Banewreaker

by Jacqueline Carey

  Tanaros nodded. He could smell the prisoner’s suppurating wounds. “I do.”

  “I’m tired of paying for my sins.” Speros smiled, taut and bitter. “I never set out to become a thief and a killer, but it’s funny the way things go. You make enough mistakes, comes a day when no one will take a chance on you. Arahila may forgive, General Blacksword, but her Children do not. I am weary to the bone of courting their forgiveness. Lord Satoris accepted your service. Why not mine?”

  Had he been that young, that defiant, twelve hundred years ago? Yes, Tanaros thought; he had been. Twenty-and-eight years of age, hunted and despised throughout the realm. Kingslayer, they had called him. Wifeslayer, some had whispered. Cuckold. Murderer. He had yearned for death, fought for life. A summons tickling his fevered brain had led him to Darkhaven.

  Still, he shook his head. “You’re young and angry at the world. It will pass.”

  The brown eyes glinted. “As yours did?”

  Tanaros awarded him a slight smile. “Anger is only the beginning, Midlander. It does not suffice unto itself.”

  “What, then?” Speros shifted in his chains, but his gaze never left Tanaros’ face. “Tell me, General, and I will answer. Why do you serve him? For gold and glory, like the Staccians? Out of mindless loyalty, like the Fjeltroll?”

  On his stool, Vorax coughed. Tanaros glanced at him.

  “The Staccians’ bargain grants peace and prosperity to the many at a cost to the few,” he said. “And the Fjel are not so mindless as you think.”

  “Yet that is not an answer,” Speros said. “Not your answer.”

  “No.” Tanaros faced him. “I serve my Lord Satoris because, in my heart, I have declared myself the enemy of his enemies. Because I despise the hypocrisy and cowardice of the Six Shapers who oppose him. Because I despise the tyranny of certitude with which Haomane First-Born seeks to rule over the world, placing his Children above all others.” His voice grew stern. “Make no mistake, lad. For many years, his Lordship sought nothing more than to live unmolested, but great deeds are beginning to unfold. I tell you this, here and now; if you swear yourself to Lord Satoris’ service, you are declaring yourself an enemy of the Lord-of-Thought himself, and a participant in a battle to Shape the world anew.”

  The prisoner grinned with his split, swollen lips. “I am not fond of the world as I have found it, General. You name a cause in which I would gladly believe.”

  “Haomane’s Wrath is a fearsome thing,” Tanaros warned him.

  Speros shrugged. “So was my Da’s.”

  It was a boy’s comment, not a Man’s; and yet, the glint in the lad’s eyes suggested it was deliberate, issued as a reckless dare. Against his better judgement, Tanaros laughed. He had found fulfillment and purpose in service to Lord Satoris, in seizing his own warped destiny and pitting himself against the will of an overwhelming enemy. If it afforded him the chance to play a role in Shaping the world that had betrayed him, so much the better.

  Did the lad deserve less?

  “Vorax,” Tanaros said decisively. “Strike his chains.”

  THE LAMPS BURNED LOW IN her quarters.

  There was a veneer of delicacy overlaying the appearance of the rooms to which she had been led. Tapestries in shades of rose, celadon and dove-grey hid the black stone walls; fretted lamps hung from the buttresses, their guttering light casting a patterned glow. These elements had been added, tacked atop the solid bulwark of the fortress in an effort to disguise the brooding mass of Darkhaven.

  Cerelinde was not fooled.

  This prison had been made for her.

  She paced it, room by room, her feet sinking deep into the cloud-soft carpets that concealed the polished floor. What halls had they adorned? Cuilos Tuillenrad? A faint scent arose at her passage. Heart-grass, bruised and crushed by her feet. Oh, this was Ellylon craftsmanship, to be sure! Her kinfolk had woven it in ages past, with fingers more nimble than any son or daughter of Man could hope to emulate. The wool would have been culled from the first coats of yearling lamb, washed with an effusion of the delicate flowers of heart-grass that bloomed for three days only in the spring. Journeymen would have carded it, singing under the open skies, but the spinning, ah! That would have been done by Ellylon noblewomen, for they alone had the nicety of touch to spin wool thread as fine as silk.

  Her own mother might have touched it …

  Your mother was known to me.

