Dry land, a chance to build a fire, eat roasted slow-lizard, nibble the last crumbs of bannock-cake, to remove his rotting footwear and pluck the leeches from his legs. Turin gauged the distance as no more than an hour’s slog and sighed.
“Yes.”
“MY LADY?” TANAROS PAUSED, HIS fist poised to knock again, when the door was flung open. Meara.
The madling tossed her tangled hair and sized him up and down. “What brings you here, Lord General?”
“Meara,” he said politely. “I’m glad to see you well. I’ve come to invite the Lady Cerelinde to view the moon-garden.”
Her mouth stretched into a grimace. “Oh, you have, have you?”
“Meara?” A voice from another room, silvery and clear. “What is it? Does Lord Satoris summon me again?”
Tanaros shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his collar as Cerelinde entered the foyer. “My lady. Arahila’s moon shines full this evening. I thought it might please you to view the garden of Darkhaven.”
“At night?” Her fine brows rose a fraction.
“It is a moon-garden, my lady.” A slight flush warmed his face.
“Ah.” She regarded him, grave and beautiful, clad in a robe of pale blue. “So you would permit me a glimpse of sky.”
“I would.”
“Thank you.” Cerelinde inclined her head. “I would like that.”
Meara hissed through her teeth, stamping into the quarters beyond and returning with a pearl-white shawl, woven fine as gossamer. “Here,” she muttered, thrusting it at Cerelinde. “You’ll take a chill, Lady.”
“Thank you, Meara.” The Lady of the Ellylon smiled at the madling.
“Don’t.” She bit her lip, drawing a bead of blood, then whirled on Tanaros. “I told you it was a mistake to bring her, with all her beauty and kindness! Did you not think it would make it that much harder for the rest of us to endure ourselves?”
He blinked in perplexity, watching her storm away, doors slamming in her wake. “I thought she had taken kindly to you, my lady.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” Cerelinde glanced at him with pity.
“No:” Tanaros shook his head, extending his arm. “I don’t.”
He led her through the gleaming halls of Darkhaven, acutely aware of her white fingers resting on his forearm, of the hem of her silk robe sweeping along the black marble floors. There were shadows beneath her luminous eyes, but captivity had only refined her beauty, leavening it with sorrow. Haomane’s Child. The Havenguard on duty saluted as they passed, faces impassive, keeping their thoughts to themselves.
“Here, my lady.” A narrow hallway, ending in a wooden door polished smooth as silk, with hinges and locks of tarnished silver. Tanaros unlocked the door and pushed it ajar, admitting a waft of subtle fragrances. He stepped back, bowing. “The garden.”
Cerelinde passed him.
“Oh, Haomane!”
The mingled joy and grief in her tone made a knot in his belly. Tanaros entered the garden, closing the door carefully behind him. Only then did he dare look at her. The Lady of the Ellylon stood very still, and there were no words in the common tongue to describe her expression. The air was warm and balmy, rich with the scent of strange blossoms. Overhead, Arahila’s moon hung full and bright off the left side of the Tower of Ravens, drenching the garden in silvery light.
It was very beautiful.
She hadn’t expected that, Tanaros thought.
Tainted water, feeding tainted earth, saturated with the seeping ichor of Lord Satoris’ wound. Such was the garden of Darkhaven, and such flowers as grew here grew nowhere else on Urulat. By daylight, they shrank. Only at night did they bloom, stretching tendrils and leaves toward the kindly light of Arahila’s moon and stars, extending pale blossoms.
Cerelinde wandered, the hem of her robe leaving a dark trail where it disturbed the dewy grass. “What is this called?” She paused beneath the graceful, drooping branches of a flowering tree, its delicate blossoms, pale-pink as a bloodshot eye, weeping clear drops upon the ground.
“A mourning-tree.” Tanaros watched her. “It grieves for the slain.”
“And these?” She examined a vine twining round the trunk, bearing waxy, trumpet-shaped flowers that emitted a pallid glow.
“Corpse-flowers, my lady.” He saw her lift her head, startled. “At the dark of the moon, they utter the cries of the dead, or so it is said.”
Cerelinde shuddered, stepping back from the vines. “This is a dire beauty, General Tanaros.”
