Tanaros concentrated.
At first he heard nothing; then, distantly, a drumming like thunder. Hoofbeats? It sounded like, and unlike. There were too many, too fast—and another sound, too, a rushing, pulsating wind, like the sound of a thousand wings beating at once. It sounded, he realized, like the Ravensmirror.
“Fetch?” Tanaros called.
“Kaugh!”
The fabric of the night itself seemed to split beneath the onslaught as they emerged from the dreaming pathways into the waking world; ravens, aye, a whole flock, sweeping down the road in a single, vast wing. There, at the head, was Fetch, eyes like obsidian pebbles. And behind them, forelegs churning, nostrils flaring …
Horses.
They emerged from darkness as if through a doorway, and starlight gleamed on their sleek hides. All around them, the ravens settled in the fields; save for Fetch, who took up his perch on Tanaros’ shoulder. Their iron-shod hooves rang on the road, solid and real, large bodies milling. There were three of them; one grey as a ghost, one black as pitch, and in the middle, a bay the color of recently spilled blood.
And on its back, a pale, crooked figure with moonspun hair and a face of ruined beauty smiled crookedly and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Well met, cousin,” said Ushahin Dreamspinner. “A little bird told me you were in need of a ride.”
“Dreamspinner!” Tanaros laughed aloud. “Well met, indeed.” He clapped one hand on Speros’ shoulder. “I retract my words, lad. Forgive me for speaking in haste. It seems the night holds more magic than I had suspected.”
Speros, the color draining from his desert-scorched skin, stared without words.
“I have ridden the wings of a nightmare, cousin, and I fear it has brushed your protégé’s thoughts.” Ushahin’s voice was amused. “What plagues you, Midlander? Did you catch a glimpse of your own mortal frailties and failings, the envy to which your kind is prey? A rock, perchance, clutched in a boyish fist? But for an accident of geography, you might have been one of them.” His mismatched eyes glinted, shadows pooling in the hollow of his dented temple. “Are you afraid to meet my gaze, Midlander?”
“Cousin—” Tanaros began.
“No.” With an effort of will, Speros raised his chin and met the half-breed’s glittering gaze. Clenching one hand and pressing it to his heart, he extended it open in the ancient salute. His starlit face was earnest and stubborn. “No, Lord Dreamspinner. I am not afraid.”
Ushahin smiled his crooked smile. “It is a lie, but it is one I will honor for the sake of what you have endured.” He nodded to his left. “Take the grey. Do you follow in my footprints, within the swath the ravens forge, she will bear you in my wake, Tanaros.” He pointed to the black horse. “You rode such a one, once. Here is another. Can your Gulnagel keep pace?”
“Aye,” Tanaros murmured, his assent echoed by the grinning Fjel. He approached the black horse, running one hand along the arch of its neck. Its black mane spilled like water over his hand, and it turned its head, baring sharp teeth, a preternaturally intelligent eye glimmering. Clutching a hank of mane low on the withers, he swung himself astride. Equine muscle surged beneath his thighs; Fetch squawked with displeasure and took wing. Using the pressure of his knees, Tanaros turned the black. He thought of his own stallion, his faithful black, lost in the Ways of the Marasoumië, and wondered what had become of it. “These are Darkhaven’s horses, cousin, born and bred. Where did you come by them?”
“On the southern edge of the Delta.”
Tanaros paused. “My Staccians. The trackers?”
“I fear it is so.” There was an unnerving sympathy in Ushahin’s expression. “They met a … a worthy end, cousin. I will tell you of it, later, but we must be off before Haomane’s dawn fingers the sky, else I cannot keep this pathway open. Night is short, and there are … other considerations afoot. Will you ride?”
“Aye.” Tanaros squeezed the black’s barrel, feeling its readiness to run, to feel the twilit road unfurling like a ribbon once more beneath its hooves. He glanced at Speros and saw the Midlander, too, was astride, eyes wide with excitement. He glanced at the Gulnagel and saw them readying themselves to run, muscles bunching in their powerful haunches. “Let us make haste.”
“Boss?” One held up Tanaros’ helmet. “You want this?”
