“Right.” With a prodigious effort, Vorax filled his lungs, then exhaled. He was tired, his blistered skin stung and his knees ached, but he was one of the Three, and he had sworn his oath a long, long time ago. “What now, my Lord?”
“Vengeance,” Satoris said softly, “for one who was a friend, once. Protection, for us. There is something I must do, a grave and dire thing. It is for this, and this alone, that I have taken Godslayer from the marrow-fire. And I have a task for you, Vorax, that will put an end this talk of my Elder Brother’s Prophecy.”
“Aye, my Lord!” Relief outweighed remorse as Vorax reached for his sword-hilt. To slay a defenseless woman was no welcome chore, but such was the nature of the bargain he had made. Immortality and plenitude for him; peace and prosperity for Staccia. It was the only sensible course, and he was glad his Lordship had seen it at last. One stroke, and the Prophecy would be undone. She would not suffer, he would see to that. It would be swift and merciful, and done in time for supper. “Elterrion’s granddaughter will be dead ere dawn, I promise you.”
“No!”
Vorax winced at the thunderous word, relinquishing his hilt.
“No,” the Shaper repeated, leaning forward on the throne. The sweet reek of blood mingled with the distant stench of sulfur, and his eyes burned like red embers through the Helm’s dark slits. “I am not my Brother, Staccian. I will play this game with honor, in my own way. I will not let Haomane strip that from me, and force me to become all that he has named me.” His voice dripped contempt. “I will not become the thing that I despise. I will assail my enemies as they assail me. The Lady Cerelinde-” he lifted one admonishing finger from Godslayer,”—is my guest. She is not to be harmed.”
“As you will.” Vorax licked his lips. Had his Lordship gone mad? He pushed the thought away, trying not to remember stormclouds piling high over Darkhaven, a foul rain falling, seething flesh. What did it matter if he had? After all, Satoris Third-Born had reason enough for anger. And he, Vorax of Staccia, had sworn an oath, was bound and branded by it, upon a shard of the Souma itself. There was no gainsaying it. To be foresworn was to die. “What, then?”
“Your work lies in the north.” Satoris smiled with grim satisfaction. “Malthus erred. He spent his strength shielding his Bearer from my sight, but he cannot conceal the lad’s path through the Marasoumië. I know where he lit. The one who would extinguish the marrow-fire is in the north, Vorax. Send a company; Men you trust, and Fjel to aid them. Find the Bearer, and kill him. Let the vial he carries be shattered, and the Water of Life spilled harmless upon the barren earth.”
“My Lord.” A simple task, after all. Relieved, he bowed. “It will be done.”
“Good.” Satoris regarded Godslayer, turning the shard in his fingers. “Ushahin comes apace,” he mused, forgetting the Staccian’s presence, “and Tanaros has his orders, though he likes them not. You must be consigned to the marrow-fire, my bitter friend, for you are too dangerous to be kept elsewhere. But first; ah, first! We have a task to accomplish, you and I.”
“My Lord?” Vorax waited, then inquired, uncertain if his services were needed.
The eye slits of the Helm turned his way, filled with all the darkness and agony of a dying world. “It is time to close the Marasoumië,” Lord Satoris said. “Now, while Malthus is trapped within it, before he regains his strength.”
“Now? Then how will Tanaros and—”
“Now!” The Shaper pounded a clenched fist on the arm of the throne. Behind the Helm, his teeth were bared in a rictus. “Understand, Vorax! Aracus Altorus has seized one of the Soumanië! Does he gain mastery over it, with two Soumanië to hand, he and my Elder Brother’s Counselor could control the Ways. If I do this thing now, then Malthus remains trapped, and the son of Altorus remains ignorant of his counsel. Is that not worth any price?”
There was only one answer, and Vorax gave it. “Aye, my Lord.”
“So be it,” Satoris said, taking hold of the dagger with both hands. “And you shall bear witness.” In his grip, Godslayer’s light intensified, bright as a rising sun. “Ah! It burns! Uru-Alat, how it burns!” Rubescent light exploded in the Chamber, and Vorax’s branded chest contracted. Struggling for breath, he dropped back to his knees. There he saw Satoris rising triumphant, a vast figure of darkness. Held aloft, Godslayer pulsed in his fist, bleeding light. It was a shard of the Souma itself, filled with the power of the world’s birth. Light seemed to illume the Shaper’s bones beneath his obdurate flesh, streamed from the wound in his thigh.
