“Yes.” The half-breed’s eyes uneven pupils shone. “What of Malthus?”
“Malthus the Counselor?” Lilias blinked. “There is no news. Why?”
The Dreamer turned his head, considering the unused spinning-wheel collecting dust in the comer. “Because I have no news of him either,” he said softly. “Sorceress, is Beshtanag ready for assault?”
“It is,” Lilias said grimly, straightening. “Do you say the plan has changed?”
“No.” After a pause, Ushahin shook his head with a susurrus of shimmering hair. “No,” he said, strongly. “I leave you to travel the Ways to Jakar, on the outskirts of Pelmar. There, where the forest of Pelmar abuts the Unknown Desert, is a node, a portal of the Marasoumië. There, two units of mounted Rukhari tribesmen await the arrival of our troops. Lord Vorax has sworn it is so. Do you doubt?”
“No,” Lilias whispered, asking silently, Calandor?
It is so, Lilias, the dragon affirmed.
“Good,” Ushahin said. “There, in Jakar, I will open the portal of the Marasoumië—open it, and hold it. In Darkhaven, Lord Vorax will hold open the other end, and General Tanaros will bring the army through the Ways.”
“Can this be done?” she asked him.
“Yes.” He gave her a twisted smile. “Not without strain. But with Lord Satoris’ aid, Vorax and I will bear the cost of it. Tanaros and his army will be untouched by it. In Jakar, they will rally and prepare to fall on the rearguard of Haomane’s Allies.”
Lilias looked away. “Jakar is far from Beshtanag, Dreamer. Too far.”
The half-breed shrugged. “It is far enough to be safe, Lady. There is nowhere within the boundaries of Pelmar that the army of Darkhaven can assemble unseen, and it is the element of surprise that assures our victory.”
“It seems to me it would be a considerable surprise for Haomane’s Allies to find them here,” Lilias said in a dry tone. “There is, after all, a node of the Marasoumië here in Beshtanag.”
“Yes.” Ushahin looked at her with something like regret. “There is. And there is a wall to pen us in Beshtanag, and the forest of Pelmar dense around it A trap must close at both ends, Lady. If we awaited them here, we would have no means of surrounding them, nor of sealing the avenue of their retreat. Do not fear. Jakar is near enough, and General Tanaros’ army is capable of traveling at great speed. The path they follow will already have been blazed by the enemy. It will take three days, no more.”
She bit her lip. Yesterday, one of the Were Brethren had come—a grey shadow of a yearling, thin-shanked and wary, making his report as the Grey Dam Vashuka had pledged. “Haomane’s Allies assemble at Kranac. In five days, they will be here, mounting a siege on Beshtanag.” She looked directly at him. “Where will your army be then, Dreamer?”
“On their heels.” He returned her gaze unblinking. “One day, or two. Such was the nature of your bargain, Sorceress. Can you hold?”
“What do you think?” Lilias asked grimly. Rising from her cushioned couch, she strode past the kneeling Sarika to the balcony doors, thrusting back the heavy silk curtains that veiled them. “Look and see”
He stepped through the doors and onto the balcony. His crippled fingers rested on the marble railing as he looked down at the mighty wall that encircled Beshtanag Mountain. Gauging by the figures that moved in its shadow, the wall stood three times as high as a tall man. There were no hewn blocks, no mortar—only smooth and polished granite, flecks of mica glinting in the sun.
“Such is the power of the Soumanië?” Ushahin glanced at her.
“Yes.”
In daylight, the ravages wrought on his body were more evident. Whatever other gifts the Were possessed, healing was not one. How many bones, Lilias wondered, had been broken? There was a Pelmaran children’s counting rhyme that gave the litany, all the way from one left eye-socket to each of his ten fingers. It was told as a heroic act in Pelmar, that beating, a blow struck against the Misbegotten, minion of the Sunderer himself. The stories failed to take into account the fact that it was a child beaten, a child’s bones broken. Ill-knit, all of them, from his knotted cheekbone to his skewed torso.
On her brow, the Soumanië flickered into life.
Birds rode the currents of wind above Beshtanag, calling out inconsequential news. Lilias touched the half-breed’s arm with her fingertips, watching his knuckles whiten on the railing. It would be easy, so easy, to Shape his bones, to straighten what was crooked, smooth what was rough. Easier than Shaping granite, to mold flesh and bone like clay. And he would be beautiful, oh! Prettier than her pretty ones, were he healed.
“Sorceress.” Ushahin’s mismatched eyes glittered. “Do not think it.”
And then he was there, in her thoughts, peeling away her defenses to lay bare her deepest fear—there, alone and defeated, the Soumanië stripped from her brow, leaving her naked and defenseless, alone. The Chain of Being reclaimed her, mortality, age sinking its claws into her, withering flesh, wrinkling skin, and at the end of it Oronin the Glad Hunter sounding his horn, for her, for her …
“Stop it!” Lilias cried aloud.
“So be it.” He turned away, watching the birds soaring on the air. “Leave me my pain, Sorceress, and I will leave you your vanity.”
“Is it vanity to cling to life?” she whispered.
The half-breed ignored her and closed his eyes. His long, pale lashes curled like waves against the uneven shoals of his sockets. One of the soaring birds broke loose from its broad spiral, a sturdy-winged raven with a rakish tuft of feathers protruding from his gleaming head. Circling tight, he cawed and chattered at the Dreamer. Frown lines appeared between Ushahin’s brows.
“Gulls carry rumors,” he said, opening his eyes. “And ravens hear them. Lady, what do you know of a ship sailing from Dwarfhorn?”
Lilias stared at him. “Dwarfhorn?”
“I am uneasy.” Ushahin made a gesture at the raven, which made a sharp sound and winged off southward, in the direction of the southern coast of Pelmar. “Lady Sorceress, I would speak with the Dragon of Beshtanag.”
Calandor? she asked.
Bring him.
She escorted him to the guarded exit at the rear of the fortress, where a doubled guard of ward-soldiers saluted her, eyeing the Dreamer askance with unconcealed fear. Outside, he did not wait for her lead, but climbed steadily up the winding mountain path. Lilias followed, a shadow of fear lying over her thoughts. Ushahin the Misbegotten, who could walk in the darkest places of the mortal mind. It was said he could drive Men mad with a glance. And she had thought, in her folly, that he would be less dangerous, less strange, than Tanaros Kingslayer.
Lilias, little sister.
Ahead on the ledge, a massive brightness shone, bronze scales gleaming in the sun. Calandor awaited them. At the sight of him, her heart lifted, the darkness clearing. “Calandor!”
“Liliasss.” The dragon bent his sinuous neck so she could press her cheek to the scale-plated warmth of his. Lifting his head, he fixed his slitted green stare on the half-breed. “Child of three rassses, ssson of none. What is it you ssseek?”
Ushahin stood unflinching. “Knowledge, Lord Calandor.”
A nictitating blink, the dragon’s slow smile. “You ssseek the Counsselor.”
“Yes.”
“He chasses the Prophesssy, Dreamsspinner.”
“I know that.” A muscle twitched along Ushahin’s jaw. “Where?”
“I do not know, Dreamssspinner.” Raising his head to its full height, Calandor gazed out over the dark green forests of Pelmar. “Uru-Alat is Sssundered, and Malthus the Counssselor was Shaped on the far ssside of that ssschism. Him, I cannot sssee, nor any weapon Shaped there. Only the effectss of their actions.”