Banewreaker (7 page)

With a dubious glance, Gergon shrugged. "As my lady orders."

Kurush crouched, lowering his head. His taloned hands dug into the forest loam, the lean blades of his shoulders protruding like grey-furred wings. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites, as he communed with the Grey Dam.

Oronin's Children possessed strange magics.

A gratifyingly short time passed before Kurush relaxed and stood. With another sharp grin he extended his hand. "Yea," he said. "The Grey Dam Sorash accedes."

Lilias clasped his hairy hand. His pads were rough against her palm and his claws scratched lightly against the back of her hand. She recited the ritual words of their alliance. "Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine."

"My enemies shall be thine, and thy enemies shall be mine," Kurush echoed.

Dipping his muzzle to her, the Were ambassador turned, his Brethren following. In the space of a few heartbeats, they had melted back into the forest from which they had come. The pact had been affirmed. Beshtanag's defenses were secure.

From his distant eyrie, Calandor's thoughts brushed hers, tinged with warm approval.

Well done, Lilias.

IT WAS THE DARK OF the moon, and dark in the Tower of Ravens.

There was no view, here, though the windows stood open onto the night. The rooftops of Darkhaven fell away beneath them, illuminated faintly by starlight.

All of them were there, all of the Three.

And in the center of them stood the Shaper.

"They are ready, Dreamspinner?" he asked.

Ushahin bowed low and sincere, starlight glimmering on his moon-pale hair. "They are, my Lord."

"Come," Lord Satoris whispered, his voice carrying on the night breeze "Come!" And other words he added, uttered in the tongue of the Shapers, tolling and resonant, measured syllables that Shaped possibilities yet unformed.

Beating wings filled the air.

Through every window they came, filling the tower chamber; ravens, the ravens of Darkhaven, come all at once. They came, and they flew, round and around. Silent and unnatural, swirling in a glossy-black current around the tower walls—so close, wings overlapping like layered feathers, jet-bright eyes gleaming round and beady. Around and around they went, raising a wind that tugged at Vorax's ruddy beard, making the Staccian shudder involuntarily.

Still, they held their positions, each of the Three.

Where are you, Tanaros wondered,
which
are you? To no avail he sought to pick a raven, his raven, from the dark, swirling tide that enveloped the tower walls, looking to find a mischievous eye, an errant tuft of pin-feathers, from among them. Darkness upon darkness; as well pick out a droplet of water in a rushing torrent.

"The Ravensmirror is made," Ushahin announced in a flat tone.

In the churning air, a scent like blood, sweet and fecund.

Satoris the Shaper spread his hands, drawing on ancient magic�the veins of the marrow-fire, running deep within the earth; the throbbing heart of Godslayer, that Shard of the Souma that burned and was not consumed.

"Show!"

The command hung in the air with its own shimmering darkness. Slowly, slowly, images coalesced, moving. Sight made visible. Only fragments, at first—the tilting sky, a swatch of earth, an upturned face, a scrabbling movement in the leaf-mold. A mouse's beady eye, twitching whiskers. A drawn bow, arrow-shot and an explosion of feathers, a chiding squawk.

Such were the concerns of ravens.

Then; a face, upturned in a glade. A thread for Lord Satoris to tease, drawing it out. What glade, where? Ravens knew, ravens kept their distance from the greensward. One flew high overhead, circling; their perspective diminished with lurching swiftness to an aerial view. There. Where? A greensward, ringed about with oak, a river forking to the north. And in it was a company of Ellylon.

There was no mistaking them for aught else, Haomane's Children. Tall and fair, cloaked in grace. It was in their Shaping, wrought into their bones, in their clear brows where Haomane's blessing shone like a kiss. It was in the shining fall of their hair, in the touch of their feet upon the earth. If their speech had been audible, it would have been in the tenor of their voices.

"What is this place?" Ushahin's words were strained, a taut expression on his ravaged face. Always it was so. More than the children of Men who had shunned him, he despised the Ellylon who had abandoned him.

"It is called Lindanen Dale," said the Shaper, who had walked the earth before it was Sundered. "Southward, it lies."

"I know it, my Lord," Tanaros said. "It lies below the fork of the Aven River. Betimes the Rivenlost of Meronil would meet with the sons of Altorus, when they ruled in the west. Or so my father claimed."

"But what are they
doing
?" Vorax mused.

