Still, it would take a cool head to negotiate the matter. That ruled out Blacksword, who was like to lose his the moment he clapped eyes on Aracus Altorus, and the Dreamspinner … well. The half-breed could be cool enough when he chose, and betimes he spoke sense in his foolhardy madness, but he was as unpredictable as spring weather in Staccia.
No, it had to be Vorax.
When the matter of supplies had been dealt with to his satisfaction, he retired to his chambers and ate a hearty dinner, enough to give him ballast for the task to come. He kissed his handmaids good-bye and fancied he saw a shadow of concern in the eyes of the youngest. An old bear was entitled to his fancy. It heartened him when he went to speak to the Ellyl bitch.
Cool heads; now, there was one. She didn’t bat a lash at his query, just stared at him with those unsettling eyes and said, “Why should I assist you, Lord Vorax? It is not in my interest to give you tools with which to bargain.”
He shrugged. “Lady, your only chance lies in this battle. If I’m not satisfied with the negotiations, it will not happen. Do you want to take that chance?”
She turned her head. What thoughts were passing beneath that smooth white brow, he could not have said. “Is Lord Ingolin in the field?”
“Your Rivenlost Lord?” Vorax scratched his beard. He hadn’t picked him out from atop the crag, but the Ravensmirror had shown him leading the Host of the Ellylon. “Aye, Lady. He’s there.”
“Then tell them I said Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.” She spoke without deigning to look at him. “By that token, they will know I live.”
“Ladyship.” He bowed with an ironic flourish. “My thanks.”
He took his leave of her, accompanied by a pair of Havenguard. Tanaros had insisted upon it. The General might be hotheaded, but he was cautious of the Ellyl bitch’s safety. Wisely enough, since Vorax would as lief see her dead.
His escort was waiting at the Defile Gate; ten of his Staccians, a company of thirty Fjel including a pair of Kaldjager scouts, and the young Midlander Speros. Vorax had his doubts about the lad—he was untried, desert travail or no—but he knew when to hold the line and when to quibble. It was what made him a shrewd bargainer; that, and the fact that he didn’t look shrewd.
It felt strange to pass through the Gate, to abandon the safety of the thick walls and unscalable heights and enter the narrow Defile. There was little danger here—the Defile was well guarded from above—but it brought home the reality of the folly of his Lordship’s decision; aye, and the excitement, too. His skin crawled at the same time he found himself humming battle-paeans.
“If it be folly, let it be a glorious one,” he said aloud.
“Sir?” The Midlander glanced at him.
“Battle, lad. This battle.”
They passed through the Weavers’ Gulch without incident, the Kaldjager striding ahead to part the sticky veils. Vorax regarded the scuttling spiders with distaste. The Dreamspinner was fond of them, finding some arcane beauty in the patterns they wove. Small wonder he was mad, though it was a madness he shared with Lord Satoris. One of several, perhaps.
For the remainder of the descent, they spoke little, paying close heed to the dangerous trail. The Kaldjager had vanished, but Vorax could hear their sharp, guttural cries and the answer of the Tordenstem sentries above, low and booming. He wished they had more Kaldjager. The Cold Hunters were tireless in the chase, and if there was any weakness in their enemy’s rearguard that could be exploited, they would find a way to circle around and sniff it out.
Too many lost in the northern territories, chasing down a rumor, a whisper of prophecy. Vorax would have given up his youngest handmaid to know what had truly happened there. Some trick of Malthus’, like as not. There was simply no way a pair of desert-bred Charred Folk could have evaded the Kaldjager and defeated an entire company of Fjel.
The Kaldjager were waiting at the last bend, before the Defile opened its Maw, crouched like a pair of yellow-eyed boulders. They nodded at him, indicating the way was clear.
“All right, lads.” Vorax settled his bulk more comfortably in the saddle and pointed with his bearded chin. “Let’s drive a bargain.”
They filed ahead of him, rounding the bend. Eigil, his Staccian lieutenant—the last one so appointed—carried their banner, the black banner of Darkhaven with the red dagger of Godslayer in the center. He was young for the task, but what else was Vorax to do? He had lost his best man, Carfax, in the decoy flight to Beshtanag; Osric had fallen to Staccian treachery. His blood still boiled when he thought about it. Speros of Haimhault carried the parleybanner; a pale blue oriflamme, unadorned. He took his job seriously, knuckles white on the banner’s haft.
