Banewreaker (49 page)

No. It was too soon. He stank of fear and dripped with sweat under his armor, and he did not want to bring it into his quarters. That had been a bad misstep in the Chamber. He needed to walk the back ways, to clear his mind and temper his heat.

There was the middle door; Tanaros' door.

No. He did not wish to meet Tanaros Blacksword's Fjel guards upon emergence, and watch their nostrils widen at his stink. Not now.

Vorax laid his gauntleted hand upon the left door, Ushahin's door. Recognizing his touch as one of the Three, the veins of marrow-fire within it brightened. It swung open, then closed behind him as he stepped through it, sealing without a trace.

The air was markedly cooler, and he breathed it in with gratitude, letting his eyes adjust to new darkness. Only a faint trace of the marrow-fire lit his way, veins buried deep in the walls. Sounds filled the dark corridors; Ushahin's madlings, scratching, babbling, scrambling. Vorax smiled, setting out in the direction of the sounds.

The Dreamspinner's folk understood fear. They would forgive.

How many years had it been since he had ventured into Ushahin's passageways? He could not remember. Ten? More like fifty, or a hundred even. There had been no cause, during the long years of peace; or neutrality, which passed for peace. While Haomane's Allies sulked and left Lord Satoris unmolested, the Three tended to their separate ways, keeping Darkhaven's affairs in order. Vorax limped on his bruised knee and counted his strides, one hand hovering over his hilt. At a hundred paces, the corridor forked. He paused, listening, then took the right fork.

It forked, again and again.

Vorax followed the voices.

It was the Fjel who had built Darkhaven, in accordance with his Lordship's design; but these passages were not built to a Fjel's scale. They were behind the walls, the province of rats and scuttling madlings. Rats, Vorax had expected. He was amazed at the progress Ushahin's madlings had made; widening breaches in the masonry to open connections between passages where none were meant to exist, forging exits and entrances where none were intended. There was no danger to his Lordship, of course; no madling would touch dare the three-fold door and risk his wrath. Still, it made him uneasy to think how extensively they had penetrated the fortress. He wondered if Ushahin knew.

At one point he encountered a deep chasm in a passageway, and had to sidle across the verge of it on his heels, both hands outflung to grasp the dimly veined walls, toes hanging out over empty nothingness. His knees creaked with the effort of balancing. Pausing to steady his nerves, Vorax looked down, gazing past his boot-tips. Dry heat blasted upward in a column.

The chasm went down and down, deeper than a mineshaft. Somewhere, far below, was a flickering light cast by blue-white flames and a roar like that of a distant forest fire, or dragons. Vorax shuddered, and edged clear of the chasm, back onto solid ground. That was no work of madlings. He wondered what fault in Darkhaven's foundation had permitted the chasm to open. It was as close as any man should get to the Source; and a far sight closer than any Staccian ought. He'd had enough infernal heat to last him an immortal lifetime. It was
cool
in Staccia.

Betimes, he missed it.

Perhaps, when this latest threat had passed, it would be time to consider passing on his mantle. To retire to a pleasant estate, where the sun shone in a blue sky over a white, wintery landscape, and the wolf tracked the hare through new-fallen snow. He could continue his duties in Staccia, binding the earls and barons in fealty, negotiating lines of supply and men for Darkhaven, negotiating the companionship of their pretty younger daughters for himself, spinning out his days in soft, blissful comfort, freed from the constraints of his vow-branded flesh to age his way into easeful death, pillowing his head in the laps of Staccian maidens. It was not a bad idea, after all, to have a presence in Staccia. It had been too long since he had made himself
known
there.

The path took an upward turn. Trudging doggedly up the steep incline, he tried to imagine if his Lordship would ever agree to such a thing. He rather thought not. After all, Staccia's very peace and prosperity were dependent upon the bargain Vorax had struck with his Lordship so many years ago. He had not imagined, then, that there could ever come a day when immortality would become burdensome.

Ah, well. It was a pleasant thought.

Ahead, voices echoed; a madlings' clamor, but with something else running through it, a single voice like a silver thread. The incline had ended at last, the path level beneath his feet. Frowning, Vorax quickened his stride. There was light ahead; not marrow-fire, but candlelight, warm and golden. Through a narrowing passage, he glimpsed it. He picked his way with care, easing shoulder-first into the gap. His armor scraped along the rocks, getting scratched and dented in the process.