“Yes,” Tanaros said simply, taking her arm. Stars winked overhead like a thousand eyes as he led her to another bed, where blossoms opened like eyes underfoot, five-pointed petals streaked with pale violet. “Have you seen these?” A faint, sweet fragrance hung in the air, tantalizing. His eyes, unbidden, filled with tears.
… her face, his wife Calista, her eyes huge and fearful as she lay upon the birthing-bed, watching him hold the infant in his arms …
“No!” Cerelinde struggled out of his grip, eyeing him and breathing hard. “What manner of flower is this, Tanaros?”
“Vulnus-blossom.” His smile was taut. “What did you see?”
“You,” she said softly. “I saw you, in Lindanen Dale, your sword stained with my kinsmen’s blood.”
Tanaros nodded, once. “Their scent evokes memory. Painful memory.”
Cerelinde closed her eyes. “What do you see, Tanaros?”
“I see my wife.” The words came harsher than he intended. He watched her eyelids, raising like shutters, the sweep of lashes lifting to reveal the luminous grey.
“Poor Tanaros,” she murmured.
“Come.” He dragged at her arm, hauled her to another flowerbed, where bell-shaped blossoms bent on slender stalks, shivering in the moonlight with a pale, fretful sound. “Do you know what these are?”
She shook her head.
“Clamitus atroxis,” Tanaros said shortly. “Sorrow-bells. They sound for every senseless act of cruelty that takes place in the Sundered World. Do you wonder that they are seldom silent?”
“No.” Tears clung to her lashes. “Why, Tanaros?”
“Look.” He fell to his knees, parting the dense, green leaves of the clamitus. Another flower blossomed there, low to the ground, pure white and starry, shimmering in its bed of shadows. “Touch it.”
She did, kneeling beside him, stroking the petals with one fingertip.
The flower shuddered, its petals folding into limpness.
“What have I done?” Cerelinde’s expression was perturbed.
“Nothing.” Tanaros shook his head. “It is the mortexigus, Lady; the little-death flower. That is its nature, to mimic death at a touch. Thus does it loose its pollen.”
Cerelinde knelt, head bowed, watching the plant stir. “Why do you show this to me, Tanaros?” she asked quietly.
A soft breeze blew in the garden, redolent with the odor of memory, making the clamitus sound their fitful chimes. Tanaros stood, his knees popping. He walked some distance from her. “Lord Satoris has summoned you to speak with him.”
“Yes.” She did not move.
“What does he say?”
“Many things.” Cerelinde watched him. “He says that the Prophecy is a lie.”
“Do you believe him?” Tanaros turned back to her.
“No.” A simple truth, simply spoken.
“You should.” A harsh note entered his voice. “He speaks the truth, you know.”
Her face was calm. “Then why do you fear it, Tanaros? Why am I here, if the Prophecy is a lie? Why not let me wed Aracus Altorus in peace?”
“Is that what you would bring us here in Darkhaven?” he asked her. “Peace?”
At that, she looked away. “The Lord-of-Thought knows the will of Uru-Alat.”
“No!” Tanaros clenched his fist against his thigh, forced himself to breathe evenly. “No, he doesn’t. Haomane knows the power of thought, that’s all. The leap of water in the stream, of blood in the vein,
of seed in the loins … these things are Uru-Alat too, and these things Haomane First-Born knows not. That is the core of truth he has Shaped into the lie of the Prophecy.”
Cerelinde composed herself. “The other Shapers disagree, General.”
“Do they?” Tanaros caught a bitter laugh in his throat and pointed to the moon. “See there, my lady. Arahila’s moon sheds its blessing on Lord Satoris’ garden.”
Her gaze was filled with compassion. “What would you have me say? Arahila the Fair is a Shaper, Tanaros. Not even the Sunderer is beyond redemption in her eyes.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Oh, Cerelinde! Don’t you understand ? Any of the Shapers, any of the Six, could leave Torath and cross the Sundered divide. They will not.” He raised his chin, gazing at the stars. “They will not,” he said, “because they fear. They fear Haomane’s wrath, and they fear their own mortality. Even Shapers can die, Cerelinde. And they fear to tread the same earth where Godslayer abides.”
“Is that the lesson of the garden?” Her grey eyes were cool, disbelieving.