In the shifting visions, Ellyl craftsmen walked the greensward, measuring, gauging the coming spring. Banners were planted, marking the four corners of the Dale; pennants of white silk, lifted on the breeze, showing the device of Elterrion the Bold, a gold crown above the ruby gem of the Souma, as it had been when it was whole. The Ravensmirror churned and circled, showing what had transpired.

A Man came riding.

The weak sunlight of early spring glinted on his hair, red-gold. His eyes were wide-set and demanding, his hands steady on the reins as he guided his solid dun mount. Tanaros felt weak, beholding him.

Aracus Altorus.

It was him, of course. There was no denying it, no denying the kingship passed down generation upon generation, though the kingdom itself was lost. It did not matter that he wore no crown, that his cloak was dun-grey, designed to blend with the plains of Curonan. What he was, he was. He looked like Roscus. And he looked like Calista, too�Tanaros' wife, so long ago. The set of the eyes, last seen believing. How not? He was of their blood.

And at his side, another, dark-haired and quiet, with scarred knuckles. Unlike his lord, he was watchful as he rode, stern gaze surveying the wood as they emerged into the glade. Ravens took wing, the perspective shifting and blurring as they withdrew, resolving at a greater distance.

Once, Tanaros had ridden just so, at the right hand of his lord.

Strange, that his memory of Roscus' face as he died was so vague. Surprised, he thought. Yes, that was it. Roscus Altorus had looked surprised, as he raised his hand to the sword-hilt protruding from his belly. There had been no time for aught else.

In the churning Ravensmirror, in Lindanen Dale, Aracus Altorus halted, his second-in-command beside him. Behind them, a small company of Borderguard sat their mounts, silent and waiting in their dun-grey cloaks.

The Ellyl lord in command met him, bowing low, a gesture of grace and courtesy. Aracus nodded his head, accepting it as his due. Who is to say what the Ellyl thought? There was old sorrow in his eyes, and grave acceptance. He spoke to the Altorian king-in-exile, his mouth moving soundlessly in the Ravensmirror, one arm making a sweeping gesture, taking in the glade. There and there, he was saying, and pointed to the river.

Such a contrast between them! Tanaros marveled at it. Next to the ageless courtesy of the Ellyl lord, Aracus Altorus appeared coarse and abrupt, rough-hewn, driven by the brevity of his lifespan. Small wonder Cerelinde Elterrion's granddaughter had refused this union generation after generation. And yet… and yet. In that very roughness lay vitality, the leaping of red blood in the vein, the leaping of desire in the loins, the quickening of the flesh.

Satoris' Gift, when he had one.

It was the one Gift the Ellylon were denied, for Haomane First-Born had refused it on his Children's behalf, who were Shaped before time came into being and were free of its chains. Only the Lord-of-Thought knew the mind of Uru-Alat. The slippery promptings of desire, the turgid need to seize, to spend, to take and be taken, to generate life in the throes of an ecstasy like unto dying—this was not for the Ellylon, who endured untouched by time, ageless and changeless as the Lord-of-Thought himself.

But it was for Men.

And because of it, Men had inherited the Sundered World, while the Ellylon dwindled. Unprompted by the goads of desire and death, the cycle of their fertility was as slow and vast as the ages. Men, thinking Men, outpaced them, living and dying, generation upon generation, spreading their seed across the face of Urulat, fulfilling Haomane's fears.

"A wedding!" Vorax exclaimed, pointing at the Ravensmirror. "See, my Lord. The Ellyl speaks of tents, here and here. Fresh water from thence, and supplies ferried upriver, a landing established
there
. From the west, the Rivenlost will come, and Cerelinde among them. They plan to plight their troth here in Lindanen Dale."

Lord Satoris smiled.

Above, the stars shuddered.

"I think," he said, "that this will not come to pass."

And other things were shown in the Ravensmirror.

The ravens of Darkhaven had flown the length and breadth of Urulat, save only the vast inner depths of the Unknown, where there was no water to sustain life. But to the south they had flown, and to the east and north. And every place they had seen, it was the same.

Armies were gathering.

In the south, the Duke of Seahold increased his troops, fortifying his borders. Along the curve of Harrington Inlet, where gulls cried above the sea, the Free Fishers laid aside their nets and sharpened their long knives. The knights of Vedasia rode in stately parties along the orchard roads and, here and there, Dwarfs appeared along the roadside, giving silent greeting as they passed. In Arduan, men and women gathered in knots to speak in the marketplace, full quivers slung over their shoulders. The streets of Pelmar City were filled with soldiers, and long trains of them wound through the woods. Along the eastern verge of the desert, the Rukhari whetted their curving swords. To the north, the stone fortresses of Staccia were shut and warded.

