“It is not pride, my Lord.” Cerelinde shook her head. “It is hope.”
“Hope?” he echoed.
“Hope.” She repeated the word more firmly. “For a world made whole, healed. For the Souma, made whole and glorious, and order restored. For the Lesser Shapers to become our better selves.” The words, the vision, gave her strength. She remembered a question Meara had posed her, and wondered if she dared to ask it after all. “What is it you are afraid to confront, my Lord?” Cerelinde asked, feeling the stir of ancient Ellylon magics creeping over her skin, the scant remnant of gifts the Rivenlost had ceded to the Sundering. “I, too, posed you a question. I do not believe you answered it.”
“Did I not?” the Shaper murmured.
What might-have-been …
Unexpectedly, Cerelinde found tears in her eyes. She swallowed. “Your crossroads, my Lord. There have been many, but only one is foremost. Three times, Haomane Lord-of-Thought asked you to withdraw your Gift from Arahila’s Children. I asked why you refused him, and you did not answer. Do”—she hesitated—“do you wish to know what might have been if you had acceded?”
Satoris lowered his head, and the shadows roiled. His shoulders hunched, emerging like dark hills from the shadowy sea. His hands knotted into fists, sinew crackling. There was another sound, deep and hollow and bitter, so filled with anger that it took Cerelinde a moment to recognize it as laughter.
“Ah, Cerelinde!” He raised his head. The embers of his eyes had gone out; they were only holes, empty sockets like the Helm of Shadows, filled with unspeakable sorrow. “Do you?”
“Yes.” She made herself hold his terrible gaze. “Yes, my Lord. I do wish to know. I am Haomane’s Child, and we do not thrive in darkness and ignorance.”
“Nothing,” the Shaper said softly. “Nothing, is the answer. I need no trifling Ellyl gift to tell me what I have known for far, far too long.”
“My Lord?” Cerelinde was perplexed.
“Not immediately.” He continued as though she had not spoken, turning his back upon her and pacing the confines of the chamber. “Oh, the world would have gone on for a time, Daughter of Erilonde; Urulat, rigid and fixed. An echelon of order in which Haomane’s Children reigned unchallenged, complacent in their own perfection. A sterile world, as sterile as I have become, ruled by the Lord-of-Thought, in which nothing ever changed and no thing, no matter what its passions, no being, no creature, sought to exceed its place. And so it would be, on and on and on, generation upon generation, age upon age, until the stars fell from the sky, and the earth grew cold, and died.” His voice raised a notch, making the walls tremble. “Is that what you wish?”
“No,” she whispered. “Yet—”
“Look!” Rage thundered in the air around him. He drew near, looming over her, smelling of blood and lightning. “Do you not believe me? Use your paltry Rivenlost magics, and see.”
Shrinking back in her chair, Cerelinde stared into his eyes and saw a barren landscape of cold stone, a dull grey vista stretching on endlessly. There were no trees, no grass, not even a trickle of water. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Nothing lived. Overhead there was only a void; perfect blackness, the space between the stars, aching with the pressure of emptiness. Cold, so cold! Her teeth chattered, her flesh like ice, her bones aching to the marrow.
“Please,” she got out through a clenched jaw. “Please!”
“Life quickens, little Ellyl.” Granting her mercy, he turned away. “Quickens unto death, quickens into generation. Living and dying, giving birth unto ourselves. Everything. Even Shapers,” he added in a low voice. “Even worlds.”
Cerelinde rubbed her arms, trying to restore warmth to her flesh. “Is this the famous wisdom of dragons, my Lord? They twist truth into lies and they are not to be trusted.”
“They are older than the Lord-of-Thought, you know.” His head averted, the Sunderer laughed softly. “Ah, Haomane! We are but parts, scattered and broken; heart and head, limbs and organs. None of us perceives the whole, not even you, my Elder Brother. They do. What they think, what they feel … I cannot say. But they know. And I, I spoke to them, and I am cursed with knowledge for it. Skeins of lies, woven with threads of truth; that is the world we have Shaped. You need me. Urulat needs me; Urulat, Uru-Alat that was, that will be again. I did not choose this role. I do what I must. All things, in the end, must be as they are. Is it not so?”
