Of course the sun did not shine full upon Darkhaven.
“Your pardon, General,” Lilias said. “I did not think upon it.”
“No mind.” Tanaros smiled again, drawing a deep breath of mountain air. “I have missed it.”
Lilias paused, tucking a wind-tugged strand of hair behind her ear. The height was dizzying and the crags fell away beneath their feet, but she was at home, here. “Then why do you serve him?” she asked curiously.
“You know what I did?” His gaze flicked toward her.
She nodded.
She knew; the world knew. Twelve hundred years gone by, Tanaros Caveros had been the Commander of the King’s Guard in Altoria, sworn to serve Roscus Altorus, his kinsman. His wife had betrayed him, and lain with the King, giving birth to a babe of Altorus’ get. For that betrayal, Tanaros had throttled his beloved wife, had run his sworn King through on the point of a sword and fled, bloody-handed. And that was all Urulat had known of him until he returned, four hundred years later, at the head of the army of Darkhaven and destroyed the kingdom of Altoria.
“Well.” Tanaros stared into the distant gorge at the base of the mountain. “Then you know. My Lord Satoris …” He paused, fingering the unseen talisman. “He needed me, my lady. He was the only one who did, the only one who gave me a reason to live. A cause to fight, an army to lead. He is the only one who allowed me the dignity of my hatred.”
Small wonder, that.
Lilias knew something of the Sunderer’s pain, of the betrayal that had Shaped him; but that was between her and the dragon. She wondered how much Tanaros knew. It was difficult to imagine him committing the deeds that had driven him to the Shaper’s side, and yet he had not denied it. She wondered if he regretted them, and thought that he must. Even in the bright sunlight, there was a shadow that never left his eyes. “Come,” she said. “Calandor is waiting.”
And she led him, then, to the mouth of the cavern, scrabbling up the lip of the plateau, all dignity forgotten. It didn’t matter, here. The opening yawned like a mouth, and something moved within it, high above them. Stalagmites rose from the cavern floor, towering in the air in fantastic, tapering columns. Beyond, distant heaps of treasure glinted, gold and trinkets and sorcerers’ gewgaws, books and chalices and gems, all bearing the impress of their once-owners’ touch.
A smell of sulfur hung in the air, and Lilias laughed for pure joy.
“Calandor!”
“Liliasssss.”
One of the stalagmites moved, then another, equidistant. Something scraped along the cavern floor. Vast claws gouged stone, and a bronze-scaled breast hove into view like the keel of a mighty ship. High above; a snort of flame lit the vaulted roof sulfur-yellow. Tanaros took a step backward, reaching unthinking for the hilt of his sword, then held his ground as the dragon bent his sinuous neck downward, scales glinting in the slanting light from the opening.
“Tanaros Caverosss.”
The mighty jaws parted as the dragon spoke, lined with rows of pointed teeth, each one as large as a man’s hand. Forge-breath ruffled the Soldier’s hair, but he stood unflinching though the dragon’s head hovered above his own, incomprehensibly vast. Thin trickles of smoke issued from the dragon’s nostrils and its eyes were green, green and cat-slitted, lit with an inner luminescence.
“Calandor.” Tanaros bowed, unable to conceal the awe in his face. “Eldest, I bear you greetings from my Lord Satoris, whom you once called friend.”
A nictitating membrane covered the dragon’s eyes in a brief blink; a smile, though Tanaros could not have known it. “I am not the Eldessst, Blackssword. Your Masster knows as much. What does he want, the Sssower?”
“He wants our aid, Calandor,” Lilias said aloud what the dragon already knew. “He wants to lay a false trail to our doorstep for the Ellylon to follow.”
Calandor ignored her, dragging himself past them step by slow step to the verge of the cavern, positioning his immense claws with care. His plated underbelly rasped on the stone. The crest of spines along his neck became visible, the massive shoulders. His wings, folded at his sides, the vaned pinions glittering like burnished gold. Outspread in the sky, they would shadow the mountainside. Lilias heard Tanaros stifle a gasp.
The dragon scented the air through nostrils the size of dinner-plates. “Sheep,” he said, sounding satisfied. “In the northeast meadow. Three have lambed this day. I am hungry, Liliasss.”
