Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  On the second day, Tanaros could bear it no longer.

  An escort of marching Fjel surrounded her as she rode, seated on one of the fallen Staccian’s mounts. Tungskulder Fjel, Hyrgolf’s best lads, their horny heads at a level with her shoulder even as she rode astride. She bore it well, Cerelinde of the Ellylon, only a faint tremor giving evidence to her fear, until the air grew thick once more and she clutched her throat, gasping.

  “Give way,” Tanaros murmured to the rearguard.

  “General!” A Fjeltroll grinned and saluted, dropping back.

  He made his way to her side, maneuvering the black horse. “Lady,” he said, and her stricken gaze met his. “All is well. There is air, see?” He inhaled deeply, his chest swelling, detecting a waft of fresh air from an unseen vent. His brand pulsed like bands of marrow-fire around his heart. “We will survive, and endure.”

  “I am afraid.” Her frightened eyes were like stars.

  Once, Calista had said that to him; his wife. He hadn’t know, then, what she meant. Hadn’t known of her past-dawning attraction to his blood-sworn kinsman, his king, Roscus Altorus, or the affair it had engendered. He had laughed at her fears, laughed and embraced her, protecting the child that grew in her belly with his own strong arms, believing them strong enough to fend off aught that might harm them.

  Now, he didn’t laugh.

  “I know,” he said instead, somber. “Tomorrow we ride aboveground.”

  Cerelinde of the Ellylon shuddered with relief. “You might die, Kingslayer,” she said in her low, musical voice. “If the tunnel fell, deprived of air, you would die and your comrades with you. It would be terrible, but swift. My death would be slow, for such is Haomane’s Gift. I would die by inches, and my mind last of all. Though my body held the semblance of death, I would endure. Days, or weeks, alive in the crushing darkness, aware. Think on that, before you name me a coward.”

  “I would not.” He felt embarrassed. “I would not say such a thing.”

  Her gaze slid sideways, touching him. “What of him?” She indicated the Dreamspinner, who rode before them in the vanguard, trailing the Cold Hunters, the Kaldjager Fjel, who scouted before them to ensure the way was secure. “The blood of Men and Ellylon runs in his veins, yet he knows no fear.”

  “There is little Ushahin Dreamspinner fears.”

  “He is mad.”

  “Yes and no.” Tanaros regarded her. “He has reason to hate your kind, Lady. And mine. If it is madness that warps him, it is of our people’s devising.”

  She looked away, showing her profile, clear-cut as a cameo. “So you have said,” she said quietly. “And yet, did he come to us, Malthus would heal him. He is wounded in body and mind. It could be done, by one who knew how to wield the Soumanië. Such is the power of the Souma, to Shape and make whole. Even in the merest chip, it abides. In the dagger Godslayer, it abides tenfold. Satoris Banewreaker is cruel to deny him.”

  “Deny?” Tanaros laughed aloud.

  “You are quick to speak of his pain!” Cerelinde’s voice rose with her temper. “And the Sunderer was quick to turn it to his ends. Did you never think that Ushahin the Misbegotten might be better served by kindness?”

  “Kindness?” Tanaros drew rein, halting their progression. Behind them, the Fjel chuckled, amused by their exchange. “Lady, my Lord Satoris has offered healing to the Dreamspinner more times than I can number.” He smiled grimly at her reaction. “Aye, indeed. Do you think the Lord of Darkhaven does not know how to wield Godslayer? He is a Shaper, one of Seven, no matter that Haomane abjures him. It is Ushahin’s choice, to wear this broken face, these crippled hands. He was not denied. He chose to keep his pain, his madness. Again and again, he has chosen.”

  “It is not right.” She was shaken.

  “Why? Because you say so?” Tanaros shook his head, nudging his mount to a walk. “You understand nothing.”

  “Tanaros.” The fear in her voice and the fact that she spoke his name made him turn in the saddle. Her face was pale against the darkness of the tunnel, and her upraised chin trembled. “What does he want of me, the Sunderer? Why was I taken and yet not slain? It makes no sense. When you attacked …” Cerelinde closed her eyes briefly. “When you attacked, I thought you were Beshtanagi in disguise. Haomane help me, I would have sworn to it. Then I awoke, surrounded by Fjeltroll …” She shuddered, swallowing. “Why?”

  Pity stirred in his heart, a dangerous thing. “Lady, I cannot say. Only trust that you will be unharmed. My Lord has sworn it.”

