It was the Gulnagel who broke ranks with an exuberant roar, abandoning his command to race toward the distant treeline. What sparse reserves of energy the Lowland Fjel had hoarded, they expended all at once. Their packs bounced and clanked as they ran, powerful haunches propelling their massive bodies in swift bounds. With a wordless shout, Speros discarded his near-empty waterskins and followed them at a dead run, whooping in his cracked voice.
Four figures, three large and one small, raced across the barren landscape.
Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of Darkhaven, shook his head and hoped his army of four would not expire before reaching the desert’s edge. He gathered up Speros’ waterskins and settled them over his shoulder, then touched the hilt of the black sword that hung from his belt. It was still there, the echo of his Lordship’s blood whispering to his fingertips. Back on course, the compass of his branded heart contracted.
Westward.
He set out at a steady jog, watching the treeline draw nearer, watching the racing figures ahead of him stagger, faltering and slowing. It was farther than they thought, at least another league. Such was always the case. Though his feet were blistered and his boots were cracking at the heels, he wound his way across the stony soil and kept a steady pace, drawing abreast of them in time. He dispensed waterskins and an acerbic word of reprimand, accepted with chagrin. They kept walking.
Their steps grew heavier as they walked, all energy spent. Heavy, but alive.
Tanaros’ steps grew lighter, the nearer they drew.
Jack pines, stunted and twisted, marked the western boundary of the Unknown Desert. Beyond, sparse grass grew, an indication that the content of the soil was changing, scorched desert slowly giving way to the fertile territories of the Midlands.
In the shadow of the jack pines, Fetch perched on a needled branch, bobbing his head in triumphant welcome. His black eyes were bright, as bright as the reflection of sunlight on the trickling creek that fed the pines.
A small kindness.
CROUCHED UPON THE BACK OF the blood-bay stallion, Ushahin Dreamspinner floated above the horse’s churning stride, borne aloft like a crippled vessel on the waves of a wind-tossed sea. And yet, there was power in him, far beyond the strength of his twisted limbs. Riding, he cast the net of his mind adrift over the whole of Urulat, and rode the pathways between waking and dreaming.
It was a thing he alone knew to do.
The Were had taught it to him; so many believed. It was true, and not true. The Grey Dam Sorash had taught him the ways of the Were, in whose blood ran the call of Oronin’s Horn. Because there was Death in their Shaping, there were doors open to them that were closed to the other races of Lesser Shapers.
Ushahin had heard Oronin’s Horn. It had blown for him when he was a child and his broken body had lain bleeding in the forests of Pelmar. Somewhere, there was a death waiting for him. But the Grey Dam had claimed him, grieving for her lost cubs, and whispered, not yet.
So she had claimed him, and taught him. Yet he was not Were, and their magic twisted in his usage. The Were, like the Fjeltroll, could smell Men’s fear; unlike the Fjel, they could hear a Man’s heart beat at a hundred paces and taste the pulse of his fear. Ushahin, in whose veins ran the blood of Haomane’s Children, could sense Men’s thoughts. And it was their thoughts—their dreams, their unspoken terrors and wordless joys—that formed the pathways along which he traveled. It was a network as vast and intricate as the Marasoumië, yet infinitely more subtle. He had walked it many a time. This was the first time he had ridden it.
Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn.
Thus had the Grey Dam Sorash named him in the tongue of the Were, who had no other words for what he was. It was his name, the one he had borne for many times the length of a mortal lifespan. Although the Were reviled him and the Grey Dam Vashuka had repudiated his claim upon their kinship, it was the name he would keep.
It had been given him in love.
Once, he had had another name; a Pelmaran name, given him by one long dead. His father’s mother, he thought; there was some vague memory there. A widow of middle years, with hair gone early to grey, a lined face and a sharp tongue. After all, we’ve got to call him something. His father, a tall shadow, turning away with averted face. The Pelmaran lordling, his life ruined for a moment’s passion, did not care what his son was called. He retreated into memory, reliving the moment. It was something few Men could claim, to have expended a lifetime of desire on Ellylon flesh.
That, Ushahin remembered.
Not what they had called him.
