“I will not forget, Mother,” he whispered.
In the glade at the heart of the Delta, Calanthrag the Eldest chuckled, settling her bulk into the swamp. Twin plumes of smoke trailed above as her sinuous neck stretched, her head lowered. Sulfurous bubbles arose as her nostrils sank below the water’s surface, breaking foamy and pungent. Nictitating lids closed, filmy and half-clear, showing the unearthly gleam of gilt-green orbs below until the outer lids shut like doors. The last ripple spent itself atop the waters.
Beneath the tall palodus tree, the hummock in the heart of the Delta grew still, and the bronzed waters reflected sunlight like a mirror.
Calanthrag the Eldest slept, and laughed in her dreams.
THIRTY
FOR THE FIRST TIME, SKRAGDAL of the Tungskulder Fjel was ill at ease underground.
It was a short journey through the Vesdarlig Passage, one he had made before. All of them had. It was the oldest route through the tunnels to southwestern Staccia. It was a good tunnel, broad and straight. The walls were wide, the ceiling was high. The floor had been worn smooth by the passing tread of countless generations of Fjel. The Kaldjager patrolled it ruthlessly, ensuring that its egresses remained hidden, that its safety remained inviolate, that its ventilation shafts remained clear. It should have been a haven of comfort. It would have been, before.
It was Blågen, one of the Kaldjager who noticed it, loping back from a scouting excursion. His broad nostrils flared and his yellow eyes gave Skragdal an assessing glance. “You have the reek.”
Skragdal grunted. “I was in the Marasoumië.”
Blågen shrugged. “Ah.”
The Men had it too, but Men often reeked of fear, except for General Tanaros. It didn’t seem to bother the Nåltannen or the Gulnagel, and the Kaldjager hadn’t been there for the terrible moment when the world had gone away in a rush of red light and stone had closed in upon them all. And now all that was gone, too, and the old wizard trapped inside it. The Men were talking about it, had been talking about it since they entered the tunnels, talking without cease, talking over one another, releasing nervous energy.
“ … tell you, I’d rather be above ground, where you can see what’s coming at you. Who knows what’s down here now?”
“Yah! What, are you afraid the wizard’s gonna get you?”
“ … keep telling you, he’s not dead, not with a Soumanië on him. He’ll be back.”
“ … love of his Lordship’s weeping wound, they’re not even the same tunnels, the Ways aren’t the same as our tunnels!”
“Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t.”
“ … Kaldjager would catch him a mile away!”
“ … even hear what happened? The old bugger’s got a Soumanië, he can come out of nowhere and turn our arses to stone!”
“ … Godslayer!”
“ … back in the marrow-fire, where it belongs.”
“And a right lot of good it’ll do us there.”
“Shut it, Einar.” Osric, delivering an order. “That’s treason you’re talking.”
“Lieutenant, I’m just saying—”
“Shut it!”
Skragdal wished Men wouldn’t talk so much. Their restless minds grasped at thoughts like squirrels at nuts, gnawing and stuffing, dashing here and there, burying some and discarding others. And then words. Words! An endless stream, spewing from their lips, wasted with careless ease. It stemmed from Haomane’s Gift, he supposed, and he ought to envy it. That’s what Men and Ellylon said.
Only Lord Satoris had ever said otherwise.
They made camp in a vast cavern that night, a day’s ride away from the Vesdarlig Door. Countless thousands had camped there before; Skragdal had done it himself, as an eager young pup on the way to honor the Fjel oath. The sleeping-places were worn smooth, broad grooves in the cavern floor, with suitable rough spots left untrammeled. He took comfort in seeing his fellows situated, freed from their cumbersome armor, rumbling and grumbling, working backs and shoulders against the stone. There was comfort in the evidence of countless members of the tribes who had done the same, leaving faint traces of their scent. It felt good to scratch itching hides against the rock.
Osric’s Men took the southern quadrant, as was tradition.
They scratched the rock, too; only differently. Marks, etched with shards onto the cavern walls. Men lit fires, huddling under the ventilation shafts, sharing their fears and dreams, griping about the journey’s hardship. Ruddy flames danced on the walls, showing the marks clearly. Scritching lines, narrow and perplexing. Sometimes they formed characters; sometimes, only shapes. Always, the lines shifted and changed, taunting him with elusive meaning.
