“It is safe,” she pronounced at length. “No one is here.”
“That is well.” Her calm restored, Cerelinde inclined her head. “Forgive me, Meara. Perhaps the venture was illadvised. I would not wish any of you to be placed in danger.”
The madling shot her a glance. “He’s right, you know. Lord Vorax is. You should leave the Lord General alone. There’s nothing but death in it, death and blood and more madness. You should leave us alone. Why don’t you? Why did he have to bring you here?”
“Meara.” She spread her hands, helpless. “To that, I cannot speak. You know I am a hostage here. It is a small gift, a small kindness. You asked me to share it. Since it is all I have to offer, I did.”
“I know.” Meara hunkered at the foot of the bed. “Aye, I know, I did. We are the broken ones, we who want to know. They should not have left us, and they should not have brought you. They should have known better, and you should never have shown me kindness, no.” She gnawed on her thumbnail, then asked abruptly, “Lady, what would you have seen for Lord Vorax? Would you have shown him what the shape of Urulat would be if he had chosen elsewise?”
“No.” Cerelinde shook her head. “A glimpse of the life he might have had, nothing more; a life that would have ended long, long ago. More than that, I cannot say. We are only afforded a faint glimpse, Meara, beyond the greatest of branchings in a single life. It is a small gift, truly.”
“Why?”
She gazed at the madling with sorrow and compassion. “We are Rivenlost, Meara. We were left behind upon the shores of Urulat, while the Bright Ones, those among his Children whom Haomane held dearest, dwell beside him upon the crown of Torath. In curiosity, in innocent desire, those of us who are the Rivenlost wandered too far from Haomane’s side, and we were stranded when the world was Sundered. This small gift was won in bitter hours, when the eldest among us wondered and sought to pierce the veil. What if we had been more diligent? What if we had stood at the Lord-of-Thought’s side during the Sundering? It has been passed down, this gift. We, too, batter our hearts against what might have been.”
“What do you see?” Meara whispered.
“Brightness.” Cerelinde smiled, glancing westward. “Brightness, and joy.”
“So.” Squatting, Meara wrapped both arms about her knees and tucked her chin into her chest, hiding her face. “You cannot see the small might-haves.”
“No.” She thought, with regret, of a myriad small mighthave-beens. What if she had consented to wed Aracus in the sturdy mortal confines of Seahold? What if Aracus had consented to their wedding vows being held in the warded halls of Meronil, under the aegis of Ingolin the Wise? What if … what if … she had never agreed to wed him at all? “I would that I could, Meara. But, no. The tapestry is too vast, and there are too many threads woven into it. Pluck at a small one, and others unravel. Only Haomane the Lord-of-Thought is vouchsafed that knowledge.”
Meara tilted her head. Her eyes, peering through a thicket of hair, held a cunning gleam. “What about his Lordship?”
“Lord … Satoris?” Without thinking, Cerelinde stiffened. In memory’s eye, she saw the Shaper’s form blotting out the stars, the shadow of his extended hand lying stark and black on the desiccated grass of the moon-garden, patiently proffered for her inevitable refusal.
“Aye.” Meara nodded sharply.
Cerelinde shook her head. “He is a Shaper. He is beyond my ken.”
“There was a … what do you call it? A great branching.” Studying the floor, Meara plucked at the carpet, then sniffed at the sweet odor of heart-grass on her fingertips. “When he refused, three times, to withdraw his Gift from Arahila’s Children.” Her sharp chin pointed upward, eyes glancing. “What might have been, had he not? You could see that for him.”
A chill ran the length of Cerelinde’s spine. “I do not think,” she said gently,“his Lordship would consent to seek this knowledge.”
“You could ask.” Meara straightened abruptly, tossing back her hair. “It would be interesting to know, since some of Arahila’s Children disdain it. His Lordship’s Gift, that is. Which is odd, since it is all they have that you do not; and all I do, too. I do, you know.” Placing her hands on her hips, she fixed the Lady of the Ellylon with a disconcerting stare. “I will go now. Thank you, for what you did. It meant very much to some people. I am sorry to have placed you in danger, but I do not think Lord Vorax will kill you. Not yet, anyway”
“Good,” Cerelinde said simply, staring back.