“No.” Thinking of water holes, of shallow graves and squirrel stew, Tanaros shook his head. “Leave it. It has served its purpose, and more. Let the Midlanders find it and wonder. I do not need it.”
“Okay.” The Fjel laid it gently alongside the road.
Tanaros took a deep breath, touching the sword that hung at his side. His branded heart throbbed, answering to the touch, to the echo of Godslayer’s fire and his Lordship’s blood. He thought, with deep longing, of Darkhaven’s encompassing walls. He tried not to think about the fact that she was there. A small voice whispered a name in his thoughts, insinuating a tendril into his heart, as delicate and fragile as the shudder of a mortexigus flower. With an effort, he squelched it. “We are ready, cousin.”
“Good,” Ushahin said simply. He lifted one hand, and a cloud of ravens rose swirling from the fields, gathering and grouping. The blood-bay stallion shifted beneath his weight, hide shivering, gathering. The road, which was at once like and unlike the road upon which they stood, beckoned in a silvery path. “Then let us ride.”
Home!
The blood-bay leapt and the ravens swept forward. Behind them ran the grey and the black. The world lurched and the stars blurred; all save one, the blood-red star that sat on the western horizon. Now three rode astride, and two were of the Three. The beating of the ravens’ wings melted into the drumming sound of hoofbeats and the swift, steady pad of the Gulnagel’s taloned feet.
And somewhere to the north, a lone Rider veered into the Unknown Desert.
In the farmsteads and villages, Midlanders tossed in their sleep, plagued by nightmares. The color of their dreams changed. Where they had seen a horse as white as foam, they saw three; smoke and pitch and blood.
Where they had seen a venerable figure—a Man, or something like one—with a gem as clear as water on his breast, they saw a shadowy face, averted, and a rough stone clenched in a child’s fist, the crunch of bone and a splash of blood.
Over and over, it rose and fell.
Onward, they rode.
LILIAS WAS SEASICK.
She leaned over the railing of the dwarf ship Yrinna’s Bounty and spewed her guts into the surging waves. When the contents of her belly had been purged to emptiness, her guts continued to churn. There was no surcease upon these lurching decks, this infernal swell. The waves rose and fell, rose and fell, a constant reminder that the world she knew had vanished. Lilias retched and brought up bile until her very flesh burned with dry, bitter heat. It was no wonder she failed to hear the approach of the Ellyl behind her.
“Pray, steady yourself, Sorceress.” A cool hand soothed her brow, and there was comfort and sweet ease in the touch. “’Tis but Meronin’s waves that do disturb those accustomed to the solid ground of Uru-Alat.”
“Get away!” Lilias, straightening, shoved him. “Leave me alone.”
“Forgive me.” The Ellyl took a graceful step backward, raising his slender hands; Peldras, one of Malthus’ Companions. The one with the damnable shadow of sorrow and compassion in his gaze. “I meant only to bring comfort.”
Lilias laughed, a sound as harsh as the calling of gulls. Her mouth was parched and foul. She pushed strands of dark hair, sticky with bile, out of her face. “Oh, comfort, is it? Can you undo what is done, Ellyl? Can you restore Calandor to life?”
“You know that such a thing cannot be.” The Ellyl did not flinch, and the sorrow in his gaze only deepened. “Lady Sorceress, I regret the deaths at Beshtanag. Even, yes, perhaps even that of the Eldest. It grieves me to have come too late. Believe me, if I could have prevented them, I assure you, I would have. I did seek to do so.”
“So.” Lilias shrug
ged and glanced across the deck toward where Aracus Altorus bent his head, listening to the Dwarf captain, who was the picture of ease upon the pitching decks, with his short stature and his root-gnarled legs astraddle. She was unsure how or why Yrinna’s Children had stood ready at Port Eurus to ferry Haomane’s Allies over the waters. “You failed.”
“Yes.” Peldras bowed his head, fair, gleaming hair falling to curtain his somber brow. “Lady Sorceress,” he said softly, “I do not think your heart is as black as it has been painted. I would speak to you of one I met, Carfax of Staccia, an agent of the Sunderer’s will who by Arahila’s mercy became a Companion in truth at the end—”
“No.” Gritting her teeth and swallowing hard, Lilias pushed past him. “I don’t want to hear it, Ellyl. I don’t want your cursed pity. Do you understand?”