Skragdal studied them, blinking.
“You can’t read, can you?”
He glanced down at the Staccian commander. “I am Fjel,” he said simply. “We do not share Haomane’s Gift.”
Osric’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve tried, then?”
“No, lieutenant.” He did not tell the story. None of the Fjel did; not to Men, not to anyone. Only to their pups. A long time ago they had wanted to learn. Neheris’ Children had wanted it badly enough to plead with the wounded Shaper who had fled to their lands. And during the long years of his recuperation from Haomane’s Wrath, Lord Satoris had tried to teach his people. In the end, it came to naught. The meaning of scratched lines—on stone, on parchment—was too evasive. How could a handful of symbols, which bore no intrinsic meaning, represent all the myriad things in the world? What relationship did they bear to the thing itself? It was a pointless endeavor.
Osric glanced at the scratchings. “Well, you’re not missing much. Lads’ folly for the most part, writing their names to let the ones who come after know they were here. That, and empty boasts. You’ll have the Kaldjager stand watch again tonight?”
“Aye, lieutenant.”
“Good man. Get some sleep.”
He tried. Others slept, rumbling and snoring, comforted by stone’s solid presence. It did not bother them that they had seen stone turn to an engulfing enemy in the red flash of a Soumanië’s power. It should not bother him. Fjel had the gift of living in the present. Only important things were carried in the heart; only sacred memories, passed from generation to generation. All that was not worth carrying—fear, envy, hatred—was left to be washed away and forgotten in the flowing rivers of time.
Do not mourn for the Gift Haomane withheld from you. Did Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters not Shape her Children well? This I tell you, for I know: One day Men will covet your gifts. Treasure them, and rejoice.
Lord Satoris’ words.
Those were the words that had restored Fjel pride and faith, the ones they passed on to their offspring. Those were the words that had inspired their ancient oath. Skragdal had heard them as a pup. He had carried them in his heart with pride, but he had never understood them as he did now, lying sleepless beneath the earth. Could such gifts be lost? Could the nature of the Fjel change, tainted by long exposure to the ways of Men? Was it the burden of command that weighed upon him, shaping his thoughts into fearful forms? Would he, if he could, scratch his name upon the wall?
No, he thought. No.
Reaching into a pouch that hung from his belt, Skragdal withdrew a half-carved lump of green chalcedony and examined it in the dim light of the cavern. There were flaws in the stone, but the fluid form of the rhios was beginning to emerge, a sprite as blithe as water flowing through a river bend. This is a thing that is not the thing itself, he thought. Yet it has a shape. I can hold it in my hands, and I can coax a truer shape from it. It is a stone, a real thing. It is a green stone that looks like water. These things I understand. He cupped the rhios in his hands and whispered a prayer to Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters. “Mother of us all, wash away my fear!”
There was an ease in saying the words. Words held power when they were spent with care. He felt a measure of fear ebb. The surrounding stone became a kinder companion. The memory of the Marasoumië faded
, taking with it the image of the wizard with his terrible, glaring eyes, his lips working in the thicket of his white beard as he spoke the words to command the Ways, the red gem of the Soumanië ablaze on his chest. He would not forget, but neither would he carry it with him.
Skragdal sighed.
It was a gift.
Lord Satoris was right, had always been right. How wise were the Elders who had seen it! Did the Fjel not slumber in peace while Men whimpered in their dreams?
It was so, it had always been so.
“ARE WE GOING TO DIE here, Lord General?” Speros’ voice cracked on the question, and his eyes rolled in his head, showing dry white crescents below the brown iris. The noonday sun stood motionless overhead. His footsteps had begun to stagger, leaving a meandering trail in the sand. Their water supply had been gone since last night, and hours of trekking had taken their toll.
“No.” Tanaros gritted his teeth, grabbing the Midlander’s arm and hauling it across his shoulders. Lowering his head, he trudged onward, taking up the weight that sagged against him. “Come on, lad. Just a little way further.”
Speros’ breath was hot and ragged against his ear. “You said that before.”