“Then you shall feed, Calandor.”
“At nightfall,” the dragon said. “I will take wing. Two ewes, and one lamb.”
“It shall be so, Calandor.” Lilias had conferred with her head herdsman, as she did each spring. They knew, to a lamb, what losses the flock could sustain. The dragon knew it, too. She wondered at what game he played.
Calandor’s head swung around, swiveling on that sinuous neck, green eyes fixing on the Soldier. “You were to have been my rightful prey, Man! You whose numbers have overrun the earth.”
Tanaros shuddered and held fast. “I represent my Lord, not my race, Calandor.”
Twin jets of smoke emerged in a laugh. “The Shaper.”
“Yes,” Tanaros said. “The Shaper.”
The dragon lifted his massive head and stared westward, eyes slitting in the sun. “We aided Sssatoriss when the Sssouma was shattered, because he was a friend. Many of usss died for it, and Haomane became our Enemy. No more, we sssaid. But it was too late, and we too few, and I, I am one of the lasst. Do you asssk me now to die, Ssoldier?”
“No,” Tanaros said. “No! Eldest Brother, we will lay a trail to the doorstep of Beshtanag, yes. And when the Ellylon follow it, and the sons of Altorus and whatever allies they might gather, we will fall upon them from behind, the army of Darkhaven in all its strength, and it shall be ended. This I swear to you. Do you doubt it?”
Why, Lilias wondered, did she want to weep?
Calandor blinked, slowly. “I am not the Eldessst, Kingsslayer.”
“Nonetheless.” Tanaros’ voice hardened. “My lord Calandor, Dergail’s Soumanië has risen, and the signs of the Prophecy have begun. In a week’s time, Cerelinde of the Ellylon will plight her troth with Aracus Altorus, and across the land, Urulat prepares for war. Haomane himself only knows what mission Malthus the Counselor has undertaken. Where will you be, if Darkhaven falls? If Godslayer falls into the Counselor’s hands, if Urulat is made whole on Haomane’s terms? Do you think one mortal sorceress with a chip of the Souma can resist the Six Shapers? Where will you be then, Elder Brother?”
“Enough!” Lilias clapped her hands over her ears.
But the dragon only sighed.
“Then let them come, Kingssslayer,” he said. “You sspeak the truth. If I will not ssserve your cause, neither will I oppose it. Lay your falssse trail. Let them come, and make of uss the anvil on which your hammer may ssstrike. Does this please you?”
“My lord Calandor,” Tanaros said. “I am grateful. My Lord is grateful.”
“Yesss,” the dragon said. “Now go.”
FIVE
THE OLD MAN SQUATTED ON his haunches, gazing at the stars.
Even in the small hours of night, the rock held enough sun-captured heat to warm his buttocks, though the naked soles of his feet were calloused and immune to warmth or cold. He watched the stars wheel slowly through their nocturnal circuit, counting through the long telling of his ancestors. There was a smell of water in his nostrils, iron-rich and heavy. Something scrabbled in the spiny thorn-brush. It might have been a hopping-mouse or a hunting lizard, though it was not. He was an Elder of the Yarru-yami, and he knew every sound in the Unknown Desert.
“Can you not leave me in peace, old woman?” the old man grumbled.
“Peace!” She emerged from the night to place herself before his rock, folding arms over withered dugs, her long, grey-white hair illuminated by starlight. “You would squat on this rock all night, old man, chewing gamal and watching the stars. You call that peace?”
After all these years, she was as spirited
as the day he had met her. He smiled into his beard. “I do, old woman. If you’ll not let be, then join me.”
With a snort of disapproval, she clambered up the rock to squat at his side, groaning a little as her hipbones popped and creaked. He shifted to make room for her, digging into the worn pouch that hung at his waist and passing her a pinch of gamal. Her jaws worked, softening the dried fibers, working her mouth’s moisture into them. Eighty-three years old, and her teeth still strong, working the gamal into a moist wad to tuck into her cheek.
Side by side, they squatted and watched the stars.
Especially the red one low on the western horizon.
Her voice, when she spoke, was sombre. “It’s the choosing-time, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Coming fast.”
