The Fjel saluted him. “Boreg, sir!”
“Boreg.” Ushahin pointed into the Defile. “You see Haomane’s Allies, there. Watch them. At some point, they will begin to advance. When half their numbers have reached this bend in the path, I want you and your lads to trigger the rockslide”
“Aye, sir.” The Tordenstem looked ill at ease with the command. “Will you not stay?”
“I cannot.” Ushahin laid a hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, feeling the rock-solid warmth of it. “General Tanaros trusts you, Boreg. Do your best.”
“Aye, boss!”
Ushahin spared one last glance at Haomane’s Allies. They were watching; a figure in the distant vanguard raised one hand, and the Soumanië flashed like a red star in the gloomy depths. Ushahin smiled contemptuously, certain that Aracus Altorus dared not waste a precious ounce of strength on assailing him, not with another rockslide and the Defile Gate awaiting. He did not know by what magic the power of the Souma was invoked, but he knew it took a considerable toll.
His Lordship was proof of that, and he was a Shaper.
“Enjoy this taste of victory, Son of Altorus,” he murmured. “I go now to do what should have been done long ago.”
Ushahin turned his mount’s head toward Darkhaven. The blood-bay stallion caught his mood, its hooves pounding an urgent cadence as they made for the fortress. The case containing the sundered Helm jounced, lashed haphazardly to the saddle behind him. His right hand, healed and hale, itched for the hilt of his sword. He remembered how it had felt to move between life and death on the battlefield, to sever the threads that had bound the ageless Ellylon to their immortal souls.
He wondered how it would feel to cleave the life from the Lady Cerelinde’s flesh.
The inner courtyard was jammed with milling Fjel, wounded and dazed, bereft of orders. Ushahin dismounted and pushed his way through the throng of Fjel, carrying the Helm’s case, ignoring their pleas for guidance. There was nothing he could do for them. He was no military strategist.
Inside Darkhaven proper, it was quieter. The Havenguard, oddly subdued, had restored some semblance of order. None of his madlings were about, which gave him a moment’s pause. He thought briefly of summoning them, then shook his head. There was no time.
It had to be done. It should have been done long ago.
There was madness in it; oh, yes. His right arm ached with the memory of his Lordship’s wrath, the merciful cruelty that had Shaped it anew, pulverizing fragments of bone, tearing sinews asunder, a scant inch at a time. Ushahin had no illusions about the cost he would bear for this action.
And he had no doubt about its necessity.
He strode the halls, reaching the door to the Lady of the Ellylon’s quarters. A pair of Havenguard sought to turn him away. With the case containing the broken Helm under his arm, he quelled them with a single, furious glance.
Chastened, they unbarred the door.
Ushahin stepped inside, smiling his bitter, crooked smile. “Lady,” he began, and then halted.
Over a hidden passageway, a tapestry hung askew.
The chamber was empty.
“EXPECTING ME?” CERELINDE WHISPERED THE words. “How so, my Lord? For I did not expect to find myself here.”
Some yards beyond the base of the stair, Satoris Banewreaker gazed upward at her with terrifying gentleness. “Will you seek after my knowledge now, little Ellyl? I fear it is too late.” He beckoned. “Come.”
She had never thought to get this far. As she’d paced restless in her chamber, the certainty that she must try had grown upon her. The weight of the burden Haomane’s Allies had placed upon the Bearer, the burden she had laid on Meara’s shoulders, were too great. It was unfair to ask what one was unwilling to give.
Meara might fail her.
The young Bearer’s task might consume him.
And it had come to her that perhaps, after all, it was Haomane’s plan that had placed her here, where she alone among his Allies held the key to fulfilling his Prophecy. Cerelinde knew the way to the threefold door.
She had not expected it to open to her touch. Surely, it must be a trap.
“Come.” The Sunderer gestured at Godslayer. “Is this not what you seek?”
From her vantage point atop the stair, Cerelinde glanced at the dagger, pulsing in the Font. “You mock me, my Lord,” she said quietly. “Though my life is forfeit for this error, do not ask me to walk willingly onto the point of your blade.”
