“Yes.” She met his gaze without flinching. “Would you believe me if I told you Satoris will not kill her?”
He raised his brows. “Surely you cannot pretend to believe such a thing.”
She sighed. “I can, actually. Once upon a time, Satoris Third-Born, too, was much given to listening to the counsel of dragons; aye, and speaking with them, too. For good or ill, I know something of his nature. Although it is twisted, there is nobility in it—and pride, too. A Shaper’s pride. He will not slay her out of hand.”
“No.” Aracus debated, then shook his head. “No!” Beneath the dull, emberless stone of the Soumanië, his face was set. “Do you see that?” With one stabbing finger, he pointed unerring at the red star that rode high overhead in the night skies. “It is a declaration of war, Sorceress. I saw the innocent dead at Lindanen Dale. I witnessed my betrothed wrenched away in vile captivity, and followed into a trap that would have slain us all, save for Haomane’s grace. If the Sunderer spoke to you of mercy, he has ensnared your thoughts in his lies.”
“No,” Lilias said gently. “You declared war upon Satoris, my lord Aracus, when you pledged yourself to wed the Lady of the Ellylon. The red star merely echoes that deed. I do not absolve him of his actions, any more than I ask absolution for mine. Only … what else did you expect him to do?”
“It is Haomane’s Prophecy.” His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened, and he stared over the waters, watching Meronin’s Children disport themselves with a mix of unconscious envy and fresh unease. “I did not ask for this destiny.”
“I know.” Lilias watched him. “But you accepted it nonetheless.” Moonlight cast faint shadows in the lines worry and weariness had etched into his features. He was young, yes; but he was a Man, and mortal. How would it be to watch his beloved endure, unaging, while his flesh withered and rotted? She, who had replaced scores of pretty attendants in her own ageless time, had the strangest urge to smooth his furrowed brow.
“What choice had I?” He turned his wide gaze upon her, filled with that compelling combination of demand and trust. “Truly, what had I?”
All things must be as they are, little sssister. All thingsss.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Lilias whispered, tears blurring her vision. Lifting one hand, she touched his cheek, laying her palm against it and feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight rasp of red-gold stubble. On his brow, the Soumanië pulsed with a brief, yearning glow at her nearness. It made her heart ache. “Tell me, do you love her?”
“Yes.” His fingers closed on her wrist. “I do.”
There were a thousand things he could have said; how Cerelinde’s beauty put the stars to shame, how her courage made him curse his inadequacy. How he understood the sacrifice she had made for the Rivenlost, and how terrible the cost would be. Aracus Altorus said none of them, and yet all were present in his simple, blunt words, in his wideset, demanding gaze. He was a warrior; oh, yes.
One who loved the Lady of the Ellylon.
“Well, then.” Lilias opened her hand, letting him steer it away, deflecting her touch harmlessly. “You had no choice, did you?”
He stared at her. “You trouble me, Sorceress.”
“Good.” She smiled through her tears. “You should be troubled, my lord Altorus.” Wrenching her hand free, she took a stumbling step away from him. “Thank you for sharing your vision of Meronin’s Children with me. Whether or not it was true, it was a pleasant dream.”
The disinterested Dwarfs watched her progress, and Aracus’ stare followed her back to her cabin, until she closed the door onto stifling darkness and the Archer snoring in the second bunk.
Lilias closed the door, and wept.
TWO
FOR DAYS, THEIR PATH HAD taken them westward on an arid course through the Northern Harrow, following an underground branch of the Spume River.
Thulu led the way, probing with his digging-stick and listening, listening to the lifeblood coursing through Uru-Alat’s veins, deep below the surface. Dani did not question his uncle’s guidance. All children of the Yarru-yami were taught to follow the deep veins of Uru-Alat, but the skill was honed by age and practice, and this was a task for which the Yarru elders had trained his uncle for many years.
Although it was a hardship, at least it was one to which the Yarru were suited. Dani and his uncle sipped sparingly from their waterskins, their bodies accustomed to eking the most from every precious drop. When ordinary folk would have faltered, the Yarru pressed onward with only a touch of discomfort.
