“Don’t know.”
“Where’s the General?”
“Don’t know!”
“All right, be quiet.” Speros squinted, trying to clear his gaze. They were. in a vast space. He could tell that much by the echoes of their voices. Somewhere, water was dripping. Drop by drop, slow and steady, heavy as a falling stone. The mere scent of it made him ache to taste it. “How deep?”
There was a shuffling of horny feet. “Deep,” one of the Fjel offered.
It was a pool. Blinking hard, he could see it. A pool of water, deep below the earth. And above it—oh, so far above it!—was open sky. It must be, for there was blue reflected in its depths. Kneeling over it, he made out a dim reflection of his own face; pale, with dilated eyes. “Water,” he murmured, dipping a cupped hand into the pool.
The water didn’t even ripple. As if he had grasped an ingot of solid lead, his weighted hand sank, tipping him forward. He gasped, his lips breaking the surface of that unnatural water, and he understood death had found him all unlooked-for. How stupid, he thought, trying in vain to draw back from the pool.
One breath and his lungs would fill.
A wet death on dry land.
Then, pressure; a coarse, taloned hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back and away from the deadly pool. He came up sputtering, his neck wrenched, mouth heavy with water.
“Careful, boss.”
They were Gulnagel Fjel; lowlanders, the swift runners, with their grey-brown hides, lean haunches and yellowing talons. They could take down a deer at a dead run, leaping from hill to hill. There were four, and they watched him. Having saved his life, they waited for guidance. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only Men and Ellylon had received Haomane’s Gift, the gift of thought. Speros crouched by the pool, fervently wiping his numb lips, careful to make sure that not a single drop got into his mouth. Thirsting or not, what it might do inside him, he didn’t dare guess. One thing was sure, he wouldn’t touch that water again.
“All right.” He stared at the reflected blue in its depths, then craned his head, squinting. It hurt to look at the sky, even a tiny disk of it. The shaft stretched above him to dizzying heights, and at the top of it lay open skies and freedom. “Up. We need to go up.”
It was a despairing thought, here at the bottom of the world. To his surprise, one of the Gulnagel grinned and flexed his yellow talons.
“Not a problem, boss,” he said cheerfully. “Up it is”
Everywhere.
Nowhere.
It was dark where he was, and he was not dead. At least he didn’t think so. In the darkness, Tanaros flexed his hands. He had hands; he felt them. The fingers of his right hand closed around something hard.
A sword-hilt, he thought.
And, I am lost in the Marasoumië.
What happened to people who got lost in the Ways? Sometimes the Ways spat them out, in some unknowable location, deep beneath the earth. Sometimes the Ways did not. And then they died, of course.
Unless they were immortal.
It was Malthus’ doing, may he be cursed with the same fate. In the darkness, Tanaros gave a bitter smile. It had been a near thing at the end. He had hesitated when he saw the boy. He shouldn’t have done that. It had given the Counselor time, an instant’s time to invoke the Marasoumië’s power and send them hurtling away, the boy and his protector, flinging them desperately across the warp and weft of the Ways, enfolded in his enchantments.
A pity, that. But it was all, nearly all, the old wizard had left in him. Tanaros had struck, then; had let the rage course through his veins, had swung his sword with all his might at his enemy’s neck. Ah, it had felt good! The black blade had bitten deep into the wood of the wizard’s staff when Malthus had parried; bitten deep and stuck fast in the spellbound wood.
He had welcomed the struggle, moving in close to see the fear in the other’s eyes, wondering, do you bleed, old one? Of what did Haomane Shape you? Do you breathe, does the blood course warm in your veins? Haomane’s Weapon, with my blade so near your throat, do you understand the fragility of your flesh?
And then the Soumanië had flashed, one last time.
The Counselor, it seemed, did not welcome death.
It had cast them both into the oblivion of the Ways. That was his consolation. He had felt it, sensed Malthus spinning adrift, unrooted. Tanaros flexed his hand again, feeling the sword-hilt against his palm, and thought, I am not ready to die either.
There was light, somewhere; a ruddy light, pulsing. So it must seem to a babe in the womb, afloat in blood and darkness. He remembered a birth, his son’s birth; the babe he thought his son. How Calista had cried aloud in her travail, her hands closing on his with crushing force as she had expelled the child.
He had been proud, then, terrified and proud. Awe. That was the word. It had filled him with awe, that she would endure this thing; that she could produce such a thing from the depths of her mortal flesh. Life, new life. An infant wholly formed, perfect in every detail, thrust squalling into the light of day. He had cradled the babe, cupping the still-soft skull in his hands, his capable hands, marveling at the shrunken face, the closed eyes. There had been no telling, then, that the eyes behind those rounded lids were blue, blue as a cloudless sky. No telling that the downy hair plastered slick and dark with birthing was the color of ruddy gold.
Oh, my son!
In the darkness, Tanaros groaned. It bit deep, the old betrayal, as deep as his black blade. He remembered the first time he had seen Calista. She had graced Roscus’ court with her fresh-faced beauty, her sparkling wit. Their courtship had been filled with passionate banter. Who now would believe Tanaros Blacksword capable of such a thing? Yet he had been, once. He had shouted for joy the day she accepted his marriage proposal. And he had loved her with all the ardor in his heart; as a lover, as a husband, as the father of the child she bore. How had she dared to look at him so? Hollow-eyed and weary, with that deep contentment. Her head on the pillow, the hair arrayed about her shoulders, watching him hold another man’s babe.
Once, he had been born again in hatred.
Why not twice?
A node-point was near, very near. Such was the light he perceived behind his lids, the beating red light. His circumscribed heart thumped, responding to its erratic pulse. If he could reach it … one, just one. If he could birth himself into the Marasoumië, he would be alive in the world. And where there was one, there was another, in a trail that led him all the way to Darkhaven.
Home.
Tanaros reached.
TWENTY-THREE
Beshtanag endured, half-starved and weary.
From her balcony, Lilias watched her enemies, wondering if they knew. Would it matter? Would they act differently? She thought not. They had never known it for a trap. They went about the siege as they had begun it, with determined patience. By late afternoon the skies had cleared, though rain still dripped from the pines. Here and there Aracus Altorus strode, a tiny figure, recognizable by his hair. He wasted no time, ordering construction to begin anew on their siege-engines.
Three days.
That was how long they would have had to wait, if Darkhaven’s army had arrived at Jakar as planned. Even now, the Fjeltroll would be on the march, trampling the undergrowth beneath their broad feet, commanded by General Tanaros.
Only they were not coming, would never arrive. Lilias knew. She had gone, alone, to the cavern of the Marasoumië, deep beneath Beshtanag. Had gone and stood, wondering if she dared to flee. The node-lights flickered erratically. Something was wrong, very wrong, in the Ways.