  There was despair in her face, and disbelief.

  “Be we moving or no, Lord General?” Hyrgolf’s rumbling voice called.

  “Aye!” Tanaros tore his gaze away and dug his heels smartly into the black’s sides. It snorted, moving at a trot through the ranks of the Fjel, who offered good-natured salutes. “Call the march, Field Marshal!”

  “March!” Hyrgolf shouted.

  Onward they marched. Tanaros let them pass, falling in beside Ushahin Dreamspinner, who regarded him with an unreadable gaze. “You play a dangerous game, cousin,” he said.

  Tanaros shook his head. “There is no game here.”

  Ushahin, still clutching the case containing the Helm of Shadows to his belly, shrugged his crooked shoulders. “As you say. Were the choice mine, I would waste no time in killing her.”

  “The choice is his Lordship’s.” Tanaros’ voice hardened. “Would you strip all honor from him?”

  “In favor of survival?” Ushahin looked bleak. “Aye, I would”

  Tanaros reached over to touch his crippled hand where it rested on the case. “Forgive me, cousin,” he said. “The Grey Dam of the Were is due all honor. She spent her life as she chose and died with her eyeteeth seeking her enemy’s throat”

  “Aye.” Ushahin drew a deep breath. “I know it.” In the torchlit tunnel, his mismatched eyes glittered. “Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? Even as she died. You will know it ere the end.”

  “As you say, cousin.” Tanaros withdrew his hand, frowning in perplexity. Perhaps, after all, the Dreamspinner’s grief had worsened his madness. “Her life was gift enough.”

  Ushahin bared his teeth in a grimace. “It was for me.”

  THE SIX CLANS OF THE Yarru-yami, the Charred Ones, Children of Haomane’s Wrath, debated the matter for two days. In the cool hours of the early morning and the blue hours of dusk they debated, each member given his or her allotted length of time to speak in the center of the Stone Grove, atop the rocks that marked the Well of the World.

  The debate hinged on a single Yarru, the one who must choose.

  He was young, the Bearer, still a youth. Of average height for one of his folk, his head scarce reached the Counselor’s shoulder, with coarse black hair falling to his shoulders and liquid-dark eyes in an open, trusting face, struggling manfully to listen and weigh all that was said. He was quick and agile, as the Yarru were, with bare feet calloused by the desert floor, and brown-black skin. It was the mark of his people, the Charred Ones, unwitting victims of Haomane’s wrath—save his palms, that were pinkish tan, creased with deep-etched lines.

  And when he pressed them together and made a cup of his hands, those lines met at the precise base of the hollow to form a radiant star, for such was the sign of the Bearer.

  He was seventeen years old and his name was Dani.

  “Can he hoist the bucket?” Blaise Caveros had asked bluntly.

  “Yes, Guardian.” The old man Ngurra had shifted a wad of gamal into the pocket of his cheek, regarding the Altorian. “He is the Bearer. It is what he was born to do, to carry the water of Birru-Uru-Alat, that weighs as heavy as life. But whether or not he does is his choosing.”

  And so there was debate.

  It began with Malthus the Counselor. “Dani of the Yarru,” he said, leaning upon his staff. “You have seen the red star, the signal of war. In the west, the Sunderer’s army grows, legion upon legion of Fjeltroll streaming to join him. Soon he will move agai
nst us like a mighty tide, for it is his will to lay claim to the whole of Urulat and challenge his brother, Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, the Will of Uru-Alat.” The Counselor scowled, his bushy eyebrows fierce. “We can fight, and die, we who are loyal to Haomane and the light of the Souma, who would see Urulat made whole. We will fight, and die. But in the end, only one thing can halt Satoris Banewreaker.”

  With his staff he pointed to the rock-pile in the center of the Stone Grove. “Therein,” he said, “lies the Water of Life. It alone can quench the marrow-fire that wards the dagger Godslayer. And you alone can draw it, Dam of the Yarru. You alone can carry it. You are the vessel, a part of the Prophecy of Haomane, the Unknown made Known” The Counselor opened his arms. The Soumanië! gleamed red upon his breast, nestled amid his beard. “It is a grave matter,” he said. “To bear the Water of Life into the Vale of Gorgantum, inside the walls of Darkhaven itself, and extinguish the mamow-fire. We who stand here before you, the Company of Malthus, are pledged to aid you in every step of the way. Yet in the end, the fate of Urulat rests in your hands, Bearer. Choose.”