They kept to low ground, to dry gorges and valleys. Away from the leaping rivers there was scant sign of any other living thing, save the tall spruce that dotted the mountainsides. It was a mercy, for it meant they saw no sign of Fjeltroll. Here and there, Uncle Thulu found a tiny spring, like an unexpected gift of Neheris, a sparkling trickle of water darkening a narrow cleft amid the rocks.
Where there were springs, there was small game; hare and ptarmigan. Using Yarru-style slings Thulu had made with strips of hide, both of them took turns shooting for the pot. It was harder to get a clean shot than it was in the open desert, but to his pleasure, Dani found his keen eye held him in good stead as a marksman.
After clambering amid the mountain peaks, it was almost easy going. Their feet, already hardened by the desert, grew accustomed to the harsh terrain. The nights were cool, but nowhere near as chill as they had been in the heights. After some debate, they gauged it safe to build a brisk fire, which dispelled the worst of the cold; for the rest, they shared their wool cloaks and huddled together, doubling their warmth.
On the morning of the seventh day, they heard a distant roar. Uncle Thulu, leaning on his freshly sharpened digging-stick, turned to Dani with a grin. “That’s it, lad. That’s our river!”
The trail wound through a torturous series of switchbacks, and it was an afternoon’s hard tramping before they reached the source, standing upon a promontory of rock and beholding what lay below.
When they did, Dani gazed at it with awe.
The Spume River burst out of the side of a mountain, plunging in a mighty cascade to the churning riverbed below. At close range, the sound of it was deafening. It was like a living thing, foam-crested and green-thewed, boiling around the boulders that dared disrupt its course. On the edge of the near bank, the barren limbs of a half-fallen spruce tree struggled desperately against the current.
“We’re going to follow that?” Dani asked, agape.
“Aye, lad!” Uncle Thulu widened his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He shouted his reply. “Can’t you smell the taint of it? One way or another, it will lead us to Darkhaven!”
Opening his mouth to respond, Dani gazed past his uncle and paused. Forty yards downriver, hunkered on a ledge, a squat figure was watching them.
At a passing glance, it looked like a boulder, perched and stolid, the color of dull granite; then it flung out one massive arm to point at them, its barrel chest swelled and swelled, increasing vastly in girth, and its mouth gaped to reveal a cavernous gullet.
The roar of a Tordenstem Fjel split the gorge.
Dani’s blood ran cold.
It was a wordless roar, and it echoed between the walls of the gorge, drowning out the sound of the river, impossible though it seemed. Dani clapped both hands over his aching ears, his insides reverberating like a struck gong. His teeth, the very marrow of his bones, vibrated at the cacophonous howl.
“Fjeltroll!” he shouted unnecessarily.
Again the roar sounded, making his innards quiver. And, oh, worse, even worse! On the ridge above it, other heads popped up, silhouetted against the sky; inhuman heads, misshapen and hideous. There were at least a score of them. The sentry repeated its deafening howl and the Fjeltroll began to descend with horrible speed, jamming talons into narrow fissures and swarming down the cliffs.
“Dani!” He could see Uncle Thulu’s mouth shaping his name as he pointed toward the banks of the churning river. “This way!” Withou
t waiting, Thulu plunged downward, slithering through a gap in the rocks.
“Don’t leave me!” Fighting panic, Dani scrambled after his uncle. It was hard to hold a thought while his insides churned, and he could scarce feel his fingertips. The paralyzing roar sounded again. Glancing behind him, Dani saw the Fjel drawing closer. They wore nothing over their coarse hide, and their leathery lips were drawn back to reveal long tusks. Small yellow eyes glinted with ruthless cunning under their bulging brows. “Uru-Alat,” he whispered, freezing.
“Come on!” Uncle Thulu shouted. At the bottom of the gorge, he had made his way to the fallen spruce and was wrenching at its uppermost branches, breaking them loose. “Dani, come on!”
Half-sliding, half-falling, the Water of Life banging against his chest in its clay flask, Dani made the descent. The plunging Spume boiled like a cauldron, then snarled and raged in its narrow bed, spitting geysers in his path. He stumbled across rocks slick with spray to his uncle’s side.
