Words and words and words crawling like insects in her mind, dropping from her lips, a rising tide of them; and somewhere, more words, other words, resonant and ringing, words as bright and straight and orderly as the blade of a sword.
The Lady Cerelinde was standing, was speaking; Ellylon words, words of power and ancient magics, words like a sword, bright and blazing. Each syllable rang like a bell, driving back the dark tide of madness, and Meara wept to see it go, for the awful remorse that came in its stead was worse.
In the silence that followed, the Lady turned back to the table. Droplets of broth had spattered the white linen. In a slow, reluctant gesture, she extended one hand above the steaming crock and whispered a soft incantation. There was a ring on her finger, set with a pale and glowing moonstone. Even as Meara watched, the stone darkened, turning a remorseless shade of black.
If it could have spoken, it would have uttered a single word: Poison.
“Oh, Meara!” The Lady’s voice was redolent with sorrow. “Why?”
“Lady, what is it?” Meara scuttled forward, despising herself for her flinching movements, for the remorse she felt. She clapped the lid on the crock, making the poison vanish. “Is it not to your liking, the soup?” she asked, feigning anxiety. “Thom did but try a new recipe. If you do not like it, I will bring another.”
“Meara.” A single word, breathed; her name. All the gathered light in the room, all the gathered light of Darkhaven, shone in the Lady’s eyes. She sighed, a sigh of unspeakable weariness, bowing her head. “What must I do?”
“I don’t know,” Meara whispered, sinking to her knees. “Lady …”
“Perhaps I should drink it.” Cerelinde regarded the blackened gem upon her finger. “Do you say so, Meara? It is the simplest solution, after all. If I were no more, all of this would cease to be.” Her gaze settled on Meara. “Would it be for the best, Meara of Darkhaven?”
“I don’t know!” The words burst from her in agony; she raised her head to meet the terrible beauty of the Lady’s gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps I should, after all,” the Lady said softly. She lifted the lid from the crock and picked up the spoon.
“No!” Meara darted forward, snatching away the tray. The Lady touched her cheek. The skin of her hand was soft, impossibly soft, and her touch burned with cool fire. A bottomless pity was in her luminous eyes.
“Ah, Meara!” she said. “See, there is goodness in you yet, despite the Sunderer’s corruption. Would that I could heal you. I am sorry I have only this poor Rivenlost magic to offer, that affords but a moment’s respite. But take heart, for all is not lost. While goodness exists, there is hope. What I cannot do, Malthus the Wise Counselor may. He could heal you, all of you. He could make you whole, as Urulat itself could be made whole.”
There were words, more words, spinning into skeins of answers, filling Meara’s head until the pattern of her thoughts was as tangled as the webs in the Weavers’ Gulch. She wanted to tell the Lady that it was too late, that Malthus should have cared for them long ago instead of letting them be lost and forgotten. That they had chosen the only love anyone ever offered them, that Ushahin Dreamspinner understood them, for he was one of them; yes, and so was Lord Satoris, in all his wounded majesty. That all pride was folly; the pride of Ellylon, of Men, yes, even of Shapers. That they had chosen the folly they understood best. Mad pride; a madling’s pride, broken, but not forgotten.
There were words, but none would come.
Instead, something else was coming; fury, rising like a black wind from the bowels of Darkhaven. Lord Satoris knew; Lord Satoris was angry. The touch of Ellylon magic had alerted him. Beneath the soles of her feet, Meara felt the floor vibrate. His fury rose, crawling over her skin, making her itch and tremble. The lid on the crock rattled as she held the tray in shaking hands.
“Dreamspinner!”
The roar shook the very foundations of Darkhaven. It blew through Meara’s thoughts, shredding them into tatters, until she knew only terror. The promise of Lord Ushahin’s protection held little comfort.
The Lady Cerelinde felt it. Meara could tell; her face was bloodless, as stark and white as the new-risen moon. And yet she trembled only slightly, and the pity in her gaze did not fade. “So it is Ushahin the Misbegotten who wishes me dead,” she murmured. “He uses his servants cruelly, Meara.”
There were footsteps in the hall, coming at a run. It would be Speros, the Midlander. General Tanaros trusted him. Meara glanced involuntarily at the closed door, thinking of the Havenguard beyond it. Her actions would be reckoned a betrayal.
