Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Aye.” Tanaros ignored his own misgivings, clapping a hand to the young man’s shoulder. “You have. You’ll have your mount, boy, and your place in the ranks.”

  Speros smiled with fierce, unadulterated joy.

  It was not that his trust had proved ill-placed, for it had not. In a short time, Speros of Haimhault had proven himself in Darkhaven. The Fjel trusted him. Hyrgolf spoke well of him, and Tanaros valued his field marshal’s opinion above all others. The young man’s energies and ambitions, that had found too narrow an outlet in the Midlands, flourished in Darkhaven. He bore no resentment for the harsh treatment he had received at the outset, reckoning it worth the price. Against his better judgement, Tanaros liked the young man.

  That was the problem.

  How long had it been since Tanaros had donned the Helm of Shadows and led the forces that destroyed Altoria? Eight hundred years, perhaps. Even so, he had not forgotten how, beneath the blaze of hatred in his heart, there had been a twinge of sorrow. For as much as he had been wounded and betrayed, hated and hounded, they had been his people. And he had destroyed them, bringing down a realm and reducing a dynasty to a shade of its former self.

  “You may have kin among the enemy, you know,” he told Speros. “It may be a cousin or a brother you face in battle. And this war will not be one such as the poets sing. We fall upon them from behind, and allow no quarter until the threat is eliminated. There is no glory in it.”

  Regarding his furnace with pride, the Midlander shrugged. “You have outwitted them, General. Is that not glory enough?”

  “We do not do this for glory. Only for victory.”

  “Victory.” Speros ran a hand through his brown hair, sooty and disheveled. “A Sundered World in which Lord Satoris reigns victorious. What will happen then?”

  “Then,” Tanaros said slowly, fingering the rhios in his pocket, “it may be that the Six Shapers will capitulate and make peace. Or it may be that they will not. Either way, Urulat will be in Lord Satoris’ possession, as will Godslayer and two of the three Soumanië. And it may be that the third, Dergail’s Soumanië, is not beyond reach.”

  Speros’ eager, indrawn breath hissed between his teeth, and his eyes glowed at the possibilities. “With those things, he could challenge Haomane himself!”

  “Yes,” Tanaros said. “He could.”

  “And if he won?” Speros asked. “Would he slay the Six?”

  “No.” Tanaros shook his head. “I think not. He loved his sister Arahila well, once; I believe he loves her still. Though she sided with Haomane against him, it was she who stayed the Lord-of-Thought’s hand when his Wrath scorched the earth, and she who raised the red star in warning. Lord Satoris cares for his honor. It may be that she would persuade him to mercy.”

  Speros glanced westward. “What manner of world do you suppose his Lordship would Shape?”

  “Only his Lordship knows for certain,” Tanaros said. “Yet I imagine a world in which the tyranny of one Shaper’s will did not hold sway over all. And that,” he added, “is enough for me.”

  “It’s a beginning,” Speros agreed. He looked curiously at Tanaros. “What would you do in such a world, Lord General?”

  Unaccountably, Tanaros pictured Cerelinde’s face. “It don’t know,” he murmured. “Yet I would like to find out. Perhaps I would become a better Man than I have been in this one.” He gathered himself with a shake, ignoring the Midlander’s quizzical expression. “Come on, lad. Let’s choose a horse for you.”

  Perplexity gave way to a grin. “Aye, General!”

  IN THE CHAMBER OF THE Font, the marrow-fire burned unceasing, a column of blue-white flame rising from its pit, so bright it hurt the eye. And in the center the shard of Godslayer hung, pulsing like a heart to an unseen rhythm.

  “My Lord.” Cerelinde of the Ellylon clasped her hands in front of her to hide their trembling. Valiant as she was, the fear came upon her every time the tapestry in her quarters twitched at the opening of the secret door, a wary madling emerging to beckon her through the winding passages behind the walls to the three-fold door and the spiral stair, to answer the summons of the Lord of Darkhaven. “You sent for me?”

  “Yes.” The Shaper’s voice was gentle. He moved in the shadows at the outskirts of the room, his massive figure blending into darkness. Only the red, glowing eyes showed clearly. “Be at your ease, Lady.”

  Cerelinde sat in the chair he indicated, stiff-backed and fearful.