When the madling had gone, Cerelinde buried her face in her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. When all was said and done, there was too much here beyond her comprehension. She had been grateful for Meara’s request. She had hoped, in sharing this small gift, to bring a measure of compassion to the stark halls of Darkhaven, to the meager lives of those who dwelled within its walls. It had seemed a kindness, a simple kindness, to offer comfort in lieu of the healing she could not effect.
Now, she was not so sure.
Seeking comfort of her own, she thought of Aracus, and tried to imagine his understanding. There was nothing there, only the memory of his gaze, wide-set and demanding, stirring her blood in unaccustomed ways, filling her with hope and pride and the dream of the Prophecy fulfilled.
In this place, it seemed very far away.
She thought of Tanaros instead, and remembered the old madling woman Sharit they had met in the halls of Darkhaven, and how gently he had taken her hand; how proudly she had stood, gripping it tight. Whatever had passed here this day, Tanaros would understand it.
He was not what she would have expected him to be, at once both less and more. Less terrifying; a Man, not a monster. And yet he was more than a Man. Immortal, as Aracus was not. Like the Ellylon, he understood the scope of ages.
Cerelinde wondered what he had been like, so long ago, as a mortal Man. Not so different, perhaps, from Aracus. After all, Tanaros was related by ties of distant kinship and fosterage to the House of Altorus. He must have been as close to his liege-lord as Blaise Caveros was to Aracus. Had he been as fiercely loyal? Yes, she thought, he must have been. The betrayal would not have wounded him so deeply if he were not.
He must have loved his wife, too. What manner of passion had led her to commit such a grievous betrayal? She thought about Aracus, and the quick, hot drive that blazed within him. And she thought about Tanaros, steady and calm, despite the ancient, aching grief that lay behind his dark gaze. Though he was her enemy, he treated her with unfailing courtesy. She did not know the answer.
He was coming.
They were all coming. Vorax the Glutton’s words had confirmed it. Somewhere, in the world beyond Darkhaven’s walls, the tides of fate had shifted. Beshtanag had fallen. Tanaros Kingslayer and Ushahin the Misbegotten were on their way, soon to reunite the Three. And on their heels would be Aracus Altorus, the Borderguard and her kinsmen in his train, intent on storming Darkhaven.
She was the Lady of the Ellylon and his betrothed, the key to fulfilling Haomane’s Prophecy. They would not relent until she was freed or the plains of Curonan were churned to red mud with the last of their dying blood.
And Lord Satoris in his immortal pride and folly would revel in it.
Death was the only certainty. Whatever else transpired, the ravens of Darkhaven would feast on the flesh of foes and allies alike. The thought of it made her shudder to the bone. The hand of Haomane’s Prophecy hovered over her, a bright and terrible shadow, filled with the twinned promise of hope and bloodshed. Although she wished it otherwise, she could see, now, how they were intertwined.
All things were as they must be. Light and dark, bound together in an inextricable battle. The paths that led them here were beginning to narrow. Soon, it would not matter what might have been. Only what was.
She was afraid, and weary of being alone with her fear.
Hurry, Cerelinde prayed. Oh, hurry!
And she was no longer sure, in that moment, to whom or for what she pra
yed.
Of all the things that had befallen her in Darkhaven, this was surely the most fearful.
So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; Evil be thou my Good.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
KUSHIEL’S LEGACY
Kushiel’s Dart
Kushiel’s Chosen
Kushiel’s Avatar
THE SUNDERING
Banewreaker
Godslayer
PRAISE FOR JACQUELINE CAREY
KUSHIEL’S DART
“Stunning, clever, sultry and mysterious, Phedre is an ideal and original heroine … .”
—Associated Press
“This brilliant and daring debut catapults Carey immediately into the top rank of fantasy novelists … At the end, the heroine reminds one of an equally strong-minded sister whose home was Tara.”