“There is no mockery.” The Shaper smiled with sorrow, the red glow in his eyes burning low. “Can you not feel it, daughter of Erilonde? Even now, the Bearer is beneath us. Even now, he dares to risk all. Do you dare to risk less?”
“I am afraid,” Cerelinde whispered.
“Indeed. Yet I have given my word that I will not harm you.” The Shaper laughed softly, and there was no madness in it. “You mistrust my word, Lady of the Ellylon; yet if I am true to it, will you dare to become the thing you despise? Will you take that burden on yourself for the sake of your foolish, unswerving obedience to my Elder Brother’s will?”
She shuddered. “I know not what you mean, my Lord Satoris.”
“Come, then, and learn it.” Once more, he beckoned to her, and an edge of malice crept into his tone. “Or will you flee and leave the Bearer to fail?”
“No.” Cerelinde thought of the unknown Charred lad and all he had risked, all he must have endured. Gathering every measure of courage she possessed, she pushed her fear aside and gazed at the Shaper with clear eyes. In the coruscating light of the Font, he stood without moving, awaiting her. “No, Lord Satoris,” she said. “I will not.”
And though her legs trembled, she forced herself to move, step by step, descending the stair into the Chamber of the Font and the Sunderer’s presence.
USHAHIN GATHERED HIS MADLINGS.
They came, straggling, in answer to his summons; his thoughts, cast like a net over Darkhaven, gathering all of those who were his. They crowded, as many as could fit, into the Lady’s chambers, others spilling into the hallways.
“What has happened here?” he asked.
They explained in a mixture of glee and terror; the hunt, the Charred Man, the Lord General’s furious arrival, and how they had scattered before it.
“And the Lady?” he asked them. “How is it that she knew to flee?”
They exchanged glances, fell to their knees, and cried out to him, professing denial; all save one, who remained standing. And Ushahin’s gaze fell upon her, and he knew what it was that she had done.
“Meara,” he said gently. “How is it that I failed you?”
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Not you,” she whispered. “Never you, my lord.”
The others wailed.
Ushahin raised one hand. “No. I have failed you, all of you. I have been remiss in accepting my burden. But with your aid, it will end here.”
The wailing continued; growing louder, interspersed with cries of fear and deeper, guttural shouts, the sound of pounding feet and jangling armor. Even as Ushahin opened his mouth to call for silence, one of the Havenguard burst into the room, forging a path through the kneeling madlings like a ship plowing through shallow waves. He was panting, the breath rasping harshly in the thick column of his throat. “Lord Dreamspinner!” He saluted. “Haomane’s Allies approach the Defile Gate!”
“What?” Ushahin stared at the Fjel. “The rockslide—”
“Too late.” The Havenguard shuddered. “The wizard, the white gem; I know not what he did, only that the lads were slow and the rocks fell too late.” He paused, his small eyes beneath the heavy brow ridge bright with anxiety. “Will you come?”
They were gazing at him; all of them, his madlings, the Fjel, guilt-ridden Meara. Ushahin tasted despair.
“Listen,” he said to them. “There is no time.” He pointed toward the tapestried door. “The Lady of the Ellylon has passed behind the wall, and even now her kindred attempt a rescue.” He
paused, drawing his sword. “I go now in pursuit, for her death is our last hope, our only hope. My madlings, I charge you, all of you, with infiltrating every passage, every hidden egress in the fortress of Darkhaven. Do you come upon the Lady, halt her; kill her if you may. Any consequence that comes, I will accept. Do you understand?”
The madlings shouted their assent, leaping to their feet.
“Good.” Ushahin pointed at the Havenguard with the tip of his blade. “Hold the Gate,” he said grimly. “There is no other order I can give. Tell the lads they must resist if Malthus seeks to wield his Soumanië against them and sway their spirits. Bid them to cling to the thought of his Lordship’s long suffering, bid them think of their fallen comrades. It may lend them strength. If it does not …” He glanced at Meara. “Bid them make ready to slay any comrade who seeks to betray us.”
“Aye, boss!” Relieved to have orders, the Havenguard whirled to depart. The madlings went with him, surging out the door in a roiling, shouting mass. Ushahin watched them go.
