“Is that the lesson of the garden?” Her grey eyes were cool, disbelieving.
“No.” Tanaros pointed to the mortexigus flower. “That is. Lady, any Son of Man would do to serve your need. In our very mortality, we hold the keys to life. We hold the Gift Lord Satoris can no longer bestow, the key to the survival of the Rivenlost. Your people and mine conjoined. That is the truth of the Prophecy, the deeper truth.”
She frowned and it was as though a cloud passed over the moon’s bright face. “I do not understand.”
“Do the numbers of the Ellylon not dwindle while those of Men increase?” he asked her. “So it has been since the world was Shaped. Without Lord Satoris’ Gift, in time the Ellylon will vanish from the face of Urulat.”
“Now it is you who lies,” Cerelinde said softly. “For the Lord-of-Thought would not allow his Children to be subsumed, not even by fair Arahila’s.”
Tanaros held her gaze. “Why, then, does Haomane’s Prophecy bid you to wed one?”
Her winged brows rose. “To unite our people in peace, Tanaros. Aracus Altorus is no ordinary Man.”
“Aye, Cerelinde, he is. As I am.” Tanaros sighed, and the sorrow-bells murmured in mournful reply. “The difference is that the House of Altorus has never faltered in its loyalty to Haomane First-Born.”
She stood and touched his face with light fingertips, a touch that burned like cool fire. “A vast difference, Tanaros. And yet it is not too late for you.”
He shuddered, removing her hand. “Believe as you will, Lady, but the sons of Altorus Farseer were chosen to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy that in their loyalty they might bring down Lord Satoris. The truth is otherwise. It need not be a daughter of Elterrion, nor a son of Altorus. You and I would serve. Our seed holds the key to your perpetuation.”
“You!” She recoiled, a little.
“Our people. Any two of us. We hold within ourselves the Gifts of all the Seven Shapers and the ability to Shape a world of our choosing.” He spread his hands. “That’s all, Cerelinde, no more.”
“No.” She was silent a moment. “No, it is another of the Sunderer’s lies, Tanaros. If it were so simple, why would Haomane not so bid us?”
“Because he requires the Prophecy to destroy Lord Satoris,” he said. “We are all pawns in the Shapers’ War, Cerelinde. The difference is that some of us know it, and some do not.” Something in his heart ached at the naked disbelief on her face. “Forgive me, Lady. I had no intent of troubling you. I thought you would like the garden.”
“I do. And I am grateful for a glimpse of sky.” She drew Meara’s shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Tanaros. I am sorry for your pain, and I do not doubt that you have taken the Sunderer’s lies for truths. But Haomane First-Born is chief among Shapers, and I am his child. Your Lord need only bow to His will, and the Sundered World will be made whole. Can you ask me to believe aught else?”
“Yes,” Tanaros said helplessly.
Her voice was gentle. “I cannot.”
SIXTEEN
Dwarfs came out of the gloaming.
It happened a few leagues west of Malumdoom, the young knight Hobard’s ancestral estate. As twilight fell over their kindling campfire, the shadows moved, twining like roots. Four figures, waist-high to a tall man, with gnarled faces and knotted muscles, spatulate hands engrained with soil.
“Yrinna’s Children.” Malthus the Counselor stood to greet them, bowing in his scholar’s robes. “Hail and well met.”
“Haomane’s Counselor.” One of the dwarfs acknowledged him in a deep, calm voice, then turned to Hobard. “Son of Malumdoorn. You have broken Yrinna’s Peace, bringing them here.”
“I had cause, Earth-Tender.”
The Vedasian’s voice was strung tight, Carfax noted. He sat quiet with his arms wrapped around his knees, watching with wonder. Dwarfs! Yrinna’s Children had not been seen west of Vedasia for long ages.
“It must be a mighty cause to break Yrinna’s Peace.”
“It is.” Malthus took a step forward, touching the Soumanië on his breast. “You have an item in your possession that does not belong to you.”
There was a pause then, a long one.
“It may be,” the Dwarf leader allowed, his deep-set gaze scanning the small company. “Haomane’s Child. Do the Rivenlost venture in search of this thing?”
“We do, Earth-Tender.” Peldras the Ellyl bowed, light and graceful. “Will you not hear our plea?”
A hushed conference, then, among the four visitors. Carfax strained his hearing to no avail. “Uru-Alat!” A soft whisper sounded at his ear. “They’re so small! Are they Men, or children?” It was the boy, Dani, squatting fearless at his side, his dark eyes wide in the firelight. They tell him no more than they do me, Carfax thought, pitying the boy. What was Malthus thinking, to venture into the Unknown and drag the boy from his home, keeping him in ignorance? At least in Darkhaven, one knew the price of one’s bargain.
“No,” he said. “They are Dwarfs, Dani. A long time ago, they withdrew from the affairs of Men.”
One dark hand rose to clasp the flask at his throat, dark eyes bewildered. “What is it Malthus thinks they have?”
“I don’t know.” He wished he did.
A decision was made, and the Dwarf leader stepped forward. “There will be a hearing on the morrow,” he said. “In the orchards of Malumdoorn. Come in peace, or not at all.”
“It will be so,” Malthus said with dignity.
Night.
It fell hard and fast in the swamps of the Delta. Turin hurried after the fleeting form of Hunric the tracker, falling and splashing and cursing his speed. Before them, the hummock of dry land loomed, elusive and retreating in the fading light. A last, dying spear of light lit the palodus tree that stood sentry over it.
“Come on!” Hunric shouted, scrambling up the hummock ahead of him, the slow-lizard’s carcass tied to a string about his waist. “Come on!”
Waist-deep in water at the foot of the hummock, Turin set his teeth and grabbed for a handhold. Shale rock, plates as broad as both his hands, slick and overgrown with moss. There would be nothing edible growing on this island. By main force he hauled himself, hand over hand, up the steep incline, his breath searing his lungs.
At the top, he bent double, panting.
“Look!” Hunric was grinning, arms open wide. “The heart of the Delta. Is it not a glorious thing?”
Turin could have wept.
There was nothing, nothing atop the hummock, only moss-covered black shale in articulated ridges that hurt his sodden feet, and a few fallen branches of palodus wood. He was tired and soaked and footsore, and his loins ached with gnawing desire.
“A freshwater spring would have been nice,” he said wearily, sitting down and removing his pack, beginning the tiresome process of peeling off his boots. “You’re sure this is the way out?”
“The way in is the way out.” The tracker eyed him, then began gathering branches. “You’re done in. Sit, then. I’ll do it.”
He sat, rubbing his aching feet. No need for a fire, really. The shale was warm, retaining the sun’s heat like a forge. He could almost smell the sulfur. It would be nice, though, to have fresh-roasted meat, even if the kill was a day old. Meat went off fast in the heat; no wonder Hunric was minded to eat it raw.