Uncertain whether he spoke to her or to the specter of Haomane First-Born, Cerelinde gazed at the Shaper’s back; the taut sinews, the wrath-blackened flesh. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.”
“No,” he said. “No, I suppose not. And yet it is in the striving that understanding begins, and that is the seed of generation that begets worlds.” Again, Satoris gave his soft, dark laugh. “You should strive, little Ellyl; as all of us should. He made you too well, my Elder Brother did. Mortality serves a purpose. Oronin’s Horn blows seldom for Haomane’s Children. No urgency quickens your flesh, no shadow of exigency spurs your thoughts. What would you have to strive for, were it not for me?”
“You pretend you do us a service,” Cerelinde murmured.
“No.” The Shaper’s shoulders hunched, rising like stormclouds. “I do the world a service. By my very existence, by this role not of my choosing.”
“The world,” Cerelinde echoed, feeling weariness settle upon her. She was tired; tired of fear, tired of lies. Lies, piled upon lies; half-truths and evasions. Some things were known. Some things were true. “My Lord, if you cared so much for the world, why did you Sunder it?”
“I DID NOT SUNDER THE WORLD!”
Satoris Banewreaker’s fist crashed against the wall of the chamber; shadows roiled and sinews cracked, and Darkhaven shuddered from its foundation to its towers. The Font leapt, spewing blue-white fire, shedding sparks on the stone floor. Within its flames, Godslayer pulsed. He stood, breathing hard, his back to her. Ichor ran in rills down his inner thigh, black and oily.
“I did not Sunder the world,” he repeated.
And Haomane smote the earth with his sword, and the earth was divided and the heat of Uru-Alat severed from the body. And in accordance with Meronin’s will, the Sundering Sea rushed in to fill the divide, and so it was done.
“You shattered the Souma,” Cerelinde said in a small voice.
“Not alone.” Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, sighed. Lifting his head, he gazed toward the west, as though he could see through the stone walls of Darkhaven to the isle called Torath, the Crown, where the Six Shapers dwelled in the broken glory of the Souma. “Never alone.” He shivered, lowering his head. “Go, little Ellyl, Daughter of Erilonde. I was wrong to summon you here. There is no hope, no hope at all.”
“There is always hope,” Cerelinde said.
“Will you ever harp upon it?” Satoris pitted his furrowed brow with his fingertips. “For your kind, perhaps. My Gift, the Gift my Elder Brother refused … it lies awaiting you in the loins of the Scion of Altorus. There are ways and ways and ways. Perhaps, then; perhaps not. It is your sole chance. Why else do you suppose Haomane’s Prophecy is as it is?” He smiled grimly. “For me, there is nothing. And yet you are all my Children in the end. Make no mistake, I have sown the seeds of my own regeneration. In one place or another, they will take root.”
“My Lord?”
“Go.” He waved one hand. “Go, and begone from my sight, for you pain me.”
Summoned by arcane means, the Havenguard appeared at the top of the spiral stair. There they waited, impassive in the flame-shot darkness.
The Sunderer pointed. “GO!”
Cerelinde climbed the stair slowly, her limbs stiff with the residue of fear and bone-deep cold. Below, Satoris Banewreaker resumed his pacing, disturbing the shadows. He glanced often toward the west and muttered to himself in a strange tongue, filled with potent, rolling syllables; the Shapers’ tongue, that had not been heard on Urulat since the world was Sundered. One word alone Cerelinde understood, u
ttered in a tone of anguish and betrayal.
“Arahila!”
And then the Fjel led her away and the threefold door closed behind her, and Cerelinde of the House of Elterrion was escorted back to her chambers to await the outcome of the war that would decide her fate.
In the empty garden, beneath Arahila’s moon, sorrow-bells chimed unheard.
SIXTEEN
HAOMANE’S ALLIES HAD GONE ON the march under cover of darkness. Dawn broke over the plains to find them encamped a short distance from the foot of the Gorgantus Mountains. The mountains trembled at the roars of the Tordenstem sentries, summoning the Three and their chosen companions.
“By the Six!”
Tanaros heard Speros’ shaking oath behind him. Another time, perhaps, he might have reprimanded the Midlander for it. In Darkhaven, one did not swear by the Six Shapers. Today it seemed meet.