  His deep laugh rumbled. “You have been my guest these weeks now. Do you still think I mean you harm?”

  “You hold me against my will.” She fixed her gaze on the beating heart of Godslayer within the marrow-fire. “Is that not harm, my Lord?”

  “Will,” Satoris mused, and the stones of Darkhaven shivered under his mighty, soundless tread. A reek of ichor in the air grew stronger at his approach, sweet and coppery. “What do you know of will, little Ellyl?”

  “I know it is mine to defy you.” The words came hard, harder than she could have imagined. It was hard, in this place, to cling to all that she knew was true.

  Fingers brushed her hair. “What if I offered you a kingdom?”

  Closing her eyes, Cerelinde shuddered at the touch of a Shaper’s power. With Godslayer to hand, he could remake her very flesh if he willed it. “You would not, my Lord Sunderer,” she said. “While I live, I am a threat to you, and I do not believe that you will let me live for long, let alone offer me power. I am not a fool, my Lord. I have made my peace with it. I am not afraid to die.”

  “No.” The Shaper withdrew, his voice contemptuous. “Only to live. Will you cling to this Prophecy with which my brother Haomane Shapes the world? I tell you this: You are not the only one, you know, daughter of Erilonde.”

  “What?” Cerelinde opened her eyes. “What do you say?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lord Satoris smiled, a fearful thing. “Elterrion the Bold had a second daughter, gotten of an illicit union. Somewhere among the Rivenlost, your line continues. Do you suppose such things never happen among the Ellylon?”

  “They do not.” Cerelinde drew herself up taut.

  “They do upon very rare occasion.” The Shaper’s eyes glittered with red malice. “It is a pity your people dare not acknowledge it, Lady. The weight of the world might not rest upon your shoulders if they did.”

  “You lie,” Cerelinde whispered.

  Lord Satoris shrugged, the movement disturbing the shadows. “More seldom than you might imagine, Lady,” he said, regret in his tone. “These things lie within the purview of the Gift that was mine, and they are mine alone to know. Although the Ellylon themselves do not know it, I tell you: There is another.”

  “Who?” Cerelinde leaned forward, forgetting herself. “Who, my Lord?”

  He eyed her, slow and thoughtful. “I will tell you, in exchange for knowledge freely given. The Three would see you put to questioning. I, I merely ask, Lady. What is the purpose of Malthus the Counselor?”

  He would ask that; he would Cerelinde hid her face in her hands, wishing she knew the answer. Whether she gave it or not, at least it would be a bargaining chip. With a bitter sense of irony, she remembered Aracus’ words in Lindanen Dale. It is for a short time only, my lady. Malthus knows what he is about. She wondered if the Wise Counselor had known what would befall her, and prayed it were not so. It was too cruel to contemplate.

  Surely, Aracus had not.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured through her fingers. “I don’t.”

  Satoris waited until she raised her head to look at him. Reading the truth written in her face, he nodded once. “I told them as much. Very well, you may go. We will speak anon, Lady.”

  “All three?” Cerelinde swallowed. “All of the Three would see me questioned?”

  For a long time, he did not answer. The marrow-fire burned soundless, shedding brightness throughout the Chamber of the Font; in its midst, Godslayer hung like a suspended wail, pulsing. Darkness gathered around the Shaper like s
tormclouds and his eyes sparked a slow, inexorable red.

  “No,” he said at last. “Not all. Not Tanaros.”

  It gladdened her heart to hear it in a manner that filled her with uneasiness. How far had she fallen, how deeply had this touched her, that the kindness of Tanaros Kingslayer could make her glad? The Sunderer’s lies undermined the foundation of her certainty. Could there be another capable of bringing the Prophecy to fruition, another daughter of the House of Elterrion? Malthus kept his counsel close …

  No. No. To believe as much was to open a door onto despair. Satoris Banewreaker was the Prince of Lies, and behind the courtly courtesies General Tanaros extended was a man who had throttled his wife and slain his sovereign. There were no other truths that mattered.

  In the garden, a mortexigus flower shivered untouched and loosed its pollen.

  Oh, Aracus! Cerelinde thought in despair. I need you!

