Mayhap he would know himself deserving of the kindness that Dani and his uncle Thulu extended to him, of the burdensome compassion of Peldras the Ellyl, of the patient regard of Malthus the Counselor. And mayhap, mayhap, Fianna of Arduan would have some tenderness to spare for him, and cast a few of the yearning glances she saved for Blaise in his direction.
Would that be so wrong?
I am confused, Carfax thought as the Company departed Port Delian, I am heartsick and confused. His hands held the reins, directing his newly purchased gelding in a steady line, following on the haunches of Blaise’s mount. It was so much easier to follow, to obey unquestioning. What merit was there in fruitless resistance? He had tried and tried and tried, to no avail.
Malthus knew it. He saw it in the Counselor’s gaze, gentle and wise.
What if Malthus were a match for Lord Satoris?
It was heresy, the deepest kind of heresy. It froze his blood to think on it; yet think on it he must. What if it were so? Step by step, the Prophecy was being fulfilled. And they did not seem, after all, so evil. They believed in the rightness of what they did, in the quest to render the Sundered World whole.
Was it wrong?
Would Urulat be the worse if they succeeded?
Searching his mind, Carfax found no answers. And so he rode among them as they entered the depths of the Pelmaran forests, his dreams of vengeance giving way to vague thoughts of escape and warning. And he found himself seeking, unwitting, to win their approval, gathering firewood and making himself useful. Ushahin! he whimpered in his thoughts from time to time, but there was no answer, for Malthus’ binding held, more gentle but no less firm.
And Fianna smiled at him when he gathered pine rosin for her bow, the ordinary Arduan bow she used for shooting game, and her smile echoed the smile of another girl long ago in Staccia. Goldenrod pollen, and freckles on the bridge of her nose.
Oh, my Lord! Carfax prayed. Forgive me. I know not what I do.
Although it had stood for many years, Jakar remained a desert encampment, a few sandstone buildings erected around a scrubby oasis, the rest of it a city of tents. From time out of mind, Rukhari traders had used it as a last stopping-place before entering the trade routes that cut into the forests of Pelmar. Now the traders had fled, making way for fierce warriors with sun-scorched faces and black mustaches, who raced their swift desert ponies between the lines of tents with ululating cries.
It was a good bargain Vorax had offered them.
A half league to the west, a stony ridge sprawled across the landscape, ruddy and ominous in the light of the setting sun. It was haunted, the Rukhari said; riddled with caverns and haunted by bloodthirsty spirits of the unavenged dead. Small wonder, for it held a node of the Marasoumië, which was death to the unwary traveler.
A half league to the east, the Pelmaran forest began, a dark and ragged fringe looming over the barren plains of Rukhar. Beyond the verge was a darkness even the slanting rays of the sun could not penetrate, where Oronin’s Children might lurk in the shadows a stone’s throw from the trodden path.
Between the two was Ushahin, cross-legged before his tent. He was Satoris’ emissary and one of the Three; he could have had the finest lodging Jakar had to offer, had he wished it. He had chosen otherwise. It was a cruel task his Lord had set him; the cruelest he had known. Still, he understood what was at stake. It was that and that alone that had decided him, that had set his course. Borrowing a pony from Makneen, the Rukhari commander, he had ridden to the verge of the Pelmaran forest and beyond, into the shadows. There, he had given the summons.
Ravens would carry it and Were would answer. The Grey Dam herself would answer. Of that, he had no doubt. It was a rare gift, a rare trust, that Sorash had given her adopted son before she died. Her successor Vashuka had no choice but to honor it.
Oh, Mother!
His eyes stung, remembering. No one’s son, the dragon had called him, but he had loved her like a son; loved her enough to know he could not stay among the Were. For the great sacrifice Lord Satoris had asked of her, he had gone as a supplicant. He had asked, praying all the while she would refuse. But she had not, had chosen to find an honorable death in the request, though his heart grieved at it.
In this, there was no honor.
The sun sank below the stony ridge, and shadows crept across the ground. Near the oasis, cooking-fires were lit and the smell of lamb roasted on the grill wafted in the air. Dry, warm air, it made his bones ache less. Lamps were kindled as Ushahin watched, tallow candles lit inside lacquered bladders and hung from the openings of tents. By the shouting and raucous bursts of song, the Rukhari might have been on holiday, awaiting the arrival of the army of Darkhaven. Having walked in their dreams, he knew what a harsh and difficult living there was to be eked out on the skirts of the Unknown Desert, in what fearful contempt the Pelmarans held them, what potential lay in the promise of a Staccian alliance.
Hoofbeats clattered between the tents, and lamplight gleamed on polished horseflesh as a pony rounded the tent, muscles surging as it was drawn up short in a scatter of pebbles. A swarthy face; Zaki, Makneen’s second-in-command, peered down at his feet, studiously avoiding eye contact.
“Meat ready, Dream-stalker,” the Rukhar offered in broken common. “You eat?”
“No.” Sitting straight-backed, Ushahin did not rise. “Thank you, Zaki.”
After a moment, the Rukhar shrugged. “Makneen offer. Is good, yes? You are pleased? Not to trouble sleep?”
“It is well done, Zaki. We are allies. I will not trouble your dreams.” Ushahin watched as the Rukhar shrugged again, then lashed his pony’s rump with trailing reins, startling it into a galloping spurt. The Rukhari feared him. Well and good; they should. He resumed his vigil, watching the darkening verge of the forest.
Time passed.
A half moon rose and the stars emerged, and brightest of them was the red one, high above the horizon.
“Brother.”
A grey voice, emerging from darkness. It named him in the tongue of Oronin’s Children, which he had spoken seldom since childhood. Ushahin rose, straightening his stiffening joints and inclining his head. “Brother,” he replied in kind. “Well met by moonlight.”
There was a gleam, as of bared teeth. “I do not think so. Follow.”
Follow he did, leaving the illuminated tents behind, traveling on foot over the stony soil. Ahead of him, a grey shadow moved low to the ground, silent but for the occasional click of claw on stone. On and onward they traveled, until the lamps of Jakar were distant sparks and the forest enveloped them.
Into the tall pines his guide led him, leaving behind the beaten paths and treading on soft pine mast, to a glade where moonlight spilled on silvery fur, and one awaited in a circle of many. By this alone, by the honor the pack accorded her, he knew her.
“Old mother.” Ushahin bowed low. “I give you honor.”
“Son of my self.” Ritual words, devoid of affection. Vashuka the Grey Dam stood upright and her amber eyes were narrowed in the moonlight, A score of dim figures crouched around her, hackled and wary. “The Grey Dam Sorash gave you a sacred trust. Why have you used it to summon me here, so near to a place of Men?”
“Honored one, forgive me.” He felt sick, the brand on his chest a searing pain. “Oronin’s Children are my kin, but I have sworn a deeper oath.”
Her lip wrinkled, exposing her canines, still white. “Satoris.”
“To my Lord Satoris, yes” Ushahin drew a deep breath. trying to loosen his chest. Where were the ravens? The trees should be full of them; were empty instead. He reached out with his thoughts, and a low, concerted growl came from the crouching circle of Were. “Brethren! Has it come to this?”