—Publishers Weekly
KUSHIEL’S CHOSEN
“Kushiel’s Chosen is elegant, intricate, sensual and captivating. Once you pick it up you won’t want to put it down.”
—Robert Jordan
“There is seemingly something for everyone here: a great love story, intensely spirituality, high eroticism, and lots of adventure, intrigue, and swordplay.”
—Booklist (starred)
KUSHIEL’S AVATAR
“Effortlessly rich in adventurous incident, with a huge cast of well-defined characters, this poignant and robust story will appeal to both fantasy lovers and fans of erotic fiction.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Carey’s lush, sensuous prose again makes her heroine’s story a savory feast for mind and heart.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“This exquisitely piercing love story will take its readers on an unbelievable sensual journey … .”
—Romantic Times (Gold Medal Top Pick and 4½ stars)
A preview of
GODSLAYER
Jacqueline Cares
Now available in paperback from Tom Doherty Associates
ONE
ALL THINGS CONVERGE.
In the last Great Age of the Sundered World of Urulat, which was once called Uru-Alat after the World God that gave birth to it, they began to converge upon Darkhaven.
It began with a red star rising in the west; Dergail’s Soumanië, a polished stone that had once been a chip of the Souma itself—that mighty gem that rested on the sundered isle of Torath, the Eye in the Brow of Uru-Alat, source of the Shapers’ power.
Satoris the Shaper took it for a warning, a message from a sister who had loved him, once upon a time; Arahila the Fair, whose children were the race of Men. His enemies took it as a declaration of war.
Whatever the truth, war ensued.
Haomane, First-Born among Shapers, long ago uttered a Prophecy.
“When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found, when the marrow-fire is quenched and Godslayer is freed, when a daughter of Elterrion weds a son of Altorus, when the Spear of Light is brought forth and the Helm of Shadows is broken, the Fjeltroll shall fall, the Were shall be defeated ere they rise, and the Sunderer shall be no more, the Souma shall be restored and the Sundered World made whole and Haomane’s Children shall endure.”
It began with the rising of Dergail’s Soumanië. Cerelinde, the Lady of the Ellylon, a daughter of Elterrion’s line, plighted her troth to Aracus Altorus. It was the first step toward fulfilling Haomane’s Prophecy; Arahila’s Children and Haomane’s conjoined, their lines inextricably mingled. But in Lindanen Dale, their nuptials were disrupted.
Bloodshed ensued.
It was a trap; a trap that went awry. It seemed at first that all the pieces fell into place. Driven by vengeance, the Grey Dam of the Were spent her life in an attack, and the half-breed Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed madness and illusion. Under its cover, Tanaros Blacksword abducted the Lady Cerelinde and took her to Darkhaven.
Haomane’s Allies were misled. Pursuing a rumor of dragons, under the command of Aracus Altorus, they raised an army and launched an assault on Beshtanag and Lilias, Sorceress of the East. And there the trap went awry. The Ways were closed, and the Army of Darkhaven was turned back, their company’s leadership scattered. In Beshtanag, Haomane’s Allies took to the field.
There, they prevailed.
They were not supposed to do so.
They were coming; all of them.
They came on foot and on horseback and by sailing ship, for the Ways of the Marasoumie had been destroyed. Lord Satoris had done this in his wrath. The Dragon of Beshtanag was no more, slain by the Arrow of Fire; the lost weapon, found. Bereft of her Soumanië, the Sorceress of the East was nothing more than an ordinary woman; Lilias, mortal and powerless. The Were had struck a bitter bargain with Aracus Altorus, ceding to his terms; defeated ere they rose. Aracus was coming, his heart filled with righteous fury, knowing he had been duped.
Malthus the Wise Counselor, trapped in the Ways, had vanished beyond the sight of even Godslayer itself … but rumor whispered of a new figure. The Galäinridder, the Bright Rider, whose words bred fear in the hearts of Men, inspiring them to betray their ancient oaths to Lord Satoris.
