Throughout the day, Speros watched them with wide-eyed astonishment. Fjel were meant to delve, not to climb.
Still, they managed it. They worked in shifts, shucking the straps of leather armor that held their weapons. One would crouch low beside the pool, bending his back to make a broad surface, boosting up his fellow. And up the other would go, plunging his yellowed talons into the smooth surface of the rocky cistern, forging hand- and footholds by dint of brute strength, stone giving way beneath their blows.
None of them could last more than a few minutes, that was the problem. Their own body weight was too great, threatening to crack their talons the longer they hung suspended. It was Speros who got them to form the base of a pyramid around the pool, arms outstretched to catch their fellows as they made the precarious descent. And they did it. Working without complaint, hour upon hour, they scaled the cistern.
Foot by torturous foot, the Gulnagel forged a ladder.
“Oof!” The last volunteer descended, helped onto solid ground amid the jests of his companions. He rested his hands on his bulging thighs, fighting to catch his breath. “Reckon that’s about done it, boss,” he said cheerfully, regaining his voice. “Few feet from the lip, any mind. You want to go on up?”
Grabbing a handy shoulder, Speros leaned over the deadly pool and craned his neck, gazing upward. Faint stars twinkled in the distant circle of sky, emerging on a background of twilight. “What’s up top?”
Exchanging glances, the Gulnagel shrugged.
“Hot,” one said helpfully. “Gets hotter the higher you go.”
“Nothing living, don’t think,” another added. “Quiet, if it is.”
“All right.” Speros gnawed at thumbnail, thinking. The Gulnagel waited patiently and watched him. In General Tanaros’ absence, he was their commander; he was one of Arahila’s Children, endowed with Haomane’s Gift. A piece of irony, that. He’d been raised on tales of Fjel horrors. In Haimhault, parents threatened to feed misbehaving children to the Fjeltroll; at least his own Ma had done, often enough. Now here he was, with four Fjel patiently awaiting his orders. Well, he’d cast his lot, and he had to live with it. Still, it wasn’t so bad, was it? Few mortal men could say they’d had Fjeltroll jump at their command. “Yes, let’s try it. Better by night than by day, when we’d be sitting targets emerging. Odrald, will you take the lead?”
“Aye, boss!” The smallest of the Fjel saluted him.
“Good.” Speros flexed his muscles, anticipating the climb. “You, give me a boost. The rest of you, follow me.”
He did not speak after he summoned her, not for a long time.
Cerelinde sat in the chair he provided, staring with a fixed gaze at the throbbing image of Godslayer. How could something immersed in the marrow-fire itself retain such a crimson glow? It seemed impossible.
He stalked the outskirts of the chamber.
He was angry; no, he was furious. She felt it on her skin, tasted it in her mouth. A prickling like needles, like an impending storm. A taste of copper, only sweet.
“You know what has happened.” His voice was a husk, but resonant.
“No.” She shook her head, willing her denial to be true. It was true, for the most part. A plan had been made; a plan had failed. That much she knew, and no more. The Fjeltroll had returned. And when she spoke of Tanaros, her maidservant Meara had wailed and fled the room. “I know nothing, Lord Satoris.”
“Malthus was waiting!”
Unseen rafters rattled at the Shaper’s raised voice. Cerelinde winced, and laced her hands together. The light of the marrow-fire cast her raised knuckles in sharp shadow. “Does his Lordship hold me to blame?”
There was a sigh then.
It came from every corner of the room, and it came from him; him. And he was before her, then, stooping as a thundercloud might stoop, humbling himself in front of her. The swell of his shoulders blotted out the marrow-fire. His eyes, crimson as Godslayer’s beating heart. “No, Cerelinde. I do not blame the blameless. That is my Elder Brother’s job.”
She shrank back as far as the chair would allow. At close range, the odor was overwhelming; a sweet charnel reek, burned flesh and an undertone of rotting vegetation. It stirred terror in her; mindless terror, and something else, a dark and awful quickening. Trapped and fearful, she lashed out with words. “Your jealousy speaks, Sunderer! What do you want of me?”
The Shaper laughed.
It was a hollow sound, filled with bitterness and despair. He bent his head, mighty hands lifting to cover his face. A Shaper’s hands, immaculately articulated, for all they were burned black as pitch by Haomane’s Wrath. His fingertips dug into the flesh of his brow, pitting the blackened skin.
Somehow, that was the most terrible thing of all.
“Want?” His head snapped upright, crimson eyes glaring between his fingers. “Oh, I want, Haomane’s Child! I want my innocence back, and the happy, happy ignorance that has served your race for so long! I want my Gift back! I want to see my sister Arahila’s smile! I want to see my brother Haomane grovel, and his Wise Counselor’s head on a pike!”
“I didn’t—” she breathed.
“Who are you to ask me what I want?”
The Shaper’s words ricocheted and echoed in the cavern. The marrow-fire surged in answer, a fierce blue-white light, casting shadows knife-edged and blinding. Cerelinde held herself taut, frozen with terror, fighting the awful tendrils of pity that probed at her heart. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “My Lord Satoris.”
He rose and turned away from her.
The marrow-fire dwindled. The Shaper’s massive shoulders twitched; or was it a trick of the flickering shadows? “You did not know.” His voice was rough-edged, pitched to an ordinary tone. “Cerelinde.”
She fought back another wave of pity. “I have not lied to you, my Lord.”
“No.” Again he sighed, filling the chamber, and turned to face her. “Do not take too much hope from this, little Ellyl. What has happened, has happened. If my plans have gone awry, no less have my brother’s. And if Tanaros Blacksword is trapped in the Marasoumië, so is the Wise Counselor.”
“Tanaros?” The word escaped her unwittingly.
Something that might have been a smile shifted the Shaper’s ebony features. “My Commander General is resourceful, Cerelinde. Let us hope together, you and I, for his safe return.”
She gripped the arms of her chair and steeled her thoughts, willing them to fix where they belonged. Blue eyes, at once demanding and questioning, met hers in memory. A promise given, a promise made. It lent a sting to her words. “The Kingslayer has wrought his own fate, my Lord. What of Aracus Altorus? What of my betrothed?”
“Your betrothed.” The Shaper turned away from her, resuming his pacing, his shoulders slumping as if beneath a heavy burden. “Ah, Cerelinde! He may fail, you know. Even in Beshtanag, he may yet fail.”
Her chin rose. “And if he does not?”
From a far corner of the chamber, he regarded her with crimson eyes. “He will destroy something precious,” he said softly. “And the fault will be mine.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
Satoris Third-Born laughed his awful, hollow laugh. “Ah, Cerelinde! You want me to say he will pursue you in all haste; that he will come here, seeking you. That Aracus Altorus will lay siege to Darkhaven itself. Shall I say it? It is true, after all.”
Hope and fear warred in her breast. “Add what will become of me, if he does?”
“Do you care so little for what he will destroy?” The Shaper’s voice was wistful. “Will you not even ask what it is?”