When he tried, he saw light; bright light, the light of Haomane’s sun. It had stood high above the marketplace in Pelmar City the day the other children had run him down and held him at bay. He’d stood his ground for a long time, but in the end there had been too many of them. The children of Pelmar City did not like his bright eyes, that saw too keenly their squalid thoughts; they did not like his pale hair, the way his limbs moved or his sharp cheekbones; slanted, strange and unfamiliar. It made them afraid, and they knew, in the way children know things, that his father’s guilt would keep his lips sealed, and his mother’s people had gone far, far away.
Better none of it had ever happened.
So, with cobblestones wrenched from the market square, they had set out to make it so. The first few were thrown, and he had dodged them. If they had not cornered him, he would have dodged them all; but they had. They had run him to ground.
He remembered the first blow, an errant stone. It had grazed his cheek, raising a lump and a blueish graze, breaking his fair skin. Had it cracked the bone? Perhaps. It didn’t matter. Worse had come later. They had closed in, stones in fists. There had been many blows, then. Ushahin did not remember the ones that had broken his hands, raised in futile defense. He had curled into a ball; they had pounced upon him, swarming, hauling his limbs straight. A trader’s shadow had darkened the alley, and withdrawn. There would be no intervention in the quarrels of children. Someone—he did not remember who had done it, had never even seen their face—had stomped gleefully on his outstretched arms and legs, until the bones had broken with sounds like dry sticks snapping in half.
The last blow, he remembered.
There had been a boy, some twelve years of age. Kneeling on the cobblestones, a mortal boy on scabbed knees. A rock in his fist, crashing down upon Ushahin’s temple. At that blow, bone had shattered, a dent caving the orbit of his eye. The boy had spat upon his broken face and whispered a name. What it was, he didn’t remember. Only the long crawl afterward, moving his broken limbs like a swimmer on dry land, and the trail of blood it left behind him in the marketplace; the gentle succor of the forest’s pine mast floor, and then the Grey Dam, giving him a new name.
Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn.
The blood-bay’s muscles surged beneath him, compressing and lengthening, stride after stride. It should have grown weary, but there was no weariness in dreams. Somewhere, distantly, Ushahin felt its astonishment. His power had grown during his sojourn in the Delta. He wondered why Satoris had never returned to the source of his birth, if his Lordship had ceded it to Calanthrag the Eldest as the price for the dragons’ aid during the Shapers’ War. Whatever regenerative mystery remained, it had infused him with strength. Even now he felt it course through his veins. The bay’s nostrils flared, revealing the scarlet lining; still, it ran, its strides consuming the leagues. Beneath the dim starlight the marshes of outer Vedasia fell behind them, and they continued onward.
They ran as swift as rumor, following the curve of Harrington Inlet. The road was pale dust under their hooves, and before them flew ravens in a wedge. To their left and to their right ran a riderless horse; one ghost-grey, and one night-black. In their wake, they left nightmares, and along the coast the Free Fishermen of Harrington Inlet tossed in their beds, waking upon sweat-dampened pallets to their wives’ worried faces and the cries of fretful children.
It made Ushahin smile.
But there was bigger game afoot. Casting his nets, he caught Men’s dreams in a seine, sifting through them. Behind him, yes. Behind him was that which was known, Aracus Altorus and his company, riding hot toward the west. Ellylon blood and Ellylon pride ran high and hot, as did that of the Men of Curonan. Still, they would not dare to cross the Delta. Their thoughts veered away from it, filled with fear. They would lose time crossing open water rather than chance the Delta. Thinking of Calanthrag the Eldest, who dwelled in its heart, Ushahin smiled again. He spared a moment’s hate for Aracus Altorus, who had won a bitter victory from the Were. He spared a moment’s pity for the Sorceress of Beshtanag, doomed to rot in mortal flesh. He spared a moment’s curiosity for Blaise Caveros, who so resembled his ancestor, Tanaros.
Then, he gazed ahead.
To Meronil, he did not dare look. Ingolin the Wise kept its boundaries with care, maintaining all that remained of the old Ellyl magics, and even Ushahin Dreamspinner dared not walk the dreams of the Ellylon who dwelt within. But before Meronil was Seahold, a keep of Men, and north of Seahold lay the fertile territories of the Midlands.
There, rumor stalked.