“And I will again,” he retorted, still trudging.
“General!” one of the Gulnagel shouted. “Water-hole!”
The staggering cavalcade made its way across the wasteland of the Unknown Desert. They fell to their knees and dug by hand in the scrubby underbrush, marking the signs the Yarru had taught them. There, where thorn-brush grew and the termites built their mounds. There was life, ounce by precious ounce. Moisture darkened the sand and collected, gleaming, where they dug. An inch of water, perhaps more. Sand flew as the Fjel widened the hole, then scooped assiduously at the gathering moisture with Tanaros’ helmet, husbanding every drop. They had carried the general’s armor on their backs, reckoning it too precious to leave.
A lucky thing, since it made a good bucket.
“Sir?” A Gulnagel held out his helmet. It looked small in his massive hands. An inch of water shone at the bottom. “Drink.”
Tanaros licked his dry lips, squinting at the sky. It was blue and unforgiving, the white sun blazing in it like Haomane’s Wrath. “Let him have it,” he said, nodding at Speros, whom he had laid gently in what scant shade the thorn-brush afforded. “What is left, take for yourselves.”
“All right, boss.” The Fjel squatted on the parched earth, cradling Speros’ head in his lap and tilting the helmet. “Drink,” he said, coaxing.
The Midlander drank, his throat working, then sighed.
What was left, the Gulnagel shared. It amounted to no more than a sip apiece. One of them approached the largest termite mound and thrust a thorny branch into the opening at the top, stirring and teasing. The others gathered around the dry tower as indignant insects emerged in a marching line, pinching with deft talons and popping them into their mouths, crunching antennae and legs and swollen thoraxes with relish.
“Eat, General.” Freg, grinning through his chipped eyetusks, approached him. His horny hands were cupped and filled with squirming bounty. “They’re good.”
Tanaros shook his head. “You have them, Freg. You’ve earned them.”
“You’re sure?” The Gulnagel seemed anxious.
“Aye.” He nodded.
Better that the Fjel should eat, and imbibe whatever moisture the termites held. It was not that Tanaros disdained the meal: They needed it; as much as Speros, though they reckoned it less. He knew. He knew Fjel. They were Neheris’ Children, born to a land of mountains and leaping rivers, not made for desert travel. The hides of the Gulnagel had grown desiccated and stark on this journey; leeched of color, dry and cracking.
Still, they would go and go and go, obedient to his orders, legs churning, never a complaint among them.
They ate until there were no more termites.
“We’re ready, General.” Freg stooped over the Midlander’s supine form. “You want I should carry him? I’ve strength enough for it.”
“Aye.” Tanaros drew a deep breath, feeling the arid air burn in his lungs. If his eyes had not been so dry, he might have wept. The lad had followed him out of a sense of belonging. He should never have been allowed to pledge his loyalty; he did not deserve to be left. “Aye, Freg. Carry him while you can.”
The Gulnagel did, hoisting Speros onto his own back. The Midlander’s limbs dangled, jostled by each wayward step. Onward they staggered, over the parched earth. Tanaros led the way. He knew it; knew it as the migrating swallow knows its way. His branded heart served as compass. There. There it was before him. Darkhaven. Home, where Lord Satoris sat on his Throne and Godslayer hung blazing in the marrow-fire. It exerted its own pull, guiding his faltering steps across the shortest route possible, no matter how inhospitable the land.
Alas, in the Unknown Desert, the shortest route was not always the best. The Yarru had known as much. The Unknown was crossed one water-hole at a time, one place of sustenance after another. They knew the way of it. If he had let them live, they might have guided him.
Better not to think about it.
Thus did they sojourn, onward and onward. The sun moved in immeasurably small increments across the sky. If there were shade, they would have traveled by night; but they had found no shade, not enough to shelter them. The Gulnagel panted like dogs, with open mouths and labored breathing. Even so, none would lay down his burden.
Tanaros forced his legs to move. One step, then another and another. After all, what did it cost him? He would not die in this place. It was like the Marasoumië. It might kill him, in time; it would take a long time. He could lie on the desert floor, dying of thirst, for ages. He had time. Let him set an example, instead. The black blade of his sword banged against his hip as he trudged onward through the empty desert, leading his staggering band.
