Godslayer

by Jacqueline Carey

  Something deep shifted in Malthus’eyes, and it was as if a veil had been withdrawn, revealing ancient and terrible depths. “I am as the Lord-of-Thought Shaped me,” he said softly. “And I possess such knowledge as he willed. More than that, Sorceress, I cannot say, nor may I.”

  Lilias nodded. “Can you tell me, then, why Haomane refused when Satoris offered his Gift to Haomane’s Children?”

  “Because such a thing was not meant to be.” Malthus shook his head, and the semblance of age and weariness returned to his mien. “Thus was the will of Uru-Alat, which only the Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, sprung from the very brow of the world, grasps in its fullness.”

  “Except for dragons, of course. But perhaps it wasn’t Haomane’s will that you possess that knowledge.” Lilias pushed back her chair and stood, gazing at their silent, watching faces. Her vision was blurred with the weak, foolish tears she couldn’t seem to suppress. “You should have tried to woo me,” she said to Aracus. “It might even have worked.” Thick with tears, her voice shook. “I am a proud woman, and a vain one, and if you had begged me for the Soumanië I might have relented. But although I am flawed, I have lived for a very long time, and I am not a fool.” She dashed at her eyes with the back of one hand, a choking laugh catching in her throat. “I’m sorry, Counselor,” she said to Malthus. “It must disappoint you to learn that your Soumanië has not illuminated my soul.”

  “Yes.” There was no mockery in Malthus’ tone, only abiding sorrow. He gazed at her with profound regret. “It does.”

  “Yes, well.” Lilias took another shaking breath. “Perhaps I am protected by the claim I have not relinquished, or perhaps this place suffers from a surfeit of brightness already. Perhaps, after all, my soul is not so black as it has been painted.” She stood very straight, addressing all of them. “I know who I am and what I have done. I have endured your compassion, your mercy, your righteous outrage. But you should not have brought me here to humiliate me with your goodness.”

  “Such was not our intention, Sorceress,” Ingolin murmured. “If that is your feeling—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You claimed to want knowledge, Ingolin the Wise, but all you truly wanted was my repentance. And the Soumanië.” Lilias smiled through her tears and spread her arms. “And yet, I cannot gainsay what I know. All things must be as they are. For the price of my life, the Soumanië is yours. Will you take it and be forsworn?”

  The Lord of the Rivenlost exchanged glances with Aracus and Malthus. “No, Sorceress,” he said with terrible gentleness. “We will not.”

  “Well, then.” Lilias swallowed, tasting the bitter salt of her tears. “Then I will keep my claim upon it until I die of uselessness and shame.” She turned to Blaise. “Will you take me back to my quarters, please?”

  Blaise looked to Aracus, who gave a curt nod. Without a word, Blaise opened the door. She followed him through it.

  Behind her, the silvery voices arose.

  THE LADY CERELINDE SMILED AT him. “General Tanaros.”

  “Lady.” He bowed in greeting, thinking as he straightened that perhaps it had been a mistake to come here. The impact of her presence was always greater than he remembered. “Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  Out of the courtly habit he had kept for over a thousand years, Tanaros extended his arm to her as he escorted her from her chamber. Cerelinde took it as she had done the night he brought her to the moon-garden, her slender, white fingertips resting on his forearm. He had forgone his armor, wearing only the black sword belted at his waist, and he could feel her touch through the velvet sleeve of his austere black doublet Clear and distinct, each fingertip, as though she were setting her own brand upon him through some forgotten Ellyl magic; as powerful as Godslayer, yet more subtle.

  What would it be like, that delicate touch against bare skin?

  The thought came before he could quell it, and in its wake arose a wave of desire so strong it almost sickened him, coupled with a terrible yearning. It was a nameless emotion, its roots as old as mortality; covetous envy thwarted, manifesting in the desire to possess something so other, so fine.

  “Are you all right?” There was concern in her voice.

  “Yes.” Standing in the hallway outside her door, Tanaros caught the eye of the leader of the Havenguard quartet he had assigned to accompany them. The sight of the Mørkhar Fjel looming in armor steadied him. He touched the rhios that hung in a pouch at his belt, feeling its smooth curves, and willing his racing pulse to ease. “Krognar,” he said. “This is the Lady Cerelinde. Your lads are escorting us to the rookery.”

  “Lady,” Krognar rumbled, inclining his massive head.

