“Is he … dead?” A soft voice, an unplaceable accent.
“No.”
A face hovered above him; young and dark, rough-hewn, with wide-set eyes. Sunlight made a nimbus of his coarse black hair and an earthenware flask dangled around his neck, swinging in the air above Carfax.
“Stand back, Dani.” It was a weary shadow of the Counselor’s voice. “It may yet be a trap.”
The face withdrew. A boot-tip prodded his side. “Shall I finish him?”
“No.” Unseen, Malthus the Counselor drew a deep breath. “We’ll bring him with us. Let me regain a measure of strength, and I’ll place a binding upon him. There may be aught to learn from this one.”
Unable even to blink, Carfax knew despair.
Madlings skittered along the Halls of Darkhaven, their soft voices echoing in counterpoint to the steady tramp of the Fjel escort’s feet. Old and young, male and female, they crept almost near enough to touch the hem of the Lady Cerelinde’s cloak before dashing away in an ecstasy of terror.
It had been a long time, Tanaros realized, since he’d seen Darkhaven through an outsider’s eyes. It must seem strange and fearful.
Inward and inward wound their course, through hallways that spiraled like the inner workings of a nautilus shell. There were other passageways, of course; secret ones, doors hidden in alcoves, behind tapestries, in cunning reliefs. Some were in common usage, like those that led to the kitchens. Some were half-forgotten, and others existed only as rumor. Madlings used many, of course, taking care not to be seen. Vorax disdained them, and Ushahin preferred them. Tanaros used them at need. The Fjel used them not at all, for the passages were too winding and narrow to admit them. No one knew all their secrets.
Only Lord Satoris, who conceived them—or their beginnings.
And so the main halls spiraled, vast curving expanses of polished black marble, lit only by the veins of marrow-fire along the walls. It was a winding trap for would-be invaders, Fjel guards posted at regular intervals like hideous statues. It should have awed even the Lady of the Ellylon.
Tanaros stole a sidelong glance at her to see if it did.
There were tears in her luminous eyes. “So many!” she whispered, and he thought she meant the Fjel again; then he saw how her gaze fell on the madlings. She paused, one hand extended, letting them draw near enough to touch and turning a reproachful look upon him. “Merciful Arahila! What manner of cruelty is this, Tanaros? What has been done to these folk?”
“Done?” He stared at her. “They sought sanctuary here.”
“Sanctuary?” Her brows, shaped like birds’ wings, rose. “From what?”
“From the world’s cruelty, which drove them to madness.” Tanaros reached out, grabbing the arm of the nearest madling; by chance, it was one he knew. A woman, young when she came to Darkhaven, elderly now, with a birthmark like a dark stain that covered half her wrinkled face. “This, my Lady, is Sharit. Her parents sold her into marriage to a man who was ashamed of her, and beat her for his shame. Do you see, here?” He touched her skull beneath wispy hair, tracing a dent. “He flung her against a doorjamb. Here, no one will harm her, on pain of death. Is that cruelty?”
“You’re frightening her,” Cerelinde said softly.
It was true. Repentant, he released the madling. Sharit keened, creeping to crouch at Cerelinde’s skirts, fingers plucking. The Mørkhar escort waited, eyeing Tanaros. “I didn’t mean to,” he said.
“I know.” She smiled kindly at the madling, laying a gentle hand on the withered cheek, then glanced at Tanaros. “Very well. I do not deny the world’s cruelty, General. But your Lord, were he compassionate, could have healed her suffering. You said as much; he offered to heal the half-breed.” Her delicate fingers stroked Sharit’s birthmark, and the madling leaned into her touch. “He could have made her beautiful.”
“Like you?” Tanaros asked quietly.
Cerelinde’s hands fell still. “No,” she said. “Like you.”
“Like Arahila’s Children. Not Haomane’s.” Shifting the Helm of Shadows under one arm, Tanaros stooped, meeting the old woman’s eyes. They were milky with cataracts, blinking under his regard. “You don’t understand,” he said to Cerelinde, gazing at Sharit. “To Lord Satoris, she is beautiful.”
There was magic in the words, enough to summon a smile that broke like dawn across the withered face. Taking his hand, she rose, proceeding down the hall with upright dignity.
Tanaros bowed to Cerelinde.
Her chin lifted a notch. “It would still be kinder to heal her. Do you deny it?”
“You have charged my Lord with Sundering the world,” he said. “Will you charge him now with healing it?”
One of the Mørkhar shifted position, coughing conspicuously into a taloned fist.
“It’s in his power, Tanaros.” Passion and a light like hope lit Cerelinde’s eyes. “It is, you know! Did he but surrender to Haomane and abide his will—”
Tanaros laughed aloud. “And Haomane’s Children accuse his Lordship of pride! Be sure to tell him that, Lady.”
She drew her cloak around her. “I shall.”
Ushahin Dreamspinner stepped as lightly as any Ellyl under the canopy of beech leaves, grown thicker and darker with the advent of summer. Setting loose his awareness, he let it float amid the trunks and branches, using the ancient magic the Grey Dam Sorash had taught him so long ago.
Ah, mother!
Tiny sparks of mind were caught in his net; feathered thoughts, bright-eyed and darting. One, two, three … five. Folding his legs, Ushahin sat in the beech loam, asking and waiting. What is it, little brothers? What has befallen your kin?
A raven landed on a nearby branch, wiped its beak twice.
Another sidled close.
Three perched on the verge of an abandoned nest.
Thoughts, passed from mind to mind, flickered through his awareness. Not a thing seen, no; none who had seen lived to show what had happened in the dark shimmering of the Ravensmirror. Only these traces remained, drifting like down in the flock’s awareness. Marshes, an endless plain of sedge grass. A high draft, warm under outspread wings. A target found, a goal attained. One two three four seven, circling lower, a good draft, good to catch, wings tilting, still high, so high, only close enough to see—
Arrow!
Arrow!
Arrow!
And death, sharp-pointed and shining, arcing from an impossible distance; the thump of death, a sharp blow to the breast, a shaft transfixed, wings failing, a useless plummet, down and down and down, blue sky fading to darkness, down and down and down—
Earthward.
Death.
The memory of the impact made his bones ache. Ushahin opened his eyes. The living ravens watched him, carrying the memories of their fallen brethren, waiting and wondering. I am sorry, little ones. It was dangerous, more dangerous than I reckoned. Malthus was clever to bring an Archer.
What was the Company of Malthus doing in the Vedasian marshes?
Ushahin stared at the cloud-heavy sky, seen in glimpses through the beech canopy. It was early yet, too early for the dreams of Men to be abroad. He sighed, flexing his crippled hands. Tonight, then. When the moon rode high over the Vale of Gorgantum, darkness would be encroaching on the marshes.
Time to walk in their dreams.
The doors to the Throne Hall stood three times higher than a tall man, wrought of hammered iron. On them was depicted the War of the Shapers.