In a swift, decisive movement, the Lady Cerelinde yanked aside the tapestry that concealed the hidden passage into her quarters, throwing back the bolts that barred the door and opening it. “Fly,” she said. “Fly and be gone!”
Meara wanted to stay; wanted to explain. Did not want to be indebted to the Lady of the Ellylon, to whom she had served a bowl of poisoned broth. But the Lady’s face was filled with compassionate valor, and terror was at the door.
“I told him you would break our hearts,” Meara whispered, and fled.
VINES CRAWLED DOWN THE FACE of the rock, concealing the entrance to the Vesdarlig Passage. The sight of them made Dani feel queasy. He swallowed hard, tasting bile as the women of Gerflod parted the dense curtain of vine to expose the dark, forbidding opening. He would feel better if they weren’t touching the vines.
Uncle Thulu whistled between his teeth. “We’d never have found that on our own, lad!” He scanned the ground with a tracker’s eye. “Fjel have been here, but not since the rains. I’d not have seen any sign if I hadn’t known to look.”
“That’s good.” Dani’s voice emerged faint and thready.
Uncle Thulu gave him a hard look. “Are you sure you’ve got the stomach for this, Dani?”
He touched the clay vial at his throat, but there was no comfort in it; not with the women’s careworn hands clutching the vines, patiently waiting. There was only the memory of writhing barrows and green death. He drew strength instead from their faces, from their terrible grief and the fierce, desperate hope to which they clung. Taking a deep breath, he answered, “I’m sure.”
His uncle’s look softened. “Then we’d best not delay.”
Dani nodded, settling his pack on his shoulders. It held a warm blanket and as much food as he could carry; dried and salt-cured provender, laid up for the winter. They were dressed in sturdy, clean attire; warm woolens from the clothing-chests of men whose blood had stained the flagstones of Gerflod Keep. A fresh sling had been tied around his arm, giving respite to his still-aching shoulder. Their waterskins were full. In his pack, Uncle Thulu carried a bundle of torches soaked with a rendered pitch that burned long and slow.
The women of Gerflod had been generous.
“Thank you, Lady.” Dani bowed to the Lady Sorhild. “We are grateful for your kindness.”
She shook her head. “It is very little. I pray it is enough, and not too late. Still, I am grateful to have had this chance. We have many years of which to repent.” Tears were in her blue-grey eyes. With a choked laugh, she gave him the traveler’s blessing. “May Haomane keep you, Dani of the Yarru!”
“Come, lad.” Uncle Thulu touched his arm.
Together they went forward, passing beneath the vine curtain. Dani glanced at the face of one of the women holding the vines. It was the young woman who had captured them, the one who had reminded him of Fianna. There were tears in her eyes, too, and the same desperate hope. She was whispering something in Staccian, the words halting on her lips. A prayer, maybe.
It had been a long time since anyone had prayed to Haomane First-Born in Staccia.
He wanted to tarry, to ask her name, to ask what it was the Galäinridder had said to make her so certain of the rightness of their quest, despite the fearful consequences. But they did not speak the same tongue, and there was no time. Already Uncle Thulu was moving past him, taking one of the torches from his bu
ndle. There was a sharp, scraping sound as he struck the flint, a scattering of sparks, and then the sound of pitch sizzling as the torch flared to life.
Yellow torchlight danced over the rocky surfaces. It was a broad tunnel and deep, sloping downward into endless darkness. Beyond the pool of light cast by the torch, there was only black silence.
If they were lucky, that would hold true.
“Shall we go?” Thulu asked quietly.
“Aye.” Dani cast one longing glance behind him. The vines were still parted, and he could see the Lady Sorhild holding up one hand in farewell. The hope in her face, in all their faces, was a heavy burden to carry. He sighed, setting his face toward the darkness, hearing the soft rustling of the vine curtain falling back into place. “Lead me to Darkhaven, Uncle.”
“HE DID WHAT?” LIGHT-HEADED WITH fury, Tanaros grasped the front of Vorax’s doublet, hurling the old glutton against the wall and pinning him there. “Is he mad?”
“Peace, cousin!” the Staccian wheezed, trying to pry Tanaros’ grip loose. His bearded face was turning red. “As to the latter, need you ask?”