"What do they dream, Dreamspinner?"

"War, my Lord," Ushahin said briefly. "They dream of war. They dream of a red star arisen in the west, and the rumor of a wedding-to-come. They dream, in fear, of the rumor of Fjeltroll moving in the mountains, in such numbers as none have seen in living memory."

"Do they dream of the Arrow of Fire?"

Ushahin paused, then shook his head. "In Arduan, they do. All Arduans dream of Oronin's Bow and the Arrow of Fire. But they do not know where it is."

Satoris Third-Born, whom the Ellylon named Banewreaker and Men called Sunderer, watched the swirling images, motionless as a mountain. "Haomane," he murmured, then again, "Haomane!" He sighed, gathering himself. "They will not strike, not yet. Not unless this wedding occurs, and fills them with the courage of my Elder Brother's Prophecy, such as they understand it." A glare lit his eyes. "Then they will bring war to my doorstep."

"Not Staccia, my Lord," Vorax promised. "They guard their own, but they have pledged their loyalty on gold, and sent a company in earnest token. As long as we may ward the tunnels, our lines of supply shall remain open. And the desert Rukhari may be bought for swift horses, for they love fine steeds above all else, and despise the Pelmarans."

"Loyal Vorax," the Shaper said gently. "Your heart is as vast as your appetite. What you have done, I know well, and I am grateful for it. It the unknown that I fear."

When the unknown is made known…

Tanaros shivered, brushed by the feather-touch of the Prophecy.

"My Lord." Ushahin pointed at the Ravensmirror. "There is more."

Around and around, the dark maelstrom whirled, fleeting visions forming against the black gloss of feathers, the gleam of round eyes pricking like stars. Around and around, inevitable as time, link upon link in the Chain of Being, circling like the ages.

When the companies parted in Lindanen Dale, Blaise Caveros of the Borderguard—Aracus' second-in-command—went with the Ellylon. He spoke at length with a lieutenant in his company, a young man. who saluted him firmly, his jaw set. Aracus Altorus gripped his wrists, gazing into his eyes. And they parted. Blaise rode with the Rivenlost to Meronil, and did not look back, bound to a greater mission.

Tanaros watched him hungrily.

What need could be so great that it would part the second-in-command from his sworn lord? None, in his lifetime, in his mortal lifetime. And yet it was so. Blaise Caveros, who was his own kinsman many times removed, left his lord without glancing back, his grey-cloaked back upright.

"What are you up to, Malthus?" Lord Satoris whispered.

To that, there was no answer. The Ravensmirror swirled onward, giving only taunting glimpses. A contest, and bow-strings thrumming. Fletched arrows, a silent thud. Feathers, scattering. A lone Arduan, setting forth on a journey, coiled braids hidden beneath a leather cap.

On the verges of his journey—hers, as it transpired—there was the Unknown Desert, glimpses assayed by fearful ravens, wary of the lack of water.

Malthus the Counselor keeps his counsel well…

"Enough!" The Shaper's fists clenched, and the Ravensmirror dispersed, trembling, breaking into a thousand bits of darkness. Roosts were found, bescaled and taloned bird-feet scrambling for perches, bright eyes winking as the Shaper paced, the Tower trembling beneath his footfalls. A single raven, with a tuft of feathers atop his head, croaked a tremulous query. In the air hung the copper-sweet smell of blood.

"It shall not be," Lord Satoris said. "Though I have left my Elder Brother in peace, still he pursues me, age upon age. I grow weary of his enmity. If it is war Haomane wishes, my Three, I shall oblige him. And I shall not wait for him to bring it to my doorstep." He turned to Tanaros. His gaze burned, ruddy coals in the night. A line of seeping ichor glistened on his inner thigh, reeking of blood, only stronger. "My General, my rouser of Men. Are you fit to travel the Marasoumië?"

Tanaros bowed.

Tanaros could not do aught else.

"I am yours to command, my Lord," he said, even as a single raven dispatched itself from the horde, settling on his shoulder. He stroked its ruffled feathers with a fingertip. "Only tell me what you wish."