“My Lord—!”
“Never mind.” He turned away from her again, a dark shape in a dark corner. One hand moved, dismissing her. “Begone from me, daughter of Erilonde. Your presence does not ease my grief this night.”
She took her leave, then, rising and gathering her skirts. Beyond her the stairwell beckoned, the three-fold door at the top opening onto the shadowy, twisted passages that led back to her chambers, to the hidden door behind the tapestry. Hesitating on the first step, she glanced over her shoulder. He stood yet, motionless, a column of darkness, hands laced behind his back. “My Lord Satoris …”
“Go!”
His voice echoed like thunder.
Cerelinde fled. Behind her, the three-fold door closed with a mighty crash. On the far side, she found herself shaking.
In the thousands of years she had lived, she had never doubted the nature of truth. Now, uncertainty assailed her; doubt and insidious pity. A thing she had never before grasped had grown clear: the Sunderer believed his own lies. And in the irregular glimmer of the marrow-fire, a worm of doubt whispered a thought.
What if they were not lies?
“No.” Cerelinde said aloud. “It is madness that speaks, not truth.”
The words brought a measure of comfort; but only a measure. She made her way slowly through the walls of her prison, the sound of Satoris Banewreaker’s terrible, despairing laughter still echoing in her ears.
Three ravens circled overhead.
Ushahin watched them, shading his eyes with one hand. The skies above the plains of Rukhar were a merciless blue and the sun’s bright light drove a spike of pain through his left eye. It didn’t matter. He was used to such pain, and his awareness rode upon it as if borne upward on a warm draught, rising skyward.
Come, little brothers, he thought. What have you seen?
A flurry of images filled his mind in reply; stone, grey and barren. Straggling weeds, bitter ants crawling. There was a paucity of life on the plains, and the ravens did not want to land.
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. For that, he did not blame them.
With Tanaros and Malthus both trapped within them and struggling for mastery, the Ways of the Marasoumië were too dangerous to enter. He had walked out of Jakar; walked a day and a night across the plains, sifting through the dreams of Men as he went, until his ill-knit bones protested at every step. That didn’t matter to him either. The only pain that mattered was the one that circumscribed his heart; Godslayer’s branding beckoning him home, to the only home left to him. But without the Ways, his path was uncertain. To the west lay the Unknown Desert, its blazing sands forbidding. To the north lay the encampments of the Rukhari tribesmen and their scorn. To the east … ah, to the east lay Pelmar, where once the Grey Dam had called him her son, and there he did not dare go.
So he had gone south.
You need not land, Ushahin told the ravens. Only tell me what you have seen.
The ravens dipped lower, sunlight glinting violet and green on the edges of their wings as they circled in a narrowing gyre. Flickering images flitted from mind to mind; of the tops of pines like a dark green ocean; of columns of Men and Ellylon winding through the dense forest, amassing at the base of a mountain; of a fortress hunkered on the mountain’s swell; of a seamless wall of granite. Of the explosion of sunlight refracting on bronze scales and a sinuous neck lifting a vast-jawed head, amusement in one slitted green eye.
Yes, little brothers, he thought; I know. What of the south?
Their vision skirted the edges of Arduan, where men and women gathered in the marketplaces and exchanged news, waiting; waiting, with longbows close at hand. There the ravens dared not go, remembering the arrows that had felled their brethren. But beyond, the marshes of the Delta unfurled like a rich, grey-green carpet, fecund and plentiful. There, they landed and fed. The shiny carapaces of beetles loomed large in memory, crunching with satisfaction under beaks; small snails, sweet and tasty.
At that, Ushahin smiled.
And further … one had flown, only one, following the sluggish path of the Verdine River as it emerged from the marshes. There, where the sharp-toothed sedge grass grew in abundance, three horses grazed. They were tall and strong and clean of limb, with dark, glossy hides and ill-kept manes and tails, tangled from the remnants of a long-abandoned disguise. Whatever had become of the Staccians who had entered the Delta, they had left their mounts behind and no one had succeeded in laying possessive hands on the horses of Darkhaven. One tossed its head as the raven swooped low, nostrils flaring and sharp teeth bared, a preternatural gleam of intelligence in its eyes.
Yes.
Ushahin Dreamspinner laughed. “So, my Lord Satoris,” he said aloud. “It seems my path lies through the place of your birth.”
Free of his mind’s hold, the ravens broke from their tight spiral and soared, winging higher, rising to become specks in the blue sky.
Go, he sent a final thought after them. Go, little brothers, and I will meet you anon!
TWENTY-FOUR
Even in summer, it was cold in the mountains.
It had not seemed so bad when they emerged, though he reckoned that was due to the relief at finding themselves alive. Frightened, yes. He was frightened. One moment, they had been in the Ways of the Marasoumië, under Malthus’ protection. He hadn’t been afraid, then, after they escaped the Were. Not for himself, only for those they left behind. The Ways were fearful and strange, but Malthus was there.
And then they had encountered the others, with a jolt he still felt in his bones. Thousands and thousands of them, huge and hulking, like creatures from a nightmare. The red light of the Marasoumië illuminated their jutting tusks, their massive talons, the heavy armor that encased their hide-covered bodies. A column of Fjeltroll, an army of Fjeltroll, winding back into the Ways as far as the eye could see.
It was a man on a black horse who led them, and he did not have to be told to know it was one of the Three. The Slayer, who had throttled love with his bare hands. And the sword he bore, the black blade, was forged in the marrow-fire itself and quenched in the blood of Satoris the Sunderer.
Everything the Counselor had said was true.
Whatever Malthus had done with the Soumanië had swept them into the Ways, driving them backward—but not the Slayer. Though he had been unhorsed, the Soumanië’s power could not touch him. There was a circle of burning shadow that surrounded and protected him.
He had drawn his black sword, preparing to slay the Counselor.
Trust me, Malthus had said.
And then the world had exploded in a rush of crimson light, and stone had swallowed them whole, sending them hurtling. Away, away, farther than he had dreamed possible. Swallowed them and digested them and spat them out in the cavern in the mountains, so far north that pockets of snow lay in the gulches. And here they had to fight for their survival.
“Dani, you need to eat.”
Uncle Thulu’s face was worried. He extended a roasted haunch of hare on a spit. It had taken him the better part of a day to catch it.
“Yes, Uncle.”
The meat was hot and greasy. Dani picked at it, burning his fingers. It felt slick on his tongue and juices filled his mouth as he chewed. He swallowed, feeling the meat slide down his throat. His belly growled and contracted around it, and he took another bite, suddenly voracious.