It came from the north; from the mountains of Staccia, winding its way in a whisper of thought, passed from lip to ear. Curious, Ushahin followed it to its source, tracing its path through the mountains, back to the ancient battlefield of Neherinach, where a node-point of the Marasoumië lay dead and buried. Dead, yes, but no longer buried. The node-point lay raw and exposed, granite cooling in the northern sun. Something had disturbed it, blasting it from the very earth.
The Galäinridder.
Such was the word in the Staccian tongue; such was the image that disturbed their dreams, filtering its way from the mountains to the plains, distant as a dream. A rider, a warrior; the Shining Paladin, who rode upon a horse as white as the foam on the crest of a wave. Although his hands were empty, brightness blazed from his robes and the clear gem upon his breast, which shone like a star. His beard crackled with lightning, and power hung in every syllable of the terrible words he spoke, catching their consciences and playing on their fears of Haomane’s Wrath.
Ushahin frowned.
What he had found, he did not like; what he had failed to find, he liked less. Where, in all of this, was the Bearer? A little Charred lad, accompanied only by his mortal kin. He should have been easy to find, his terrors setting the world of dreams ablaze. Only Malthus’ power had protected him, enfolding him in a veil. If the Counselor were truly trapped in the dying Marasoumië, his power should be failing, exposing the Bearer. Yet … it was not.
“Malthus,” Ushahin whispered. “Galäinridder.”
East of Seahold, his thoughts turned. Was it Haomane’s Counselor they feared? He would give them something better to fear, the grief of their mortal guilt, come back to turn their dreams into nightmares. Ushahin’s lips twisted into the bitter semblance of a smile. Were Arahila’s Children so sure of right and wrong? So. Let their nights be filled with mismatched eyes and shattered bone, the terrible sight of a rock held in a child’s fist, descending in a crushing blow.
Let them awake in the cold sweat of terror, and wonder why.
The flying wedge of ravens altered its course, forging a new path through the twilight, in the borderlands between waking and sleeping. One heel nudged his mount’s flank, the rope rein of the hackamore lying against a foam-flecked neck. Obedient, the blood-bay swerved; obedient, the riderless horses followed, shadowing his course.
Together, they plunged into the Midlands.
“THEY ARE COMING, VORAX.”
“Very good, my Lord.” If he had thought it hot in the Throne Hall, it was nothing to the Chamber of the Font. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging the half-healed blisters he had sustained in the burning rain. Vorax swiped at it with a gauntleted hand, which only made it worse.
“Do you hear me?” Lord Satoris, pacing the perimeter of the Font, gave him a deep look. “Ushahin Dreamspinner comes. Tanaros Blacksword comes. It is only a matter of time. My Three shall be together once more, and then my Elder Brother’s Allies shall tremble.”
“Aye, my Lord.” He tugged his jeweled gorget, wishing he were not wearing ceremonial armor. It would have been better to meet in the Throne Hall. At least his Lordship had not donned the Helm of Shadows. It sat in its niche on the wall, the empty eyeholes measuring his fear. He was glad nothing worse filled it, and glad he had not had to wear it himself since the day Satoris had destroyed the Marasoumië. Still, it stank of his Lordship’s unhealing wound in the Chamber, a copper-sweet tang, thick and cloying, and Vorax wished he were elsewhere. “As you say. I welcome their return. Is there something you wish me to do in preparation?”
“No.” Lord Satoris halted, staring into the coruscating heart of the Font. His massive hands, hanging empty at his sides, twitched as if to pluck Godslayer from its blue-white fire. “What news,” he asked, “from Staccia?”
Vorax shook his head, droplets of sweat flying. “No news.”
“So,” the Shaper said. His head bowed and his fingertips twitched. But for that, he stood motionless, contemplating the Shard. Dark ichor gleaming on one thigh, seeping downward in a slow rill to pool on the flagstones. “No news.”
“No news,” Vorax echoed, feeling a strange twinge in his branded heart. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but I’m sure naught is amiss. It will take some time, finding a pair of errant mortals in all of the northlands. We expected no less.” He paused. “Shall I send another company? Do you wish me to lead one myself? I am willing, of course.”
