Banewreaker (50 page)

"My lord, you must rest!"

"My lord, you must eat!"

It was not, after all, so much to ask. For a thousand years he had guaranteed the safety of their nation. In the bathing-room, Vorax let them strip him and stood while they brought warm water and sponged the stink of sweat and fear from his skin. Water ran in rivulets, coursing through the ruddy hair on his chest, over the bulge of his stomach, down the thick columns of his legs. Their hands were gentle. They understood his needs and were paid well for their terms of service, their families recompensed in titles, lands and money. Did a man deserve any less, after a thousand years?

They robed him and led him, gently, to his great ironwood chair. It, too, was carved in the likeness of a bear. That had been his family's insignia, once. Now it was his, and his alone. He sank into it, into the familiar curves, the ironwood having conformed over long centuries of wear to his own shape. One of his handmaids fetched a pitcher of Vedasian wine, pouring him a brimming goblet. He quaffed half at a gulp, while another handmaid hurried to the door, her soft voice ordering a message relayed to the kitchen. A meal in nine courses, including soup to whet his appetite, a brace of pigeon, a whole rack of lamb, grilled turbot, a cheese course and sweets to follow. His belly growled plaintively at the prospect. This day called for sustenance on a grand scale. He drank off the rest of the goblet's contents, held it out to be refilled, and drank again. Warmth spread throughout him from within. The wine began to ease his stiff joints, rendering the throbbing bruise on his knee a distant ache. His free arm lay in magisterial repose over the top of the chair's, fingers curling into the bear's paws. His feet were propped on soft cushions. He groaned as another of his handmaids knelt, kneading his stockinged soles with her thumbs.

"Is it good, my lord?" Her blue-grey eyes gazed up at him. There was a spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. They would have been innocent, those eyes, save for a reflection of gold coin held cunning in their depths. The youngest daughter of a Staccian lordling, she knew where her family's margin of profit lay. "Your supper will arrive anon."

"Aye," he said gently, thinking of the Lady Cerelinde's blush, of her terrible beauty, and the scent of vulnus-blossom. Some things were better measured in coin. " 'Tis good, sweetling."

A scratch at the door announced the arrival of his supper. Vorax inhaled deeply as the dishes were uncovered and the savory aroma of food filled his quarters. His Staccian handmaids helped him to the table, filled to groaning with his repast. They brought the wine-pitcher, placing his goblet in easy reach. Eyeing the repast, he selected a bowl of consomme and raised it to his lips with both hands.

It would take a mountain of food to ease the memory of his misstep in the Chamber, of Lord Satoris' anger, of the silence out of Staccia, of the madlings' gathering, of the Lady of the Ellylon's presence among them, and above all, of that gaping chasm in the secret heart of Darkhaven.

Drinking deep from the bowl, Vorax began.

"GO, LADY,
GO
!" MEARA ACTUALLY shoved her from behind, then snatched her hands back as if the touch burned. Caught unawares, Cerelinde stumbled over the threshold of the hidden door, pushing the heavy tapestry aside to enter her quarters.

It was blessedly quiet within.

She sat on the edge of her bed, willing her heartbeat to slow, remembering candlelight reflecting from the edge of Vorax's sword and meditating upon the nearness of death. This must be, she thought, the way warriors felt in the aftermath of battle; a strange mix of latent terror and exhilaration. Meara paced the boundaries of the room, peering anxiously into every corner. Where she trod upon the soft carpets, the scent of bruised heart-grass followed in a ghostly reminder of the Ellylon weavers who had woven them long ago.

"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 ill-advised. 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 might-have-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 prayed.

Of all the things that had befallen her in Darkhaven, this was surely the most fearful.