Such was the outcome of that embassy.
And seven years later, when a nameless half-breed boy, the shame of his family, starveling and ragged, was set upon and beaten in the marketplace of the capital city, who remarked it? When he staggered into the woods to die, the bones of his face shattered, his limbs crooked, his fingers broken and crippled, who remarked it?
Only the Grey Dam of the Were, still grieving for her slain mate, for her lost cubs, who claimed the misbegotten one for her own and named him in her tongue: Ushahin. And she reared him, and taught him the way of the Were, until Lord Satoris summoned him, and made of his skills a deadly weapon.
Tanaros watched the ravens, his raven. “Do you never yearn, cousin?”
“I yearn.” The half-breed’s voice was dry, colorless. “I yearn for peace, and a cessation to striving. For a world where the Were are free to hunt, as Oronin Last-Born made them, free of the encroachments of Men, cousin. I yearn for a world where ones such as I are left to endure as best we might, where no one will strike out against us in fear. Do you blame me for it?”
“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “I do not.”
For a moment, Ushahin’s face was vulnerable, raw with ancient pain. “Only Satoris has ever offered that hope. He has made it precious to me, cousin; this place, this sanctuary. Do you understand why I fear?”
“I understand,” Tanaros said, frowning. “Do you think I will fail his trust?”
“I do not say that,” the half-breed replied, hesitating.
Tanaros watched the raven Fetch, sidling cunningly along the low branch, bobbing his head at a likely female, keeping one eye cocked lest he, Tanaros, produce further gobbets of meat from his pouch. “Ravens mate for life, do they not, cousin?”
“Yes.” Ushahin’s eyes were wary.
“Like the Fjel.” Tanaros turned to face the Dreamspinner, squaring his shoulders. “You need not doubt me, cousin. I have given my loyalty to his Lordship; like the Fjeltroll, like the ravens, like the Were.” Beneath the scar of his branding, his heart expanded, the sturdy beating that had carried him through centuries continuing, onward and onward. “It is the only love that has never faltered.”
Love, yes.
He dared to use that word.
“You understand that what you see this night may pain you?” Ushahin asked gently. “It involves your kindred, and the sons of Altorus.”
“I understand.” Tanaros inclined his head. “And you, cousin? You understand that we are speaking of a union between Men and Ellylon?”
Ushahin grimaced, baring his even teeth. “I understand, cousin. All too well”
“Then we are in accord,” Tanaros said.
The raven Fetch chuckled deep in his throat, shifting from foot to foot.
Three were emerged from the dense forest at the base of Beshtanag Mountain, drifting out of the foliage like smoke. They rose from four legs to stand upon two, lean and rangy. Oronin’s Children, Shaped by the Glad Hunter himself. They were vaguely Man-shaped, with keen muzzles and amber eyes, their bodies covered in thick pelts of fur.
One among them stood a pace ahead of the others. He addressed Lilias in the Pelmaran tongue, a thick inflection shading his words. “Sorceress, I am the ambassador Kurush. On behalf of the Grey Dam Sorash, we answer your summons.”
“My thanks, Kurush.” Lilias inclined her head, aware of the weight of the Soumanië on her brow. Her Ward Commander, Gergon, and his men flanked her uneasily, hands upon weapons, watching the Were. In the unseen distance, somewhere atop the mountain, Calandor coiled in his cavern and watched, amusement in his green-slitted eyes. Lilias did not fear the Were. “I seek to affirm our pact.”
Kurush’s jaws parted in a lupine grin, revealing his sharp white teeth. “You have seen the red star.”
“I have,” she said.
“It is Haomane’s doing,” he said, and his Brethren growled low in their throats.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully. “It betokens trouble for those who do not abide by the Lord-of-Thought’s will.”
Kurush nodded toward the mountain with his muzzle. “Is that the wisdom of dragons?”
“It is,” Lilias said.
Turning to his Brethren, Kurush spoke in his own tongue, the harsh sounds falling strange on human ears. Lilias waited patiently. She did not take the alliance of the Were for granted. Once, the east had been theirs; until Men had come, claiming land, driving them from their hunting grounds. In the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, the Were had given their allegiance to Satoris Banewreaker, who held the whole of the west. Haomane’s Counselors had arrived from over the sea, bearing the three Soumanië and the weapons of Torath, the dwelling-place of the Six Shapers: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light, the Arrow of Fire.
There had been war, then, war as never before. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only the Dwarfs, Yrinna’s Children, had taken no part in it, taking instead a vow of peace.
While Men, Ellylon and Fjel fought on the plains of Curonan, the Were had lain in wait, on the westernmost shore of Urulat—the last place they would be expected. When the ships of Dergail the Counselor and Cerion the Navigator made landfall, thinking to assail Satoris from the rear, the full force of the Were met them and prevailed. Dergail flung himself into the sea, and his Soumanië and the Arrow of Fire were lost. Cerion the Navigator turned his ships and fled, vanishing into the mists of Ellylon legend.
And yet it was no victory.
If the Were had remained in the west, perhaps. Though Satoris had been wounded and forced to take refuge in the Vale of Gorgantum, there he was unassailable. But no, Oronin’s Children returned east to the forests of their homeland, flowing like a grey tide, and the wrath of Men was against them, for Haomane’s Counselors and the army of Men and Ellylon they led had failed, too. And Men, always, increased in number, growing cunning as they learned to hunt the hunters; waiting until spring to stalk Were-cubs in their dens, while their dams and sires foraged.
Not in Beshtanag. Many centuries ago, Lilias had made a pact with the Grey Dam, the ruler of the Were. Oronin’s Children hunted freely in the forests of Beshtanag. In return, they held its outer borders secure.
Concluding his discussion with his Brethren, the ambassador Kurush dropped into a crouch. Gergon ordered his wardsmen a protective step closer to Lilias, and the two Brethren surged forward a pace.
“Hold, Gergon.” Lilias raised her hand, amused. It had been more than a mortal lifetime since she had cause to summon the Were. Betimes, she forgot how short-lived her Ward Commanders were. “The ambassador Kurush does but speak to the Grey Dam.”
With a dubious glance, Gergon shrugged. “As my lady orders.”
Kurush crouched, lowering his head. His taloned hands dug into the forest loam, the lean blades of his shoulders protruding like grey-furred wings. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites, as he communed with the Grey Dam.
Oronin’s Children possessed strange magics.
A gratifyingly short time passed before Kurush relaxed and stood. With another sharp grin he extended his hand. “Yea,” he said. “The Grey Dam Sorash accedes.”
Lilias clasped his hairy hand. His pads were rough against her palm and his claws scratched lightly against the back of her hand. She recited the ritual words of their alliance. “Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine.”
“My enemies shall be thine, and thy enemies shall be mine,” Kurush echoed.
Dipping his muzzle to her, the Were ambassador turned, his Brethren following. In the space of a few heartbeats, they had melted back into the forest from which they had come. The pact had been affirmed. Beshtanag’s defenses were secure.