A silvery blast of horns sounded the instant they were seen. Vorax scowled into his beard. Trust the damned Ellylon to make a production of war. He waited for Eigil’s answering shout.
“Lord Vorax of Darkhaven will entertain a delegation!”
He rode around the bend, traversing the final descent, lifting one hand in acknowledgment. It was a shock to see Haomane’s Allies at close range. There were so many, covering the plains, arrayed no more than fifty yards from the Maw itself. His company was clustered at its base, the Fjel with their shields held high, prepared to defend his retreat if necessary.
Haomane’s Allies stirred, conversing among themselves. He watched figures gesticulating, wondering if they argued as did the Three.
They knew the protocol. Three figures relinquished their arms with ceremony and rode forward, accompanied by an escort of forty Men and Ellylon. Half wore the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard; half the bright armor of the Rivenlost. There were no archers among them. If it came to a fight, it would be fair.
Vorax waited.
Malthus, Ingolin, Aracus; Haomane’s Counselor, the Lord of the Rivenlost, and the Scion of Altorus. Vorax took their measure as they approached, riding from sunlight into the mountain’s shadow. Their escort fanned out in a loose circle. His remained where they stood; shields high, bristling with weapons. The pale blue oriflamme in Speros’ hands trembled, then steadied.
“Vorax of Staccia!” Aracus Altorus’ voice was hard and taut. One hand rested on the hilt of his ancestral sword, drawing attention to the dull red gem set in its pommel. “We have come to demand that the Lady Cerelinde be restored to us.”
Vorax laughed. “Why, so you have, little Man. Will you go if she is?”
It made the would-be King of the West uncertain; he frowned hard, staring. Malthus the Counselor exchanged a glance with Ingolin the Wise and shook his whitemaned head.
“Vorax.” His voice was gentle; almost kind. The clear Soumanië on his breast sparkled. “Do not insult us with false promises. Your Dark Lord knows what we are about. Why does he send you? What is his will?”
Vorax smiled. It was always good to establish the principal agent in any bargain. “One that should please you, wizard. For a small price, it is his Lordship’s will to give you what you desire.”
“Cerelinde!” Aracus Altorus breathed.
“War,” the Rivenlost Lord said gravely.
“War,” Vorax said, agreeing with the latter. Broadening his smile, he opened his arms. “What else have you courted so assiduously? You have swayed him, wizard; you have swayed us all! His Lordship is willing to meet the forces of Haomane’s Allies upon the plain. And yet, we must have certain assurances.”
Aracus Altorus raised his brows. “Why should we bargain with you?”
“Ah, little Man!” Vorax bent a benign glance upon him. “Do you see these heights?” He pointed toward the Gorgantus Mountains. “They cannot be scaled. There is but one passage, and believe me, if you believe nothing else I say, when I tell you it is well guarded. You have no leverage here.”
“What is the Sunderer’s price?” Malthus asked.
“Fall back.” Vorax shrugged. “As I said, it is a small one. You seek battle; his Lordship is willing to give it. Fall back … half a league, no mor
e. Allow our forces to assemble and meet yours in fair combat upon the plains. No attack shall begin until the signal is given.”
The Counselor nodded. “And if we do not agree?”
“Look around you.” Vorax indicated the plains with a sweep of his hand. “Can you fill your bellies with grass, like horses? I think not, Haomane’s Counselor. Darkhaven can outwait you. Darkhaven will outwait you.”
Malthus smiled, wrinkles creasing his face. The Soumanië nestled in his beard brightened, starry. “Will you?” he asked. “Oh, I think not, Vorax of Staccia. The Sunderer’s will is fixed.”
Vorax squinted sidelong at the Soumanië, feeling the urge to battle quicken his blood. “You’re handy with that, Counselor,” he observed. “Makes me pity my countrymen, those you led into betrayal. I trust you found them waiting, as promised. Doubtless Haomane is pleased.” Bloodlust thickened his tongue, and he nodded at the gem. “Have a care. I come to bargain in good faith.”