Meara remained. “Will you not punish me?” she asked plaintively.
“What punishment will suit?” Ushahin asked. “Your penitence comes too late to aid his Lordship. I will deal with you anon, Meara of Darkhaven. Now go, and serve while you may.”
Bowing her head, she went.
With a sword-blade naked in his strong right hand and the case containing the broken Helm tucked beneath his aching left arm, Ushahin thrust aside the tapestry and plunged into the passageways.
FOR A MOMENT, THE SOURCE continued to surge upward in a blazing column.
The Bearer, Dani the Bearer with his cupped hands, stood within it; stood, and lived. Through the sheets of blue-white flame, his gaze met Tanaros’. His lips, cracked and parched, whispered a word.
“Uru-Alat!”
And then his hands parted and the Water of Life fell, splashing, slow and glistening. The scent of water filled the cavern, sweet and clean and unbearable, as though all the water in the world was gathered in the Bearer’s hands.
A handful; not even that, a scant mouthful.
It was enough.
The Source of the marrow-fire, the vast, roaring column of blue-white fire, winked out of existence. Tanaros, gaping, sword in hand, caught a final glimpse of the Bearer’s figure crumpling to the ground.
And then he was trapped in darkness beneath the bowels of Darkhaven.
The Source was gone.
The marrow-fire had been extinguished.
For the space of a dozen heartbeats, Tanaros saw only blackness. He sheathed his sword, hands moving blindly. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to this new darkness, and when they did, he saw that traceries remained. The blue-white veins within the stony walls lingered, their light ebbing. When the marrow-fire. is quenched and Godslayer is freed …
A new spasm of fear seized him. “Godslayer,” Tanaros said aloud.
“URU-ALAT.”
The word seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the World God’s name whispered in every corner of the Chamber, all at once a prayer, a plea, a promise. It carried the scent of water, overwhelming for a moment the sweet charnel reek of ichor.
In the center of the room, Satoris Third-Born lifted his mighty head.
“Now,” he said. “It is now.”
In the blink of an eye, the glittering Font vanished, plunging the Chamber into gloom. For the span of a breath, Godslayer seemed to hang in the darkling air above the hole where the Font had blazed, then it dropped, clattering off the stones that ringed the empty pit. There it lay, unharmed, its lucid crimson radiance beating vividly against the darkness.
An involuntary cry escaped Cerelinde’s lips. As swiftly as thought, she moved, darting toward the extinguished Font. All around her, shadows seethed. It seemed a penumbra of darkness gathered as the Shaper, too, moved forward. But if her mother was born to the House of Elterrion, her father was a scion of Numireth the Fleet, capable of outracing the darkness. Stooping, Cerelinde seized the rounded haft of the dagger.
Godslayer.
It throbbed against her palm, singing a wordless song of power that made the blood surge in her veins; a Shaper’s power, power she did not know how to use. It didn’t matter. It was a Shard of the Souma, and it had another purpose. Cerelinde straightened and whirled, prepared to fend off the Sunderer.
He had not moved.
“You see,” he murmured. “I kept my word.” He took a step toward her, turning his hands outward. “Finish your task.”
Although she could not have said for whom she wept, there were tears in her eyes, blurring her vision. Cerelinde tightened her grip on Godslayer’s haft. “Why?” she asked, her voice ragged with grief. “Why?”
The Shaper smiled. “All things must be as they must, little sister.”
He took another step forward and another, looming before her. The clean aroma of water had vanished, and the sweet, coppery scent of ichor filled her nostrils. A Shaper’s blood, spilled many Ages ago. An unhealing wound. Cerelinde raised the dagger between them. The Shard’s deadly edges glimmered with its own rubescent light. “Stay back!”
Satoris Third-Born shook his head. “One way or the other, you will give me what is mine.” He extended his hand as he had done once before, in the moon-garden. “How do you choose, daughter of Erilonde?”
Now, as then, there was no menace in the gesture; save that it asked Cerelinde to betray all that she knew, all that she held dear. The traceries of marrow-fire that illumed the walls of the Chamber dimmed but slowly, revealing the Shaper’s grave features. His empty hand was outstretched and the vast expanse of his breast was before her, immaculate and vulnerable, marrow-lit obsidian flesh. Godslayer throbbed in her hand, a reminder of the dream of the Rivenlost. The Souma made whole and Urulat healed, a world no longer Sundered.