  “Sir Krognar.” She regarded him with polite, fascinated horror.

  Tanaros could feel the tremor that ran through her. “This way, Lady,” he said.

  The quartet of Mørkhar Fjel fell in behind them as he led her through the winding corridors of Darkhaven. The marble halls echoed with the heavy pad and scritch of their homy, taloned feet, accompanied by the faint jangle of arms.

  “You needed no guard the night you brought me to see Lord Satoris’ garden,” Cerelinde said presently. Although her voice was level, her fingers clenching his forearm were tight with fear.

  “The moon-garden lies within the confines of Darkhaven,” Tanaros said. “The rookery does not I am responsible for your security, Cerelinde.”

  She glanced briefly at him. Despite her fear, a faint smile touched her lips. “Do you fear I will use Ellyl magic to effect an escape?”

  “Yes,” he said honestly. “I do. I fear enchantments of the sort you invoked in Cuilos Tuillenrad. And I fear …” Tanaros took a deep breath. “I fear I do not trust myself to resist your beseechment, should you seek to beguile me. It is best that the Havenguard are here.”

  Color rose to her cheeks, and her reply was unwontedly sharp. “I did not beseech you to do this, Tanaros!”

  “True.” He disengaged his arm. “Shall we go back?”

  Cerelinde hesitated, searching his face. “Is it truly outside?”

  “Yes.” He answered without hesitating, without pausing to consider the pleasure it gave him to answer her with the truth. “It is outside. Well and truly, Cerelinde.”

  She turned away, averting her gaze. Strands of her hair, as pale as corn silk, clung to his velvet-clad shoulder. “Then I would fain see it, my lord Blacksword,” she murmured. “I would walk under the light of Haomane’s sun.”

  Tanaros bowed. “Then so you shall.”

  They exited Darkhaven through the northern portal, with its vast doors that depicted the Council of the Six Tribes, in which the Fjeltroll Elders had voted to pledge their support to Lord Satoris; he to whom they had given shelter, he who had sought to teach the Fjel such Gifts as Haomane had withheld. Tanaros wished that Cerelinde had noticed the depiction and inquired about it. There was much he would have liked to discuss with her, including the quixotic nature of Haomane’s Gift, the gift of thought, which only Arahila’s Children shared.

  But beyond the doors, there was daylight.

  “Ah, Haomane!” Cerelinde breathed the word like a prayer. Relinquishing his arm, she ran on ahead with swift, light steps; into the daylight, into the open air. Although the sky was leaden and grey, she opened her arms to it, turning her face upward like a sunflower. And there, of a surety, was the sun. A pale disk, glimpsed through the clouds that hovered over the Vale of Gorgantum. “Tanaros!” she cried. “The sun!”

  “Aye, Lady.” He was unable to repress a smile. “’Tis where you left it.”

  Her face was alight with pleasure. “Mock me if you must, Tanaros, but the light of the sun is the nearest thing to Haomane’s presence, without which the Rivenlost fade and dwindle. Do not despise me for taking joy in it.”

  “Lady, I do not.” It seemed to him, in that moment, he could never despise her. “Shall we proceed?”

  He escorted her down the paths that led into beechwood. A
lthough the wood lay within the vast, encircling wall that surrounded Darkhaven, the dense trees blotted out any glimpse of its borders. Were it not that the trees grew dark and twisted, their trunks wrenched around knotted boles, they might have been anywhere in Urulat.

  Once they were beneath the wood’s canopy, Tanaros gave way, allowing Cerelinde to precede him, wandering freely along the trail. The Mørkhar padded behind them, heavy treads crunching on the beech-mast. Autumn was approaching and the leaves were beginning to turn. Elsewhere, they would have taken on a golden hue. Here in Darkhaven, a splotch of deepest crimson blossomed in the center of the jagged spearhead of each leaf, shading to dark green on the outer edges.

  Cerelinde touched them, her fingertips trailing over glossy leaves and rutted, gnarled bark. “There is such pain in the struggle,” she wondered aloud. “Even their roots groan at their travail. And yet they adapt and endure. These are ancient trees.” She glanced at him. “What has done this to them, Tanaros? Is it that Lord Satoris has stricken them in his wrath?”

  “No, Lady.” He shook his head. “It is his blood that alters the land in the Vale of Gorgantum, that which flows from his unhealing wound. For thousands upon thousands of years, it has seeped into the earth.”