“And yet you perceive your weakness,” Malthus said gently.
“Mine, aye.” With an effort, Vorax tore his gaze from the Soumanië. “Funny thing, Counselor. Seems your pretty brooch doesn’t work on the Dreamspinner.” He forced his lips into a smile. “Something in his nature renders him proof against its folly, and he’s right eager to see the Lady Cerelinde dead, is Ushahin Dreamspinner. He doesn’t mind defying Lord Satoris to do it. He’s quite mad, you know.”
Aracus Altorus swore; Malthus passed his hand over the Soumanië, quenching its light.
Ingolin of the Rivenlost, who had sat motionless in the saddle, stirred. “You touch upon my fears, Vorax of Staccia. You are quick to use the Lady Cerelinde’s life as a bargaining chip, yet it is in my heart that the Sunderer has little reason to have spared it to date.”
“Oh, aye, she lives.” Breathing easier, Vorax laughed. “For now, Ellyl lordling. His Lordship,” he added contemptuously, “has staked his honor upon it.”
Ingolin’s melodious voice deepened. “I put no trust in the honor of Satoris Banewreaker. Let her be brought forth, if you would have me believe. Let us see with our own eyes that the Lady Cerelinde lives!”
“See, I thought you might ask that.” Vorax scratched at his beard. “Problem is, Ingolin my friend, she’s our safeguard. I don’t put a great deal of trust in your word.” He gave the Lord of the Rivenlost a friendly smile. “Why, you might break it, if you reckoned it were for the greater good!”
“I would not,” the Ellyl Lord said stiffly. “The Ellylon do not lie.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Vorax shrugged. “Someone else might break it for you, eh? The Lady stays in Darkhaven. But I asked her for a token, whereby you might know she lives. She asked me if you were in the field. When I said you were, she said, ‘Tell them Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.’ Does that suffice?”
Ingolin bowed his head, silver hair hiding his features. “Cerelinde,” he whispered.
“Cerelinde,” Vorax agreed. “Whose life hangs by this bargain, and your ability to honor it to the word. Shall we strike it?”
“How do we know you will keep your word?” Aracus Altorus’ eyes blazed. “Perhaps this bargain is but a mockery. What safeguard do you offer, Glutton?”
Vorax glanced around, his gaze falling on the Midlander. “Speros of Haimhault.” He beckoned. “Are you willing to serve?”
“My lord!” The Midlander looked ill. “Aye, my lord.”
“Here you are, then.” Vorax clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He’s the architect of Darkhaven’s defense. Try the Defile, and see what he’s got in store for you! Word is he engineered the means to let General Tanaros fill in that pesky Well in the Unknown Desert, though you might know more of it than I. Any mind, he’s been Tanaros Blacksword’s right-hand Man for some time. Will he suffice?”
They looked shocked; all save Malthus. Did nothing on the face of Urulat shock the damned Counselor? He inclined his head, white beard brushing his chest.
“He will suffice,” Malthus said somberly.
“Good.” Vorax glanced at the sky, gauging the angle of the sun. “You’ll withdraw your troops by dawn on the morrow, on pain of the Lady’s death?”
“We will.”
“Then we will meet you ere noon. You’ll know our signal when we give it.” He grinned. “Gentlemen, I will see you anon!”
His Staccians closed in tight, following as he turned his mount and headed into Defile’s Maw, the Fjel guarding their retreat, step by backward step, shields held high. Below them, Speros of Haimhault sat on his ghost-grey mount and watched them go with desperate eyes.
It was, Vorax thought, a well-struck bargain.
SILVER HOARFROST SPARKLED ON THE sere grass in the moon-garden, shrouded its plants and trees in cerements of ice. No drops fell from the pale pink blossoms of the mourning-tree, and the corpse-flowers’ pallid glow was extinguished. The mortexigus did not shudder in the little death, shedding its pollen, and the shivering bells of the clamitus atroxis waited in silence. Even the poignant scent of vulnus-blossom had been stilled by the cold.
Tanaros wrapped his cloak tighter and wondered if Cerelinde would come. He could have gone to her, or he could have ordered her to come. In the end, he had chosen to ask. Why, he could not have said.
