It was a pity Haomane First-Born had never known humility. Perhaps he would not be so jealous of his station, so quick to wrath, if he were humbled. Perhaps, after all, it was Lord Satoris’ destiny to do so.
He wondered how he could ever have believed in Haomane’s benevolence. Surely it must be the power of the Souma. But as long as Lord Satoris opposed him with Godslayer in his possession, Haomane could not wield its full might. And Tanaros meant to do all in his power to aid his Lordship. Perhaps, one day, he might be healed, and Urulat with him.
O my Lord, he thought, my Lord! Let me be worthy of your choosing.
“Blacksword.”
A dry voice, dry as the Unknown Desert. Ushahin Dreamspinner, seated cross-legged under a beech tree, still as the forest. Lids parted, mismatched eyes cracked open. Sticky lashes, parched lips.
“Cousin,” Tanaros said. “You wished to see me?”
“Aye.” Dry lips withdrew from teeth. “Did you see the ravens?”
“Ravens?” Tanaros glanced about with alarm. The rookery was sparsely populated, but that was not unusual. It was more seldom than not that he espied his tufted friend. “Is it Fetch? Has something happened to him?”
“No.” The half-breed rested his head against a beech bole. “Your feathered friend is safe, for the nonce. He keeps watch, with others, on Haomane’s Allies as they make ready to depart for Pelmar. But something has happened.”
Tanaros seated himself opposite the Dreamspinner, frowning. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Ushahin grimaced, raising crooked fingers to his temples. “Therein lies the problem, cousin. All I can do is put a name to it.”
“And the name?” A chill tickled Tanaros’ spine.
“Malthus.”
One word; no more, and no less. They gazed at one another, knowing as did few on Urulat what it betokened. Malthus the Counselor was Haomane’s weapon, and where he went, ill followed for those who opposed him.
“How so?” Tanaros asked softly.
Ushahin gave his hunch-shouldered shrug. “If I knew, cousin, I would tell you, and his Lordship, too. All I know is that Malthus’ Company entered the Unknown Desert. Some days past, they emerged. And they brought someone—and something—with them.”
“Bound for Darkhaven?”
“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “They went east That’s what worries me.”
“Toward Pelmar?” Tanaros relaxed. “Then Malthus himself has bought our gambit, and there is no cause for fear—”
“Not Pelmar.” The half-breed tilted his head, the dim, patterned shadow of beech leaves marking his misshapen face. “Malthus’ Company is bound for Vedasia.”
There was a pause, then.
“Send your ravens,” Tanaros suggested.
Ushahin spared him a contemptuous glance. “I did. Three I sent, and three are dead, strung by their feet from an Arduan saddlebag. And now, the circle has closed tight around Malthus’ Company, and there is no mind open to me. I cannot find them. I do not like it. Who and what did Malthus bring out of the Unknown Desert?”
Both of them thought, without saying it, of the Prophecy.
“Does his Lordship know?” Tanaros asked.
Dabbling his fingers in the beech mast, Ushahin frowned. “What he fears, he does not name. And yet I think some part of it is unknown to him, for the desert was much changed by Haomane’s Wrath.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Sitting on the soft ground, Tanaros squared his shoulders. “We’ve already thwarted the first part. The daughter of Elterrion’s line is in our keeping, and the son—” his voice grew hard, “—the son of Altorus’ line is bound for Pelmar at the head of a doomed army.” Crooked lips smiled without humor. “Then why is Malthus bound for Vedasia?”
“Would that I knew. But I am a military strategist, not a spymaster, cousin.” Tanaros unfolded his legs and stood, placing a hand in the small of his back, feeling stiff joints pop. Sparring with the young Midlander had taken its toll. “What, then, does his Lordship say?”
“Watch,” Ushahin said flatly, “and wait. Report.”
“Well, then.” Tanaros nodded, half to himself, gazing about the rookery. Haphazard nests rested in the crooks of trees, a dark flurry of twigs protruding. Which one, he wondered, belonged to Fetch? “I can advise you no better, Dreamspinner. Watch, and wait. Learn what you may. In the meantime, I must bring our forces to readiness and plot our course through the Marasoumië. When your knowledge impinges on the disposition of the army, alert me.”
Two strides he took; three, four, before Ushahin’s voice halted him.
“Tanaros?”
He looked small, seated under a beech tree; small and afraid.
“Aye, cousin?”
“He should kill her, you know.” Muscles worked in the half-breed’s throat as he swallowed. “Nothing’s done, nothing’s averted, while she lives.”
It was true. True and true and true, and Tanaros knew it.
Cerelinde.
“He won’t,” he whispered.
“I know.” Unexpected tears shimmered in the mismatched eyes. “There is hope in him; a Shaper’s hope, that would recreate the world in his image. If it comes to it … could you do it, Tanaros?”
On a branch, a raven perched. Twigs, protruding from a rough-hewn nest. The bird bent low, his head obscured by gaping beaks, coughed up sustenance from his craw. What manner was it? Earthworms, insects, carrion. Even here, life endured; regenerated and endured, life to life, earth to earth, flesh to flesh.
Cerelinde.
“I don’t know.”
The weather was balmy in Vedasia.
It was the thing, Carfax thought, that one noticed first; at least, one did if one was Staccian. Summer was a golden time in Staccia, with the goldenrod blooming around the shores of inland lakes and coating the harsh countryside in yellow pollen. It was nothing to this. This, this was sunlight dripping like honey, drenching field and orchard and olive grove in a golden glow, coaxing all to surrender their bounty. Fields of wheat bowed their gold-whiskered heads, melons ripened on the vine, the silvery-green leaves of olive trees rustled and boughs bent low with the weight of swelling globes of apple and pear. This was the demesne of Yrinna-of-the-Fruits, Sixth-Born among Shapers.
They had gained the Traders’ Route shortly after entering Vedasia proper and Carfax’s skin prickled as they rode, knowing himself deep in enemy territory. It was a wonder, though, how few folk noted aught awry. Children, mostly. They stared wide-eyed, peering from behind their mothers’ skirts, from the backboards of passing wagons. They pointed and whispered; at the Charred Folk, mostly, but also at the others.
What, he wondered, did they see?
A grey-beard in scholar’s robes, whose eyes twinkled beneath his fiercesome brows; Malthus, it seemed, had a kindness for children. A frowning Borderguardsman in a dun cloak. An Ellyl lordling, whose light step left no trace on the dusty road. An Arduan woman in men’s attire, her longbow unstrung at her side. A young knight sweating in full Vedasian armor.
A man with nut-brown skin and a rounded belly.
A nut-brown boy with wide dark eyes and a flask about his neck.
They sang as they traveled, the Charred Folk. Monotonously, incessantly. Thulu, the fat one, sang in a bass rumble. Sometimes Carfax listened, and heard in it the deep tones of water passing through subterranean places, of hidden rivers and aquifers feeding the farthest-reaching roots of the oldest trees. The boy Dani sang too, his voice high and true. It was most audible when running water was near. Then his voice rose, bright and warbling. Like rivers, like streams, bubbling over rocks.