There was the training-field, the expanse of beaten ground where Tanaros drilled his army, day upon day. And there, southward, were the pastures where Staccian sheep grazed on dark, wiry grass, fattening to fill Fjel bellies, drinking tainted water from the Gorgantus River and thriving upon it. From their blood the foul-smelling svartblod, dearly loved by the Fjel, was fermented.
And there, far to the west—a gleam in the distance—was the shoreline of the Sundering Sea, where Dergail the Counselor had met his death at the hands of the Were. Beyond it, somewhere in the shining sea-swell of the distance, lay Torath, the Crown of Urulat, home of the Souma, where the Six Shapers dwelled and Haomane First-Born ruled over them.
It was all visible from the wall, interrupted at regular intervals by the watchtowers, manned by the faithful Havenguard, who kept a watch over the whole of Lord Satoris’ empire.
On an empty stretch of wall between towers stood Tanaros Blacksword, who was gazing at none of it. A brisk breeze whipped at his dark hair, lashing it against his cheeks. He was one of the Three, and he was dangerous. Lest it be forgotten, one hand hovered over the hilt of his black sword.
“Tell me,” he said to his companion, “of this corruption.”
His look and his tone would have intimidated any sane comrade. Ushahin Dreamspinner sighed and hugged himself instead, warding off the autumn chill. His thin arms wrapped about his torso, his sharp elbows protruded. Cold seemed to bite deeper since his time in the Delta. It had not been his choice to meet on the wall. “Tell me,” he said to Tanaros, “what you know of Darkhaven’s construction.”
“What is there to know?” Tanaros frowned. “Lord Satoris caused it to be created. After the Battle of Curonan, he retreated to the Vale of Gorgantum and raised up these mountains, using Godslayer’s might. And he conceived of Darkhaven, and the Fjel delved deep into the earth and built high into the sky, building it in accordance with his plan. So it was done, and we Three were summoned to it.”
“Yes.” Ushahin extended one crooked hand and waggled it in a gesture of ambivalence. “And no. Darkhaven was not built by Fjel labor alone, and it is made of more than stone and mortar. It is an extension of its Shaper’s will. It exists here because it exists in his Lordship’s mind. Do you understand?”
“No,” Tanaros said bluntly. “Do you say it is illusion?” He rapped his knuckles on the solid stone ramparts. “It seems solid enough to me, Dreamspinner.”
Ushahin shook his head. “Not illusion, no.”
“What, then?” Tanaros raised his brows. “Is it Fjel craftsmanship you question, cousin? I tell you, I am no mason, but I would not hesitate to pit their labors against the craftsmanship of Men; aye, or Ellylon, either.”
“Then why is it that in two thousand years the Fjel have never built anything else?” Ushahin asked him.
Tanaros opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, considering. “Why would they?” he asked at length. “The Fjel are delvers by nature, not builders. They built Darkhaven for him, for his Lordship, according to his design. I say they made a fine job of it, cousin. What is it that you say?”
Ushahin shrugged. “You are too much of one thing, Tanaros, and not enough of another. It is not a matter of questioning the Fjel, but a matter of what causes Darkhaven to be. There are places that exist between things; between waking and sleep, between being and not-being. Darkhaven is such a place.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps you spend too much time among your madlings, cousin.” Tanaros eyed him. “What has this do with corruption?”
“Come,” said Ushahin. “I will show you.”
He walked with Tanaros along the wall, past the watchtowers where the Fjel saluted them, descending the curving stair at the inner gates of the keep. By the time they reached the entryway, Ushahin’s bones ached fiercely with the cold. It was a relief to enter Darkhaven proper, to hear the bronze-bound doors close with a thud and the bar drop into place, the clank and rattle of the Havenguard resuming their posts. The black marble walls shut out every breath of wind, and the flickering blue-white veins of marrow-fire warmed the halls and lit them with an eldritch gleam that was gentle to his light-sensitive gaze.
“This way.” Ushahin led Tanaros toward the section of the fortress in which his own austere quarters were housed. Madlings skittered from their approach. Although their fealty was unquestioned, he seldom brought anyone this way and it made them wary—even of the Lord General.
“If you wanted to meet in your quarters—” Tanaros began.