Overhead, the stars turned slowly. He gazed at them, wondering if Arahila looked down upon Darkhaven and wept for her brother Satoris’ folly, for the bloodshed that was certain to follow. He wondered if poor Speros, unwitting victim of Vorax’s bargain, was watching the same stars. He was angry at Vorax for his choice, though there was no merit in arguing it once it was done. Other matters were more pressing; indeed, even now, he wasted precious time lingering in the garden. Still, his spirit was uneasy and an ache was in his heart he could not name.
After a time, he became certain she would not come; and then the wooden door with the tarnished hinges opened and she was there, flanked by the hulking figures of the Havenguard. They remained behind, waiting.
Her gown was pale, its color indeterminate in the starlight. A dark cloak enfolded her like green leaves enfolding a blossom’s pale petals. Its sweeping hem left a trail in the frosted grass as she approached him.
“Tanaros,” she said gravely.
“Cerelinde.” He drank in the sight of her. “I didn’t know if you would come.”
“You have kept your word of honor, and I am grateful for the protection you have given me.” She studied his face. “It is to be war, then?”
“Yes. On the morrow. I wanted to say farewell.”
She laid one hand on his arm. “I wish you would not do this thing.”
He glanced at her hand, her slender, white fingers. “Cerelinde, I must.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You have a choice, Tanaros. Even you, even now. Perhaps it is too late to stem the tide of battle, but it need not be, not for you. There is goodness in you; I have seen it. It is yours to reclaim.”
“And do what?” Tanaros asked gently. “Shall I dance at your wedding, Cerelinde?”
The matter lay between them, vast and unspoken. She looked away. In that moment, he knew she understood him; and knew, too, that unlike his wife, the Lady of the Ellylon would never betray the Man to whom she was betrothed. The ache in his heart intensified. He laid his hand over hers, feeling for a few seconds her smooth, soft skin, then removed her hand from his arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I cannot.”
“There are other things!” She looked back at him and starlight glimmered on her tears. “The world is vast, Tanaros. You could … you could help Staccia rebuild its ties to the rest of Urulat, or the Beshtanagi in Pelmar, or hunt Were or dragons or Fjeltroll—”
“Cerelinde!” He halted her. “Would you have me betray what honor I possess?”
“Why?” She whispered the word, searching his face. “Ah, Tanaros! What has Satoris Banewreaker ever done that he should command your loyalty?”
“He found me.” He smiled at the s
implicity of the words. “What has he not done to be worthy of my loyalty, Cerelinde? When love and fidelity alike betrayed me, when the world cast me out, Lord Satoris found me and summoned me to him. He understood my anger. He bent the very Chain of Being to encompass me, he filled my life with meaning and purpose.”
“His purpose.” Her voice was low. “Not yours.”
“Survival.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “He seeks to survive. What else do any of us seek? Because he is a Shaper, the stakes are higher. I tell you this, Cerelinde. His Lordship is here. Wounded and bleeding, but here. And he has given shelter to all of us, all whom the world has bent and broken, all who yearn for a Shaper’s love, all whom the world has despised. He demands our loyalty, yes, but he allows us the freedom to question the order of the world, to be who and what we are. Can you say the same of Haomane Lord-of-Thought?”
“You do not understand.” Cerelinde’s voice trembled. “He is … everywhere.”
“For you, perhaps.” Tanaros touched her cool cheek. “Not for me.”
For a time, they stood thusly; then Cerelinde, Lady of the Ellylon, shuddered like the petals of the mortexigus flower and withdrew from his touch. Wrapped in her dark cloak, she gazed at him with her glorious eyes.
“Tanaros,” she said. “I will not pray for your death on the morrow.”
“Lady.” He bowed low and said no more.
The Havenguard reclaimed her, and she went.
SPEROS OF HAIMHAULT FOUND SLEEP difficult.
It had all happened so fast. One moment, he had been concentrating on acquitting himself bravely, holding the parley-flag and assessing the forces of Haomane’s Allies to report to the General; the next, he was agreeing to be a hostage.
At least they had been civil.
They were that; he had to admit. Back in the old days, when he was but a piddling horse-thief, he had never been treated with such care. The architect of Darkhaven’s defense! It was a prodigious title, even if Lord Vorax had invented it.