“Yes,” Tanaros said softly, as he had done many times before, with this lad and others. “It was tempered in the marrow-fire, and cooled in his blood.”
The madling cradled the hand that had touched it. “His blood!” he crowed.
“His blood,” Tanaros agreed, rising to his feet, kneejoints popping at the effort. Always, it was so; the young men, the youths, drawn to the blade.
“Enough!” Emboldened by the success of her mission, Meara put her hands upon her hips, surveying Tanaros’ quarters, finding nothing amiss. “Will you want a bath, Lord General?”
“Later,” Tanaros said. The odor of mutton roast teased the air and his stomach rumbled at it. “Later will suffice.”
She gave a firm nod. “Ludo will bring it.”
“Thank you, Meara.” Tanaros made her a courtly halfbow. She shuddered, a rictus contorting her face, then whirled, summoning the others.
“Come! You and you, and you. Algar, pick up the Lord General’s greaves. Come, quickly, and let the Lord General eat!”
Tanaros watched them go, hurrying under Meara’s command, laden with their burdens. Where did Ushahin find them? The unwanted, the misbegotten, the castoffs of Urulat. Damaged at birth, many of them—slow, simple, illformed. Others, the world had damaged; the world, and the cruelty of Men and the Lesser Shapers. Beaten by jealous lovers, shaken by angry parents, ravaged by conquest, they were victims of life, of circumstance or simple accident, fallen and half-drowned, until wits were addled or sanity snapped like a fine thread and darkness clouded their thoughts.
No wonder Ushahin Dreamspinner loved them.
And in their dreams, he summoned them, calling them to sanctuary in Darkhaven. All through the ages, they had come; singly, in pairs, in groups. In this place, they were sacrosanct. Lord Satoris had decreed it so, long, long ago, upon the day Ushahin had sworn the allegiance of his branding. No one was to harm them, upon pain of death.
Vorax had his indulgences.
Tanaros had his army.
Ushahin had his madlings.
Mutton roast steamed as Tanaros removed the covering domes and sat to his dinner. He carved a slab of meat with his sharp knife, juices pooling on the plate. The tubers were flaky; and there were spring peas, pale green and sweet. Sane or no, the madlings of Darkhaven could cook. Tanaros chewed slowly and swallowed, feeling the day’s long efforts—the long efforts of a too-long life—settle wearily into his bones.
A warm bath would be good.
“Well done, cousin.”
A voice, light and mocking. Tanaros opened his eyes to see Ushahin in his drawing-room. The wicks had burned low, but even so the lamplight was less kind to the half-breed, showing up his mismatched features. One cheekbone, broken, sank too low; the other rode high, knotted with old pain.
“Do you jest, cousin?” Tanaros yawned, pushing himself upright in the chair. “How came you here?”
“By the door.” The Dreamspinner indicated it with a nod of his sharp chin. “I jest not at all. Readiness, our Lord asked of us; readiness, you have given, Tanaros Blacksword. A pity you do not ward your own quarters so well.”
“Should I not trust to the security of Darkhaven, that I myself have wrought? You make mock of me, cousin.” Tanaros stifled a second yawn, blinking to clear his wits. A bath had made him drowsy, and he had dozed in his chair. “What do you seek, Dreamspinner?”
The half-breed folded his knees, dropping to sit cross-legged on Tanaros’ carpet. His mismatched gaze was disconcertingly level. “Malthus is plotting something.”
“Aye,” Tanaros said. “A wedding.”
“No.” Ushahin shook his head, lank silver-gilt hair stirring. “Something more.”
Tanaros was awake, now. “You’ve heard it in the dreams of Men?”
“Would that I had.” The Dreamspinner propped his chin on folded hands, frowning. “A little, yes. Only a little. Malthus the Counselor keeps his counsel well. I know only that he is assembling a Company, and it has naught to do with the wedding.”
“A Company?” Tanaros sat a little straighter.
“Blaise of the Borderguard is to be in it,” Ushahin said softly, watching him. “Altorus’ second-in-command. He has dreamed of it. He’s your kinsman, is he not?”
“Aye.” Tanaros’ jaw clenched and he reached, unthinking, for the rhios in the pocket of his dressing-robe. The smooth surfaces of it calmed his mind. “Descended on my father’s side. They are mounting an attack on Darkhaven? Even now?”
“No.” Ushahin noted his gesture, but did not speak of it. “That’s the odd thing, cousin. It’s naught to do with us, or so it would seem”
“The Sorceress?” Tanaros asked.
Ushahin shrugged unevenly. “She holds one of the Soumanië, which Malthus the Counselor would like to reclaim. Beyond that, I cannot say. Those who have been chosen do not know themselves. I know only that a call has gone out to Arduan, to ask the mightiest of their archers to join the Company.”
“Arduan,” Tanaros said slowly. Relinquishing the rhios, he ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his bath. The Archers of Arduan, which lay along the northern fringes of the Delta, were renowned for their skill with the bow. “Does his Lordship know?”
“Yes.” Ushahin’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “He knows.”
The taste of fear was back in Tanaros’ mouth, the triumph of the day’s exercise forgotten. “Does he think it has to do with—”
“The lost weapon of the Prophecy?” the half-breed asked bluntly. “How not?”
Both were silent, at that.
Dergail’s Soumanië had risen in the west.
Dergail the Counselor had been one of three, once; three that Haomane First-Born had sent against Satoris in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World. And he had been armed, as they all had. Armed with the Soumanië, polished chips of the Souma with the force to Shape the world itself—and armed also with weapons of Haomane’s devising. One, they knew well; the Helm of Shadows, that Ardrath the Counselor had borne, which had fallen into Lord Satoris’ grasp, and been changed. One other, they knew and feared; the Spear of Light, that Malthus had hidden.
But the last was the Arrow of Fire, that had vanished when Dergail was defeated and flung himself into the sea, and no one knew where it was.
“Ravens bore it away,” Tanaros said at length. “Do they know?”
Ushahin shook his head again. “They are as they are, cousin,” he said; gently, for him. “Brief lives, measured against ours; a dark flash of feathers in the sun. They do not know. Nor do the Were, who remember. Ravens bore it east, but it did not reach the fastholds of Pelmar.”
When it came to the Were, Ushahin alone among Men—or Ellylon—would know. Oronin’s Children had raised him, when no one else would. Tanaros considered. “Then Malthus knows,” he said.
“Malthus suspects,” Ushahin corrected him. “And plots accordingly.”
Tanaros spread his hands. “As it may be. I command troops, cousin. What would you have me do?”
“Do?” The half-breed grinned, his mood as mercurial as one of his madlings. “Why, cousin, do as you do! I have come to tell you what I know, and that I have done. You spoke, also, of ravens.”
“Ravens.” Tanaros smiled. “Is it time?”
“Time, and more.” Ushahin uncoiled from the carpet, straightening as he rose. “There is a wedding afoot, after all, and the ravens have come home to roost, with their eyes filled with visions. Your friend is among them. Will you come with me to the rookery on the morrow, ere his Lordship summons them?”
“I will,” Tanaros said, “gladly.”