“My Lord!” Vorax-gasped, wheezing. “Please!”
“Death and death and death,” the Shaper whispered, ignoring him. “Oh, Malthus! Haomane’s Weapon, my Brother’s pawn! Do you think I do not know my true enemy ? Do you know what you bring to this world? Do you know how the story ends? Ah, no! So be it, Counselor. I bind you in the web you spun.” He tightened his grip on Godslayer and cried aloud, summoning his will in the form of a Shaper’s skills, and pouring his strength into the effort. “Let the Marasoumië be sealed!”
Attuned to the shard’s power, Vorax felt it, and closed his eyes in pain. What he had seen begin through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows came to pass. Deep below the surface of the earth across the vast nation of Urulat, node-points flickered and died, going ashen-grey.
A part of the world, dying, went dead.
“So,” Satoris said with vicious satisfaction. “Free yourself from that, Counselor!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
TANAROS’ BOOTS CRUNCHED IN THE sand as he walked away from the Stone Grove encampment. With every step his scabbard brushed his thigh in reminder, unwanted and unneeded. His Lord’s words echoed over and over in his head, and the sun blazing in his face made his ringing head ache.
Kill them. Kill them ALL!
“Lord General?”
“Go away, Speros,” he said without looking.
“It’s just … did Lord Satoris give us orders? Is he going to open the Ways and bring us home? Because I could have the lads back at the node—”
“Go away, Speros!”
There was a pause. “Aye, General. We’ll be at the campsite when you’re ready.”
When he was ready; there was a bitter jest! Lifting his head, Tanaros stared at the blinding face of the sun. He remembered how good it had felt in Beshtanag to see the sun’s rays gilding the forest after long years of Darkhaven’s eternal gloom. Did the sun still shine in Beshtanag? He supposed it did, despite what had befallen there. It seemed closer, here, where Haomane’s wrath had scorched the earth in pursuit of Satoris. What was it like, living with this surfeit of light?
Bare feet made no sound on the desert floor. “Slayer.”
“Ngurra.” Tanaros regarded the sun. “What do you want?”
“Truth.” One simple word, spoken in the common tongue. Tanaros sighed and turned. Ngurra squatted on the desert floor, squinting up at him, his brown face a map of wrinkles in the sun’s unforgiving light. “It’s your choosing-time, isn’t it?”
After a day in the Yarru’s company, Tanaros didn’t bother lying to the old man. “Why?” he asked instead, resting one hand on the black sword’s hilt. “Why did you do it? Why did you send this boy, this Bearer—”
“Dani.”
“—this Dani to extinguish the marrow-fire?” Tanaros’ voice rose. “Why, Ngurra? Has Haomane been so good to your people? Did he have a care for your welfare when he scorched the earth? Look at this place!” He gestured at the desert. “It’s barely enough to sustain life! We would have perished here if you’d not shown us how to survive! For this, you seek to thank Haomane First-Born by destroying my Lord?”
“No, Slayer.” Ngurra shook his head. “This is Birru-Uru-Alat. Here, where the Well of the World abides, is the center, the choosing-place. We are the Yarru-yami, and that is the trust we preserve.”
“Haomane’s trust,” Tanaros said bitterly.
The old man gave a weary chuckle. “When did the Lord-of-Thought ever hol
d choice to be a sacred trust? No, Slayer. He gave us no choice when he brought the sun’s wrath upon us, no more than your Lord Satoris did when he fled to this place. Together, they drove us into hiding. This wisdom comes from the deep places in Uru-Alat, from a time when the world was newly Sundered.” He held up his empty hands, palms marked with ordinary, mortal lines. “Such is the burden we carry. That, and the promise that one among us would be born to Bear a greater one.”
“Aye.” The words came hard, sticking in his throat. “To extinguish the marrow-fire, freeing Godslayer. To fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy and destroy my Lord.”
Ngurra nodded. “That is one choice.”
“It’s the choice he made!” With an effort, Tanaros controlled his anger. It would do no good to shout at the old man. If nothing else, a day among the Yarru had taught him that much. “Why, Ngurra? Why that choice?”