Will you dare to become the thing you despise?
“Arahila forgive me!” Cerelinde gasped.
Raising the dagger high, she plunged it into the Shaper’s breast
It sank with sickening ease, driving hilt-deep. Her clenched knuckles brushed his immortal flesh, immortal no more. He cried out; only once, a cry of such anguish, terror, and relief that Cerelinde knew it would echo in her ears for the remainder of her days. For a moment they swayed, locked together; her hand on Godslayer’s hilt, the Shaper’s hands rising to cover hers.
Cerelinde saw things.
She saw the dawning of the world and the emergence of the Seven Shapers within it and understood that it was at once an ending and a beginning; the death of Uru-Alat and the birth of a vast divergence. She saw mountains arise and rivers burst forth. She watched the world grow green and fruitful. She beheld the Shapers at their labor, crafting their Children in love and pride. She saw Satoris Third-Born walking alone and without fear in the deep places of the earth, conversing with dragons.
And then she saw no more.
Godslayer’s hilt slipped from her grasp. In the Chamber of the Font, the Sunderer had fallen to his knees, was slumping sideways. The shadow of a smile still hovered on his lips. In his breast, the dagger pulsed like a dying star.
“So,” he whispered. “It begins anew.”
TANAROS WASTED NO TIME EXAMINING the inert form of the Bearer. The lad’s role was finished; it no longer mattered whether he lived or died. Moving swiftly in the dim light, Tanaros made his way to the outer wall of the chasm and began to climb.
If fear had impelled his descent, no word was large enough for the emotion that hastened his ascent. He was dizzy and unfeeling, his body numb with shock. His limbs moved by rote, obedient to his will, hauling him up the harsh crags until he reached the surface.
The passages behind the walls were growing dimmer, the veins of marrow-fire fading to a twilight hue. Tanaros paused to catch his breath and regain his sense of direction.
Then, he heard the cry.
It was a sound; a single sound, wordless. And yet it held in it such agony, and such release, as shook the very foundations of Darkh
aven. On and on it went, and there was no place in the world to hide from it. The earth shuddered, the floor of the passage grinding and heaving. Tanaros crouched beneath the onslaught of the sound, covering his ears, weeping without knowing why. Stray rocks and pebbles, loosened by the reverberations, showered down upon him.
Although it seemed as though the cry would never end, at last it did.
Tanaros found himself on his feet with no recollection of having risen. Drawing his black sword, he began running.
WITHIN TEN PACES, IT HAPPENED.
There was no warning, no sound; only a sudden dim coolness as the veins of marrow-fire that lit the passages dwindled in brightness and the temperature in the stifling passages plummeted. Elsewhere in the passageways, he could hear his distant madlings uttering sounds of dismay and fear. Somewhere, the horns of the Rivenlost were calling out in wild triumph. Above Darkhaven, the ravens wheeled in sudden terror. Ushahin shivered and pressed onward.
He was halfway to the Chamber of the Font when he heard the cry. It struck him like a blow, piercing him to the core. It was like no sound ever heard before on the face of Urulat, and he knew, with a horrible certainty, what it must portend. Ushahin stood, head bowed as rubble pelted him from above, his branded heart an agony within his hunched torso, arms wrapped around the useless case, and waited it out as another might outwait a storm.
Too late, always too late. The enemy was at the gate. The little weavers had completed their pattern. Haomane’s Prophecy hovered on the verge of fulfillment.
Everything he feared had come full circle.
Almost …
In the silence that followed, Ushahin Dreamspinner stirred his ill-set, aching limbs. Step by painful step, gaining speed as he went, he began to follow the faint echoes of his Lordship’s cry to their source.
TWENTY-FOUR
ENTERING THE CHAMBER OF THE Font at a dead run, Tanaros halted, brought up short by the sight before him. “No,” he said, uttering the word without thinking, willing it to be true, willing his denial to change what had happened and render it undone. “Ah, my Lord, no!”