  EIGHTEEN

  THANKS TO MERONIN FIFTH-BORN, Lord of the Seas, the winds blew fair from Port Eurus and Haomane’s Allies arrived safe on Pelmaran soil, where they were met by a deposition from Regent Martinek. Borderguard, Seaholders, Midlanders and Vedasians, not to mention the Host of the Ellylon—it was a difficult thing, establishing preeminence among them.

  Out of necessity, all bowed to the Pelmaran regent.

  “We need him,” shrewd Duke Bornin murmured to Aracus Altorus. “We need all of them, else we will not prevail against the Sorceress.”

  So it was that Aracus, the last scion of House Altorus and king-in-exile of the West, bent his red-gold head in courteous acknowledgment, and all who followed him followed suit save only the Rivenlost, those of the Host of the Ellylon, who held themselves second in stature to none of the Lesser Shapers.

  “Right.” Martinek’s captain, whose name was Rikard, rode up and down the lists, surveying them with a keen eye. “We’re bound for Kranac, then. Is there anyone among you who has trouble acknowledging his honor’s sovereignty in the third district of Pelmar?”

  He halted his mount before Aracus Altorus, raising dark brows.

  “Captain.” Aracus’ voice was steady. “I am here for one reason only: To assure the safe return of my Lady Cerelinde. All else is naught to me.”

  “And you?” Rikard paused before Lorenlasse of Valmaré, who commanded the Host of the Ellylon. “What of you, my fine Ellyl lord?”

  Now the Ellyl did bow, and the gesture was smooth and dismissive, the gilded bee of his House gleaming at the closure of his cloak, its wings wrought of purest crystal. His arms were immaculate, his face beautiful and impassive. Only his luminous eyes gave evidence of his passion, keen and glittering. “We follow Aracus Altorus, Captain. Our kinswoman and his bride has been lost. All else is as naught.”

  Rikard grunted. “See that it is so.” Raising one arm, he summoned the Regent Martinek’s forces, scores of Pelmarans in leather armor augmented with steel rings, keen and ready. “You hear it, lads! We ride to Kranac! The Sorceress’ days are numbered!”

  Out of port they rode, and into the dark forests of Pelmar.

  IT WAS A SWIFT SHIP.

  If he’d had to guess, Carfax would not have supposed the Dwarfs would make good seafarers. He would have been wrong. It was choice, and not necessity, that kept them primarily land-bound.

  Their ship sailed from Dwarfhorn, making good time under a steady wind. The crew was polite and competent, unapologetic for the inconveniences of tall folk on a Dwarf ship. Whatever it was that had transpired with the Greening of the branch in the orchards of Malumdoorn, it had won the aid of Yrinna’s Children, if not their goodwill.

  Most of Malthus’ Company spent their time belowdecks, closeted in close council. For the nonce, Carfax was forgotten, reckoned harmless. Only Malthus’ binding held him, circumferencing his mind even as it loosened his tongue.

  Fat Thulu stood in the prow, holding his digging-stick and keening exuberant songs. It got on Carfax’s nerves.

  “What does he do?” he snapped at Dani.

  “He charts the ways.” The young Yarru was surprised. “The ways of water, fresh water, as it flows beneath the sea’s floor. Do your people not do the same?”

  “No, they don’t.” Carfax thought of home, of Staccia, where the leaping rivers of Neheris ran silver-bright and a thousand blue lakes reflected the summer sky. No need, there, to chart abundance. “Dani, why are you here?”

  “To save the world.” Gravely, Dani touched the flask at his throat. “It is necessary. Malthus said so.”

  “He said so.” Carfax regarded him. “Then why does he not invite you belowdecks, to take part in his counsel? Why does he withhold his plan from you?”

  There was doubt in the boy’s eyes, a faint shadow of it “He says there are things it is better I do not know. That a choice comes I must make untainted. Malthus is one of the Wise, Carfax. Even my elders said so. He would not lie to me. I must trust him.”

  “Oh, Dani!” He laughed; he couldn’t help it. Bitter laughter, bitter tears. Carfax wiped his stinging eyes. “Oh, Dani, do you think so? Malthus uses you, boy; uses you unwitting. This water—” Reaching out, he grasped the flask threaded around the boy’s neck and found it heavy, impossibly heavy, wrenching his wrist and driving him to his knees on the planked deck. “Dani!”

  “Let it go!” Hobard of Malumdoorn strode across the deck to strike his hand away, lip curling. “Have you learned nothing, Staccian?”