A cry of agony thrummed through the stones of Darkhaven, wordless and shattering; once, twice and thrice. It sounded raw and ragged, a voice that had been screaming for a long time. Somewhere, Ushahin Dreamspinner was suffering the consequences of having attempted to circumvent Lord Satoris’ will.
Tanaros swore and released Vorax, who slumped to the floor, rubbing his bruised throat. “What did you have to do with it?”
“Nothing!” The Staccian scowled up at him. “Did we not just ride together, you and I? Did we not do his Lordship’s bidding? Vent your anger elsewhere, cousin!”
Tanaros drew his sword, touching the point of it to Vorax’s chest. The hilt throbbed in his grip, resonating to the anger of Lord Satoris, in whose blood its black blade had been tempered. The same beat throbbed in his chest, the scar over his heart pulsing with it. “Poison deadly enough to slay one of the Ellylon is not obtained with ease. Don’t lie to me … cousin.”
Vorax raised his hands. “Ask your Lady, since you value her so much.”
Tanaros nodded once, grimly. “So I shall.”
He sheathed the sword before he strode through the halls of Darkhaven. It didn’t matter. His fury, Lord Satoris’ fury, beat from him in waves, white-hot and searing. No one would stand in its way. Madlings and Havenguard alike fell back before it; the former scuttling to hide, the latter falling in at his back, exchanging glances.
The door to her quarters was ajar.
That alone was enough to fill him with rage. Tanaros flung the door wide open, striding through as it crashed. The sight of Cerelinde in all her beauty speaking to Speros rendered him momentarily speechless.
“General Tanaros.”
“Lord General!”
They both rose to their feet to greet him. Cerelinde’s face was grave and guarded; Speros’ was open and grateful. Tanaros struggled for control. Somewhere, there was the scent of vulnus-blossom.
No.
It was imagination, or memory. Once, he had come upon them thusly; not these two, but others. Calista, his wife. Roscus Altorus, his lord. Not these two.
“What happened here?” Tanaros asked thickly. “Tell me!”
“It was one of the Dreamspinner’s madlings, boss.” Speros watched his face warily, standing clear of his sword; the blade Tanaros had no memory of having drawn since he had left Vorax. “Tried to poison her, near as I can figure. His Lordship’s in a proper fury. The Lady says she doesn’t know which one it was that brought the poison.”
With an effort, Tanaros brought his breathing under control, pointing the tip of his blade at Cerelinde. “Who was it?”
Her chin rose. “I cannot say, General.”
She was lying; or as near to a lie as the Ellylon came. She knew. She would not say. Tanaros stared at her, knowing it. Knowing her, knowing she would seek to protect those she perceived as lesser beings, loving her and hating her at once for it. His wife had offered him the same lie, seeking to protect her unborn child, but he had seen the truth in the child’s mien and read it in her gaze. He could do no such thing with the Lady of the Ellylon.
“So be it.” He pointed his sword at Speros. “Keep her safe, Midlander. It is his Lordship’s will.”
“Lord General.” Speros gulped, offering him a deep bow. “I will.”
“Good.” Tanaros shoved his sword back into his scabbard, turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the cry. It had come from the Throne Hall. Whether or not his Lordship had summoned him, he could not have said; it was where his fury compelled him to go. His armor rattled with the swiftness of his strides, its black lacquered surface reflecting light cast by the veins of marrow-fire in a fierce blue-white glare. For once, the Havenguard had to hurry to keep pace with him.
Even as he approached the massive doors depicting the Shapers’ War, the pair of Mørkhar Fjel on duty opened them. A slender figure stumbled between the doors, crossed the threshold, and fell heavily to its knees, head bowed, clutching its right arm. Lank silver-gilt hair spilled forward, hiding its features.
“Dreamspinner,” Tanaros said drily.
Ushahin lifted his head with an effort. His face was haggard, white as bone. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Cousin.”
The hilt of the black sword pulsed under Tanaros’ hand. He did not remember reaching for it a third time. Breathing slowly, he made himself release it. If Ushahin was alive, it meant his Lordship did not want him dead. He stared at the half-breed’s pain-racked face, concentrating on breathing and willing himself to calm. “This was very foolish. Even for you.”