“ … no.” Lord Satoris shook his head, frowning. “I cannot spare you, Vorax. Not now. When Tanaros returns … perhaps. And yet, I am disturbed. There is … something. A bright mist clouds my vision. I do not know what it means.”
Vorax scratched at his beard. “Have you … ?” He nodded at Godslayer.
“Yes.” The Shaper’s frown deepened, and he continued to gaze fixedly at the dagger, hanging pulsing and rubescent in the midst of the blazing Font. “to no avail. If something has passed elsewhere in Urulat, it is a thing not even the Souma may show me. And I am troubled by this. Godslayer has never failed me, when I dared invoke its powers in full. Not upon Urulat’s soil.”
“Break it,” Vorax shrugged. “Maybe it’s time. It would solve a lot of problems.”
The words were out of his mouth before he knew he meant to speak them. In the brief, shocked silence that ensued, he knew it for a mistake. Certain things that might be thought should never be spoken aloud, not even by one of the Three.
“What?” Lord Satoris’ head rose, and he seemed to gather height and mass in the sweltering Chamber. He took a step forward, hands clenching. The flagstones shuddered under his feet. Overhead, massive beams creaked. Shadows roiled around Satoris’ shoulders and red fury lit his eyes. “WHAT?”
“My Lord!” He backed across the Chamber and raised his gauntleted hands; half pleading, half placating. “Forgive me! I am thinking of us, of all of us … of you, my Lord! If Godslayer were shattered, if it were rendered into harmless pieces … why, it would no longer be a threat, and … and the Prophecy itself couldn’t be fulfilled!”
“Do you think so?” The Shaper advanced, step by thunderous step.
“I, no … aye, my Lord!” Vorax felt the edge of a stair against his heel, and retreated up one spiraling step, then another, and another. He was sweating under his armor, sweat running in rivulets. “It could be like the Soumanië!” he breathed, clutching at the idea. “A piece for each of us, for each of the Three, and we could wield them in your defense, aye; and the largest one for you, of course! We would have more than they, yet no piece keen nor large enough, no dagger left to, to …” His words trailed off as Lord Satoris reached the base of the stair, leaning forward and planting his enormous hands on either side of it. His dark face was on a level with Vorax’s, eyes blazing like embers. The reek of his blood hung heavy in the close air.
“To slay a Sh
aper,” Lord Satoris said. “Is that it? Only pieces, broken pieces of the Souma. Is that what you propose, my Staccian?”
“Aye!” Vorax almost laughed with relief, wiping his brow. “Aye,my Lord.”
“Fool!”
For a long moment, his Lordship’s eyes glared into his, measuring the breadth and depth of his loyalty. A miasma of heat emanated from his body, as if Haomane’s Wrath still scorched him. It seemed like an eternity before the Shaper turned away, pacing back toward the Font. When he did, Vorax sagged on the spiral stairway, damp and exhausted.
“It is Godslayer that keeps my Elder Brother at bay,” Satoris said without looking at him. “Have you never grasped that, Staccian? Because it is capable of slaying a Shaper. That which renders me vulnerable is the shield that protects all of Darkhaven. Without it, Haomane would have no need to work through Prophecy, using mortal hands as his weapons.” His voice held a grim tone. “Do you think the gap that Sunders our world is so vast? It is nothing. The Lord-of-Thought could abandon Torath and cross it in an instant, bringing all of my siblings with him onto Urulat’s soil. But he will not,” he added, reaching one open hand into the Font to let the blue-white flames of the marrow-fire caress it, “nor will they, while I hold this.”
His hand closed on Godslayer’s hilt. Vorax’s heart convulsed within its brand, sending a shock of ecstatic pain through his flesh. Halfway up the winding stair, he went heavily to one knee, feeling the bruising impact through his armor. “Aye, my Lord,” he said dully. “I am a fool.”
“Yes,” Satoris murmured, contemplating the dagger. “But a loyal one, or so I judge.” He released the hilt, leaving the Shard in the Font. “Ah, Haomane!” he mused. “Would I slay you if I had the chance? Or would I sue for peace, if I held the dagger at your throat? It has been so long, so long. I do not even know myself.” Remembering Vorax, he glanced over his shoulder. “Begone,” he said. “I will speak to you anon, my Staccian. When my Three are united.”