  “A Shaper’s blood,” she murmured.

  “Yes.” He watched her, his heart aching. In the muted, blood-shot light beneath the beech canopy, the Lady of the Ellylon shone like a gem. How finely they were wrought, Haomane’s Children! No wonder that Haomane loved them so dearly, having taken such care with their Shaping. “Come, it is this way.”

  She paused for a moment as they entered the rookery, where a hundred ragged nests adorned the crooked trees, absorbing the sight in silence. The wood was alive with ravens, bustling busily about their messy abodes, sidling along branches and peering at the visitors with bright, wary eyes. When she saw the small glade and the table awaiting them, Cerelinde turned to him. “You did this?”

  “Aye.” Tanaros smiled. “Will you join me in a glass of wine, Lady?”

  Another faint blush warmed her cheeks. “I will.”

  The table was laid with dazzling white linens and set with a simple wine service; a clay jug and two elegantly turned goblets. It was Dwarfish work, marked by the simple grace that characterized their labors. How it had made its way to Darkhaven, Tanaros did not know. Beneath the glowering light of the Vale, table and service glowed alike, filled with their own intrinsic beauty. And beside the table, proud and upright in plain black livery, stood Speros, who had undertaken the arrangements on his General’s behalf.

  “Speros of Haimhault,” Tanaros said. “This is the Lady Cerelinde.”

  “Lady.” Speros breathed the word, bowing low. His eyes, when he arose, were filled with tears. In the desert, he had expressed a desire to behold her. It was a wish granted, this moment; a wish that made the heart ache for the beauty, the fineness, that Arahila’s Children would never possess. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

  “As you please.” Cerelinde smiled at him, taking her seat. The Mørkhar Fjel dispatched themselves to the four quarters of the glade, planting their taloned feet and taking up patient, watchful stances. “Thank you, Speros of Haimhault.”

  “You are welcome.” His hand trembled as he poured, filling her cup with red Vedasian wine. The lip of the wine-jug rattled against her goblet. With a visible effort, he moved to fill his General’s. “Most welcome, Lady.”

  Tanaros sat opposite Cerelinde and beheld that which made the Midlander tremble. He pitied the lad, for a wish granted was a dangerous thing; and yet. Ah, Shapers, the glory of her! It was a light, a light that shone from within—it was Haomane’s love, shining like a kiss upon her brow. It was present in every part of her; bred into the very fineness of her bones, the soaring architecture of the flesh. All at once, it enhanced and shamed its surroundings.

  And she was pleased.

  In all his prolonged years, he had never seen such a thing. One of the Ellyl; pleased. Her heart gladdened by what Tanaros had done. It was reflected in the gentle curve of her lips. It was reflected in her eyes, in the limitless depths of her pupils, in the pleated luminosity of her irises, those subtle colors like a rainbow after rain. And although her mood had not yet passed, it would. The thought filled him with a prescient nostalgia. Already he longed to see it once more; yearned to be, in word and deed, a Man as would gladden the heart of the Lady of the Ellylon and coax forth this brightness within her. Who would not wish to be such a Man?

  “Cerelinde.” He hoisted his goblet to her.

  “Tanaros.” Her smile deepened. “Thank you.”

  “Kaugh!”

  Tanaros startled at the sound, then laughed. He extended an arm. In a flurry of black wings, Fetch launched himself from a nearby branch, alighting on Tanaros’ forearm. “This,” he said fondly, “is who I wanted you to meet.” He glanced at Speros, feeling an obscure guilt. “Or what, I should say.”

  The Lady of the Ellylon and the bedraggled raven regarded one another.

  “His name is Fetch,” Tanaros said. “He was a late-born fledgling. Six years ago, I found him in his Lordship’s moon-garden, half-frozen, and took him into my quarters.” He stroked the raven’s iridescent black feathers. “He made a fearful mess of them,” he added with a smile. “But he saved my life in the Unknown Desert; mine, and Speros’, too. We are at quits now.”

  “Greetings, Fetch,” Cerelinde said gravely. “Well met.”

  Deep in his throat, the raven gave an uneasy chuckle. He sidled away from her, his sharp claws pricking at Tanaros’ velvet sleeve.

  “My apologies.” Tanaros cleared his throat in embarrassment as Fetch scrambled to his shoulder, clinging to the collar of his doublet and ducking beneath his hair to peer out at Cerelinde. “It seems he is shy of you, Lady.”

