Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

But it didn’t matter, only that the thing was done.

“Neherinach,” Skragdal said grimly. “Bring them to Neherinach.”

A river of wings filled the Tower of Ravens, black and beating.

Flying in a circle.

Tanaros stood outside himself, watching through Fetch’s eyes. He was part and parcel of the endless river, riding the silent current. Curving along the basalt walls. Wings, overlapping like scales, glossy feathers reflecting the blue-white flicker of the marrow-fire. He saw his brethren, bright eyes and sharp beaks. It was important that the wings overlap, beating in intricate layers.

His Lordship had summoned the Ravensmirror.

There he stood, at its center. A core of looming darkness, darkness visible. The Ravensmirror revolved around him. He had spoken the words in the ancient Shapers’ tongue. His blood was a tang in the air.

Through doubled eyes, Tanaros beheld him; and the Three. He saw Vorax, who stood sturdy as a bulwark in the raven’s gaze. To his eyes, the Staccian looked tired and worn. The news out of Gerflod had taken its toll. He saw Ushahin, who shone like a beacon in Fetch’s eyes. Tanaros saw a feverish glitter in the half-breed’s mien. There was power there, gathering and unspent. Where, he wondered, did it come from?

He saw himself.

A circling vision, glimpsed in the round. A pale face upraised, tracking the ravens’ progress. A furrowed brow, a lock of hair falling, so. A pair of hands, strong and capable, gentle enough to cup a scrap of life wrought of hollow bones and feathers, a quick-beating heart. The fingers of one hand curled tenderly about the hilt of his black sword, holding it like a nestling.

Tanaros blinked, clearing his doubled vision. He tightened his grip on his sword-hilt, knuckles whitening.

Lord Satoris uttered the word. “Show!”

Around and around the ravens surged, and images formed in the reflection of their glossy wings.

None of them were good.

The last time Lord Satoris had summoned the Ravensmirror, it had shown armies of Haomane’s Allies gathering. Now, they were on the move. In every quarter of Urulat, they had departed. In Pelmar, the Five Regents had assembled a massive delegation; they issued forth like a stream of ants, bent on honoring the pacts made at the overthrow of Beshtanag. In Vedasia, long trains of knights wound along the orchard-lined roads, flanked by their squires and attendants. A corps of archers marched forth from the tiny nation of Arduan. Along Harrington Inlet, the Free Fishers drew lots to determine who would stay, and who would fight On the ruffled waters of the bay, ships hurried toward Port Calibus, where Duke Bornin of Seahold awaited with the foot soldiers under his command, returning from the Siege of Beshtanag.

Vorax cleared his throat. “They’re coming here this time, aren’t they?”

“Soon.” Lord Satoris stared at the Ravensmirror. “Not yet.” He turned his unblinking gaze on Vorax. “Shall we see what transpires in the north, my Staccian?”

The Ravensmirror tilted, images fragmenting, reforming in the shape of mountains and pines, leaping rivers. Where they bordered Fjel territory, the stone fortresses of Staccia were sealed tight in adamant defense. To the southwest, along a narrow swath …

Vorax grunted at the sight of Staccian lordlings arming themselves for battle, preparing to venture southward. “Too long,” he said. “It has been too long since I went among them and reminded them of our bargain, and the peace and prosperity it has garnered Staccia.”

“Do not despair.” Tanaros watched the unfolding vision as it veered farther north. All across the peaks and valleys Neheris had Shaped, Fjel hunted; a collection of tough hides and bared eyeteeth, seeking their quarry. There were too many, and the territory too vast, for the ravens of Darkhaven to encompass, but it showed enough for hope. “The Fjel are loyal. If this Bearer is to be found, they will find him.”

“But Staccia—”

“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “Do not blame yourself, cousin. The Galäinridder made that path, bursting from the field of Neherinach, if my vision and the Fjel’s tale holds true. I felt him as I rode, sifting through the dreams of Men.”

Lord Satoris clenched his fists. “Malthus!”

The Three exchanged a glance.

“Where is he?” Tanaros asked aloud. “I thought him trapped and done.” He bent his gaze on the shifting Ravensmirror. “Where’s Aracus Altorus? Where are the Borderguard? Where are the Rivenlost?”

The fragmented visions shattered like a dark mirror, reforming to show something new. Wings beat and whispered, flitting among a copse of trees along the road, keeping a careful distance and staying hidden. The Arrow of Fire was spent, but the Archer’s gaze endured. It was best to be wary. A group; a small group, measured against the numbers they had been shown, but a doughty one. There was the Borderguard of Curonan, in their dun-grey cloaks. There were the Rivenlost, tall and fair, radiant in silver armor. They were leaving Seahold behind them, with all its pennants flying. Toward Meronil they rode, the stronghold of Ingolin the Wise, steeped in Ellylon magic.

Tanaros drew in his breath in a hiss.

At the head of the company rode two Men; one mortal, with a Soumanië dull and ashen on his brow. He knew him, knew that demanding, wide-set gaze. And the other—the other it hurt to behold, robes rustling like a storm, a diamond-bright gem nestled in his white beard. Tanaros knew him, too. He remembered the shock that had resonated through his arms when the black blade of his sword had bitten deep into the old one’s staff and stuck there. So close, it had been.

And then the Marasoumië had exploded.

“Malthus,” he whispered, watching. “Would that I had killed you.” The Counselor rode a mount as white as foam, and something in the arch of its neck, the placement of its hooves and the silvery fall of its mane, made his heart ache. Tanaros remembered it differently, cast in hues of night, as willful as this mount was tranquil. “That’s my horse! What have you done to it?”

“What, indeed?” Lord Satoris’ smile was like the edge of a knife. “Ah, Malthus! It is a violent resurrection you performed to escape entombment in the Ways. I did not believe it could be done. But it came at a price, did it not? Not dead, but almost as good.”

Ushahin squinted crookedly at the vision in the Ravensmirror. “He’s spent its power, hasn’t he? The Soumanië. He’s spent it all.”

“Not all.” The Shaper studied his adversary. “But that which remains is a brightness cast by the Souma, even as matter casts shadow. My Elder Brother’s weapon Malthus no longer has the power to Shape matter, only the spirit.”

“Dangerous enough,” Tanaros murmured, thinking of the Staccian exodus they had witnessed, the tale Skragdal’s Gulnagel had brought of Earl Coenred’s betrayal. “Where the spirit wills, the flesh follows.”

“Yes.” Lord Satoris nodded. “But no longer is Malthus the Wise Counselor capable of bringing down the very gates of Darkhaven.”

Vorax stirred. “He had such power?”

“Oh, yes, my Staccian.” In the center of the tower room, the Shaper turned to him. “Malthus had such power, though not enough to defeat me in the bargain.” His words hung in the darkling air. “For that, he would need an army.”

“My Lord, he has an army,” Vorax said bluntly. “And another Soumanië.”

“Yes.” Lord Satoris gave his knife-edged smile. “Useless to him, now. None can use it, unless its living holder surrenders it, or dies. It will be a fascinating thing to see, how my Brother’s weapon deals with this dilemma.” He turned back to consider the swirling visions, forgetful of the presence of his Three. “What will you do, Malthus?” he asked the Counselor’s image. “Will you let the Sorceress live, seek to sway her heart, and endure the consequence if you fail? Or will you see her judged and condemned to death for her crimes?” The Shaper laughed aloud, a sound that made the foundations of Darkhaven vibrate. “Oh, it would be an amusing thing if it were the latter!”