Banewreaker (6 page)

Vorax had his indulgences.

Tanaros had his army.

Ushahin had his madlings.

Mutton roast steamed as Tanaros removed the covering domes and sat to his dinner. He carved a slab of meat with his sharp knife, juices pooling on the plate. The tubers were flaky, and there were spring peas, pale green and sweet. Sane or no, the madlings of Darkhaven could cook. Tanaros chewed slowly and swallowed, feeling the day's long efforts—the long efforts of a too-long life—settle wearily into his bones.

A warm bath would be good.

"WELL DONE, COUSIN."

A voice, light and mocking. Tanaros opened his eyes to see Ushahin in his drawing-room. The wicks had burned low, but even so the lamplight was less kind to the half-breed, showing up his mismatched features. One cheekbone, broken, sank too low; the other rode high, knotted with old pain.

"Do you jest, cousin?" Tanaros yawned, pushing himself upright in the chair. "How came you here?"

"By the door." The Dreamspinner indicated it with a nod of his sharp chin. "I jest not at all. Readiness, our Lord asked of us; readiness, you have given, Tanaros Blacksword. A pity you do not ward your own quarters so well."

"Should I not trust to the security of Darkhaven, that I myself have wrought? You make mock of me, cousin." Tanaros stifled a second yawn, blinking to clear his wits. A bath had made him drowsy, and he had dozed in his chair. "What do you seek, Dreamspinner?"

The half-breed folded his knees, dropping to sit cross-legged on Tanaros' carpet. His mismatched gaze was disconcertingly level. "Malthus is plotting something."

"Aye," Tanaros said. "A wedding."

"No." Ushahin shook his head, lank silver-gilt hair stirring. "Something
more
."

Tanaros was awake, now. "You've heard it in the dreams of Men?"

"Would that I had." The Dreamspinner propped his chin on folded hands, frowning. "A little, yes. Only a little. Malthus the Counselor keeps his counsel well. I know only that he is assembling a Company, and it has naught to do with the wedding."

"A Company?" Tanaros sat a little straighter.

"Blaise of the Borderguard is to be in it," Ushahin said softly, watching him. "Altorus' second-in-command. He has dreamed of it. He's your kinsman, is he not?"

"Aye." Tanaros' jaw clenched and he reached, unthinking, for the
rhios
in the pocket of his dressing-robe. The smooth surfaces of it calmed his mind. "Descended on my father's side. They are mounting an attack on Darkhaven? Even now?"

"No." Ushahin noted his gesture, but did not speak of it. "That's the odd thing, cousin. It's naught to do with us, or so it would seem."

"The Sorceress?" Tanaros asked.

Ushahin shrugged unevenly. "She holds one of the Soumanie, which Malthus the Counselor would like to reclaim. Beyond that, I cannot say. Those who have been chosen do not know themselves. I know only that a call has gone out to Arduan, to ask the mightiest of their archers to join the Company."

"Arduan," Tanaros said slowly. Relinquishing the
rhios
, he ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his bath. The Archers of Arduan, which lay along the northern fringes of the Delta, were renowned for their skill with the bow. "Does his Lordship know?"

"Yes." Ushahin's eyes glittered in the lamplight. "He knows."

The taste of fear was back in Tanaros' mouth, the triumph of the day's exercise forgotten. "Does he think it has to do with—"

"The lost weapon of the Prophecy?" the half-breed asked bluntly. "How not?"

Both were silent, at that.

Dergail's Soumanie had risen in the west.

Dergail the Counselor had been one of three, once; three that Haomane First-Born had sent against Satoris in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World. And he had been armed, as they all had. Armed with the Soumanie, polished chips of the Souma with the force to Shape the world itself—and armed also with weapons of Haomane's devising. One, they knew well; the Helm of Shadows, that Ardrath the Counselor had borne, which had fallen into Lord Satoris' grasp, and been
changed
. One other, they knew and feared; the Spear of Light, that Malthus had hidden.

But the last was the Arrow of Fire, that had vanished when Dergail was defeated and flung himself into the sea, and no one knew where it was.

"Ravens bore it away," Tanaros said at length. "Do they know?"

Ushahin shook his head again. "They are as they are, cousin," he said; gently, for him. "Brief lives, measured against ours; a dark flash of feathers in the sun. They do not know. Nor do the Were, who remember. Ravens bore it east, but it did not reach the fastholds of Pelmar."

When it came to the Were, Ushahin alone among Men—or Ellylon—would know. Oronin's Children had raised him, when no one else would. Tanaros considered. "Then Malthus knows," he said.

"Malthus
suspects
," Ushahin corrected him. "And plots accordingly."