But Haomane’s Allies had not won yet.
On the westernmost verge of the Unknown Desert, Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven, made camp alongside a creek. There he slaked the thirst of his long-parched flesh and made ready to rally his surviving troops and set his face toward home. Immortal though he was, he could have died in the desert. Thanks to a raven’s gratitude, he lived.
When he dreamed, he dreamed of the Lady Cerelinde.
On the back of a blood-bay horse, Ushahin Dreamspinner rode the pathways between waking and dreaming, plunging into the Midlands and leaving a trail of nightmares in his wake. A wedge of ravens forged his path, and on either side, a riderless horse flanked him; one a spectral grey, the other as black as coal.
If he had dreamed, which he did not, he would dream of the counsel of dragons.
Vorax the Glutton, muttering over his stores, awaited them in Darkhaven.
The immortal Three were soon to be reunited.
Haomane’s Prophecy was yet to be fulfilled.
In the mighty fortress of Darkhaven, where the Lady Cerelinde endured imprisonment and fought against a rising tide of doubt, the marrow-fire yet burned. Within it hung the dagger, Godslayer; ruby-red, a Shard of the Souma. Once, it had wounded Satoris; the wound that would not heal. Godslayer alone could end a Shaper’s life; the life of Lord Satoris, the life of any of the Shapers. And while the marrow-fire burned, no mortal hand could touch it. None but a Shaper would dare.
Only the Water of Life, drawn from the Well of the World, could extinguish the marrow-fire. The Water had been drawn, but its Bearer was lost.
Thrust out of the Ways by Malthus the Counselor in a desperate gambit, abandoned and lost, Dani of the Yarru wandered the cold lands of the Northern Harrow, deep in Fjeltroll territory, with only his uncle to guide him. Together, they sought to follow the rivers, the lifeblood of Urulat, to Darkhaven.
And they, too, were being hunted … .
Led by Skragdal of the Tungskulder, the Fjel were on the hunt. Their loyalty to Lord Satoris was beyond question. Haomane’s Prophecy promised them nothing but death. No matter where it led them, they would not abandon their quest. They would succeed or die trying.
All things converge.
NEHERINACH WAS A GREEN BOWL cradled in the mountain’s hands. Here and there, small boulders breached its surface; elsewhere, a half dozen small hillocks arose, covered in flowering ivy. A small river, spring-fed, wound through the center of it, meandering westward to sink belowground. Low mountains, sloping upward with a deceptively gentle grade, surrounded it. Patches of gorse offered grazing to fallow deer, shelter to hare that crouched in the shadow of small crags.
It was a peaceful place, and a terrible one.
On the verges, the Kaldjager scouts waited, glancing sidelong out of yellow eyes to watch the others’ straggling progress. Skragdal, leading them, knew what the Kaldjager felt. This was where it had begun.
They assembled in silence on the field of Neherinach. The green grass was soft beneath their feet. Water sparkled under the bright sun. Birds stirred in the trees, insects took flight from grass stems.
“Come,” Skragdal said quietly.
They crossed the field together, and the grass flattened beneath their approach, springing back once they had passed. It smelled clean and sweet. Skragdal felt his talons breach the surface of the soil beneath, rich and crumbling. It filled him with an ancient fury. There was old blood in that soil. Thousand upon thousand of Fjel had died in this place, fighting without weapons against a vast army of Men and Ellylon, attacked without quarter for the crime of giving shelter to the wounded Shaper who had taught them the measure of their own worth. The ivy-covered hillocks that dotted the field marked the cairns of Fjel dead; one for each of the six tribes.
In the end, they had won; by treachery and stealth, according to the songs of Haomane’s Allies. It was true, they had laid traps, but what was treachery to a people invaded without provocation? It had been a bitter victory.
Near the riverbank, where the ground was soft enough to hold an impression, they found a trace of old hoofprints. Skragdal frowned. Only Men and Ellylon rode horses, and he did not like the idea of either despoiling Neherinach.
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