Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

All of them had been plagued by strange visions in the night.

The Borderguardsmen spoke of it in murmurs, clustering together in their dun cloaks, bending their heads toward one another. Even the Ellylon spoke of it, when the tattered remnants of Malthus’ Company found themselves riding together on the broad road.

“’Twas as if I dreamed,” Peldras mused, “or so it seems, from what Men have told me; for we do not lose ourselves in sleep as Arahila’s Children do. And yet it seemed that I did wander therein, for I found myself watching a tale not of my own devising unfold. And a great wind blew toward me, hot and dry as the desert’s breath, and I beheld him emerge from it—the same, and not the same, for the Wise Counselor was somehow changed. ”

“Yes!” Fianna breathed, her face aglow. “That’s what I saw!”

“’Twere as well if he were,” Lorenlasse of the Valmaré said shortly, coming abreast of her. “For all his vaunted wisdom, Haomane’s Counselor has led us into naught but folly, and we are no closer to restoring the Lady Cerelinde.”

Nudging his mount, he led the Rivenlost past them. Sunlight glittered on their armor and their shining standards. Peldras did not join his fellows, but gazed after them with a troubled mien. At the head of the long column of Allies, Aracus Altorus rode alone and spoke to no one. His dun cloak hung down his back in unassuming folds, but his bright hair and the gold circlet upon it marked him as their uncontested leader.

“What did you see?” Blaise Caveros asked Lilias abruptly.

Bowing her head, she studied her hands on the reins—chapped for lack of salve, her knuckles red and swollen. She preferred to listen, and not to remember. It had been an unpleasant dream. “What do my dreams matter?” she murmured. “What did you see, Borderguardsman?”

“I saw Malthus,” he said readily. “I saw what others saw. And you?”

Lifting her head, she met his dark, inquisitive gaze. What had she seen, dreaming beside the fire in their campsite? It had been a restless sleep, broken by the mutters and groans of Men rolled in their bedrolls, of Ellylon in their no-longer dreamless state.

A Man, or something like one; venerable with age. And yet … there had been something terrible in his eyes. Lightning had gathered in folds of his white robes beneath his outspread arms, in the creases of his beard. There was a gem on his breast as clear as water, and he had ridden into her dreams on the wings of a desert sirocco, on a horse as pale as death.

And he had raised one gnarled forefinger like a spear, his eyes as terrible as death, and pointed it at her .

“Nothing,” Lilias said to Blaise. “I saw nothing.”

On that night, the second night, the dream reoccurred; and again on the third. It kindled hope among the Men and unease among the Ellylon, and discussion and dissent among members of both races.

“This is some trick of the Misbegotten,” Lorenlasse announced with distaste.

“I do not think he would dare,” Peldras said softly. There were violet smudges of weariness in the hollows of his eyes. “For all his ill-gained magics, Ushahin the Misbegotten has never dared trespass in the minds of Haomane’s Children.”

On orders from Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard sent scouts to question commonfolk in the surrounding territories. They returned with a confusion of replies; yes, they had seen the Bright Rider, yes, and the other Rider, too, the horses the colors of blood, night, and smoke. A wedge of ravens flying, a desert wind. A stone in a child’s fist, crushing bone; a clear gem, and lightning.

They were afraid.

Lorenlasse of Valmaré listened and shook his fair head. “It is the Misbegotten,” he said with certainty. Others disagreed.

Only Aracus Altorus said nothing. Weariness was in the droop of his shoulders; but he set his chin against the weight of the Soumanië as he rode and glanced northward from time to time with a kind of desperate hope.

And Lilias, whom the visions filled with terror, watched him with a kind of desperate fear.

“You know more than you say, Sorceress,” Blaise said to her on the fourth day.

“Usually.” Lilias smiled with bitter irony. “Is that not why I am here?”

He studied her. “Is it Malthus?”

She shrugged. “Who am I to say? You knew him; I did not.”

Blaise rode for a while without speaking. “Is it Ushahin Dream-stalker?” he asked at length, adding, “You knew him; I did not.”

“I met him,” Lilias corrected him. “I did not know him.”

“And?” He raised his eyebrows.

“What would you have me do?” she asked in exasperation. “You are a courteous enough keeper, Blaise Caveros, but I am a prisoner here. Would you have me aid you, my lord? After you destroyed my life and rendered me”—Lilias held up her wind-chafed, reddened hands—“ this ?”

“What?” Leaning over in the saddle, Blaise caught her wrist in a strong grip. Their mounts halted, flanks brushing. “Mortal? A woman?” His voice softened. “It is the lot to which you were born, Lilias of Beshtanag. No more, no less. Is it so cruel?”

Ahead of them, the Rivenlost rode in glittering panoply, ageless features keen beneath their fluttering pennants. “Yes,” Lilias whispered. “It is.”

Blaise loosed his grip and retrieved his dropped rein, resuming their pace. “I do not understand you,” he said flatly.

“Nor do I expect you to,” she retorted, rubbing her wrist.

He stared across at her. “Did we not show you mercy?”

Unwilling laughter arose from a hollow place within her. “Oh, yes!” Lilias gasped. “As it suited you to do so. Believe me, you’ll regret that , my lord!” She laughed again, a raw edge to the sound. “And the great jest of it is, I find that being forced to continue living, I have no desire to cease. I am afraid of dying, Blaise.”

He looked away. “You, who have sent so many to their death?”

“Not so many.” She considered his profile, stern and spare. “Beshtanag was left in peace, mostly. The Regents were afraid of Calandor. Do you think me a monster?”

“I don’t know.” Blaise shook his head. “As you say, I have met you, Sorceress. I do not know you. And of a surety, we are agreed: I do not understand you.” He rode for a time without speaking, then asked, “What was he like?”

“Calandor?” Her voice was wistful.

“No.” He glanced at her. “Ushahin.”

“Ah.” Lilias gave her bitter smile, watching her mount’s ears bob and twitch. “So you would pick over my thoughts like a pile of bones, gleaning for scraps of knowledge.”

He ignored her comment. “Is it true it is madness to meet his gaze?”

“No.” Lilias thought about her meeting on the balcony, the Soumanië heavy on her brow, and her desire to Shape the Dreamer into wholeness, taking away his bone-deep pain. And she remembered how he had looked at her, and her darkest fears had been reflected in his mismatched eyes. Everything he had seen had come to pass. Another hysterical laugh threatened her. “Yes, perhaps. Perhaps it is, after all.”

Blaise watched her. “Have you met others of the Three?”

“The Warrior.” Seeing him look blank, she clarified, “Tanaros Kingslayer. Your kinsman, Borderguardsman.”

“And?” His jaw was set hard.

“What do you wish me to say, my lord?” Lilias studied him. “He is a Man. Immortal, but a Man. No more, and no less. I think he gives his loyalty without reserve and takes betrayal hard.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fianna the Archer watching them with distaste and smiled. “And he does not understand women. You are much like him, Blaise Caveros.”