The burning sun sank its leading edge below the horizon. Night would follow, with no water in sight. No chance of finding it by starlight; the signs were too subtle. He wondered, grimly, how many would live to see the dawn.
“Lord General!” One of the Gulnagel flung out a rough-hewn hand, pointing.
Wings, the shadow of wings, beating. They were cast large upon the parched earth and there was something familiar in the sound. Tanaros lifted a head grown heavy with exhaustion, raising an arm.
“Fetch!” he cried.
A familiar weight, settling. Talons pricked his arm, and a tufted head bobbed, cocking a beady eye at him. “Kaugh!”
“Fetch,” Tanaros murmured. A feeling in his heart swelled, painful and overlarge. It was foolish. It didn’t matter. He stroked the raven’s feathers with one forefinger, overwhelmed with gratitude. “How did you find me?”
Something nudged at his thoughts, a scrabbling sensation.
Surprised, he opened his mind.
A patchwork of images flooded his vision; sky, more sky, other ravens. A fecund swamp, leaves and bark and beetles. Ushahin Dreamspinner standing in the prow of a small boat, squinting through mismatched eyes. A dragon’s head reared against the sky, ancient and dripping. Darkness; darkness and light. The world seen from on high in all its vastness. Laughter. A dragon’s jaws, parting to breathe living fire.
“You saw this?” Tanaros asked.
“Kaugh!”
A green blur of passing swamp, bronze waters gleaming. Wings beating in a flying wedge; a pause, a caesura. Ushahin wiping sweat from his brow. A lofting, the downbeat of wings. Aloneness. Tilting earth, marsh and fertile plains, a shadow cast small below. It wavered, growing larger, then smaller. A blur of night and stars, pauses and launches. Blue, blue sky, and the desert floor.
The shadow held its size, held and held and held.
Greenness.
A drought-eater, no, three! Thick stalks, succulent leaves. Green-rinded fruits hung low, ripe with water. The shadow veered, growing large, then veered away again.
Desert, parched desert, beneath the lowering sun.
T
anaros and his company seen from above.
“Oh, Fetch!” His dry eyes stung. “Have you seen this? Can you show me?”
“Kaugh!” Bobbing and chuckling, the raven launched itself from Tanaros’ arm, setting a northward trajectory.
“Follow him!” Marshaling his strength, Tanaros forced himself in the direction of the raven’s flight, departing from his heart’s compass. With mighty groans and dragging steps, the Gulnagel followed. Speros, unconscious, jounced on Freg’s back, ungainly as a sack of millet and thrice as heavy.
It was not a long journey, as Men reckon such things. How long does it take for the sun to set once the outermost rim of its disk has touched the horizon? A thousand beats of a straining heart; three thousand, perhaps, here where the desert lay flat and measureless. With the distance halfclosed, Tanaros saw the silhouettes of the drought-eaters, stark and black against the burning sky. Hope surged in his heart. He set a steady pace, exhorting the Gulnagel with praise and curses. If they had stuck to their course, they would have passed them by to the south, unseen.
But there was water ahead, water! The plants held it in abundance.
For a hundred steps, two hundred, the drought-eaters appeared to recede, taunting, ever out of reach. And then they were there, and Fetch settled atop a thick trunk, making a contented sound. The raven ruffled his feathers. A dwindling sliver of flame lit the western horizon and the scent of moisture seeped into the arid air. With rekindled strength, Tanaros strode ahead, drawing his sword to sever a greenripe fruit from its fibrous mooring and holding it aloft.
“Here!” he cried in triumph. “Water!”
One by one the Gulnagel staggered into his presence, each burdened with a piece of his armor. Each laid his burden on the sand with reverence; all save the last.
With heavy steps, Freg of the Gulnagel Fjel entered the stand of drought-eaters, a loose-limbed Speros draped over his back like a pelt. Freg’s taloned hands held the Midlander’s arms in place where they were clasped about his neck. His dragging tread gouged crumbling furrows in the dry earth. One step, then another and another, following Tanaros’ example. The drought-eaters cast long shadows across his path. Freg’s face split in a proud, weary smile.