  Such was the beginning.

  Many others spoke, and among the Company of Malthus, only the Counselor understood the tongue of the Yarru; for many years had he studied it in his quest to unravel the Prophecy. And what he understood, he kept to himself over the days that followed.

  When all was said, Dani the Bearer chose.

  EIGHT

  “YES?” LILIAS RECLINED ON SILK cushions, raising her brows at the page.

  “My lady,” he said and gulped, glancing sidelong at pretty Sarika in her scanty attire, kneeling at her mistress’ side and wafting a fan against the unseasonal heat of a late Pelmaran spring. “My lady … there is an ambassador to see you. From the Were.”

  “Well?” Lilias arched her carefully plucked eyebrows a fraction higher, watching the page stutter. “Are the Were not our allies? See him in!”

  He left in a rush. Sarika ceased her fanning. “You should bind him to you, my lady,” she murmured, lowering her head to press her lips to the inside of Lilias’ wrist. “He would be quicker to serve.”

  “I’ve no need of fools and imbeciles, dear one.” She stroked the girl’s hair. “Enough surround me without binding.”

  Head bent, Sarika smiled.

  Calandor?

  Abide, little sister.

  The Were ambassador, when he came, entered the room like grey smoke, flowing around corners, low to the ground. Only when he stood and bowed did his form become fixed in the mind’s eye. Sarika let out a squeak, huddling close to her mistress’ couch. “Sorceress of the East.” The Were dipped his muzzle in acknowledgment. “I am Phraotes. I bring you greetings from the Grey Dam of the Were.”

  Lilias frowned. “Where is Kurush to whom I spoke a fortnight ago? Has he fallen out of favor with the Grey Dam Sorash?”

  Phraotes grimaced, lips curling back to show his sharp teeth. “The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives. Vashuka is the Grey Dam of the Were.”

  “Ahhh.” A pang ran through her. For as long as Lilias had lived—far longer than the allotment of Arahila’s Children—Sorash had been the Grey Dam. “I grieve for your loss, Phraotes,” she said in formal response, rising from her couch and extending her hand. “I give greetings to the Grey Dam Vashuka, and recognize the ancient ties of alliance. Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine.”

  “Sorceress.” He bowed his head, but his amber eyes glowed uneasily at her. “The Grey Dam values the friendship of Beshtanag.”

  The words were a blow. “Friendship.” Lilias withdrew her outstretched hand, regarding Phraotes. “Not alliance.”

  The ambassador’s keen, pointed ears tightened against his head. “War comes to Beshtanag. We do not desire war. Only to hunt, and live.”

  “You helped to set these forces in motion, Phraotes”

  “Yes” His muzzle dipped in a nod. “The Grey Dam Soash had cause for vengeance. Two Brethren accompanied her. All are dead. The debt is paid. The Grey Dam Vashuka does not desire war.”

  “Why?” she asked him.

  His lip curled. “Once was enough, Sorceress.”

  Lilias paced her drawing-room, ignoring the clatter of Gergon’s wardsmen arriving in a panic, waving them back when they sought to enter the room. Phraotes watched her with wary patience. “You prevailed in that war, Phraotes.”

  The Were shook his head. “We won our battle, Sorceress. We lost the war.”

  It is so, Lilias.

  Lilias sighed. “You should have stayed in the west,” she said to Phraotes. “The children of Men would not hunt you beneath the Sunderer’s protection. He commands a vaster territory than I do.”

  His amber eyes shone. “Our home is in the east, Sorceress. We are Oronin’s Children and it is here he Shaped us.”

  “Oronin should have better care for his Children,” Lilias said sharply.

  “No.” Phraotes’ shoulders moved in a shrug. “He is the Glad Hunter. He Shaped us in joy. The Grey Dam Vashuka believes we were foolish to listen to Satoris Banewreaker, who spoke smooth words and roused our ire against Haomane First-Born for denying us the Gift of cleverness. Only Yrinna’s Children were wise.”

  “The Dwarfs?” She laughed. “The Dwarfs are content to till the soil and tend the orchards of arrogant Vedasian nobles, ambassador, accepting humility as their lot. You call that wisdom?”