Tanaros spread his hands. "As it may be. I command troops, cousin. What would you have me do?"

"Do?" The half-breed grinned, his mood as mercurial as one of his madlings. "Why, cousin, do as you do! I have come to tell you what I know, and that I have done. You spoke, also, of ravens."

"Ravens." Tanaros smiled. "Is it time?"

"Time, and more." Ushahin uncoiled from the carpet, straightening as he rose. "There is a wedding afoot, after all, and the ravens have come home to roost, with their eyes filled with visions. Your friend is among them. Will you come with me to the rookery on the morrow, ere his Lordship summons them?"

"I will," Tanaros said, "gladly."

A LIGHT MIST WREATHED THE beech wood, and their steps were soundless on the mast of fallen leaves, soft and damp after winter. New growth was greening on the trees, forming a canopy overhead.

It was a deeper green than the beeches Tanaros had known as a boy, the leaves broader, fanning to capture and hold the cloud-filtered sunlight. The trunks of the trees were gnarled in a way they weren't elsewhere, twisted around ragged boles as they grew, like spear-gutted warriors straining to stand upright.

They were old and strong, though, and their roots were deep.

Blight, the Ellylon said; Satoris the Sunderer blighted the land, the ichor of his unhealing wound seeping like poison into the earth, tainting it so no wholesome thing could grow.

Tanaros had believed it, once. No longer. Wounded, yes. The Vale of Gorgantum had endured the blow of the Shaper's wound, as Lord Satoris himself endured it. Deprived of sunlight, it suffered, as Lord Satoris suffered, driven to earth by Haomane's wrath. Yet, like the Shaper, it survived; adapted, and survived.

And who was to say there was no beauty in it?

Ahead, a rustling filled the wood. There was no path, but Ushahin Dreamspinner led the way, at home in the woods. From behind, he looked hale, his spine straight and upright, his step sure. His gilt-pale hair shone under the canopy. One might take him, Tanaros thought, for a young Ellyl poet, wandering the wood.

Not from the front, though. No one ever made that mistake.

There, the first nest, a ragged construction wedged in the branches high overhead. Others, there and there, everywhere around them as they entered the rookery proper, and the air came alive with the sound of ravens. Ushahin stopped and gazed around him, a smile on his ruined face.

Ravens hopped and sidled along the branches, preening glossy black feathers. Ravens defended their nests, quarreled over bits of twig. Ravens flew from tree to tree, on wings like airborne shadows.

"Kaugh!"

The sound was so close behind him that Tanaros startled. "Fetch!"

There, on a low branch, a raven;
his
raven. The wounded fledgling he had found half-frozen in his Lord's garden six years gone by, grown large as a hawk, with the same disheveled tuft of feathers poking from his head. The raven cocked its head to regard him with one round shiny eye, then the other. Satisfied, it wiped its sharp, sturdy beak on the branch.

Tanaros laughed. "Will he come to me, do you think?"

Ushahin gave his uneven shrug. "Try it and see."

The ravens were the Dreamspinner's charges, a gift not of Lord Satoris, but of the Were who had reared him. Elsewhere, they were territorial. It was only here, in Darkhaven, that they gathered in a flock�and only when summoned, for Ushahin Dreamspinner had made them the eyes and ears of Lord Satoris, and sent them throughout the land.

This one, though, Tanaros had tended.

"Fetch," he said, holding out his forearm. "Come."

The raven muttered in its throat and eyed him, shifting from foot to foot. Tanaros waited. When he was on the verge of conceding, the raven launched himself smoothly into the air, broad wings outspread as he glided to land on Tanaros' padded arm, an unexpectedly heavy weight. Bobbing up and down, he made a deep, chuckling sound.

"Oh, Fetch." At close range, the bird's feathers shone a rich blue-black, miniscule barbs interlocking, layered in a ruff at his neck. Tanaros smoothed them with the tip of one finger, absurdly glad to see him. "How are you, old friend?"

Fetch made his chucking sound, wiped his beak on Tanaros' arm, then uttered a single low
Kaugh
! and bobbed expectantly. Tanaros reached into a pouch at his belt and drew forth a gobbet of meat, fed it to the raven, followed by others. In the trees, the others watched and muttered, one raising its voice in a raucous scolding.

"He's very fond of you." Ushahin sounded amused.

Tanaros smiled, remembering the winter he'd kept the fledgling in his quarters. A foul mess he'd made, too, and he was still finding things the raven had stolen and hidden. "Do you disapprove?"

The half-breed shrugged. "The Were hunt with ravens, and ravens hunt with the Were. It is the way of Men, to make tame what is wild. If you had sought to cage him, I would have disapproved."