“Hold these.” Sparing a quick glance up the gorge, Thulu thrust a load of spruce branches into his arms. “No, like so. Good lad.”
“Are they … ?”Dani clenched his jaw to still his chattering teeth.
“Aye. Fast.” As calm as though he were braiding thukka-vine in the desert, Thulu wove a length of rabbit-hide rope amid the branches, deftly knotting and tightening. “We have to try the river, Dani. It’s our only chance.” He met Dani’s gaze. “Whatever happens, hold tight to the branches. They’ll keep you afloat.”
Dani nodded, understanding.
“Good lad.” With a single, quick motion, Thulu stooped and grabbed his digging-stick, shouldering past Dani. “Now go!”
The Fjeltroll were on them.
The path was narrow, and even the sure-footed Fjel could only attack two at a time. Uncle Thulu fought like a tiger at bay, wielding his stick in a blur. The unarmed Fjel hissed in fury, swiping with their terrible talons, unable to get within reach. The largest among them barked a guttural order, and two pair split away, clambering up the gorge in order to flank the older Yarru on his left. Dani, clutching his makeshift float, stared in horror. The one who had given the order grinned, a malicious intelligence in his yellow eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” Thulu shouted over his shoulder. “Go, Dani! Go!”
“No.” Deep within him, an unexpected wave of fury surged. Dani dropped the spruce bundle and reached for his sling. “Not without you!”
Busy fighting for his life, Uncle Thulu grunted.
It was a clean rage, clearing Dani’s head and making the blood sing in his ears. Somehow, although fear was still present, it seemed distant and unimportant. He reached into his pouch and withdrew a smooth stone, fitting it into the sling. He spun it, taking careful aim at the nearest Fjeltroll approaching on the left. Uru-Alat, but they were hideous! With a grimace, the Fjel pointed at the flask on his chest with one grimy talon, saying something in its harsh tongue. Dani let fly with the sling.
His aim was true. Clasping one hand over its right eye, the Fjeltroll roared and staggered. Grabbing a handful of stones, Dani flung a barrage in quick succession, driving the Fjel several paces backward. The others regrouped, watching. “Leave us alone!” he shouted at them.
It was a brief respite. Lowering their heads, the uninjured Fjel renewed their approach, grimacing as Dani’s slingflung rocks bounced from their tough hides, from the dense ridge of bone on their brows. In a few seconds, they would reach him.
On his right, he heard rather than saw it; Thulu’s sharp exclamation of pain, then a grunt of effort and a heavy thud. A Fjel voice roared in agony. An arm clamped hard about Dani’s waist, wrenching him off-balance. “Now, lad!”
And then he was falling.
The river smacked him like a mighty fist. It was like a living thing; a malevolent one that sought his life at every avenue, seeking to extinguish the spark of vital fire that made his heart beat and his lungs draw breath. Water filled his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, more water then he had known in a lifetime. Dani flailed and the river rolled him over like a piece of debris, driving him into its depths.
If not for his uncle, he would surely have drowned. It was Thulu’s strong arm around his waist that hauled him up until his head broke water and he gasped for air. With his other arm, Uncle Thulu held tight to the spruce-branch float, his fingers wedged under the hide ropes. “Hold on!” he shouted above the river’s din. “Hold on to the branches!”
Dani did.
It was barely large enough to let them keep their heads above water. The river spun them and Dani saw the Fjel on the banks, arguing amongst themselves. One lay fallen and motionless, Uncle Thulu’s digging-stick jutting from its torso. On the ledge above the gorge, the lone sentry howled in fury, receding quickly from view.
The biggest Fjel, the one who had given the orders, gave pursuit.
“Uru-Alat!” Clinging to the float, Dani watched the Fjel race along the narrow path, using all four limbs, scrambling and hurdling. His heart sank. Its mouth was open and panting hard, but it was outpacing the very current. “Can they swim?”
“I don’t know.” His uncle grimaced. Glancing at him, Dani saw trails of blood winding through the foam that churned around his submerged chest.
“You’re injured!”