“No.” Tanaros pointed to the mortexigus flower. “That is. Lady, any Son of Man would do to serve your need. In our very mortality, we hold the keys to life. We hold the Gift Lord Satoris can no longer bestow, the key to the survival of the Rivenlost. Your people and mine conjoined. That is the truth of the Prophecy, the deeper truth.”
She frowned and it was as though a cloud passed over the moon’s bright face. “I do not understand.”
“Do the numbers of the Ellylon not dwindle while those of Men increase?” he asked her. “So it has been since the world was Shaped. Without Lord Satoris’ Gift, in time the Ellylon will vanish from the face of Urulat.”
“Now it is you who lies,” Cerelinde said softly. “For the Lord-of-Thought would not allow his Children to be subsumed, not even by fair Arahila’s.”
Tanaros held her gaze. “Why, then, does Haomane’s Prophecy bid you to wed one?”
Her winged brows rose. “To unite our people in peace, Tanaros. Aracus Altorus is no ordinary Man.”
“Aye, Cerelinde, he is. As I am.” Tanaros sighed, and the sorrow-bells murmured in mournful reply. “The difference is that the House of Altorus has never faltered in its loyalty to Haomane First-Born.”
She stood and touched his face with light fingertips, a touch that burned like cool fire. “A vast difference, Tanaros. And yet it is not too late for you.”
He shuddered, removing her hand. “Believe as you will, Lady, but the sons of Altorus Farseer were chosen to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy that in their loyalty they might bring down Lord Satoris. The truth is otherwise. It need not be a daughter of Elterrion, nor a son of Altorus. You and I would serve. Our seed holds the key to your perpetuation.”
“You!” She recoiled, a little.
“Our people. Any two of us. We hold within ourselves the Gifts of all the Seven Shapers and the ability to Shape a world of our choosing.” He spread his hands. “That’s all, Cerelinde, no more.”
“No.” She was silent a moment. “No, it is another of the Sunderer’s lies, Tanaros. If it were so simple, why would Haomane not so bid us?”
“Because he requires the Prophecy to destroy Lord Satoris,” he said. “We are all pawns in the Shapers’ War, Cerelinde. The difference is that some of us know it, and some do not.” Something in his heart ached at the naked disbelief on her face. “Forgive me, Lady. I had no intent of troubling you. I thought you would like the garden.”
“I do. And I am grateful for a glimpse of sky.” She drew Meara’s shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Tanaros. I am sorry for your pain, and I do not doubt that you have taken the Sunderer’s lies for truths. But Haomane First-Born is chief among Shapers, and I am his child. Your Lord need only bow to His will, and the Sundered World will be made whole. Can you ask me to believe aught else?”
“Yes,” Tanaros said helplessly.
Her voice was gentle. “I cannot.”
SIXTEEN
DWARFS CAME OUT OF THE gloaming.
It happened a few leagues west of Malumdoom, the young knight Hobard’s ancestral estate. As twilight fell over their kindling campfire, the shadows moved, twining like roots. Four figures, waist-high to a tall man, with gnarled faces and knotted muscles, spatulate hands engrained with soil.
“Yrinna’s Children.” Malthus the Counselor stood to greet them, bowing in his scholar’s robes. “Hail and well met.”
“Haomane’s Counselor.” One of the dwarfs acknowledged him in a deep, calm voice, then turned to Hobard. “Son of Malumdoorn. You have broken Yrinna’s Peace, bringing them here.”
“I had cause, Earth-Tender.”
The Vedasian’s voice was strung tight, Carfax noted. He sat quiet with his arms wrapped around his knees, watching with wonder. Dwarfs! Yrinna’s Children had not been seen west of Vedasia for long ages.
“It must be a mighty cause to break Yrinna’s Peace.”
“It is.” Malthus took a step forward, touching the Soumanië on his breast. “You have an item in your possession that does not belong to you.”
There was a pause then, a long one.
“It may be,” the Dwarf leader allowed, his deep-set gaze scanning the small company. “Haomane’s Child. Do the Rivenlost venture in search of this thing?”
“We do, Earth-Tender.” Peldras the Ellyl bowed, light and graceful. “Will you not hear our plea?”