“Here.” Ushahin halted in front of a niche. The arch that framed it rose almost to the vast ceiling above. On the back wall of the niche was a sculpture depicting the Wounding of Satoris, standing out in high relief, the outer limbs reaching across the arch into open air to engage one another.
Two figures were in opposition, tall enough to dwarf even a Fjel onlooker; Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter, and Lord Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. They grappled like giants, both figures shimmering with a fine network of marrow-fire. Satoris’ hands were raised to parry a blow, one catching Oronin’s left wrist; Oronin’s right leg was extended, indicating how he had slipped as he lunged, planting the Shard of the Souma in Satoris’ thigh with his right hand. Where Godslayer’s haft stood out from his Lordship’s marble flesh, a node of marrow-fire shone, brighter than the rest, and a bright vein trickled down his thigh.
“Forgive me, Dreamspinner,” Tanaros said. “It is a mighty piece of work, but I don’t understand—”
“Look closely.” Ushahin waited patiently as Tanaros examined the niche. It was not easy to spot the opening, a low, narrow doorway hidden in the recesses and rendered almost invisible by the deep shadow cast by the bright figures.
“Ah.” Tanaros saw it at last. “One of your madlings’ passageways?”
“Yes.”
“What would you have me say?” Tanaros shrugged. “I would that there were none, cousin, but they do no harm as long as they are confined within the inner walls. Indeed, forbid it be so, but were Darkhaven ever to face invasion, they might serve a purpose. Did not Lord Satoris himself cede you such rights?”
“Yes,” said Ushahin. “To the spaces in between, where creatures such as I belong. But Tanaros, who built the passageways?” Watching the other’s expression, he shook his head. “They were not here when I was first summoned, cousin. My madlings did not build them; others, yes, but not one such as this, built into the very structure of the wall. It would require inhuman strength.”
“The Fjel …”
Ushahin pointed at the narrow gap, accessible only between the braced legs of the two Shapers’ figures. “What Fjeltroll could fit in that space? I have asked and the Fjel have no knowledge of it, not in any generation. It was not there, and then it was. Darkhaven changes, Tanaros; its design shifts as his Lordship’s thoughts change. This is what I seek to tell you.”
“Ah, well.” Tanaros gazed at the sculpted face of Lord Satoris. The Shaper’s expression was one of agony, both at Godslayer’s plunge and the greater loss. Oronin’s blow had dealt him his unhealing wound, that which had stolen his Gift. “He is a Shaper, cousin. Is it such a surprise?”
“No, Blacksword. Not this. I’ve known about this for centuries.” Ushahin shook his head in disgust Ducking beneath Oronin’s outstretched arm, he opened the hidden door onto the passageways between the walls. “Come with me.”
Once behind the walls, he led with greater confidence, following a winding path with a shallow downward slope. The air grew closer and hotter the farther they went, then leveled once more. Tanaros followed without comment, his footsteps crunching on rubble. When they reached the rough-hewn chamber the madlings had claimed for their own, Tanaros paused. The madlings had not gathered here since the day Vorax had found them with the Lady of the Ellylon, and his Staccians had cleared much of the debris, but the evidence of their presence remained—scratched gibberish on the walls, overlooked candle-butts wedged into crevices.
Tanaros sighed. ??
?Will you tell me this is his Lordship’s doing? I have spoken with Vorax, cousin; and I have spoken with Cerelinde, too. I know what happened here.”
“Oh, I know you’ve spoken with Cerelinde, cousin.” A dark tone edged Ushahin’s voice. “No, it’s not this. Further.”
They squeezed through a narrow portion of the passage. A few paces beyond it, the level path dropped into a sharp decline. Ushahin led them onward, down and down, until a blue-white glow was visible ahead, as bright and concentrated as the sculpted node of Godslayer’s dagger.
“Do you see it?” he asked.
“Aye.” Tanaros’ jaw was set and hard. “It is no more than Vorax told me.”
A roaring sound was in the air, and an acrid odor, like the breath of dragons. Ushahin grinned, his mismatched eyes glittering with reflected marrow-light. “Come see it, then.”
They descended the remainder of the way with Ushahin leading, sure-footed on the pathways that were his own, his aching joints at ease in the hot, stifling air. There, all the way to the bottom of the decline.