  “No one slaughters their young,” said Phraotes. “There is merit in Yrinna’s Peace. So the Grey Dam Vashuka believes. I am sorry, Sorceress. You have been a good friend to the Were. In Beshtanag, we have been safe. No longer, if war comes.” He paused, then added, “We do not abandon you. The Grey Dam pledges a scouting-pack of yearling Brethren to range the western borders, reporting to you. But we will not join in battle. We are too few.”

  It is their right, Lilias.

  “I know,” she said aloud, replying to the dragon. “I know.” Reluctantly, Lilias inclined her head to the Were ambassador. “I hear your words, Phraotes. Though I am disappointed, they are fair-spoken. Tell the Grey Dam Vashuka that the Sorceress of the East values her friendship. So long as Beshtanag is under my rule, the Were are welcome in it.”

  “Sorceress.” He bowed with obvious relief, ears pricked at a more confident angle. “You are wise and generous.”

  In the hallway, one of the warders coughed. Lilias suppressed a surge of annoyance. Her wardsmen enjoyed an easy life, and greater freedom than they might elsewhere in Pelmar, subject to the whims of the Regents. With the aid of the Were, she and Calandor defended the boundaries of Beshtanag. All she had done was to forge a holding where she might live in peace, as she chose.

  All she asked was loyalty.

  Her indulgences were few. There were her attendants, her pretty ones, but what of it? She liked to be surrounded by beauty, by youth. It was a precious and fleeting thing, that span of time wherein youth attained the outer limits of adulthood and reckoned itself immortal, refusing to acknowledge the Chain of Being. It reminded her of why she had chosen to become what she was, the Sorceress of the East.

  Most of them served of their own volition. And the rest … well. She tried to choose wisely, but perhaps there were a few exceptions. It was a small Shaping, a minor binding at best. None of them took any harm from it, and Lilias dowered them generously, lads and maids alike, when the freshness of their youth began to fade and she dismissed them from her service to go forth and lead ordinary, mortal lives, shaded by the glamor of being part of a story that had begun before they were born, that would continue after their deaths.

  None had any right to complain.

  And none of them were wise enough to shudder under the shadow of what had occurred here this day, hearing in Grey Dam Vashuka’s stance the echo of what was to transpire in the promise of Haomane’s Prophecy. Lilias heard its echo, and knew, once more, the taste of fear.

  The Were shall be defeated ere they rise …

  “Thank you, ambas
sador,” she said. “You have leave to go.”

  He left, belly low to the ground, flowing like smoke.

  “BESHTANAG HAS NEVER DEPENDED ON the Were, little ssissster.”

  “No.” Lilias leaned back against the strong column of the dragon’s left foreleg, watching blue dusk deepen in the cavern mouth. “But it’s a blow nonetheless. Even if all goes as Tanaros Blacksword claimed, we have to be prepared to keep Haomane’s Allies at bay for a day, perhaps longer. Beshtanag won’t fall in a day, but it would have helped to have the Were in reserve.”

  “Yesss.”

  On the horizon, the red star winked into visibility. “Calandor?”

  “Yess, Liliasss?”

  “What if he’s right?” She craned her neck to look up at him. “What if the Dwarfs did choose wisely in choosing Yrinna’s Peace? Might we not do the same? Are we wrong to defy the will of Haomane?”

  A nictitating membrane flickered over the dragon’s left eye. “What is right, Liliasss?”

  “Right,” she said irritably. “That which is not wrong.”

  “In the beginning,” Calandor rumbled, “there was Uru-Alat, and Uru-Alat was all things, and all things were Uru-Alat—”

  “—and then came the Beginning-in-End, and the Seven Shapers emerged, and first of all was Haomane, Lord-of-Thought, who was born at the place of the Souma and knew the will of Uru-Alat,” Lilias finished. “I know. Is it true? Does Haomane speak with the World God’s voice? Are we wrong to defy him?”

  The dragon bent his sinuous neck, lowering his head. Twin puffs of smoke jetted from his nostrils. “You quote the catechism of your childhood, little ssisster, not mine.”

  “But is it true?”

  “No.” Calandor lifted his head, sighing a sulfurous gust. “No, Liliasss. You know otherwise. These are things I have shown you. The world began in ending, and it will end in beginning. Thisss, not even Haomane Firsst-Born undersstands. What he grasspss is only a portion of Uru-Alat’ss plan, and his role in it is not as he thinksss. All things mussst be Ssundered to be made whole. It is not finished … yet.”