"I wouldn't." Finding no more meat forthcoming, the raven took his leave, strong talons pricking through the padded leather as he launched himself from Tanaros' arm, landing on a nearby branch and preening under the envious eyes of his fellows, the tuft of feathers atop his head bobbing in a taunt. Tanaros watched his mischief with fond pleasure. "Fetch is his own creature."

"It's well that you understand it. The Were sent them, but the ravens serve Lord Satoris of their own choosing." Ushahin rubbed his thin arms against the morning's chill. "You've a need in you to love, cousin. A pity it's confined to birds and Fjel."

"Love." Anger stirred in Tanaros' heart. "What would you know of love, Dreamspinner?"

"Peace, cousin." Ushahin raised his twisted, broken hands. "I do not say it in despite. The forge of war is upon us, and all our mettle will be tested. Once upon a time, you loved a son of Altorus. And," he added, "once upon a time, you loved a woman."

Tanaros laughed, a sound as harsh as a raven's call. "Altoria lies in ruin because of that love,
cousin
, and the sons of Altorus are reduced to the Borderguard of Curonan. Do you forget?"

"No," Ushahin said simply. "I remember. But it was many years ago, and hatred burned in you like the marrow-fire, then. Now, there is yearning."

The calm, mismatched regard was too much to bear, undermining his anger. What was his suffering, measured against the half-breed's? Ushahin Dreamspinner had been unwanted even before his birth. It was an ill-gotten notion that had sent an embassy of the Ellylon of the Rivenlost to Pelmar in the Sixth Age of the Sundered World; an ill-gotten impulse that had moved a young Pelmaran lordling to lust.

A son of Men had assaulted a daughter of the Ellylon.

And Ushahin was the fruit of that bitter union, which had dealt the Prophecy a dire blow. Ushahin the Unwanted, whose birth ruined his mother—though he'd had no name, then, and hers was hidden from history. In their grief, the Ellylon laid a charge upon the family of the nameless babe's father, bidding them raise him as their own.

Instead, they despised him, for his existence was their shame.

Even in the Dreamspinner's story, Tanaros thought, he could not escape the sons of Altorus, for one had been present. Prince Faranol, Faranol Altorus, who had accompanied the Ellylon embassy on behalf of Altoria. A mighty hunter, that one, bold in the chase. He'd ridden out in a Pelmaran hunting-party, hunting the Were who savaged the northernmost holdings of Men. Oronin's Children were deadly predators, a race unto themselves, as much akin to wolves as Men. And if they hadn't found the Grey Dam herself, they'd found her den—her den, her cubs and her mate.

Prince Faranol had slain the Grey Dam's mate himself, holding him on the end of a spear as he raged forward, dying, the froth on his muzzle flecked with blood. They still told the story in Altoria, when Tanaros was a boy.

A mighty battle, they said.

Was it a mighty battle, he wondered, when Faranol slew the cubs? In Pelmar they had lauded him for it, even as they had turned their backs upon the family of Ushahin's father. Still, the damage was done, and no treaty reached; the Ellylon departed in sorrow and anger, Faranol Altorus' deeds went unrewarded, and in the farthest reaches of Pelmar, the Sorceress of the East remained unchallenged.

Such was the outcome of that embassy.

And seven years later, when a nameless half-breed boy, the shame of his family, starveling and ragged, was set upon and beaten in the marketplace of the capital city, who remarked it? When he staggered into the woods to die, the bones of his face shattered, his limbs crooked, his fingers broken and crippled, who remarked it?

Only the Grey Dam of the Were, still grieving for her slain mate, for her lost cubs, who claimed the misbegotten one for her own and named him in her tongue: Ushahin. And she reared him, and taught him the way of the Were, until Lord Satoris summoned him, and made of his skills a deadly weapon.

Tanaros watched the ravens,
his
raven. "Do you never yearn, cousin?"

"I yearn." The half-breed's voice was dry, colorless. "I yearn for peace, and a cessation to striving. For a world where the Were are free to hunt, as Oronin Last-Born made them, free of the encroachments of Men, cousin. I yearn for a world where ones such as I are left to endure as best we might, where no one will strike out against us in fear. Do you blame me for it?"

"No." Tanaros shook his head. "I do not."

For a moment, Ushahin's face was vulnerable, raw with ancient pain. "Only Satoris has ever offered that hope. He has made it precious to me, cousin; this place, this sanctuary. Do you understand why I fear?"

"I understand," Tanaros said, frowning. "Do you think I will fail his trust?"

"I do not say that," the half-breed replied, hesitating.