The army covered the plains of Curonan, armor gleaming in the bloody light of dawn. Nothing glimpsed in the Ravensmirror had prepared him for the sight. Even from the overlook high atop the crags, it was immense.
Side by side by side, the Three gazed at the army.
So many companies! There they were, gathered at last in one place, arrayed for battle. The Rivenlost formed the vanguard. It surprised Tanaros, a little; but then, it was the Lady of the Ellylon over whom this war was waged. Perhaps it was a matter of honor.
“Well,” Vorax said. “There they are.”
“Indeed,” Ushahin said drily.
Vorax leaned over in the saddle and spat. “And there they can sodding well stay, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe they’ll go home when they begin to starve.” At his rear, a pair of Staccians chuckled.
Tanaros said nothing, squinting, trying to pick out individuals. The companies were still milling and unsettled. Yes, there; glint of red-gold, a rider moving among the disparate companies, gesturing, giving orders, attempting to stitch them into a cohesive whole. Some of them had fought together at Beshtanag, but many of them had not. Coordination would be difficult in the field.
“You look like you’re sizing them up for battle, cousin.” Ushahin’s remark sounded casual. “Do you lack faith in our fortifications?”
“No.” Tanaros wondered why Haomane’s Allies had bothered to waste a precious hour or two of sleep to arrive at dawn. He exchanged a glance with Hyrgolf, who shrugged. There was no element of surprise to be gained. Did they imagine the sight would shock Darkhaven into surrendering? He frowned, studying the army. There, there was another figure he knew, riding to the forefront as the ranks parted to allow him passage. White-robed and whitemaned, the tip of his spear shining like the last star of the morning, a spark of brightness nestled in his snowy beard. He rode astride a horse as white as foam, with an arched neck and hooves that fell with deft precision.
“Is that … him?” Speros asked in a low voice.
“Malthus the Counselor.” Tanaros confirmed it absently, still frowning. “What did you do to my horse, damn you?”
As if in answer, the figure of Malthus spread his arms wide. The clear Soumanië on his breast burst into a blaze of light, bathing him in white radiance. On either side of him, Rivenlost heralds in bright armor raised horns to their lips and blew long blasts, high and clarion, shivering and silvery in the dawn.
On the plains of Curonan, Malthus the Wise Counselor lifted his voice, and whether it was through some vestigial magic of the Soumanië or the wizard’s own arts, given to him by Haomane himself, his voice carried above the plains, as powerful and resonant as any Tordenstem Fjel; as his Lordship himself.
“Satoris Third-Born, whom Men and Ellylon have named Sunderer and Banewreaker, we have come in answer to your challenge! In the name of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, I command you to face us, or be forever branded a coward!”
His words broke like a thunderclap over the mountains, accompanied by a blinding wash of brilliant white light. Tanaros rocked back in the saddle as though he had been struck. It felt like it. Fury flooded his veins, drowning rational thought; for an instant, he nearly spurred his mount over the edge of the crag into thin air. He found he was laughing, his teeth bared in a grimace of defiance, one hand on the hilt of his black sword. The Fjel were roaring, Vorax was roaring, the Staccians and Speros were shouting promises of bloody death. Tanaros shook his head, trying to clear it. There was only one way down to the plains; back, back to Darkhaven and down through Defile’s Maw. Yes, that was the way.
“Tanaros! Tanaros!”
A hand was on his arm; Ellyl-fair, tangling his reins and detaining him as he sought to turn his mount. Impatient, he tried to shake it off, but there was unexpected strength in the grip.
“You were right.” Ushahin’s voice was taut. “There is as much danger in the power to Shape spirit as matter.”
The words penetrated slowly. Tanaros took a shaking breath, aware of his heart threatening to burst from his branded chest, of hungering for the scent of blood. Ahead of him, Fjel and Men alike were scrambling along the path toward Darkhaven. “Malthus’ Soumanië,” he said thickly, understanding. “Why should you be immune?”
“To this?” Ushahin Dreamspinner gave his bitter smile. A vein throbbed in his dented temple and his dilated eye was black as a void, seeping meaningless tears at the painful onslaught of light. “It is only another form of madness.” He nodded down the path. “You had better halt your troops.”
Cursing, Tanaros lashed his mount’s haunches with his reins. He rode them down, plunging amid them, shouting. “Turn back, turn back! Hyrgolf! Vorax! Speros! Turn back!”