Tilting his head, the old Yarru regarded the sky. “Where were you, to offer another? There are things I could say, Slayer, and the simplest one of all is that it is the choice he was offered. Was Dani’s choice right?” He shook his head again. “I do not know. I only know he is the Bearer, and it was his to choose.”
Tanaros gritted his teeth. “That’s not good enough, old one.”
“Isn’t it?” Ngurra’s eyes shone with sympathy in his wrinkled face. “And yet here you are at the choosing-place.” With a grunt he straightened his legs and rose, turning back toward the camp. “Think on it, Slayer,” he said over his shoulder. “We are ready. We have been waiting for you. You have a choice to make.”
He watched the old man’s steady progress across the sand. At the encampment, the Yarru elders hailed his return under the benign gaze of the Gulnagel Fjel on guard. He could hear white-haired Warabi, the old man’s wife, scolding him for his folly.
We have been expecting you.
If Ngurra had not greeted him with those words, he might have ordered them slain. Why not? It was true, they were the ones who had sent forth the Bearer to extinguish the marrow-fire. But instead, he had stayed his hand out of curiosity. He had ordered Speros and the Fjel to accept the Yarru’s hospitality. And a good thing, too. They would be half dead of thirst if the Yarru hadn’t shown them how to find water-holes in the Unknown Desert, how to catch basking lizards, how chewing gamal heightened the senses and moistened parched tissues. The Yarru had shown them kindness. Whatever they were, whatever strange beliefs they held, these Charred Ones were not foes.
Old men. Old women.
“I don’t want to kill them,” Tanaros whispered. Unaccountable tears stung his eyes, and he covered his face with both hands. “Oh, my Lord! Must it be so?”
Distant power flickered as if in answer, and pain seared his scarred breast, so acute it was almost unbearable. So. It had begun as his Lordship had said it would. In the west, in Darkhaven, Satoris was wielding Godslayer with the full might of a Shaper’s power, a thing he had not dared since Darkhaven was raised. Tanaros felt his teeth begin to chatter. He dropped to his knees in the sand and pressed his fingertips hard against his temples, willing his flesh to obedience. All across the world, it was as though a thousand doors had been slammed at once. Everywhere, light flared and died, a vast network of connections turning to ash.
The Marasoumië was closed.
That was that, then. The thing was done. His Lordship had no intention of changing his orders. Tanaros waited for his pounding heartbeat to subside, then climbed heavily to his feet and brushed the sand off his knees.
You have a choice to make.
There was no point in waiting. The task was onerous; the journey afterward would be grueling. Trudging across the desert toward the encampment, he drew his sword. It glinted dully in the sun, a length of black steel laying a black bar of shadow on the desert floor. Where would he go if he disobeyed Satoris’ orders? What would he do? He was General Tanaros Blacksword, one of the Three, and he had made his choice a long, long time ago.
Speros sprang alert at his approach, whistling for the attention of the Gulnagel. “Lord General! What was that happened just now? Is it time to—” He stopped, eyeing the drawn sword. “What are you doing?”
“They know.” Tanaros gestured wearily at the Yarru, who had gathered in a circle. Old men and old women, linked by age-knotted hands clasped tight together. There were tears in the creases of Warabi’s dark cheeks as she clung to Ngurra’s hand.
“You mean to kill them all?” Speros swallowed, turning pale. “Ah, but Lord General, they’re harmless. They’re—”
“—old,” Tanaros finished for him. “I know.” He rubbed his brow with his free hand. “Listen, lads. Beshtanag has fallen, and Lord Satoris has closed the Ways. We’re going home the hard way. But we’ve got business to attend to here first. We’re going to bury that cursed well, that no one else may find it. And … he drew a deep breath, pointing his sword at the Yarru, “ … we leave no survivors to tell of it.”
With stoic shrugs, the Gulnagel took up positions around the ring of Yarru elders, who shrank closer together, murmuring in their tongue. Ngurra gently freed his hand from his wife’s and stepped forward. There was fear in his face; and courage, too.
“Slayer,” he said. “You do not have to choose this.”
