“Only his Lordship knows for certain,” Tanaros said. “Yet I imagine a world in which the tyranny of one Shaper’s will did not hold sway over all. And that,” he added, “is enough for me.”
“It’s a beginning,” Speros agreed. He looked curiously at Tanaros. “What would you do in such a world, Lord General?”
Unaccountably, Tanaros pictured Cerelinde’s face. “It don’t know,” he murmured. “Yet I would like to find out. Perhaps I would become a better Man than I have been in this one.” He gathered himself with a shake, ignoring the Midlander’s quizzical expression. “Come on, lad. Let’s choose a horse for you.”
Perplexity gave way to a grin. “Aye, General!”
In the chamber of the font, the marrow-fire burned unceasing, a column of blue-white flame rising from its pit, so bright it hurt the eye. And in the center the shard of Godslayer hung, pulsing like a heart to an unseen rhythm.
“My Lord.” Cerelinde of the Ellylon clasped her hands in front of her to hide their trembling. Valiant as she was, the fear came upon her every time the tapestry in her quarters twitched at the opening of the secret door, a wary madling emerging to beckon her through the winding passages behind the walls to the three-fold door and the spiral stair, to answer the summons of the Lord of Darkhaven. “You sent for me?”
“Yes.” The Shaper’s voice was gentle. He moved in the shadows at the outskirts of the room, his massive figure blending into darkness. Only the red, glowing eyes showed clearly. “Be at your ease, Lady.”
Cerelinde sat in the chair he indicated, stiff-backed and fearful.
His deep laugh rumbled. “You have been my guest these weeks now. Do you still think I mean you harm?”
“You hold me against my will.” She fixed her gaze on the beating heart of Godslayer within the marrow-fire. “Is that not harm, my Lord?”
“Will,” Satoris mused, and the stones of Darkhaven shivered under his mighty, soundless tread. A reek of ichor in the air grew stronger at his approach, sweet and coppery. “What do you know of will, little Ellyl?”
“I know it is mine to defy you.” The words came hard, harder than she could have imagined. It was hard, in this place, to cling to all that she knew was true.
Fingers brushed her hair. “What if I offered you a kingdom?”
Closing her eyes, Cerelinde shuddered at the touch of a Shaper’s power. With Godslayer to hand, he could remake her very flesh if he willed it. “You would not, my Lord Sunderer,” she said. “While I live, I am a threat to you, and I do not believe that you will let me live for long, let alone offer me power. I am not a fool, my Lord. I have made my peace with it. I am not afraid to die.”
“No.” The Shaper withdrew, his voice contemptuous. “Only to live. Will you cling to this Prophecy with which my brother Haomane Shapes the world? I tell you this: You are not the only one, you know, daughter of Erilonde.”
“What?” Cerelinde opened her eyes. “What do you say?”
“Oh, yes.” Lord Satoris smiled, a fearful thing. “Elterrion the Bold had a second daughter, gotten of an illicit union. Somewhere among the Rivenlost, your line continues. Do you suppose such things never happen among the Ellylon?”
“They do not.” Cerelinde drew herself up taut.
“They do upon very rare occasion.” The Shaper’s eyes glittered with red malice. “It is a pity your people dare not acknowledge it, Lady. The weight of the world might not rest upon your shoulders if they did.”
“You lie,” Cerelinde whispered.
Lord Satoris shrugged, the movement disturbing the shadows. “More seldom than you might imagine, Lady,” he said, regret in his tone. “These things lie within the purview of the Gift that was mine, and they are mine alone to know. Although the Ellylon themselves do not know it, I tell you: There is another.”
“Who?” Cerelinde leaned forward, forgetting herself. “Who, my Lord?”
He eyed her, slow and thoughtful. “I will tell you, in exchange for knowledge freely given. The Three would see you put to questioning. I, I merely ask, Lady. What is the purpose of Malthus the Counselor?”
He would ask that; he would Cerelinde hid her face in her hands, wishing she knew the answer. Whether she gave it or not, at least it would be a bargaining chip. With a bitter sense of irony, she remembered Aracus’ words in Lindanen Dale. It is for a short time only, my lady. Malthus knows what he is about. She wondered if the Wise Counselor had known what would befall her, and prayed it were not so. It was too cruel to contemplate.
Surely, Aracus had not.
“I don’t know,” she murmured through her fingers. “I don’t.”
Satoris waited until she raised her head to look at him. Reading the truth written in her face, he nodded once. “I told them as much. Very well, you may go. We will speak anon, Lady.”
“All three?” Cerelinde swallowed. “All of the Three would see me questioned?”
For a long time, he did not answer. The marrow-fire burned soundless, shedding brightness throughout the Chamber of the Font; in its midst, Godslayer hung like a suspended wail, pulsing. Darkness gathered around the Shaper like stormclouds and his eyes sparked a slow, inexorable red.
“No,” he said at last. “Not all. Not Tanaros.”
It gladdened her heart to hear it in a manner that filled her with uneasiness. How far had she fallen, how deeply had this touched her, that the kindness of Tanaros Kingslayer could make her glad? The Sunderer’s lies undermined the foundation of her certainty. Could there be another capable of bringing the Prophecy to fruition, another daughter of the House of Elterrion? Malthus kept his counsel close …
No. No. To believe as much was to open a door onto despair. Satoris Banewreaker was the Prince of Lies, and behind the courtly courtesies General Tanaros extended was a man who had throttled his wife and slain his sovereign. There were no other truths that mattered.
In the garden, a mortexigus flower shivered untouched and loosed its pollen.
Oh, Aracus! Cerelinde thought in despair. I need you!
EIGHTEEN
Thanks to Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas, the winds blew fair from Port Eurus and Haomane’s Allies arrived safe on Pelmaran soil, where they were met by a deposition from Regent Martinek. Borderguard, Seaholders, Midlanders and Vedasians, not to mention the Host of the Ellylon—it was a difficult thing, establishing preeminence among them.
Out of necessity, all bowed to the Pelmaran regent.
“We need him,” shrewd Duke Bornin murmured to Aracus Altorus. “We need all of them, else we will not prevail against the Sorceress.”
So it was that Aracus, the last scion of House Altorus and king-in-exile of the West, bent his red-gold head in courteous acknowledgment, and all who followed him followed suit save only the Rivenlost, those of the Host of the Ellylon, who held themselves second in stature to none of the Lesser Shapers.
“Right.” Martinek’s captain, whose name was Rikard, rode up and down the lists, surveying them with a keen eye. “We’re bound for Kranac, then. Is there anyone among you who has trouble acknowledging his honor’s sovereignty in the third district of Pelmar?”
He halted his mount before Aracus Altorus, raising dark brows.
“Captain.” Aracus’ voice was steady. “I am here for one reason only: To assure the safe return of my Lady Cerelinde. All else is naught to me.”
“And you?” Rikard paused before Lorenlasse of Valmaré, who commanded the Host of the Ellylon. “What of you, my fine Ellyl lord?”