“The poor boy.” She shook her head. “Poor boy! There’s no fairness in it. He’s not fit to make such a choice. Who is?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t stop it from coming.”
She eyed him acerbically. “And how would you choose, old one?”
“Me?” He turned his hands over, examining his palms. Paler than the rest of his skin, they were leathery and creased, tanned like an old hide. Age had marked them, and wear, and the lines of mortality. Nothing else. “It’s not mine to choose.”
“I know,” she whispered. “Poor boy! I pray he chooses aright.”
The old man squatted and listened to the sounds of the desert, while the stars wheeled slowly overhead. He felt the slow, steady beat of his heart, winding down to its inevitable faltering, the blood coursing through his veins, as water coursed through the earth far, far below them. In the heart of the Unknown Desert, there was water, water from the deepest place, the oldest place.
Birru-Uru-Alat, the Navel, the Well of the World.
It had been forgotten by all save the Yarru, who had cause to remember. Long ago, Haomane’s Wrath had driven them beneath the earth, where they fled for shelter and in turn were given a trust. The Elders had kept the wisdom of Uru-Alat. When the boy was born with the markings on his hands, they had known. He was the Bearer, one who could carry the Water of Life, though it weighed heavier than stone or steel, as heavy as the burden of choice itself.
The Water of Life, which could extinguish the marrow-fire.
It would not be forgotten forever. A red star had risen and the Bearer was nearing manhood. The choosing-time would be upon him.
It was coming.
TANAROS CHOKED BACK A GASP as he emerged in the Chamber of the Marasoumië beneath Darkhaven, his heart constricting with a sharp pain as the node-point closed, hurling his form back into the framework of mortality, stumbling and shaken, his senses blurred with the speed of his passage.
“Steady, cousin.” Vorax’s deep voice reassured him, a solid hand on his elbow, anchoring him in time and place. Tanaros blinked, waiting for his vision to clear, every bone in his body aching at the abrupt transition. The world seemed preternaturally slow after traveling the Ways. He stared at the Staccian’s beard, feeling he could number each auburn hair of it while the fleshy lips formed their next sentence. “Did the Sorceress consent?”
“Aye.” Seizing upon the question, he managed an answer. His chest loosened, normal breathing returning. “The lady and the dragon consented alike.”
“Well done.” Forgetting himself, Vorax thumped his shoulder with a proud grin. “Well done, indeed! His Lordship will be pleased.”
Tanaros winced as the edge of his spaulder bruised his flesh. “My thanks. What has transpired here, cousin?”
“General.” A Fjeltroll stepped forward, yellow-eyed in the pulsing light of the chamber. One of the Kaldjager, the Cold Hunters, who patrolled the vast network of tunnels. “We have scouted passage to Lindanen Dale. We may pass below the Aven River. An entrance lies less than a league to the north. Kaldjager hold it secure. We took pains not to be seen.”
“Good” Tanaros collected his wits, which were beginning to function once more. “Good. And Vorax, on your end?”
The Staccian shrugged. “I am in readiness. A chamber has been prepared, fit for a Queen. As for the rest, there’s a fast ship awaiting in Harrington Bay, and a company of my lads ready to outrace the Ellylon to it, posing as Beshtanagi in disguise.”
“Good,” Tanaros repeated. “And the Dreamspinner? Did he succeed?”
“Well … don’t go a-walking in the wood, cousin.” Vorax grinned. “Does that answer it for you?”
It did.
IT WAS A PLAN, A simple plan.
Tanaros considered it as he lay in his bath.
The difficulty lay in gaining access, for the full might of the Rivenlost would. be turned out to safeguard this wedding; aye, and the Borderguard of Curonan, too. And unless Tanaros missed his guess, the Duke of Seahold would have a contingent present as well. Every inch of ground within a dozen leagues of Lindanen Dale would have been scouted and secured.
Except the tunnels.
It was a pity they could not make use of the Marasoumië, but that would come later. Merely to hold the Ways open for so many would require two of the Three, taxing them to their utmost, and Ushahin was needed for this plan. The tunnels would be slower, but they would suffice.
