“Yes.” Tanaros took a deep breath, the desert’s heat searing his lungs. “They’re very beautiful. She is very beautiful. Do you want to know how much?” He remembered Cerelinde in her chamber, the night he had bade her farewell, and how she had shone like a candle-flame, pale hair shining like a river against her jeweled robes as she turned away from him. Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. “So much that it hurts,” he said harshly. “So much it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us. We’re rough-hewn clay, Speros, a poor second next to her Elder Brother’s creation. So much it makes you despise Arahila for trying and falling so short, yet giving us the wit to know it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Speros glanced wryly at him. “Not exactly, my lord.”
“Well.” Despite himself, Tanaros smiled. The unfamiliar movement made the skin of his dry lips split. “You’ve seen Ushahin Dreamspinner.”
“No.” Speros shook his head. “I’ve only heard tales.”
“Ah.” Tanaros licked his split lip, tasting blood. “Well, he is a paltry, cracked mirror through which to behold the beauty of the Ellylon, but I imagine you’ll see him in time. And if the Dreamspinner isn’t Ellyl enough for you, unless I am much mistaken, you’ll encounter Ellylon aplenty on the battlefield, and be sorry you did, for they’re doughty fighters beneath their pretty hides.”
“Aye, Lord General.” For a few moments, the Midlander was silent. “I would like to see the Lady, though,” he mused. “Just to see her.”
Tanaros made no reply.
Speros glanced at him again. “Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?”
“No.” The word leapt too quickly from his cracked lips. Tanaros halted, rubbing his hands over his face. It felt gritty with sand and grime. His head ached from the effort of walking, from Speros’ questions, from too little food, and too much light. Once, in Beshtanag, he had welcomed the sight of it. Now he yearned for the dim, soothing light of Darkhaven, for the familiarity of its gleaming black walls and corridors. After the endless sunlight of the Unknown Desert, he wouldn’t be sorry if he never left the cloud-shrouded Vale of Gorgantum for another mortal lifespan. “Speros, save your breath. We’ve a long way to go yet today.”
“Aye, Lord General.”
This time the Midlander was properly subdued, and his silence lasted what Tanaros gauged to be the better part of a league. He set as brisk a pace as he dared, rendering further speech impossible. He wished he could outpace his own thoughts. There were too many words etched into his memory, chasing themselves around and around in his mind. Cerelinde’s voice, his Lordship’s, Ngurra’s … and now Speros’, his voice with its broad Midlands accent, asking a question in innocent curiosity.
Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?
The thought of it made his palms itch and bile rise in his throat. He remembered altogether too well how his wife’s face had looked in death; blind eyes staring, all her lively beauty turned to cold clay. Even in his fury it had sickened him. The thought of seeing Cerelinde thusly was unbearable.
He was glad when the landscape made one of its dull, inhospitable shifts from rippled sand to barren red earth, dotted here and there with thorn-brush. Loose rocks and scattered boulders made the footing tricky, and it was a relief to have to concentrate on the task of walking. Fetch’s shadow wavered on the uneven ground, then vanished as the raven veered westward, becoming a tiny black dot in the unbroken blue sky, then disappearing altogether. Tanaros led his company in the direction the raven had taken, keeping its flight-path fixed in his mind and placing his feet with care. There was little else to relieve the tedium. Once, a hopping-mouse broke cover under a thorn-brush, bounding into the open in unexpected panic.
With a grunt, one of the three remaining Gulnagel dropped his burden and gave chase, returning triumphant with a furry morsel clutched in his talons. Despite the fact that he was panting with the effort, he offered it to his general.
“No, Krolgun,” Tanaros said, remembering Freg, and how he had offered him a handful of termites. “It’s yours.” He looked away as the Fjel devoured it whole, hoping the scant nourishment was worth the effort.
Another hour, and another. Tanaros slowed their pace, scanning the skies with growing concern. He forgot to watch his steps, fixing his gaze on the sky. Had he kept their path true to the trajectory of Fetch’s flight? He thought so, but it was hard to tell in the featureless desert. They had been too long on the march, and their waterskins were dwindling toward empty. Nearby he could hear Krolgun still panting, his steps beginning to drag. The others were little better and, crane his neck though he would, there was no sign of the raven.
Only the empty blue skies, filled with the glare of Haomane’s Wrath.
“Lord General?” Speros’ voice, cracked and faint.
“Not now, Speros,” he said impatiently.
“Lord General!” The Midlander’s hand clutched his arm, dragging his attention from the empty skies. Speros’ mouth was working, though no further words emerged. With his other hand, he pointed westward, where a line of twisted forms broke the horizon. “Look!” he managed at length.
Frowning, Tanaros followed his pointing finger. “Are those … trees?”
“Aye!” Releasing his arm, Speros broke into a mad, capering dance. “Jack pines, Lord General!” he shouted. “Good old Midlands jack pines! General!” There were tears glistening in his eyes, running down his sunburnt face. “We’ve reached the edge!”
It was the Gulnagel who broke ranks with an exuberant roar, abandoning his command to race toward the distant treeline. What sparse reserves of energy the Lowland Fjel had hoarded, they expended all at once. Their packs bounced and clanked as they ran, powerful haunches propelling their massive bodies in swift bounds. With a wordless shout, Speros discarded his near-empty waterskins and followed them at a dead run, whooping in his cracked voice.
Four figures, three large and one small, raced across the barren landscape.
Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of Darkhaven, shook his head and hoped his army of four would not expire before reaching the desert’s edge. He gathered up Speros’ waterskins and settled them over his shoulder, then touched the hilt of the black sword that hung from his belt. It was still there, the echo of his Lordship’s blood whispering to his fingertips. Back on course, the compass of his branded heart contracted.
Westward.
He set out at a steady jog, watching the treeline draw nearer, watching the racing figures ahead of him stagger, faltering and slowing. It was farther than they thought, at least another league. Such was always the case. Though his feet were blistered and his boots were cracking at the heels, he wound his way across the stony soil and kept a steady pace, drawing abreast of them in time. He dispensed waterskins and an acerbic word of reprimand, accepted with chagrin. They kept walking.
Their steps grew heavier as they walked, all energy spent. Heavy, but alive.
Tanaros’ steps grew lighter, the nearer they drew.
Jack pines, stunted and twisted, marked the western boundary of the Unknown Desert. Beyond, sparse grass grew, an indication that the content of the soil was changing, scorched desert slowly giving way to the fertile territories of the Midlands.
In the shadow of the jack pines, Fetch perched on a needled branch, bobbing his head in triumphant welcome. His black eyes were bright, as bright as the reflection of sunlight on the trickling creek that fed the pines.