  “Oh, but I have.” Cradling his aching hand, Carfax looked from one to the other. “It’s the Water of Life the boy bears, isn’t it? And no one else can carry it.” Laughing and hiccoughing, he fought to catch his breath. “Why else would you bring him?” he gasped. “What virtues does it have, I wonder? No, no, let me guess!”

  A dark shadow loomed over the deck.

  “Staccian,” a deep, accented voice rumbled.

  Craning his neck, Carfax saw fat Thulu’s face blotting out the sun, his broad belly casting shade. One large hand clasped his digging-stick, and sweat glistened oily on his wide nose. “You.” Carfax pointed at him. “You’re just here on sufferance, aren’t you? A package deal, your presence endured for the boy’s cooperation. You’re a laughingstock, fat one! The Wise would sooner invite a donkey into their counsels than you!”

  “It may be,” Thulu said calmly, squatting on his massive hams.

  Carfax stared at him. Throwing up his hands in disgust, Hobard of Malumdoorn stalked away. The Dwarf crew whispered and shrugged among themselves, going about their business with disinterested competence. Dani hovered behind his uncle’s shoulder, a frown of concentration on his brow. “And you don’t care?” Carfax said at last. “You don’t care that they disdain you? You don’t care, in all their wisdom, that they may be wrong?”

  “Does it matter?” Propping chin on fist, Thulu regarded him. “There is wisdom, and there is wisdom. Dani is the Bearer, and his choice is his own. I am here to safeguard it. That is all.”

  Sunlight glinted dully on the clay flask that hung about the boy’s neck.

  Water.

  It was the Water of Life, and it could make a dead branch burst into green leaf like a sapling. What else could it do?

  When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found, when the marrow-fire is quenched …

  Ushahin! Dreamspinner! Alone and untutored in the ways of magic, Carfax flung his desperate thoughts out onto the wind. Encountering the circumference of Malthus’ will, his call rebounded, echoing in his aching skull like thunder in an empty gorge, only the seagulls answering with raucous, hollow cries.

  Huddled on the deck, he clutched his head and wept.

  SORCERESS.

  A whisper of thought along the ancient Ways of the Marasoumië.

  Lilias waited in the cavern, composed and steady, watching the node-light surge, fitful and red, answering pulses traveling eastward along the branching Ways. One was coming, one of the Branded.

  This time, she was ready.

  Beshtanag was ready
.

  A wall of stone encompassed the mountain’s base; granite, seamless and polished. And though she was exhausted in limb and spirit, the wall stood. Only the narrowest gap remained, and the raw stone was heaped in piles, awaiting her mind’s touch to close the gap. The cisterns were full, the storerooms stocked.

  There came a figure, blurred—lurching, uneven, an impression of limbs frozen in motion, too swift across Time to register, of pale, shining hair and mismatched eyes. A crooked grimace, caught redly in the node-light’s sudden flare.

  “Dreamer.” Lilias inclined her head.

  “Sorceress.” For all his body was damaged, he emerged from the Ways with an odd, hunch-shouldered grace, inclining his head. When all was said and done, although he spoke Pelmaran with an accent undistinguishable from her own, he was still half-Ellyl. “I bring you greetings from Darkhaven.”

  “Is there news?” Raising her brows, she felt the weight of the Soumanië.

  “Yes, and no.” Ushahin drew a deep breath. “Lady, let us confer.”

  He followed her through the tunnels into the fasthold of Beshtanag, into the rose-and-amber luxury of her drawing-room, where Sarika knelt waiting to serve them. He spared one glance at the girl, and took sparingly of the offered refreshments.

  “The Ways do not tax you as they do the General,” Lilias observed.

  “No.” Ushahin took a sip of water, cool from the cistern. “Tanaros wields a mighty sword, and a mighty command of battle. I have … other skills. It is why I am here. Lady Sorceress, what news of Haomane’s Allies?”

  “They converge upon Kranac.” Nervous, Lilias ran a finger underneath Sarika’s collar of Beshtanagi silver, wrought in fine links, felt the girl lean adoringly against her knee, offering her soft throat. Calandor had showed her how to bind them to the Soumanië, to her will. “Is that not in accordance with your Lordship’s plan?”