The Galäinridder.
Such was the word in the Staccian tongue; such was the image that disturbed their dreams, filtering its way from the mountains to the plains, distant as a dream. A rider, a warrior; the Shining Paladin, who rode upon a horse as white as the foam on the crest of a wave. Although his hands were empty, brightness blazed from his robes and the clear gem upon his breast, which shone like a star. His beard crackled with lightning, and power hung in every syllable of the terrible words he spoke, catching their consciences and playing on their fears of Haomane’s Wrath.
Ushahin frowned.
What he had found, he did not like; what he had failed to find, he liked less. Where, in all of this, was the Bearer? A little Charred lad, accompanied only by his mortal kin. He should have been easy to find, his terrors setting the world of dreams ablaze. Only Malthus’ power had protected him, enfolding him in a veil. If the Counselor were truly trapped in the dying Marasoumië, his power should be failing, exposing the Bearer. Yet … it was not.
“Malthus,” Ushahin whispered. “Galäinridder.”
East of Seahold, his thoughts turned. Was it Haomane’s Counselor they feared? He would give them something better to fear, the grief of their mortal guilt, come back to turn their dreams into nightmares. Ushahin’s lips twisted into the bitter semblance of a smile. Were Arahila’s Children so sure of right and wrong? So. Let their nights be filled with mismatched eyes and shattered bone, the terrible sight of a rock held in a child’s fist, descending in a crushing blow.
Let them awake in the cold sweat of terror, and wonder why.
The flying wedge of ravens altered its course, forging a new path through the twilight, in the borderlands between waking and sleeping. One heel nudged his mount’s flank, the rope rein of the hackamore lying against a foam-flecked neck. Obedient, the blood-bay swerved; obedient, the riderless horses followed, shadowing his course.
Together, they plunged into the Midlands.
“They are coming, Vorax.”
“Very good, my Lord.” If he had thought it hot in the Throne Hall, it was nothing to the Chamber of the Font. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging the half-healed blisters he had sustained in the burning rain. Vorax swiped at it with a gauntleted hand, which only made it worse.
“Do you hear me?” Lord Satoris, pacing the perimeter of the Font, gave him a deep look. “Ushahin Dreamspinner comes. Tanaros Blacksword comes. It is only a matter of time. My Three shall be together once more, and then my Elder Brother’s Allies shall tremble.”
“Aye, my Lord.” He tugged his jeweled gorget, wishing he were not wearing ceremonial armor. It would have been better to meet in the Throne Hall. At least his Lordship had not donned the Helm of Shadows. It sat in its niche on the wall, the empty eyeholes measuring his fear. He was glad nothing worse filled it, and glad he had not had to wear it himself since the day Satoris had destroyed the Marasoumië. Still, it stank of his Lordship’s unhealing wound in the Chamber, a copper-sweet tang, thick and cloying, and Vorax wished he were elsewhere. “As you say. I welcome their return. Is there something you wish me to do in preparation?”
“No.” Lord Satoris halted, staring into the coruscating heart of the Font. His massive hands, hanging empty at his sides, twitched as if to pluck Godslayer from its blue-white fire. “What news,” he asked, “from Staccia?”
Vorax shook his head, droplets of sweat flying. “No news.”
“So,” the Shaper said. His head bowed and his fingertips twitched. But for that, he stood motionless, contemplating the Shard. Dark ichor gleaming on one thigh, seeping downward in a slow rill to pool on the flagstones. “No news.”
“No news,” Vorax echoed, feeling a strange twinge in his branded heart. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but I’m sure naught is amiss. It will take some time, finding a pair of errant mortals in all of the northlands. We expected no less.” He paused. “Shall I send another company? Do you wish me to lead one myself? I am willing, of course.”
“ … no.” Lord Satoris shook his head, frowning. “I cannot spare you, Vorax. Not now. When Tanaros returns … perhaps. And yet, I am disturbed. There is … something. A bright mist clouds my vision. I do not know what it means.”
Vorax scratched at his beard. “Have you … ?” He nodded at Godslayer.
“Yes.” The Shaper’s frown deepened, and he continued to gaze fixedly at the dagger, hanging pulsing and rubescent in the midst of the blazing Font. “to no avail. If something has passed elsewhere in Urulat, it is a thing not even the Souma may show me. And I am troubled by this. Godslayer has never failed me, when I dared invoke its powers in full. Not upon Urulat’s soil.”
“Break it,” Vorax shrugged. “Maybe it’s time. It would solve a lot of problems.”
The words were out of his mouth before he knew he meant to speak them. In the brief, shocked silence that ensued, he knew it for a mistake. Certain things that might be thought should never be spoken aloud, not even by one of the Three.
“What?” Lord Satoris’ head rose, and he seemed to gather height and mass in the sweltering Chamber. He took a step forward, hands clenching. The flagstones shuddered under his feet. Overhead, massive beams creaked. Shadows roiled around Satoris’ shoulders and red fury lit his eyes. “WHAT?”
“My Lord!” He backed across the Chamber and raised his gauntleted hands; half pleading, half placating. “Forgive me! I am thinking of us, of all of us … of you, my Lord! If Godslayer were shattered, if it were rendered into harmless pieces … why, it would no longer be a threat, and … and the Prophecy itself couldn’t be fulfilled!”
“Do you think so?” The Shaper advanced, step by thunderous step.
“I, no … aye, my Lord!” Vorax felt the edge of a stair against his heel, and retreated up one spiraling step, then another, and another. He was sweating under his armor, sweat running in rivulets. “It could be like the Soumanië!” he breathed, clutching at the idea. “A piece for each of us, for each of the Three, and we could wield them in your defense, aye; and the largest one for you, of course! We would have more than they, yet no piece keen nor large enough, no dagger left to, to …” His words trailed off as Lord Satoris reached the base of the stair, leaning forward and planting his enormous hands on either side of it. His dark face was on a level with Vorax’s, eyes blazing like embers. The reek of his blood hung heavy in the close air.
“To slay a Shaper,” Lord Satoris said. “Is that it? Only pieces, broken pieces of the Souma. Is that what you propose, my Staccian?”
“Aye!” Vorax almost laughed with relief, wiping his brow. “Aye,my Lord.”
“Fool!”
For a long moment, his Lordship’s eyes glared into his, measuring the breadth and depth of his loyalty. A miasma of heat emanated from his body, as if Haomane’s Wrath still scorched him. It seemed like an eternity before the Shaper turned away, pacing back toward the Font. When he did, Vorax sagged on the spiral stairway, damp and exhausted.
“It is Godslayer that keeps my Elder Brother at bay,” Satoris said without looking at him. “Have you never grasped that, Staccian? Because it is capable of slaying a Shaper. That which renders me vulnerable is the shield that protects all of Darkhaven. Without it, Haomane would have no need to work through Prophecy, using mortal hands as his weapons.” His voice held a grim tone. “Do you think the gap that Sunders our world is so vast? It is nothing. The Lord-of-Thought could abandon Torath and cross it in an instant, bringing all of my siblings with him onto Urulat’s soil. But he will not,” he added, reaching one open hand into the Font to let the blue-white flames of the marrow-fire caress it, “nor will they, while I hold this.”