  Cerelinde closed her eyes. Unfair; oh, unfair!

  It was not true. It could not be true. Time and time again, Malthus had said it: Satoris Banewreaker is cunning, he Shapes truth itself to his own ends. Her father … her father Celendril, she remembered well, for he had died in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, slain upon the plains of Curonan amid the host of Numireth.

  And left her alone.

  No. That, too, was a lie; this place bred them like flies. Lord Ingolin had opened the gates of Meronil to all the Rivenlost who had fled the Sunderer’s wrath. Always her place there had been one of honor, even during the long centuries she had refused to hear their arguments. Malthus had been the first to say it, his wise old eyes heavy with grief at the death of his comrades. It is your duty and destiny, Cerelinde.

  When a daughter of Elterrion weds a son of Altorus …

  What a bitter irony it was!

  At first, she had refused out of anger. It was a son of Altorus who had cost them dear on the plains of Curonan; Trachan Altorus, who received the news of Dergail’s defeat, who saw Ardrath the Counselor fall. Too soon he had sounded the retreat, and in that moment Satoris Banewreaker regained the dagger Godslayer and fled.

  Long years it had taken for her people to overcome the bitterness of that blow and the ill-will it engendered between their races. Indeed, there were many among the Rivenlost who blamed Men for all the woes of their people; jealous, short-lived Men, who had long ago made war upon the Ellylon, coveting the secret of immortality. None of the House of Altorus, no, but others. And the ill-will flowed both ways, for the descendents of those Men who had kept faith with the Ellylon blamed them for repaying loyalty by drawing them into dire war against the Sunderer.

  It was not their fault, not entirely. The lives of Men were brief, flickering like candles and snuffed in a handful of years. How could they hope to compass the scope of the Sunderer’s ambition when Satoris Banewreaker was content to wait ages for his plan to unfold? It was the second reason Cerelinde had refused to hear the arguments of Malthus and Lord Ingolin. Though she was young by Ellylon reckoning, she remembered ages preserved only in the dusty memories of parchment for the sons and daughters of Men.

  How would it be, to wed one whose life passed in an eye-blink? One in whose flesh the seeds of death already took root? For century upon century, Cerelinde had never contemplated it with aught but a sense of creeping horror.

  And then Aracus had come.

  Oh, it was a bitter irony, indeed.

  What lie, she wondered, would the Sunderer make of it? The truth was simple: He had won her heart. Aracus Altorus, a King without a kingdom, had ridden into Meronil with only a handful of the Borderguard to attend him. By the time he left, she had agreed to wed him.

  Now she knew better the machinations behind that meeting, the long planning that had gone into it. By whatever tokens and arcane knowledge he used to determine the mind of Haomane, the Wise Counselor had divined that the time of reckoning was coming and Aracus Altorus, last-born scion in a line that had endured for five thousand years, must be the one to fulfill the Prophecy. Malthus had begun laying the groundwork for it when Aracus was but a child, visiting the boy in the guise of an aged uncle, filling his ears with portents.

  With one wary eye on Darkhaven, for nearly thirty years he had exerted his subtle influence, laying seeds of thought and ambition in the boy that came to fruition in the man. And he had done his work well, Cerelinde thought with rue. The Wise Counselor had set out to Shape a hero.

  He had done so.

  For all th
e dignitaries assembled in the Hall of Meronil, they might have been alone, they two. It had passed between them, a thing understood, undetermined by the counsels of the wise. He reached out to grasp his destiny like a man grasping a burning brand. He would love her with all the fierce passion of his mortal heart. And she, she would love him in turn, in a tempestuous blaze. There was sorrow in it, yes, and grief, but not horror. Love, fair Arahila’s Gift, changed all.

  And while it lasted, the fate that overshadowed them would be held at bay. Oh, the price would be high! They knew it, both of them. Death would come hard on its heels, whether by sickness or age or the point of a sword. Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter, would blow his horn, summoning the hero home. And Cerelinde would be left to endure in her grief. Even in victory, if the Sunderer were defeated at last and Urulat healed, her grief would endure. But their children; ah, Haomane! Mortal through their father’s blood, still they would be half-Ellylon, granted a length of days uncommon to Men, able to reckon the vast span of time as no mortals among the Lesser Shapers had done before them. Their children would carry on that flame of hope and passion, uniting their races at last in a world made whole.

