“As you will.” Vorax licked his lips. Had his Lordship gone mad? He pushed the thought away, trying not to remember stormclouds piling high over Darkhaven, a foul rain falling, seething flesh. What did it matter if he had? After all, Satoris Third-Born had reason enough for anger. And he, Vorax of Staccia, had sworn an oath, was bound and branded by it, upon a shard of the Souma itself. There was no gainsaying it. To be foresworn was to die. “What, then?”
“Your work lies in the north.” Satoris smiled with grim satisfaction. “Malthus erred. He spent his strength shielding his Bearer from my sight, but he cannot conceal the lad’s path through the Marasoumië. I know where he lit. The one who would extinguish the marrow-fire is in the north, Vorax. Send a company; Men you trust, and Fjel to aid them. Find the Bearer, and kill him. Let the vial he carries be shattered, and the Water of Life spilled harmless upon the barren earth.”
“My Lord.” A simple task, after all. Relieved, he bowed. “It will be done.”
“Good.” Satoris regarded Godslayer, turning the shard in his fingers. “Ushahin comes apace,” he mused, forgetting the Staccian’s presence, “and Tanaros has his orders, though he likes them not. You must be consigned to the marrow-fire, my bitter friend, for you are too dangerous to be kept elsewhere. But first; ah, first! We have a task to accomplish, you and I.”
“My Lord?” Vorax waited, then inquired, uncertain if his services were needed.
The eye slits of the Helm turned his way, filled with all the darkness and agony of a dying world. “It is time to close the Marasoumië,” Lord Satoris said. “Now, while Malthus is trapped within it, before he regains his strength.”
“Now? Then how will Tanaros and—”
“Now!” The Shaper pounded a clenched fist on the arm of the throne. Behind the Helm, his teeth were bared in a rictus. “Understand, Vorax! Aracus Altorus has seized one of the Soumanië! Does he gain mastery over it, with two Soumanië to hand, he and my Elder Brother’s Counselor could control the Ways. If I do this thing now, then Malthus remains trapped, and the son of Altorus remains ignorant of his counsel. Is that not worth any price?”
There was only one answer, and Vorax gave it. “Aye, my Lord.”
“So be it,” Satoris said, taking hold of the dagger with both hands. “And you shall bear witness.” In his grip, Godslayer’s light intensified, bright as a rising sun. “Ah! It burns! Uru-Alat, how it burns!” Rubescent light exploded in the Chamber, and Vorax’s branded chest contracted. Struggling for breath, he dropped back to his knees. There he saw Satoris rising triumphant, a vast figure of darkness. Held aloft, Godslayer pulsed in his fist, bleeding light. It was a shard of the Souma itself, filled with the power of the world’s birth. Light seemed to illume the Shaper’s bones beneath his obdurate flesh, streamed from the wound in his thigh.
“My Lord!” Vorax-gasped, wheezing. “Please!”
“Death and death and death,” the Shaper whispered, ignoring him. “Oh, Malthus! Haomane’s Weapon, my Brother’s pawn! Do you think I do not know my true enemy ? Do you know what you bring to this world? Do you know how the story ends? Ah, no! So be it, Counselor. I bind you in the web you spun.” He tightened his grip on Godslayer and cried aloud, summoning his will in the form of a Shaper’s skills, and pouring his strength into the effort. “Let the Marasoumië be sealed!”
Attuned to the shard’s power, Vorax felt it, and closed his eyes in pain. What he had seen begin through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows came to pass. Deep below the surface of the earth across the vast nation of Urulat, node-points flickered and died, going ashen-grey.
A part of the world, dying, went dead.
“So,” Satoris said with vicious satisfaction. “Free yourself from that, Counselor!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Tanaros’ boots crunched in the sand as he walked away from the Stone Grove encampment. With every step his scabbard brushed his thigh in reminder, unwanted and unneeded. His Lord’s words echoed over and over in his head, and the sun blazing in his face made his ringing head ache.
Kill them. Kill them ALL!
“Lord General?”
“Go away, Speros,” he said without looking.
“It’s just … did Lord Satoris give us orders? Is he going to open the Ways and bring us home? Because I could have the lads back at the node—”
“Go away, Speros!”
There was a pause. “Aye, General. We’ll be at the campsite when you’re ready.”
When he was ready; there was a bitter jest! Lifting his head, Tanaros stared at the blinding face of the sun. He remembered how good it had felt in Beshtanag to see the sun’s rays gilding the forest after long years of Darkhaven’s eternal gloom. Did the sun still shine in Beshtanag? He supposed it did, despite what had befallen there. It seemed closer, here, where Haomane’s wrath had scorched the earth in pursuit of Satoris. What was it like, living with this surfeit of light?
Bare feet made no sound on the desert floor. “Slayer.”
“Ngurra.” Tanaros regarded the sun. “What do you want?”
“Truth.” One simple word, spoken in the common tongue. Tanaros sighed and turned. Ngurra squatted on the desert floor, squinting up at him, his brown face a map of wrinkles in the sun’s unforgiving light. “It’s your choosing-time, isn’t it?”
After a day in the Yarru’s company, Tanaros didn’t bother lying to the old man. “Why?” he asked instead, resting one hand on the black sword’s hilt. “Why did you do it? Why did you send this boy, this Bearer—”
“Dani.”
“—this Dani to extinguish the marrow-fire?” Tanaros’ voice rose. “Why, Ngurra? Has Haomane been so good to your people? Did he have a care for your welfare when he scorched the earth? Look at this place!” He gestured at the desert. “It’s barely enough to sustain life! We would have perished here if you’d not shown us how to survive! For this, you seek to thank Haomane First-Born by destroying my Lord?”
“No, Slayer.” Ngurra shook his head. “This is Birru-Uru-Alat. Here, where the Well of the World abides, is the center, the choosing-place. We are the Yarru-yami, and that is the trust we preserve.”
“Haomane’s trust,” Tanaros said bitterly.
The old man gave a weary chuckle. “When did the Lord-of-Thought ever hold choice to be a sacred trust? No, Slayer. He gave us no choice when he brought the sun’s wrath upon us, no more than your Lord Satoris did when he fled to this place. Together, they drove us into hiding. This wisdom comes from the deep places in Uru-Alat, from a time when the world was newly Sundered.” He held up his empty hands, palms marked with ordinary, mortal lines. “Such is the burden we carry. That, and the promise that one among us would be born to Bear a greater one.”
“Aye.” The words came hard, sticking in his throat. “To extinguish the marrow-fire, freeing Godslayer. To fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy and destroy my Lord.”
Ngurra nodded. “That is one choice.”
“It’s the choice he made!” With an effort, Tanaros controlled his anger. It would do no good to shout at the old man. If nothing else, a day among the Yarru had taught him that much. “Why, Ngurra? Why that choice?”
Tilting his head, the old Yarru regarded the sky. “Where were you, to offer another? There are things I could say, Slayer, and the simplest one of all is that it is the choice he was offered. Was Dani’s choice right?” He shook his head again. “I do not know. I only know he is the Bearer, and it was his to choose.”