“A scratch.” Thulu pointed with his chin toward a bend in the river. “Here he comes. Kick with your legs, Dani! I don’t think he can swim. If we can swing wide left, maybe the current will carry us past him.”
There where the bend created a shallow apron of shoreline and the current slowed a fraction, the Fjel was fording the river, wading with dogged persistence to intercept their course. Water parted to surge around the mighty thews of its thighs, around its waist. The force of it would have swept anything else off its feet.
Not the Fjel.
Step by step, it continued its steady advance.
Dani kicked frantically, felt the float’s course shift. His uncle grunted, beating at the river with one arm. The trails of red in the foam surrounding him spread and widened. Almost …
Neck-deep in the river, the Fjel raised one dripping arm and reached out with a taloned hand to catch a branch of their float, halting its progress. It had to tilt its chin to keep its mouth clear of the river’s surface. It was close enough that Dani was staring into its slitted yellow eyes, mere inches away.
It said something in the Fjel tongue.
“Go away!” Dani kicked at it.
The Fjel grinned and said something else, reaching with its other hand for the clay flask that hung about his neck. Water surged all around them on every side. Its taloned hand closed around the flask …
… and dropped, sinking below the surface of the river as though it held a boulder in its grasp. The Fjel sank, its head vanishing beneath the river. Its grip was torn loose from the float, and the current restaked its claim. Dani choked, feeling the thong tighten around his neck and burn his skin; then that, too, eased as the Fjel let go.
The float rotated lazily as it cleared the bend, its passengers clinging for dear life. Behind them, a column of bubbles broke the surface. The big Fjel rose, dripping and staring after them.
Too late.
They had rounded the bend.
Struggling to stay afloat, Dani watched it until it was out of sight and wondered what the Fjel had said. And then the river’s course took a steep drop and it turned once more to a white-water torrent, and he obeyed his uncle’s desperate, shouted orders and clung to the float and thought of water and how to stay alive in it and nothing else, until the raging current flung them hard against a boulder.
Something broke with an inaudible snap, and Dani felt an acute pain in his shoulder and a dull one in his head. As the world went slowly black in his vision, he worked one hand free to fumble at the clay vial around his throat. It was intact.
It was his last conscious thought.
THE ROAR OF THE TORDENSTEM Fjel echoed through Defile’s Maw, scattering
the ravens into a circling black cloud, setting the shrouded webs of Weavers’ Gulch to trembling, welcoming them back to Darkhaven.
Speros glanced at the figures crouching on the heights, remembering all too well his ungentle reception at their hands. He ran his tongue over his teeth, probing the gap where a front one was missing.
“Last chance, Midlander.” General Tanaros drew rein beside him, an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes. “I mean it. Turn around now, and ride away without looking back. You can keep the horse.”
Speros shook his head. “No.”
“You know what’s coming?”
“Aye, Lord General.” He kept his gaze steady. “War.”
Tanaros sighed. “If you had an ounce of sense, you’d take my advice and go.”
“Where, sir?” Speros shook his head again. “There’s no place for me out there. Should I join Haomane’s Allies and ride against you? I would sooner cut off my right arm.” Alarm squeezed his chest. “Do you seek to be rid of me? Is it because of what happened with the Yarru? I promised, I’ll not fail you again. And I did help, after all; you’d not have gotten the Well sealed without my aid.”
“Aye.” The General’s strong hand rested on his shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Speros. I do you no kindness in accepting your loyalty.”
“Did I ask for kindness?” Anger mixed with the alarm. “Sir?”
“No.” The General lifted his gaze, watching the ravens circle overhead. An errant lock of hair fell over his brow. Behind his austere features was a shadow of sorrow. “Perhaps it is a piece of wisdom that you do not.”
Something in Speros’ heart ached. The General feared for him. His family had reckoned him shiftless, an idler whose goals would never amount to aught. They had never showed as much concern for his well-being as the General did. They cared nothing for the ideas that fired his imagination. He had met their expectations accordingly and paid the price for it.
General Tanaros was different. He had believed in Speros, taken a chance on him. He knew, in a wordless way, that he would do anything to see General Tanaros smile, to see his expression lighten with approval.