One corner of Ushahin’s mouth twisted. “So it would appear.”
“What did he do to you?”
Moving slowly, Ushahin extended his right arm. Nerves in his face twitched with the residue of pain as he held his arm outstretched, pushing up the sleeve with his left hand. His right hand was clenched in a fist, nails biting into the palm. He opened his stiff fingers, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow.
The arm was whole and perfect; more, it was beautiful. Strength and grace were balanced in the corded muscle, the sleek sinews. His skin was milk-white and flawless. A subtle pool of shadow underscored the bone hillock of his wrist, unexpectedly poignant. His hand was a study in elegance; a narrow palm and long, tapering fingers, only the bloody crescents where his nails had bitten marring its perfection.
“His Lordship is merciful,” Ushahin said tautly. “He allows me to bear his punishment that my madlings might be spared it.”
Tanaros stared, bewildered. “This is punishment?”
Ushahin laughed soundlessly. “He healed my sword-arm that I might fight at your side, cousin.” A bead of sweat gathered, rolling down the side of his face. “You’ll have to teach me how to hold a sword.”
Tanaros shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, he broke it, first.” Ushahin licked lips parched from screaming. “Inch by inch, bone by bone. He ground them into fragments, and then he Shaped them anew, as slowly as he destroyed them. Does that help make it clear for you?”
“Yes.” Tanaros swallowed against a wave of nausea. “It does.”
“Good.” Ushahin closed his eyes briefly. “You were right, it was foolish. Not the attempt, but its aftermath.” He opened his eyes. “He drew on Godslayer’s power to do this, Tanaros, and spent his own in the bargain. I shouldn’t have taken the risk of provoking such a thing. He’s precious little to spare.”
“Dreamspinner.” Somewhere, the anger had drained from Tanaros. He considered Ushahin and sighed, extending his hand. “Get up.” Despite the tremors that yet racked Ushahin, Tanaros felt the strength of the half-breed’s new grip through his gauntleted hand as he helped him to his feet. “After a thousand years, why does he want you to wield a sword?”
“Ah, that.” Ushahin exhaled hard, clutching Tanaros’ shoulder for balance. “It is so that I may be of som
e use in the battle to come, since I am to be denied the Helm of Shadows.” Their gazes locked, and Ushahin smiled his crooked smile. “You’ve worn it before. I may bring a greater madness to bear, but you bring the purity of your hatred and a warrior’s skill. Wield it well, cousin; and ward it well, too. There is a prophecy at work here.”
… and the Helm of Shadows is broken …
Tanaros took a deep breath. “It is a heavy burden.”
“Yes.” Ushahin relinquished his grip, standing on wavering feet. He flexed his newly Shaped sword-arm, watching the muscles shift beneath the surface of his pale skin. “I gambled, cousin, and lost. We will have to make do.” He nodded toward the Throne Hall. “As you love his Lordship, go now and deliver news he will be glad to hear.”
It was thrice a hundred paces to walk the length of the Throne Hall. The torches burned with a fierce glare, sending gouts of marrow-fire toward the rafters, casting stark shadows. His Lordship sat unmoving in his carnelian throne. Godslayer shone in his hands, and upon his head was the Helm of Shadows.
The sight of it struck Tanaros like a blow. It was never easy to bear, and hardest of all when Lord Satoris wore it, for it was tuned to the pitch of his despair—of the knowledge he alone bore, of the role he was fated to play. Of the anguish of a brother’s enmity, of the loss of a sister’s love. Of immortal flesh seared and blackened, of Godslayer’s prick and his unhealing wound. Of generation upon generation of mortal hatred, eroding the foundations of his sanity.
There was a new pain filling the dark eyeholes: the agony of betrayal, the whirlwind of fury and remorse bound inextricably together, tainted with self-loathing. Tanaros felt tears sting his eyes, and his heart swelled within the constraint of his brand.
“Tanaros Blacksword.” Lord Satoris’ voice was low and weary.
“My Lord!” He knelt, the words bursting fiercely from him. “My Lord, I swear, I will never betray you!”
Beneath the shadow of the Helm, the Shaper’s features shifted into something that might have been a bitter smile. “You have seen the Dreamspinner.”