  The image of the half-breed’s crooked face rose unbidden in her memory, Tanaros’ words echoing dryly. Such as he is, your own children would have been …

  A lie; another lie. Surely children conceived in love would be different, would be accepted by both races. Was that not the intent of Haomane’s Prophecy? Cerelinde sat upon the immense bed that had been prepared for her, covering her face with both hands. If she could have wept, she would have, but Ellylon could only shed tears for the sorrow of others. A storm of terror raged in her heart and mind. After five thousand years of resistance, she had relented, had accepted her fate. A moment of joy; an eternity of grief. It was enough; merciful Arahila, was it not enough?

  This was not supposed to happen.

  “Aracus,” she whispered.

  DAWN ROSE ON THE DELTA, and with the return of the light came swarms of gnats. They were merciless, descending in dark clouds, settling on sweat-slick skin already prickling in the heat, taking their measure of blood and leaving itching welts in trade. Turin waved his arms futilely and swore.

  It didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered. Mantuas, quick-witted, loud-mouthed Mantuas, was dead, drowned in a sucking mudpool. It happened so fast. Even Hunric, who could track his way through a Staccian blizzard, hadn’t seen it coming. There hadn’t been a thing they could do. Slithering on their bellies, poking branches; Mantuas, take hold, take hold! He couldn’t free his arms from the muck, could only blink, desperately, as it covered his nostrils. He sank fast. Turin had turned away when the mud reached his eyes. By the time he dared look, only a few locks of hair lay atop the burbling muck.

  Farewell, Mantuas.

  A good job they’d turned the horses loose.

  Lord Satoris might be wroth, but Lord Satoris should have known. This was the place that had engendered him. Had it been fair, once? Hunric said old trackers’ tales claimed as much. Well, it was foul, now. All the muck and foetor that fouled the Verdine River crawled straight from the stinking heart of the Delta.

  “Hold.” Ahead of him, Hunric paused, probing the watery passage with a long stick he’d cut from a mangrove tree. “All right. Slide along here.”

  “I’m coming.” Turin followed his lead, slogging through waist-deep water along the edge of a clump of mangroves. His waterlogged boots were like lead weights on his feet, slipping on the slick, knotted roots that rose above the swamp. Only fear of snakes kept him from removing them. A few feet away, a basking lizard blinked at him and slithered rapidly in his direction, flicking a blue tongue. “Gah!” Turin recoiled, flailing his arms as the heavy pack strapped across his shoulders overbalanced him.

  “Steady!” Hunric caught his flailing wrist, bracing him. “It’s just a lizard, lad. It won’t harm you.”

  “All right, all right, I’m all right!” Turin fought down his panic and shook off the tracker’s hand. Was his gear secure? Yes, there was his sword, lashed sideways atop his pack. He reached behind him, felt the reassuring bulk of the supplies he carried. There was gold coin there, Lord Vorax’s gift, useless in this place. Arahila willing, the bannock-cakes were secure in their oilcloth wrappings and they would not starve just yet. “All right. Let’s go.”

  “Here.” Hunric scooped a handful of muck from the bottom of the swamp. “Plaster it on your skin. It will help keep the gnats off.”

  He pushed away the proffered hand, dripping mud. “I don’t want it on me.”

  “Turin.” There was a despairing note in the tracker’s voice. “Don’t make it harder. I’m sorry about Mantuas, truly. I don’t know the terrain and the Delta is harder than I thought. I’m doing my best.”

  “Hunric?”

  “Aye?”

  “They’re not coming, are they?” Turin swallowed, hard. The words were hard to say. “Lieutenant Carfax, the others … you’ve been scoring trees, marking the safest route, ever since Mantuas died. I’ve watched you. If they were following, we’d have heard them by now.”

  “Mayhap.” The tracker’s eyes were shuttered in the mask of drying mud that coated his face. “If they captured Malthus’ Company … if they did, lad, it may be that they found more pressing business lay elsewhere. Mayhap they seek to catch the Dreamspinner’s thoughts, aye, or his ravens, to make a report to General Tanaros, aye, or Lord Satoris himself.”