Unexpectedly, the passage widened.

Vorax stumbled into open space, catching himself. It was a rough-hewn chamber, a natural space vastened by the efforts of a hundred generations chipping at the stone walls. Everywhere, butt-ends of tallow candles burned, wedged into every available niche and crevice. Scraps and oddments of carpet covered the floor, and the walls were covered with scratched messages; some legible, most a garble of words. There must have been a dozen madlings gathered, light glimmering from their eyes. All of them whispered, hissing and muttering to one another.

One was kneeling before the figure who stood in the center of the chamber, grimy fingers plucking at the hem of her blue robe as he raised a face filled with hope. "Me?" he said. "Me? Lady see me?"

The Lady Cerelinde bent her head, cupping the madling's face with both hands. Her hair spilled forward, shimmering in the candlelight, veiling her features. "Ludo," she said softly, her silvery voice ringing. "You were a wheelwright's son. I see you, Ludo. I see what might have been. I see you with a plump wife, smiling, and laughing children chasing one another in your father's yard."

"Lady!" He gasped the word, face shining and distorted with tears, and rocked back and forth, wringing the hem of her robe. "Lady, Lady, yes!"

Cerelinde released him with a gentle smile, lifted her head—and froze.

The madlings wailed in chorus.

"
Lady
." Vorax took a further step into the chamber, his sword rasping free of its scabbard. He met her oddly fearless gaze, and the blood seemed to sing in his veins, a high-pitched tone ringing in his head. He raised the blade, angling it for a solid blow, watching her expose the vulnerable column of her throat as her gaze followed the sword. His voice, when he spoke, sounded strange to his ears. "What is it you do in this place?"

"I might ask you the same," she said calmly. "Do you desire a glimpse of
what might have been
, Lord Vorax? It is a small magic, one of the few which the Rivenlost are afforded, but I am willing to share it. All you must do is consent in your heart to know."

He gritted his teeth. "That, I do not."

"So." She watched the candlelight reflecting on the edge of his sword. "I do not blame you, given what you have chosen. They do. It gives them comfort to know, poor broken creatures that they are. Is there harm in it, my Lord? Have I trespassed? I was brought to this place."

"Who—?"

"Get out!" From the shadows a figure flung itself at him, wild-eyed, arms windmilling. Astonished, Vorax put up his sword, taking a step backward. He had a brief impression of sallow features beneath a mat of tangled hair. "Get out!" the madling shrilled, flailing at him. "
You
brought her here, but this is
our
place!
Ours
! Get out!"

Catching her thin wrists in one gauntleted hand, he held her at bay. It took a moment to put a name to her, but he had seen her before; one of Tanaros' favorites, or one who favored him. There was no telling, with madlings. "Meara," he said. "What do you do here?
Why
?"

She sagged in his grasp, then twisted to scowl at him through her dark, matted hair. "We batter our hearts, my lord, against the specter of what might have been. Don't you see?" There were tears in her eyes, at odds with her expression. "I warned him, my lord," she said. "I did. I tried to tell him. But he didn't want to know, so he left, and Ushahin left, and we were left alone. Isn't it clear?"

"No." Vorax released his grasp, letting her crumple on the chamber floor. "No," he said again, "it's not." He eyed them; Meara, her face averted, the lad Ludo, weeping. Others wept, too. Only the Lady Cerelinde stood, dry-eyed. "Listen," he said to the madlings. "This place, all places, belong to Lord Satoris. What might have been… is not. Do you understand?"

Wails of assent arose in answer. One of the madlings was banging his head against an outcropping of rock, bloodying his forehead. "His blood!" he moaned. "His Lordship's blood!"

"Aye." Vorax gave them a hard look. "That which he shed to defend us all, and sheds every minute of every day in suffering. Do you disdain it?" They wailed denial. "Good," he said. "Because Ushahin Dreamspinner, who is your master, returns anon. And, too, there will come Tanaros Blacksword, who makes his way home even now. Do you wish them to find you weeping over
what might have been
?"

Perhaps it was the right thing to say: who could tell, with madlings? They dispersed, wailing, into the passageways of Darkhaven. Only Meara and the Ellyl woman were left, the one still huddled, the other still standing.