A new chasm had erupted.
There was the old one, patched over by Vorax’s Staccians. They had made a fair job of it for mortal Men. The old path was clearly visible, scuffed with gouges where a slab of stone had been dragged with great effort, capping the breach. It was braced by beams that had been soaked in water, already faintly charred by the heat of the marrow-fire, but holding. Rocks and rubble had filled the gaps.
And there, to the left of it—a gaping wound, emitting a violent, erratic light. Above it, a vaulted hollow soared. At the bottom, far, far below, the Source of the marrow-fire blazed and roared like a furnace. Heedless of danger, Tanaros stood at the edge and looked downward.
The sides of the sheer drop beneath his feet were jagged and raw. The marrow-fire was so bright it seared his eyes. He gazed upward, where his shadow was cast large and stark, flickering upon the hollow chamber of the ceiling. It, too, appeared new, as though hunks of rock had been sheared away.
Tanaros frowned. “There is some fault in the foundation that causes this. Small wonder, cousin, when it is built upon this.” He turned to Ushahin. “Have you spoken of it to his Lordship?”
“Yes,” Ushahin said simply.
“And?”
In the stifling heat, Ushahin wrapped his arms around himself as if to ward off a chill. His voice, when he answered, held an unwonted note of fear. “His Lordship says the foundation is sound.”
Tanaros returned his gaze to the fiery, seething depths of the chasm. For a long moment, he was silent. When he spoke, it was without turning. “I will ask again, Dream-spinner. What does this have to do with corruption?”
“There is a canker of brightness at the core of this place,” Ushahin said quietly. “Even as it festers in the thoughts of my madlings, even as it festers in your very heart, cousin, it festers in his Lordship’s soul, gnawing at his pride, driving him to stubborn folly. There is no fault in the structure, Blacksword. Lord Satoris is the foundation of Darkhaven. How plainly would you have me speak?”
“You speak treason,” Tanaros murmured.
“He caused rain to fall like acid.”
The words, filled with unspoken meaning, lay between them. Tanaros turned around slowly. His dark eyes were bright with tears. “I know,” he said. “I know. He had reason to be wroth, Ushahin!” He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “There is madness in fury, aye. No one knows it better than I. Everything I have, everything I am, his Lordship has made me. Would you have me abandon him now?”
“No!” Ushahin’s head jerked, his uneven eyes ablaze. “Do not mistake my meaning, cousin.”
“What, then?” Tanaros stared at him and shook his head. “No. Oh, no. This is not Cerelinde’s fault. She is a pawn, nothing more. And I will not gainsay his Lordship’s orders to indulge your hatred of the Ellylon, cousin.”
“It would preclude the Prophecy—”
“No!” Tanaros’ voice rang in the cavern, echoes blending into the roar of the marrow-fire. He pointed at Ushahin, jabbing his finger. “Do not think it, Dreamspinner. Mad or sane, his will prevails here. And, aye, his pride, too!” He drew a shaking breath. “Would you have him become less than Haomane? I will not ask his Lordship to bend his pride, not for your sake nor mine. It has kept him alive this long, though he suffers agonies untold with every breath he takes. Where would any of the Three be without it?”
“As for that, cousin,” Ushahin said in a low voice, “you would have to ask the Lady Cerelinde. It lies in the realm of what-might-have-been.” Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, touching his lids like a blind man. “So be it. Remember, one day, that I showed you this.”
Turning, he began to make his way back toward the upper reaches.
“I’ll bring Speros down to have a look at it,” Tanaros called after him. “He’s a knack for such things. It’s a flaw in the structure, Dreamspinner! No more and no less. You’re mad if you think otherwise!”
In the glimmering darkness, Ushahin gave his twisted smile and answered without pausing, the words trailing behind him. “Mad? Me, cousin? Oh, I think that should be the least of our fears.”
LILIAS SAT BESIDE AN OPEN window.
The chambers to which she was confined in the Hall of Ingolin were lovely. The parlor, in which she sat, was bright and airy, encircled with tall windows that ended in pointed arches; twin panes that could be opened or closed, depending on whether one secured the bronze clasps that looked like vine-tendrils. The Rivenlost did love their light and open air.