  “Mayhap.” Waist-deep in water, Turin tilted his chin and gazed at the sky, a heated blue against the green leaves of the mangroves. Birds roosted in the treetops, but only the kind that were born to this place. High above, the sun blazed like a hammer. Haomane’s Wrath, beating down incessantly on the birthplace of Satoris Third-Born, who had defied his will. Banewreaker, the world named him, but he had always honored his word with Staccia, ever since Lord Vorax struck his bargain over a thousand years ago. What other Shaper had done as much since the world was Sundered? If matters went awry now, it meant something had gone grievously wrong. And Turin had a bad feeling that it had. “I don’t think so, Hunric.”

  Water splashed as the Staccian tracker shifted, settling his own pack on his shoulders. “Well, then,” he said, his voice hardening. “We’ll have to press on, won’t we?”

  FOURTEEN

  A HUNDRED BANNERS FLEW IN Seahold.

  There was the trident of Duke Bornin, of course, argent on a sea-blue field. And there were others; a dozen of his liege-lords, the barons and earls who held fiefdoms in the Midlands. There was the spreading oak of Quercas, the gilded stag of Tilodan, the harrow of Sarthac, all declaring their allegiance with pride. All had been seen in the city of Seahold, though never at once.

  Not the Host of the Ellylon.

  It had been a long time, since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World. Altoria had reigned and the Duke of Seahold had sworn fealty to its Kings when last these banners had been seen in the city.

  It was a glorious sight

  Pennants and oriflammes hung from every turret, overhung every door of Castle Seahold. In the marketplaces, merchants displayed them with pride, hoping to stake some claim by virtue of symbolism to Ellyl patrols. In the streets, companies of Ellylon passed, carrying their standards with sombre pride. There was the argent scroll of Ingolin, the thistle-blossom of Núrilin, the gilded bee of Valmaré, the sable elbok of Numireth, the shipwright’s wheel of Cerion … all of these and more, many more, representing the Houses of the Rivenlost, personified by their living scions and grieving kin alike.

  Above them all hung the Crown and Souma of Elterrion the Bold.

  No company dared bear this standard, no merchant dared display it. It hung limp in the summer’s heat from the highest turret of Castle Seahold, gilt and ruby on a field of virgin white, a dire reminder of what was at stake.

  Cerelinde.

  And one other standard flew, plain and unadorned, taking place of precedence above the Duke of Seahold. It wa
s dun-grey, this banner, a blank field empty of arms. From time to time, the summer breezes lofted its fabric. It unfurled, revealing … nothing. Only dun, the dull-yellow color of the cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan, designed to blend with the endless plains of heart-grass.

  Once, Altoria had reigned; once, the King of Altoria had born different arms. A sword, a gilt sword on a field of sable, its quillons curved to the shape of eyes. It was the insignia of Altorus Farseer, who had been called friend by the Ellylon and risen to rule a nation in the Sundered World of Urulat.

  No more.

  Aracus Altorus had sworn it Not until his Borderguard opposed Satoris Banewreaker himself would he take up the ancient banner of his forefathers. But he did not doubt—did not doubt for an instant—that the Sunderer was behind the Sorceress’ actions. Once Cerelinde was restored, he would turn his far-seeing gaze on their true Enemy.

  Rumor ran through the city. Citizens and merchants and freeholders assembled in Seaholder Square, gazing up at the Castle, waiting and murmuring. Opportunistic peddlers did a good trade in meat-pies wrapped in pastry; winesellers prospered, too. At noon, Duke Bornin of Seahold appeared on the balcony and addressed them. Possessed of a good set of lungs, he spoke with volume and at length.

  It was true, all true.

  The Prophecy, the wedding-that-would-have-been, the raid on Lindanen Dale. Oronin’s Children, the Were at hunt An abduction; the Lady of the Ellylon. Pelmaran soldiers in guise, falling trees. A message, an impossible ransom, delivered at a magical distance; rumors of the Dragon of Beshtanag, seen aloft.

  Oh, it was all true, and the Sorceress of the East had overreached.

  There was cheering when Duke Bornin finished; cheering, rising en masse. He had ruled long enough to be clever. He waited for it to end. And when it was done, he introduced to them Aracus Altorus, naming him warleader of the Allied forces of the West.