten’s shoulder.

  He was her enemy, one of the Three. He had killed his wife and slain his King. He was the servant of Satoris Banewreaker.

  He was not at all what she had expected.

  THE WHITE SLIVER OF THE new moon was bright enough to cast shadows.

  The old man shook his head, watching the strangers stumble into the Stone Grove. Half dead, most of them, past caring that they entered a sacred place. One crumpled, unable to walk another step; another knelt beside her, breathing hard through his mouth. Foolish, wasting his breath’s moisture in the desert, but what else were they to do with those tiny nostrils?

  One stayed upright through sheer will, glancing at the tall rocks surrounding the empty circle, eyes suspicious by moonlight. The old man smiled. Stubborn, that one. He must be the appointed guardian. And the others …

  “Ngurra!” His wife’s whisper tickled his ear with delight. “Look! One of the Haomane-gaali.”

  And so it was, tall and fair, wrought with such grace that thirst and hunger only stripped him to a translucent beauty, his Shaper’s intended essence. Ngurra clicked his tongue. Fair, yes, but could Haomane’s Children find water in the desert? No.

  One of the strangers could, though; their old one—or at least, where he could not find it, he could compel it. And he’d done so, the old wizard. From Dry Basin to Lizard Rock, across the Basking Flats, he’d done it, calling drought-eaters from barren sand. The desert was leached where they had passed, struggling for survival. The old man felt it, himself; there, above his third rib, a dull ache where Thornbrake Bore had run dry.

  “Did you see—?” his wife whispered.

  “Shhh.” He hushed her. “Watch. They have found it.”

  It was their old one, their wizard. He leaned on his staff, bowing his head. One hand fumbled beneath the moonlit spill of his beard, drawing forth the Soumanië. It shone like a red star in his hand. The wizard raised his head, gazing at the pile of rocks in the center of the Stone Grove. “It is here,” he said softly. “Ah, Haomane! The Unknown made Known. Blaise, Peldras, come.”

  Together, they clambered over the rocks. What they found there, every member of the Yarru knew full well. A cleft, ringed round with rocks, opening onto unfathomable depths, and from it emerging a breath of water, heavy, with a strong mineral tang. A battered tin bucket, sitting atop an endless coil of rope. A faint sigh whispered around the Stone Grove.

  “Is it … ?” asked the one called Blaise.

  “It is the Well of the World and the Navel of Uru-Alat” The wizard’s voice held awe. “‘Try though they may, one and all, by no hand save the appointed Bearer …’” He halted his recitation. “Let us try, then, and see.”

  Among the rocks surrounding Stone Grove, the Yarru chuckled, a soft, soughing sound, like the shifting of desert sands. Ngurra rested on his haunches, watching as the strangers fed the tin bucket into Birru-Uru-Alat, the hole at the center of the world. Down and down and down it went, on a coiling rope of thukka-vine. He counted the heartbeats, waiting as the rope uncoiled.

  Down …

  Down …

  Down.

  Almost, the strangers gave up after long minutes, for there seemed no end to the coiling rope. Ngurra knew how long it was. He had measured it, cubit by cubit, all the days of his life. That was his charge, as chieftain of the Stone Grove Clan. His grandmother, who had been chieftainess before him, had passed it to him, along with her knowledge. Maintain the rope, inch by inch. It was one of his charges.

  A faint splash in the night.

  “Water,” said Peldras the Haomane-gaali, lying prone above the opening. His ears were sharper than those of Men. “The bucket has struck water, Counselor.”

  One after another, they tried it. Blaise, the appointed guardian, tried it first, grunting in the moonlight, muscles straining as he sought to raise the bucket. Then the Haomane-gaali Peldras tried, and fared no better. The wizard tried, too, muttering spells that availed him naught, but earned a silent chuckle from the watching Yarru. In the end, they all tried, the whole of Malthus’ Company, even the thirsting Archer and the bone-weary Knight, laying hands on the rope together and hauling as one. Yet, even as a whole, bone and muscle and sinew cracking, they failed.

  The laden bucket was too heavy to raise.

  “Enough,” whispered their old one, their wizard. “We have tried, one and all, and fulfilled the letter of the Prophecy.” Laying down his staff, he cupped the Soumanië in both hands. His voice grew strong as he spoke the words of the choosing, and the ruddy glow of the chip of the Souma grew, spilling from between his cupped hands to illuminate the Stone Grove. “Yarru-yami! Charred Ones! Children of Haomane’s wrath! I call upon you now in his name. Lend us your aid!”

  “Time and gone he asked,” Warabi muttered.

  “Hush, old woman!” Ngurra glared at her. She wouldn’t understand the common tongue if he hadn’t taught it to her himself. “Kindle the torch.”

  Still muttering, she obeyed, striking flint to iron. The oil-rich fibers of the bugy-stick sputtered and lit, sending a signal. All around the perimeter of the Stone Grove, bugy-stick torches caught and kindled as, one by one, members of the Six Clans of the Yarru revealed themselves.

  Ngurra stepped before the torches, gazing down at the small figures gathered around the Birru-Uru-Alat, their shadows stark on the sand. “The Yarru are here,” he called in the common tongue, the language his grandmother had taught him. “As we have always been, since before the earth was scorched. What do you seek?”

  Malthus the Counselor op
ened his arms, showing himself weaponless, offering himself as surety. The Soumanië shone like a red star upon his breast. “Speaker of the Yarru, I greet you. We come seeking the Bearer.”

  In the night, someone gasped.

  FOR TWO MORE DAYS, THEY traveled through the tunnels.

  Truth be told, Tanaros had never been comfortable in them. They reminded him, too acutely, that Urulat was old, older than his lifespan, unnatural as it was, could reckon. Dragons had carved them, it was said; whether or not it was true, dragons did not acknowledge. Still, they served their purpose for the armies of Darkhaven.

  It was harder, with the Lady of the Ellylon.

  Vast as they were—broad enough at all times for two horses to ride abreast, and sometimes three-the tunnels. were dark and stifling, a mass of earth pressing above at all times. At times, when it was far between vents, the air grew thick and the torches guttered, burning low. Then it was worse, and even Tanaros fought panic, his chest working to draw air into his lungs.

  The Fjel, rock-delvers by nature of their Shaping, were untroubled. Their eyes were well suited to darkness and they could slow the very beat of their hearts at need, breathing slow and deep, moving unhurried at a steady pace, carrying heavy packs of supplies. Brute wisdom, mindless and physical, attuned to survival. Even the horses, bred in the Vale of Gorgantum to fear no darkness, endured without panic.

  It was different for Men, who thought overmuch.

  It was worst of all for the Ellyl.

  Tanaros saw, and sympathized against his will. It was simpler, much simpler, to despise her. Ushahin Dreamspinner managed it without effort, his face twisted with pure and absolute despite when he deigned glance her way. By all rights, the Dreamspinner should have hated the tunnels, being human and Ellyl, a creature of open skies. But he was a child of the Were as well, and at home underground.

  Not so the Lady Cerelinde.

  Her face, by torchlight, was pale, too pale. Skin stretched taut over bones Shaped like lines of poetry, searing and gorgeous. Haomane’s Child. Even here, her beauty made the heart ache. Her eyes were wide, swallowed up by darkness. From time to time her pale fingers scrabbled at her throat, seeking to loosen the clasp of a rough-spun wool cloak someone had loaned her on the first day; Hyrgolf, at a guess.