“Give me a reason, Ngurra.” Rage and bleak despair stirred in Tanaros’ heart, and he tightened his grip on his sword-hilt, raising it with both hands to strike. “Give me a reason! Tell me you’re wrong, tell me you’re sorry, tell me the Bearer made a bad choice! Send a delegation to bring him back! Can you do that, old man? Is that so much to ask? I didn’t ask for this choice! Give me a reason not to make it!”
The Yarru elder shook his head, profound regret in his eyes. “I can give you only the choice, Slayer,” he said sadly. “Choose.”
“So be it,” Tanaros whispered. Sick at heart, he swung the blade.
His sword cut clean, cleaving the old man’s scrawny chest in a mortal blow. Dark flesh, cleaved by a black blade. There was a single agonized cry from Ngurra’s wife, a collective whimper from the other Yarru. The old man went down without a sound, bleeding onto the desert floor as silently as he’d walked upon it. Turning away, Tanaros nodded to Speros and the four Gulnagel Fjel. “See it finished.”
Meaty thuds filled the air as the Gulnagel went to work with their maces. There were cries of fear and pain; though not many, no. Hunting Fjel preferred to kill with one blow, and the Gulnagel were swift. Tanaros sat on an outcropping of rock, wiping Ngurra’s blood from the black blade. He didn’t glance up from his labors until he heard footsteps approaching. “Is it done?”
“Aye, Lord General.” It was Speros, looking ill and abashed. “The Fjel have finished.” He glanced at the ground, then blurted, “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t do it. I’ve got a grandmam at home.”
“A grandmam.” Tanaros laid his sword across his knees and rubbed his aching temples, not sure whether to laugh or weep. He’d had a grandmother, once. She was long-dead bones, and had died cursing his name. “Ah, Speros of Haimhault! What are you doing here? Why in the name of the Seven Shapers did you come here?”
“Sir?” The Midlander gave him a quizzical look.
“Never mind.” He rose to his feet, sheathing his sword. There was a taste of bile in his throat and he knew, with utter and horrible certitude, that he would never remember this day’s work without cringing in his soul. “Gather the Fjel, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER WAS IN ARDUAN when the Marasoumië was sealed.
He was grateful for Lord Satoris’ warning. It had been unexpected; the reaching tendrils of Godslayer’s power making his scar itch and burn, and suddenly Satoris was there, touching his mind, sifting through his thoughts. So it must feel to mortals when he used his Were-taught skills to walk in their dreams.
“I understand, my Lord,” he said when the Shaper had finished, bowing to the empty air. A pair of Arduans strolling in the marketplace gave him a wide berth. “I will come as I may.”<
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There was a banyan tree growing on the eastern side of the square. Ushahin found space amid its roots and sat cross-legged in its shade, waiting. He bowed his head, drawing the hood of a cloak he had stolen from a sleeping hunter down to hide his features. It was hot and humid here along the fringe of the Delta; still, better to be uncomfortable than to be recognized.
Arduans were a polite folk, their tiny nation founded on respect for individual rights, including that to privacy. No one would disturb him if he claimed it; no, not unless he showed his face. That, he suspected, would invoke the other great passion of Arduan. There was only one misshapen Ellyl half-breed in Urulat. Even Arduans would require no further justification than his face to nock an arrow and fire.
Ushahin waited.
A part of the world died.
It hurt. He felt the passing of each node-point as it flared and died. Little deaths, each and every one, a shock to his flesh where a shard of the Souma had branded it. He made himself breathe slowly, enduring it. He wondered if it took Vorax and Tanaros the same way. He thought about Malthus the Counselor trapped in the Ways, and smiled through his pain.
It was done.
“Are you all right, mister? Something funny happened just now.”
A high voice; a child’s voice. Ushahin opened his eyes to see a young girl stooping under the banyan tree to peer at him. She had a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a child’s bow clutched in one grimy hand. The children who had set upon him so long ago in Pelmar, breaking his bones and rending his flesh, had been scarce older. Neither had he, then.
“Aye, lass,” he said, slipping behind her eyes and into her thoughts without an effort, twisting them to his own ends. “I’m fine, and so are you. I need to purchase a boat; a skiff, such as fishermen use in the Delta. Surely a clever girl like you would know where I might find such a thing.”
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