Tanaros watched the raven Fetch, sidling cunningly along the low branch, bobbing his head at a likely female, keeping one eye cocked lest he, Tanaros, produce further gobbets of meat from his pouch. "Ravens mate for life, do they not, cousin?"

"Yes." Ushahin's eyes were wary.

"Like the Fjel." Tanaros turned to face the Dreamspinner, squaring his shoulders. "You need not doubt me, cousin. I have given my loyalty to his Lordship; like the Fjeltroll, like the ravens, like the Were." Beneath the scar of his branding, his heart expanded, the sturdy beating that had carried him through centuries continuing, onward and onward. "It is the only love that has never faltered."

Love
, yes.

He dared to use that word.

"You understand that what you see this night may pain you?" Ushahin asked gently. "It involves your kindred, and the sons of Altorus."

"I understand." Tanaros inclined his head. "And you, cousin? You understand that we are speaking of a union between Men and Ellylon?"

Ushahin grimaced, baring his even teeth. "I understand, cousin. All too well."

"Then we are in accord," Tanaros said.

The raven Fetch chuckled deep in his throat, shifting from foot to foot.

THREE WERE EMERGED FROM THE dense forest at the base of Beshtanag Mountain, drifting out of the foliage like smoke. They rose from four legs to stand upon two, lean and rangy. Oronin's Children, Shaped by the Glad Hunter himself. They were vaguely Man-shaped, with keen muzzles and amber eyes, their bodies covered in thick pelts of fur.

One among them stood a pace ahead of the others. He addressed Lilias in the Pelmaran tongue, a thick inflection shading his words. "Sorceress, I am the ambassador Kurush. On behalf of the Grey Dam Sorash, we answer your summons."

"My thanks, Kurush." Lilias inclined her head, aware of the weight of the Soumanie on her brow. Her Ward Commander, Gergon, and his men flanked her uneasily, hands upon weapons, watching the Were. In the unseen distance, somewhere atop the mountain, Calandor coiled in his cavern and watched, amusement in his green-slitted eyes. Lilias did not fear the Were. "I seek to affirm our pact."

Kurush's jaws parted in a lupine grin, revealing his sharp white teeth. "You have seen the red star."

"I have," she said.

"It is Haomane's doing," he said, and his Brethren growled low in their throats.

"Perhaps," she said carefully. "It betokens trouble for those who do not abide by the Lord-of-Thought's will."

Kurush nodded toward the mountain with his muzzle. "Is that the wisdom of dragons?"

"It is," Lilias said.

Turning to his Brethren, Kurush spoke in his own tongue, the harsh sounds falling strange on human ears. Lilias waited patiently. She did not take the alliance of the Were for granted. Once, the east had been theirs; until Men had come, claiming land, driving them from their hunting grounds. In the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, the Were had given their allegiance to Satoris Banewreaker, who held the whole of the west. Haomane's Counselors had arrived from over the sea, bearing the three Soumanie and the weapons of Torath, the dwelling-place of the Six Shapers: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light, the Arrow of Fire.

There had been war, then, war as never before. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only the Dwarfs, Yrinna's Children, had taken no part in it, taking instead a vow of peace.

While Men, Ellylon and Fjel fought on the plains of Curonan, the
Were had lain in wait, on the westernmost shore of Urulat—the last place they would be expected. When the ships of Dergail the Counselor and Cerion the Navigator made landfall, thinking to assail Satoris from the rear, the full force of the Were met them and prevailed. Dergail flung himself into the sea, and his Soumanie and the Arrow of Fire were lost. Cerion the Navigator turned his ships and fled, vanishing into the mists of Ellylon legend.

And yet it was no victory.

If the Were had remained in the west, perhaps. Though Satoris had been wounded and forced to take refuge in the Vale of Gorgantum, there he was unassailable. But no, Oronin's Children returned east to the forests of their homeland, flowing like a grey tide, and the wrath of Men was against them, for Haomane's Counselors and the army of Men and Ellylon they led had failed, too. And Men, always, increased in number, growing cunning as they learned to hunt the hunters, waiting until spring to stalk Were-cubs in their dens, while their dams and sires foraged.

Not in Beshtanag. Many centuries ago, Lilias had made a pact with the Grey Dam, the ruler of the Were. Oronin's Children hunted freely in the forests of Beshtanag. In return, they held its outer borders secure.

Concluding his discussion with his Brethren, the ambassador Kurush dropped into a crouch. Gergon ordered his wardsmen a protective step closer to Lilias, and the two Brethren surged forward a pace.

"Hold, Gergon." Lilias raised her hand, amused. It had been more than a mortal lifetime since she had cause to summon the Were. Betimes, she forgot how short-lived her Ward Commanders were. "The ambassador Kurush does but speak to the Grey Dam."