He took another step backward; avoiding her foul breath, no doubt. Once, even one of the Rivenlost would have stood awed in her presence. Now, there was nothing to her but bile and decay. This foulness, this mortality, it rotted her from the inside out. The stench of it bothered her own nostrils. “Forgive me, Sorceress,” he breathed, still reaching out toward her with one pale, perfect hand. “I did not mean to offend, but only to offer comfort, for even the least of us are deserving. Arahila’s mercy—”
“—is not something I seek,” Lilias finished brusquely. “And what did Arahila the Fair know of dragons?”
It was something, to see one of the Ellylon at a loss for words. She took the image with her as she stumbled toward the cabin in which she had been allotted space. Haomane’s Children, scions of the Lord-of-Thought. Oh, it gave them such pleasure to imagine themselves wiser than all other races, than all of the Lesser Shapers.
The air was hot and close inside the narrow cabin, but at least it blocked out the sunlight that refracted blindingly from the waves, making spots dance in her vision. Here it was mercifully dark. Lilias curled into a Dwarf-size bunk, wrapping herself around her sick, aching belly into a tight bundle of misery.
For a few blessed moments, she was left in solitude.
The door cracked open, slanting sunlight seeping red through her closed lids.
“Sorceress.” It was a woman’s voice, speaking the common tongue with an awkward Arduan inflection. The cool rim of an earthenware cup touched her lips, moistening them with water. “Blaise says you must drink.”
“Get away.” Without opening her eyes, Lilias slapped at the ministering hand; and found her own hand stopped, wrist caught in a strong, sinewy grip. She opened her eyes to meet the Archer’s distasteful gaze. “Let go!”
“I would like to,” the woman Fianna said with slow deliberation, “but I have sworn a vow of loyalty, and it is the will of the King of the West that you are to be kept alive. It is also the will of our Dwarfish hosts that no Man shall accompany one of our gender in closed quarters. So … drink.”
She tilted the cup.
Water, cool and flat, trickled into Lilias’ mouth. She wanted to refuse it, wanted to flail at the life-sustaining invasion. The Archer’s hard gaze and the calloused grip on her wrist warned her against it. And so, with resentful gulps, she drank. The cool water eased the parched tissues of her mouth and throat, rumbling in her belly. Still, it stayed where it was put.
“Good.” Fianna sat back on her heels. “Good.”
“You should wish me dead,” Lilias rasped. “Aracus is a fool.”
“You know his reasons. As for me, I do.” The Archer’s voice was flat, and there was no burdensome compassion in her mien, only hatred and steady distrust. “Would you say elsewise of me?”
“No.” Lilias drew herself up until her back touched the wall of the cabin. “Oh, no. I would not.”
“Then we understand one another.” She refilled the cup. “Drink.”
Lilias took it, careful to avoid contact with the Archer’s fingers. Those were the hands that had nocked the Arrow of Fire, those the fingers that had drawn back the string of Oronin’s Bow. She did not want to feel their touch against her skin ever again. “Indeed, we do.” She sipped at the water, studying Fianna’s face. “Tell me, does Blaise Caveros know you are enamored of him?”
A slow flush of color rose to the Archer’s cheeks; halfanger, half-humiliation. “You’re not fit to speak his name!” she spat, rising swift to her feet.
Lilias shrugged and took another sip. “Shall I tell him?”
For a moment, she thought the other woman would strike her. Fianna stood, stooped in the tiny cabin, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. At length, the habit of discipline won out, and she merely shook her head. “I pity you,” she said in a low voice. “I shouldn’t, but I do. You’ve forgotten what it means to be a mortal woman.” She regarded Lilias. “If, indeed, you ever even knew. And it’s a pity because it’s all that’s left to you, and all that ever will be.”
“Not quite.” Lilias gave a bitter smile. “I have my memories.”
“I wish you the joy of them!”
The door slammed on the Archer’s retort. Lilias sighed, feeling her tense body uncoil. If nothing else, at least the confrontation had distracted her from her misery. It felt as though she might survive the sea journey after all. Aracus’ will, was it? Well, let him have his way, then. It was nothing less than the Son of Altorus demanded. “I wish you the joy of it,” Lilias whispered.
