Tanaros scoured harder.
He wished he were Vorax. It would be simpler, thus. He would have come home to a bevy of Staccian maidens and reveled in it. Simple pleasures. The Staccian asked nothing more and never had. Only to enjoy them in abundance, forever. It was a good way to live. Even Ushahin had his madlings … oh, yes, of course.
That was where they were. Rejoicing in the return of their own particular master, in the camaraderie of souls twisted out of true. Settling back into the warm water, Tanaros closed his eyes. Since he was alone, he might as well indulge in his memories.
The bath-oil had smelled like vulnus-blossom …
He tried to summon it; the rage, the old, old anger. Calista’s gaze meeting his as she lay in her birthing-bed, eyes stretched wide with guilty fear as she held the babe with red-gold hair close to her breast. Roscus, looking surprised, the hand he had extended so often in false brotherhood clutching uncomprehending at the length of steel that had pierced his belly. Remembering the scent of vulnus-blossom, Tanaros tried to summon the bitter satisfaction that moment had engendered.
It wouldn’t come.
Too far away, and he was tired, too tired for rage. There was too much to be done, here and now. Calista had been dead for a long, long time; aye, and Roscus, too. Somewhere, somehow, the fearsome womb of the Marasoumië, the blazing sands and merciless sun of the Unknown Desert, had rendered their ghosts into pallid shadows. It was the living who commanded his attention. One, more than others.
Since the comfort of anger was denied him, he sought to turn his mind to matters at hand, to the report he must make on the morrow to Lord Satoris and the preparations for battle to come; but the odor of vulnus-blossom wove a distracting thread through his thoughts. He shied away from the memory of Ngurra’s uplifted face and the old Yarru’s words. Why was there such pain in the memory, enough to displace the murder of his wife? His thoughts fled to the moon-garden and he saw her face, luminous and terrible with beauty. The Lady of the Ellylon.
What did you see? he had asked her.
You. I saw you …
“No.” Shaking his head, scattering droplets of water, Tanaros arose. He stepped dripping from the tub and toweled himself dry, donning a dressing-robe. Despite the fire laid in his hearth, he shivered. She was here in Darkhaven, separated from him only by a few thick walls, burning like a pale flame. Alone and waiting. Had she heard word of his return? Did she care if he lived or died? Or did she think only of Aracus Altorus? Gritting his teeth, he willed himself not to think of it. “Ah, no.”
There was a crisp knock at the door to his chambers.
He padded barefoot to answer it, feeling the luxury of Rukhari carpets beneath his feet. Meara was there when he opened the doors, eyes downcast. Another madling accompanied her, carrying a tray. Savory odors seeped from beneath the covering domes.
“Meara!” His mood lightened. “’Tis good to see you. Come in.” He opened the doors wider, inhaling deeply. His stomach rumbled in sympathy, hunger awakening in his starved tissues. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself a proper meal. “What have you brought? It smells delicious.”
“Squab, my lord.” Her tone was short. “And other thing.” She watched the second madling lay the table with care. “Forgive us, Lord General, that we cannot stay. Others will return in time to tend to everything.”
Tanaros frowned. “Does the Dreamspinner demand your presence, Meara? Or is it that I have offended you in some way?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “Does my lord even remember?”
He did, then; her weight, straddling him. The smell of her; of womanflesh, warm and earthy. Her teeth nipping at his lip, her tongue probing. His hand, striking her face, hard enough to draw blood. Tanaros flushed to the roots of his hair.
He had forgotten.
“Aye.” Meara nodded. “That.”
“Please.” He made a deep courtier’s bow, according her the full measure of dignity any woman deserved. “Allow me to apologize again, Meara. Forgive me, for I never meant to strike you.”
“Oh, and it’s that you think demands apology the most, my lord?” She put one hand on her hip. “Never mind. I forgave you that from the beginning.”
“What, then?” Tanaros asked gravely. “Tell me, and I will make amends.”
“No.” Gnawing her lip, she shook her head. “I don’t think so, my lord. Not if you have to ask. Some things cannot be mended. I know, I am one of them.” Meara shivered and gripped her elbows, then gave a harsh laugh. “Ask the Lady, if you want to know. She’s heard word of your return. She is waiting, although she does not say it.”
“Is she?” He kept his voice polite.
“Oh, yes.” She eyed him. “She does not fear you as she does the others. I think she has seen some kindness in you that she believes might be redeemed. Be wary, my lord. There is danger in it.”
Tanaros shrugged. “She is a hostage, Meara. She can do no harm.”
The bitten lips curved in a mirthless smile. “Go to her, then. One day, you will remember I warned you. I did from the first. It was a mistake to bring her here.” She beckoned to her companion and turned to depart.
“Meara,” Tanaros called after her.
“I have to go, my lord.” She walked away without looking back. “Use the bellpull if you have need of aught else.”
He stared after her a moment, then closed the doors. The aroma of his supper called him to the table. Despite the accumulated hunger of weeks of privation, he delayed for a moment, savoring her words.
Cerelinde was waiting for him.
Ushahin Dreamspinner sat cross-legged on a high chopping block.
All around him, his madlings pressed and swarmed, jostling for position, reaching out to touch his knee or his foot in reassurance. He sat and waited for all of them to assemble—not just the cooks and servants, but the launderers, the maids, the stable lads. All of the folk who tended to his Lordship’s glorious fortress.
His people.
Darkhaven’s kitchens were roasting hot and greasy, redolent of cooking odors. For the madlings, it was a safe haven, one of the few places in the fortress in which they enjoyed the comfort of domestic familiarity. Here, they established their own society, their own hierarchy. Cooks possessed by mad culinary genius worked cheek by jowl with half-witted assistants and found common ground. All took pride in their labor, knowing that Darkhaven could not function without them; and the kitchens represented the pinnacle of that pride.
Ushahin did not mind being there. The atmosphere soothed his aching joints, reminding him of the moist, fecund air at the heart of the Delta. The belching ovens might have been Calanthrag’s nostrils. The thought gave him pleasure, though he hid it from his madlings.
Their mood, at once ebullient and penitent, disturbed him. It came as no surprise, in light of what Vorax had told him. Sifting through the endless tangle of their waking thoughts, Ushahin saw a single image repeated: Cerelinde, the Lady of the Ellylon.
He kept a stern visage until all were assembled. When Meara and the lad who accompanied her returned from their errand, he raised one hand for silence. With whispers and broken murmurs, a sea of madlings obeyed. Their twitching faces were raised to listen, gleaming gazes fixed upon him.
“My children,” Ushahin addressed them. “I have labored long and hard, through countless dangers, to return to you. And now I find Lord Vorax is wroth. How do you account for yourselves in my absence?”