  “He has reason.” Her voice was soft and musical. “My folk have slain his kind for serving as the Sunderer’s eyes, and the eagles of Meronil drive them from our towers. But it is also true that the Rivenlost do not begrudge any of the small races their enmity.” Cerelinde smiled at the raven. “They do not know what they do. One day, perhaps, there will be peace. We hope for it.”

  Shifting from foot to foot, Fetch bobbed his tufted head. His sharp beak nudged its way through the dark strands of Tanaros’ hair, and his anxious thoughts nudged at Tanaros’ mind. Opening himself to them, Tanaros saw through doubled eyes a familiar, unsettling sensation. What he saw made him blink.

  Cerelinde ablaze.

  She burned like a signal fire in the raven’s gaze, an Ellyl shaped woman’s form, white-hot and searing. There was beauty, oh, yes! A terrible beauty, one that filled Fetch’s rustling thoughts with fear. Her figure divided the blackness like a sword. And beyond and behind it, there was a vast emptiness. The space between the stars, endless black and achingly cold. In it, as if through a crack in the world, stars fell; fell and fell and fell, trailing gouts of white-blue fire, beautiful and unending.

  Somewhere, there was the roar of a dragon’s laughter.

  Tanaros blinked again to clear his vision. There was a sudden pressure upon his shoulder as Fetch launched himself, soaring with outspread wings to a nearby branch. The raven chittered, his beak parted. All around the rookery, his calls were uneasily echoed until the glade was alive with uneasy sound.

  “Perhaps I am unwelcome here,” Cerelinde said softly.

  “No.” At a loss for words, Tanaros quaffed his wine and held out his goblet for Speros to refill. He shook his head, willing the action to dispel the lingering images. “No, Lady. You are a guest here. As you say, they are fearful. Something happened to Fetch in the desert.” He furrowed his brow in thought, pondering the strange visions that flitted through the raven’s thought, the recurrent image of a dragon. Not just any dragon, but one truly ancient of days. “Or before, perhaps. Something I do not understand.”

  “It seems to me,” said the Lady of the Ellylon, “many things happened in the desert, Tanaros.” She g
azed at him with the same steady kindness she had shown the raven, the same unrelenting pity with which she had beheld the madlings of Darkhaven. “Do you wish to speak of them?”

  Speros, holding the wine-jug at the ready, coughed and turned away.

  “No.” Resting his elbows on the dazzling white linen of the tablecloth, Tanaros fiddled with the stem of his goblet. He studied the backs of his hands; the scarred knuckles. It had been a long, long time since he had known a woman’s compassion. It would have been a relief to speak of it; a relief so deep he felt the promise of it in his bones. And yet; she was the Lady of the Ellylon, Haomane’s Child. How could he explain it to her? Lord Satoris’ command, his own reluctance to obey it. Strength born of the Water of Life still coursing in his veins, the quietude of Stone Grove and Ngurra’s old head lifting, following the rising arc of his black blade. His refusal to relent, to give a reason, any reason. Only a single word: Choose. The blade’s fall, a welter of gore, and the anguished cry of the old Yarru’s wife. The blunt crunch of the Fjel maces that followed. These things, she would not understand. There was no place for them here, in this moment of civilized discourse. “No,” he said again more firmly. “Lady, I do not.”

  “As you please.” Cerelinde bowed her head for a moment, her features curtained by her pale, shining hair. When she lifted her head, a nameless emotion darkened her clear eyes. “Tanaros,” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

  All around the rookery, ravens settled, cocking their heads.

  “It is a small kindness, Lady, nothing more.” Tanaros glanced around, taking in the myriad bright eyes. There was Fetch, still as a stone, watching him. A strange grief thickened his words. “Do you think me incapable of such deeds?”

  “No.” Sorrow, and something else, shaded her tone. “I think you are like these trees, Tanaros. As deep-rooted life endures in them, so does goodness endure in you, warped and blighted by darkness. And such a thing grieves me, for it need not be. Ah, Tanaros!” The brightness returned to her eyes. “There is forgiveness and Arahila’s mercy awaiting you, did only you reach out your hand. For you, and this young Man; yes, even for the ravens themselves. For all the innocent and misguided who dwell beneath the Sunderer’s shadow. Is it asking so much?”