Finishing the water, she curled onto her side and slept.
When she awoke, it was black as pitch inside the cabin, and stifling hot. Somewhere, the sound of breathing came from another bunk, slow and measured. Was it the Archer? Like as not, since the Dwarfs maintained a prohibition on men and women sharing quarters.
The thought of it made her stomach lurch. Moving silently, Lilias clambered from the bunk and made her way to the door. It was unlatched and opened to her touch. She exited onto the deck, closing the door quietly behind her.
Outside, the sea breeze blew cool and fresh against her face, tasting of salt. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs. For a mercy, her stomach settled in the open air. It was almost pleasant, here beneath the vault of night. The stars seemed to shine more brightly than ever they did in the mountains, and the waxing moon laid a bright path on the dark waves. Here and there, lanterns were hung from the ship’s rigging, lending a firefly glow. Dwarfish figures worked quietly by their light, tending to this and that, ignoring her presence.
It was bliss to have no keeper for the first time since Beshtanag. Lilias made her way to the prow of the ship, finding its swaying no longer discomforted her as it had earlier. To her chagrin, she found she was not alone; a tall figure stood in the prow, gazing outward over the water. His head turned at her approach, moonlight glinting on the gold fillet that encircled his brow.
She halted. “My lord Altorus. I did not mean to intrude.”
“Lilias.” He beckoned to with one hand. “Come here. Have you ever seen Meronin’s Children?”
She shook her head. It was the first time he had addressed her thusly, and it felt strange to hear her name in his mouth. “No, my lord. Until this morning, I had never even seen the sea.”
“Truly?” Aracus looked startled. “I would have thought … ah, ’tis of no mind. Come then, and see. Come, I’ll not bite.” He pointed as she came hesitantly to stand beside him. “See, there.”
In the waters beyond the ship’s prow, she saw them; a whole gathering, graceful forms arching through the waves in joyous leaps. Their sleek hides were silvery beneath the stars and there was a lambent wisdom in their large, dark eyes, at odds with the merry smiles that curved their slim jaws.
“Oh!” Lilias exclaimed as one blew a shining plume of spray. “Oh!”
“Wondrous, aren’t they?” He leaned pensively on the railing. “It seems, betimes, a passing pleasant way to live. The world’s strife does but pass across the surface of their world, leaving no trail. Though they will never be numbered among the Lesser Shapers, perhaps Meronin was wise to Shape his children thusly. Surely, they
are happier for it.”
“‘And Meronin the Deep kept his counsel,’” Lilias quoted.
Aracus glanced at her. “You know the lore.”
“Does it surprise you so?” She gazed at the graceful figures of Meronin’s Children, describing ebullient arcs amid the waves. “I have never seen the sea, but I have lived for a thousand years on my mountain, Aracus Altorus, and the counsel of dragons is as deep as Meronin’s.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it is false.”
Lilias eyed him. “Do you know, my lord, that dragons number Meronin’s Children among the Lesser Shapers? They say their time is not come, nor will for many Ages. Still, they say, Meronin has planned well for it. Who benefited most when the world was Sundered?”
He frowned at her. “You know well it was the Sunderer himself.”
“Was it?” She shrugged. “Haomane First-Born says so, but Lord Satoris has lived like a fugitive upon Urulat’s soil with ten thousand enemies arrayed against him. Meanwhile, Meronin’s waters have covered the Sundered World, and his Children multiply in peace.” Lilias nodded at the leaping forms. “Meronin the Deep keeps his counsel and waits. It may be that one day he will challenge the Lord of Thought himself.”
“You speak blasphemy!” Aracus said, appalled.
“No.” She shook her head. “Truth, as I know it. Truth that is not found in scholars’ books or Shapers’ prophecy. Whatever I may be, I am Calandor’s companion, not Haomane’s subject. You spoke of lore. There is a great deal I know.”
“And much you will not share.” His voice turned blunt. “Why?”
Lilias shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “You speak of the Soumanië? That is another matter, and my lord knows why.”
His gaze probed hers. “You understand a woman’s life is at stake?”