Vorax exhaled hard, dragging his arm across his brow, and sheathed his sword. "Meara," he said conversationally, "I suggest you return the Lady to her chambers, and do not allow her to venture out again unless his Lordship summons her. If I find you here again, I will not hesitate to strike. And if you think my mercy is cruel, remember what Ushahin Dreamspinner might do to her. He has no love for her kind."

"Aye, my lord." Meara stood sullenly, plucking at Cerelinde's sleeve.

The Lady of the Ellylon stood unmoving. "General Tanaros is coming?"

"Aye."

There was a change; a subtle one. She did not move, and even her lids did not flicker. Yet beneath her fair skin, a faint blush arose, tinting her cheeks. Something knotted in Vorax's belly, and he stepped into her space, crowding her with his bulk.

"Lady," he said softly. "
Leave him be
."

Her chin rose a fraction. "You were the one to offer me Lord Satoris' hospitality, my lord Glutton. Will you break it and be foresworn?"

"I would have slain you the instant Beshtanag fell." He watched fear seep into her luminous gaze, and favored her with a grim smile. "Make no mistake, Lady. Neither hatred nor madness drives me, and I know where the margin of profit lies. If his Lordship heeded me, you would be dead." He drew his sword a few inches clear of the scabbard, adding, "I may do it yet."

"You wouldn't dare!" Her eyes blazed with terrible beauty. "Aracus—"

"Aracus!" Vorax laughed, shoving the hilt back in place. "Oh, Lady, whatever happens, we've ages of time here behind the walls of Dark-haven before the Son of Altorus becomes a problem. No, if you want to invoke a protector, I suggest you stick with his Lordship. And mind, if I find you plying Tanaros with Ellylon glamours and magics, I
will
see you dead."

The Lady Cerelinde made no answer.

"Good." Vorax nodded. "Get her out of here, Meara, and do not bring her again. Mind, I will be speaking to the Dreamspinner."

He watched them go, the madling leading, tugging at the Ellyl's sleeve. The sight did nothing to dispel the knotted, sinking feeling in his belly. It was providence that had made him choose the left-hand door, alerting him to untold danger. On the morrow he would assemble a patrol of his own men to scour the passages behind the walls, sealing off the madlings' secret corridors, or as many as they could find. Something was wrong within the edifice of Darkhaven, crumbling even as the chasm had opened in the floor under his feet. He remembered the moon-garden by half-light, a shining figure beneath the stars, the heady scent of vulnus-blossom mingling with sulfur in the damp air, evoking painful memory.

Lord Vorax, what do you see?

Vorax shook his head and blew out the candle-butts. By the glimmer of the marrow-fire he pressed onward, leaving the chamber behind and picking his path through the tangled maze of narrow passages until he reached an egress. It was a sanctioned door, opening to his touch behind a niche in one of Darkhaven's major hallways. One of the Haven-guard snapped to attention as he emerged; a
M�rkhar Fjel, axe springing into one hand, shield raising, dark bristles prickling erect. "Lord Vorax, sir!"

"At ease," he sighed.

The M�rkhar stared straight ahead. Ignoring him, Vorax made his way down the towering halls, limping steadily back to his own quarters. It was a blessed relief to reach the tall ironwood doors, carved with the twin likenesses of a roaring Staccian bear, and a pair of his own Staccian guardsmen lounging against them. The fear-sweat had dried to a rime beneath his armor, and he was only tired, now. Beyond those doors lay comfort and easement. His belly rumbled at the thought of it.

"Let me in, Eadric."

"Aye, sir!" The senior guardsman grinned, fumbling at his belt for a key. "Good ease to you, sir!"

The tall ironwood doors swung open, and Vorax entered his quarters. Within, it was another world, rich and luxuriant, far removed from everything in Darkhaven; the stark grandeur of its halls, the fearful heat of the Chamber of the Font, the scrabbling mysteries behind its walls. Lamplight warmed rich tapestries, gleamed upon gilded statuary, sparkled on jewel-encrusted surfaces. He had had ten mortal lifetimes to amass the treasures contained within his quarters. Somewhere, music was playing. It paused as he entered, then resumed, the harpist bowing her head over the ivory-inlaid curve of her instrument, fingers caressing the strings. Three Staccian handmaids rose to their feet, surrounding him with solicitous care, their deft fingers unbuckling his ceremonial armor.

"My lord, you are weary!"