A hushed conference, then, among the four visitors. Carfax strained his hearing to no avail. “Uru-Alat!” A soft whisper sounded at his ear. “They’re so small! Are they Men, or children?” It was the boy, Dani, squatting fearless at his side, his dark eyes wide in the firelight. They tell him no more than they do me, Carfax thought, pitying the boy. What was Malthus thinking, to venture into the Unknown and drag the boy from his home, keeping him in ignorance? At least in Darkhaven, one knew the price of one’s bargain.
“No,” he said. “They are Dwarfs, Dani. A long time ago, they withdrew from the affairs of Men.”
One dark hand rose to clasp the flask at his throat, dark eyes bewildered. “What is it Malthus thinks they have?”
“I don’t know.” He wished he did.
A decision was made, and the Dwarf leader stepped forward. “There will be a hearing on the morrow,” he said. “In the orchards of Malumdoorn. Come in peace, or not at all.”
“It will be so,” Malthus said with dignity.
NIGHT.
It fell hard and fast in the swamps of the Delta. Turin hurried after the fleeting form of Hunric the tracker, falling and splashing and cursing his speed. Before them, the hummock of dry land loomed, elusive and retreating in the fading light. A last, dying spear of light lit the palodus tree that stood sentry over it.
“Come on!” Hunric shouted, scrambling up the hummock ahead of him, the slow-lizard’s carcass tied to a string about his waist. “Come on!”
Waist-deep in water at the foot of the hummock, Turin set his teeth and grabbed for a handhold. Shale rock, plates as broad as both his hands, slick and overgrown with moss. There would be nothing edible growing on this island. By main force he hauled himself, hand over hand, up the steep incline, his breath searing his lungs.
At the top, he bent double, panting.
“Look!” Hunric was grinning, arms open wide. “The heart of the Delta. Is it not a glorious thing?”
Turin could have wept.
There was nothing, nothing atop the hummock, only moss-covered black shale in articulated ridges that hurt his sodden feet, and a few fallen branches of palodus wood. He was tired and soaked and footsore, and his loins ached with gnawing desire.
“A freshwater spring would have been nice,” he said wearily, sitting down and removing his pack, beginning the tiresome process of peeling off his boots. “You’re sure this is the way out?”
“The way in is the way out.” The tracker eyed him, then began gathering branches. “You’re done in. Sit, then. I’ll do it.”
H
e sat, rubbing his aching feet. No need for a fire, really. The shale was warm, retaining the sun’s heat like a forge. He could almost smell the sulfur. It would be nice, though, to have fresh-roasted meat, even if the kill was a day old. Meat went off fast in the heat; no wonder Hunric was minded to eat it raw.
So warm, here. So warm.
It made his aching flesh prickle.
“This is his place.” At the crest of the hummock, Hunric had stacked branches into a neat structure and knelt reverently over them. “His place!” he repeated fervently, striking a spark and blowing. An ember kindled, tiny flames flickering.
“His place,” Turin echoed dully. In the dark swamp beyond, an ember of yellow-green kindled. “And tomorrow, we head straight for Pelmar, yes?”
“Pelmar.” Hunric, kneeling, grinned at him. “Oh, yes.”
Something in the air throbbed, echoing the throbbing in his loins. He thought again of the white limbs of the Lady of the Ellylon, gritted his teeth and thrust the thought from his mind. In the air? No. It was the very rock beneath him that throbbed, slow and steady, warm as a pulsing heart.
An ember of yellow-green, lifting.
“Hunric.” His voice was frozen in his throat. “Hunric!” A shape, moving, impossibly large. Roots ripped, dripping, from the swamp itself. Slow, so slow! An ember of yellow-green. A lidded eye, a dripping chin. “Hunric …” he whispered.
“What?” The tracker sounded almost friendly as he gauged the coals, skewering the slow-lizard and thrusting it into the flames. “Pelmar, yes. I remember. We’ll leave on the morrow. Is that what troubles you?”
Unable to speak, Turin pointed.
“What?” The tracker squinted into the swamp.
When it struck, it moved fast. A wedge of darkness blotting out the emerging stars, swinging on a sinuous neck. Its hinged jaws opened wide, rows of teeth glistening like ivory daggers. The ground beneath Turin lurched, surging with the motion of the strike as, somewhere in the swamp, anchored talons gripped and heaved. He saw the lidded eye as it swung past him, the open maw snapping.
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