It was a pity, a grave pity, that he could not bring the entire army through them with sufficient time to assemble. That would put an end to it. The army of Darkhaven was not so vast as Men believed it; that was Ushahin Dreamspinner’s work, who walked in the dreams of Men and magnified their fears, playing them into nightmares. But it was vast enough, Tanaros thought, to win in a pitched battle. Under Lord Satoris’ protection, the numbers of the Fjel had grown steadily throughout the centuries. Not enough to rival Men, who held nearly the whole of Urulat as their domain, but enough. And Tanaros had trained them.
On level ground, on the open field … ah, but the Ellylon and the sons of Altorus were too clever for that gambit. Once, it had worked. Long ago, on the plains of Curonan. He had donned the Helm of Shadows, and led the army of Darkhaven against the forces of Altoria, bringing down a nation, securing a buffer zone.
Altoria had had a Queen, then. He had never met her, never seen her. He wondered, sometimes, if she had resembled his wife. In the adamance of her pride, at the urging of her advisors, she had poured all the resources of her realm into that war, until nothing was left. In the end, Altoria lost Curonan and the throne, leaving the remnants of the sons of Altorus to patrol the verges of the lost plains.
Now, it was different. They needed to draw their Enemy out into the open. And they needed bait to do it. That was where the tunnels came into play, and Beshtanag, and above all, the Were that Ushahin had brought to Darkhaven.
The bath-water was growing cool. Tanaros stood, dripping.
“Here, Lord General.”
Meara, the madling, slunk around the entrance to his bathing-chamber, proffering a length of clean linen toweling and eyeing him through her tangled hair. She had never done such before.
“Thank you, Meara.” He dried himself, self-conscious for the first time in many decades. Physically, his body was unchanged. Save for the mark of his branding, it was little different than it had been on his wedding night, strong and lean and serviceable. Only the puckered, silvery scar on his breast gave evidence of his nature; that, and the deep ache of years.
“Does it hurt?” She pointed at his chest.
“Yes.” He touched the scar with his fingertips, feeling the ridged flesh, remembering the searing ecstasy he’d felt when his Lord took Godslayer from the blazing marrow-fire and branded him with it, using the force of the Souma to stretch the Chain of Being to its limits to encompass him. “It hurts.”
Meara nodded. “I thought so.” She watched him don his robe. “What was she like, Lord General?”
“She?” He paused.
Her eyes glittered. “The Sorceress.”
“She was … courteous.”
“Was she prettier than me?” she asked plaintively.
“Prettier?” T
anaros gazed at the madling, who squirmed away from his scrutiny. He thought about Lilias, whose imperious beauty softened only in the presence of the dragon. “No, Meara. Not prettier.”
She followed him as he left the bathing-chamber, tossing back her hair and glaring. “Another one is coming, you know. Coming here.”
“Another one?”
“A lady.” She spat the word. “An Ellyl lady.”
“Yes.” He wondered how she knew, if they all knew. “Such is the plan.”
“It is a mistake,” Meara said darkly.
“Meara.” Tanaros rumpled his hair, damp from the bath. He remembered the Sorceress, and how the wind on the mountainside had tugged at her hair, that had otherwise fallen dark and shining, bound by the circlet, the red Soumanië vivid against her pale brow. He wondered what the other would be like, and if it were a mistake to bring her here. “The lady is to be under our Lord’s protection.”
The madling shuddered, turned and fled.
Bewildered, Tanaros watched her go.
THERE WAS NEVER ENOUGH TIME to prepare, when it came to it.
The Warchamber was packed with representatives of three of the races of Lesser Shapers, all crowded around the map-table and listening intently to the Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven. It was a simple plan. Tanaros wished he liked it better. Nonetheless, it was his Lord’s will, and he continued, carrying it out to the letter. “And here,”—he pointed at the map—“is the mouth of the tunnel. Here, and here and here, there will be sentries posted, guarding the perimeter of Lindanen Dale. Those,”—Tanaros glanced at the Were Brethren—“will be yours to dispatch, as we agreed.”
A flat voice spoke, passionless and grey. “And here they plight their troth?”
“Aye.” The skin at the back of his neck prickled. With an effort, Tanaros made himself meet the gaze of Sorash, the Grey Dam of the Were, who rested one clawed forefinger upon the heart of Lindanen Dale. “That is where you will strike, honored one, if you be willing.”
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