His hand closed on Godslayer’s hilt. Vorax’s heart convulsed within its brand, sending a shock of ecstatic pain through his flesh. Halfway up the winding stair, he went heavily to one knee, feeling the bruising impact through his armor. “Aye, my Lord,” he said dully. “I am a fool.”
“Yes,” Satoris murmured, contemplating the dagger. “But a loyal one, or so I judge.” He released the hilt, leaving the Shard in the Font. “Ah, Haomane!” he mused. “Would I slay you if I had the chance? Or would I sue for peace, if I held the dagger at your throat? It has been so long, so long. I do not even know myself.” Remembering Vorax, he glanced over his shoulder. “Begone,” he said. “I will speak to you anon, my Staccian. When my Three are united.”
“Aye, my Lord.” He clambered to his feet with difficulty, and bowed. “I will await your pleasure.” There was no response. Vorax grunted with relief and turned around, making his way up the spiral stair. He kept one gauntleted hand on the glimmering onyx wall, steadying himself until he reached the three-fold door at the top of the stair.
Which way? The Staccian hesitated. The door to the right was his door, leading through the back passages of Darkhaven to his own quarters. He thought of them with longing ; of their rich appointments, booty gained by right of spoil over the centuries. All his things were there, all his luxuries.
No. It was too soon. He stank of fear and dripped with sweat under his armor, and he did not want to bring it into his quarters. That had been a bad misstep in the Chamber. He needed to walk the back ways, to clear his mind and temper his heat.
There was the middle door; Tanaros’ door.
No. He did not wish to meet Tanaros Blacksword’s Fjel guards upon emergence, and watch their nostrils widen at his stink. Not now.
Vorax laid his gauntleted hand upon the left door, Ushahin’s door. Recognizing his touch as one of the Three, the veins of marrow-fire within it brightened. It swung open, then closed behind him as he stepped through it, sealing without a trace.
The air was markedly cooler, and he breathed it in with gratitude, letting his eyes adjust to new darkness. Only a faint trace of the marrow-fire lit his way, veins buried deep in the walls. Sounds filled the dark corridors; Ushahin’s madlings, scratching, babbling, scrambling. Vorax smiled, setting out in the direction of the sounds.
The Dreamspinner’s folk understood fear. They would forgive.
How many years had it been since he had ventured into Ushahin’s passageways? He could not remember. Ten? More like fifty, or a hundred even. There had been no cause, during the long years of peace; or neutrality, which passed for peace. While Haomane’s Allies sulked and left Lord Satoris unmolested, the Three tended to their separate ways, keeping Darkhaven’s affairs in order. Vorax limped on his bruised knee and counted his strides, one hand hovering over his hilt. At a hundred paces, the corridor forked. He paused, listening, then took the right fork.
It forked, again and again.
Vorax followed the voices.
It was the Fjel who had built Darkhaven, in accordance with his Lordship’s design; but these passages were not built to a Fjel’s scale. They were behind the walls, the province of rats and scuttling madlings. Rats, Vorax had expected. He was amazed at the progress Ushahin’s madlings had made; widening breaches in the masonry to open connections between passages where none were meant to exist, forging exits and entrances where none were intended. There was no danger to his Lordship, of course; no madling would touch dare the three-fold door and risk his wrath. Still, it made him uneasy to think how extensively they had penetrated the fortress. He wondered if Ushahin knew.
At one point he encountered a deep chasm in a passageway, and had to sidle across the verge of it on his heels, both hands outflung to grasp the dimly veined walls, toes hanging out over empty nothingness. His knees creaked with the effort of balancing. Pausing to steady his nerves, Vorax looked down, gazing past his boot-tips. Dry heat blasted upward in a column.
The chasm went down and down, deeper than a mineshaft. Somewhere, far below, was a flickering light cast by blue-white flames and a roar like that of a distant forest fire, or dragons. Vorax shuddered, and edged clear of the chasm, back onto solid ground. That was no work of madlings. He wondered what fault in Darkhaven’s foundation had permitted the chasm to open. It was as close as any man should get to the Source; and a far sight closer than any Staccian ought. He’d had enough infernal heat to last him an immortal lifetime. It was cool in Staccia.
Betimes, he missed it.
Perhaps, when this latest threat had passed, it would be time to consider passing on his mantle. To retire to a pleasant estate, where the sun shone in a blue sky over a white, wintery landscape, and the wolf tracked the hare through new-fallen snow. He could continue his duties in Staccia, binding the earls and barons in fealty, negotiating lines of supply and men for Darkhaven, negotiating the companionship of their pretty younger daughters for himself, spinning out his days in soft, blissful comfort, freed from the constraints of his vow-branded flesh to age his way into easeful death, pillowing his head in the laps of Staccian maidens. It was not a bad idea, after all, to have a presence in Staccia. It had been too long since he had made himself known there.
The path took an upward turn. Trudging doggedly up the steep incline, he tried to imagine if his Lordship would ever agree to such a thing. He rather thought not. After all, Staccia’s very peace and prosperity were dependent upon the bargain Vorax had struck with his Lordship so many years ago. He had not imagined, then, that there could ever come a day when immortality would become burdensome.
Ah, well. It was a pleasant thought.
Ahead, voices echoed; a madlings’ clamor, but with something else running through it, a single voice like a silver thread. The incline had ended at last, the path level beneath his feet. Frowning, Vorax quickened his stride. There was light ahead; not marrow-fire, but candlelight, warm and golden. Through a narrowing passage, he glimpsed it. He picked his way with care, easing shoulder-first into the gap. His armor scraped along the rocks, getting scratched and dented in the process.
Unexpectedly, the passage widened.
Vorax stumbled into open space, catching himself. It was a rough-hewn chamber, a natural space vastened by the efforts of a hundred generations chipping at the stone walls. Everywhere, butt-ends of tallow candles burned, wedged into every available niche and crevice. Scraps and oddments of carpet covered the floor, and the walls were covered with scratched messages; some legible, most a garble of words. There must have been a dozen madlings gathered, light glimmering from their eyes. All of them whispered, hissing and muttering to one another.
One was kneeling before the figure who stood in the center of the chamber, grimy fingers plucking at the hem of her blue robe as he raised a face filled with hope. “Me?” he said. “Me? Lady see me?”
The Lady Cerelinde bent her head, cupping the madling’s face with both hands. Her hair spilled forward, shimmering in the candlelight, veiling her features. “Ludo,” she said softly, her silvery voice ringing. “You were a wheelwright’s son. I see you, Ludo. I see what might have been. I see you with a plump wife, smiling, and laughing children chasing one another in your father’s yard.”