A carpet of fine-combed wool lay on the floor, woven with an intricate pattern in which the argent scroll insignia of the House of Ingolin was repeated and intertwined. It gave off a faint, sweet odor when she walked upon it, like grass warmed by the sun.
In one corner of the parlor was a spinning-wheel. A bundle of the same soft, sweet-smelling wool lay in a basket beside it, untouched. Ellylon noblewomen took pride in their ability to spin wool as fine as silk.
There had been a spinning-wheel in Beshtanag. In a thousand years, she had scarce laid a hand to it.
On the southern wall was a shelf containing half a dozen books, bound in supple leather polished to a mellow gleam. They were Rivenlost volumes—an annotated history of the House of Ingolin, the Lost Voyage of Cerion the Navigator, the Lament of Neherinach—crisp parchment pages inscribed with Ellylon characters inked in a flowing hand. Although Calandor had taught Lilias to speak and read the Ellylon tongue, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to read any of them.
It was clear that these rooms were designed to house a treasured guest, and not a prisoner. Still, a lock was on the outer door, and beyond her lovely windows awaited a drop of several hundred feet.
The rooms were at the top of one of the outer towers. From her seated vantage point, Lilias could watch the sea-eagles circling the central spire. Their wings were as grey as stormclouds, but their heads and underbellies were pristine white, white as winter’s first snowfall on Beshtanag Mountain.
Every thirty seconds, they completed another circuit, riding the updrafts and soaring past on vast, outspread wings. They made broad circles, coming so close it almost seemed she could touch them as they passed. Close enough to see the downy white leggings above their yellow feet, talons curved and trailing as they flew. Close enough to make out the fierce golden rings encircling the round, black pupils of their eyes. She felt their gaze upon her; watching her as she watched them. Like as not it was true. The Eagles of Meronil served the Rivenlost.
“And why not?” Lilias said, addressing the circling sea-eagles. “That is what we do, we Lesser Shapers. We impose our wills upon the world, and shape it to our satisfaction. After all, are you so different from the ravens of Darkhaven?”
The sea-eagles tilted their wings, soaring past without comment.
“Perhaps not.” Since the eagles did not deign to reply, Lilias answered her own question, reaching out one hand to touch the glass panes of the open window
. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Far below, the Aven River beckoned, a silvery ribbon dividing to encompass the island upon which the Hall of Ingolin was built, winding its way toward the sea. “In the end, it is a question of who chooses to use you, is it not?”
There was a scraping sound; in the antechamber, the outermost door to her quarters was unlatched, swinging open.
“Lady Lilias.”
It was an Ellyl voice, fluted and musical. There was much to be discerned from the layering of tones within it That was one of the hardest parts of her captivity; enduring the unspoken disdain and muted hatred of those Rivenlost whom Ingolin had assigned to attend her. “Lady,” yes; after a thousand years of rule, they would accord her that much. Not “my lady,” no. Nobleborn or no, she was none of theirs. Still, it was better than their compassion. Her words in the great hall had put an end to that particular torment. Lilias got to her feet, inclining her head as her attendant entered the parlor.
“Eamaire,” she said. “What is it?”
Her attendant’s nostrils flared. It was a very fine nose, chiseled and straight. Her skin was as pale as milk. She had wide-set, green eyes, beneath gracefully arching brows. The colors of her irises appeared to shift, like sunlight on moving grasses, on the rustling leaves of birch-trees. “There is a Man here to see you,” she said.
Blaise Caveros stood a few paces behind her. “Lilias.”
“Thank you, Eamaire,” Lilias said. “You may leave us.”
With a rigid nod, she left. Lilias watched her go, thinking with longing of her quarters in Beshtanag with their soft, muted lighting, a warm fire in the brazier, and her own attendants, her pretty ones. If she had it to do over, she would do it differently; choose only the willing ones, like Stepan and Sarika, and her dear Pietre. No more surly charms, no.
No more like Radovan.
It hurt to remember him, a flash of memory as sharp and bright as the gleam of a honed paring-knife. On its heels came the crash of the falling wall and Calandor’s voice in her mind, his terrible brightness rousing atop Beshtanag Mountain.