Hyrgolf heeded him first, coming to himself with a mighty shudder. He waded through the milling troops to plant himself in their path, setting his shoulders and roaring orders until the headlong rush stalled into aimless chaos.
“What was that?” Speros sounded confused, half-awake.
“That,” Tanaros said grimly, “was Malthus.”
The Midlander blinked befuddled brown eyes at him. “What happens now?”
They were all gazing toward him for an answer. Tanaros shook his head, wordless. Behind and beyond them, above the looming edifice of Darkhaven’s fortress, stormclouds were gathering; black and roiling. One atop another they piled, bruise-colored and furious, until the air was heavy with tension. Wind blew in every direction, cold and cutting as a knife.
A peal of thunder answered Malthus’ challenge. It began deep and low, so low it was little more than a tremor felt in the pit of the belly, then built in burgeoning fury, built and built in rolling peals, culminating in a booming crack, the likes of which had not been heard since the foundation of the world was Sundered. Even the horses of Darkhaven staggered, and Men and Fjel lifted their hands to cover their ears.
A fork of lightning split the dirty clouds, blue-white as the marrow-fire, and its afterimage was as red as the beating heart of Godslayer.
Then there was silence, until it was broken again by the silvery horns of the Rivenlost, casting their tremulous, valiant challenge aloft on a surge of light, sowing fresh unrest in their enemies’ souls.
“What now?” Speros of Haimhault’s voice broke. “Ah, Shapers! What now?”
“War.” Ushahin Dreamspinner rode up the path with shoulders hunched against the biting winds. Under the lowering skies and their murky light, the mount that consented to bear him was the color of old blood, spilled and drying. Tanaros watched him come; half-breed, half-healed, his gilt hair lank with disdain. Ushahin met his eyes, but it was Speros he answered. “It is what it has always been, Midlander. War.”
“We will give them war!” Vorax growled, and the Staccians echoed assent. “Supplies be damned! We will fall upon them and make them wish they had never been born.”
Tanaros raised his hand, halting them. “It is for his Lordship to decide.”
“It is in my heart that he has already decided,” Ushahin murmured to him. “The Soumanië is persuasive, and his Lordship was not unwilling to be persuaded in the matter. I hop
e you took their measure well, cousin.”
Tanaros glanced back toward the plains, longing to answer the horns’ call. “Well enough, cousin, if it comes to it.” He steeled himself. “We’d best make haste. The fortress is likely to be in an uproar. Can I trust you all to hold firm?”
There were grim nods all around. Bloodlust itched in all of them, but the initial madness of Malthus’ spell had been broken. What remained could be resisted.
It was well, for his prediction proved an understatement. They arrived at Darkhaven to find it boiling with battlefrenzy. Fjel poured from the barracks, abandoned their posts along the wall, streaming toward the Defile Gate. Only their sheer mass prevented them from passing through it and entering Defile’s Maw. So many Fjel were pressed up against the Gate it was impossible to open it. Enraged and slavering, partially armed or not at all, they flung themselves against the stone walls.
“Shapers!” Speros looked ill.
“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros kneed his mount forward, taking a position atop the high path where all could see him. He gazed down at the seething mass of bodies. “Get me one of the Tordenstem.” There was a slight commotion behind him, and then one of the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, was at his side, squat and grey as a boulder, offering a steady salute. Tanaros nodded at him. “Tell them their General commands their attention.”
The Tordenstem took a great breath, his barrel-shaped torso swelling visibly, and loosed his voice in a mighty roar. “All heed the Lord General Tanaros! Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros! All heed the Lord General!”
Stillness settled, slow and gradual. The long training of the Fjel had instilled the habit of obedience in them. They ceased flinging themselves at the impervious stone and gazed upward at Tanaros, a semblance of sanity returning to their features.
“Brethren!” Tanaros raised his voice; an ordinary Man’s voice, possessed of no special might, but pitched to carry over battlefields. “Who is it that has ordered this assault?” There was no answer. The Fjel shuffled and looked at their horny feet. “No?” Tanaros asked. “Then I will tell you: Malthus. It is Malthus the Counselor who orders it, and Malthus alone you obey if you heed this madness!”