A hundred faces crumpled, a hundred mouths opened to shape a keening wail of guilt. It surged through the kitchens, echoing from the grease-blackened rafters and the bright copper pots and kettles, scoured to an obsessive shine. Some went to their knees, hands outstretched in a plea for forgiveness.
“So.” Ushahin nodded. “You know of what I speak. Did you bring her here?”
A wail of protest rose in answer. Heads shook in vehement denial, matted hair flying. No, no. They had not brought her here.
“Where?” he asked.
The wailing trickled into shuffling silence. Ushahin waited.
“A place.” One of them offered it in a mutter, eyes downcast. “A place behind the walls, lord, that we made bigger.”
Another looked up, pleading. “You said those were our places, lord!”
“The spaces in between.” Ushahin nodded again. “I did. Those are the places we occupy, my children; those of us whom the world has failed to claim. No one knows it better than I. And I entrusted those places to you, with Lord Satoris’ blessing. Why, then, did you bring the Ellyl woman there?”
The hundredfold answer was there in the forefront of their thoughts, in their hungry, staring eyes. None of them gave voice to it. It didn’t matter; he knew. Lives of happy normalcy, wives and husbands, sons and daughters. An honest livelihood filled with the myriad mundane joys of living. What-might-have-been.
Oh, yes, Ushahin Dreamspinner knew.
“’Tis a bittersweet joy,” he said softly, “is it not? What might have been. I, too, have wondered, my children. What might I have been, had my Ellyl kin claimed me?” He lifted his gnarled hands, gazing at them, then at his madlings. “A bridge, perhaps, with limbs straight and true, built to span the divide between Haomane’s Children and Arahila’s. Instead”—he shook his head—“I am the abyss. And when they seek to gaze into the spaces in between and stake a claim there, they will find me gazing back at them. I am the dark mirror that reflects their most fearful desires. I am the dark underbelly of Haomane’s Prophecy.”
The madlings were silent, rapt.
“Never forget.” Ushahin’s voice hardened. “It was the Ellylon who rejected me, who wanted no part of a child of mixed blood, gotten in violence and tainted—tainted, they say—by Lord Satoris’ Gift. I am the very future they court in fear and loathing. I am the shadow that precedes the children of the Prophecy they seek to fulfill. And who can say that they will not despise their own offspring? For they, too, will carry the taint of Lord Satoris’ Gift with them.”
Someone hissed.
Ushahin smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “For they despise his Lordship above all else; always and forever. They may grieve at your pain, and they may offer pleasant visions, but they are Haomane’s Children, and they will not lift one finger”—he raised one crooked finger—“to aid you unless Haomane profits by it.”
The kitchen erupted in indignant rage. Ushahin rode their anger like a wave, letting them seethe and rant until they subsided, turning toward him with expectant eyes, waiting to hear what he would say next. His madlings knew him. They understood him. He had been broken and had risen triumphant nonetheless; he bore the badges of his breaking—his uneven face, his twisted limbs—in painful solidarity with their aborted lives and shattered minds. It was for this that they loved him.
A vast tenderness infused his heart, and he wondered if Shapers felt thusly toward their Children. It seemed it might be so.
“It is well that you remember this,” he told them, “for war comes upon us. And we may put faces to those enemies we know, but ’tis harder to put faces to the enemies among us. Who among you would betray Lord Satoris?”
No one, no one, arose the cries; at once both true and not-true. Somewhere, the seeds of betrayal had already taken root. Listening to the madlings’ protestations, Ushahin thought of Calanthrag the Eldest and the things of which she had spoken. A shadow of sorrow overlay the tenderness in his heart. The pattern was fixed and inevitable. He could only serve his Lordship as best he might and pray that these spreading roots would not bear fruit for many generations to come. The Eldest herself had borne the same hope. He remembered her words, uttered in her knowing, sibilant hiss: Yet may it come later than sssooner for ssuch as I and you.
“Well done, my children,” Ushahin said to his madlings. “Keep faith, and hope. Remember that it is his Lordship’s mercy that protects us here.” He held up his hand to quiet them and made his voice stern once more. “Now, who will speak to me of the hole that pierces the bowels of Darkhaven? How is it that a gap has opened onto the marrow-fire itself?”
This time, the silence was different.
“We didn’t do it, my lord!” It was one of the stable lads who spoke, near the exits. He ducked his head with a furtive blush. “It was just there.”
Madlings glanced at one another, catching each other’s eyes. The question was asked and answered. There were nods and murmurs all around. Each time, it was the same. They had had naught to do with it.
A cold finger of fear brushed the length of Ushahin’s crooked spine. He thought of how Darkhaven had been built, of how Lord Satoris had used the power of Godslayer to raise the mountains that surrounded the Vale of Gorgantum and laid the foundation of Darkhaven itself. What did it mean if the foundation was crumbling? What did it mean if Lord Satoris himself had allowed it to happen—or worse, was unaware?
For all things mussst be as they musst.
“No.” He caught himself shaking his head, saying the word aloud. With an effort, Ushahin willed himself to stillness, breathing slowly. The madlings watched him with trepidation. “No, never mind, it’s all right.” He forced a lopsided smile. “You did no wrong, then. It is nothing that cannot be mended. All is well.”
A collective sigh of relief ran through his madlings. With a final nod, Ushahin gave them license, permitted them to shuffle forward, a sea of humanity surging against the small island promontory of his chopping-block dais. He gave them his broken hands to clutch and stroke, offering no false promises nor comfort, only the sheltering shield of his stubborn, enduring pain.
“Oh, lord!” It was a young woman who spoke, eyes bright with emotion. She kissed his fingertips and pressed his hand to her cheek. “I tried, my lord, I did. Forgive me my weakness!”
“Ah, Meara.” Bending forward, Ushahin caressed her cheek. He touched the surface of her thoughts and saw the shadow of Tanaros’ face therein. He grasped a little of what it betokened and pitied her for it. What was love but a little piece of madness? “All is well. I forgive you.”
She caught her breath in a gasping laugh. “You shouldn’t. I brought her there. We are weak. I am weak.” She cradled his hand, gazing up at him. “You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.”
“Yes.” Ushahin grew still, hearing his own thoughts echoed. “I know.” For a moment, they remained thusly. Then his heart gave a twinge beneath the branded skin that circumscribed it, and he shook his head ruefully and withdrew his hand. “I cannot, little sister. I am sworn to his Lordship, and he would see her live. I cannot gainsay his will. Would you have it otherwise?”
“No.” Unshed tears pooled like diamonds in her eyes.
“Remember what you are,” he said gently to her, “and do not dwell on what-might-have-been. Remember that I love you for that-which-is.”