Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

A shudder ran over Tanaros’ skin. He glanced sidelong at the Ravensmirror, where Aracus Altorus still rode alongside Malthus. There, farther back in the train, he saw her: Lilias of Beshtanag, the Sorceress of the East. She was much changed from the woman he had met in Beshtanag; pale and haggard, with fear-haunted eyes. Tanaros was aware of his heart beating within his branded chest, a solid and endless pulse.

He wondered what it would be like to have that stripped away after so long, to know, suddenly, that his heartbeats were numbered, that each one brought him a step closer to death.

In the Ravensmirror, the company of Malthus drew farther away, their image dwindling. They were passing the copse, into a stretch of open road. Among the ravens, a shared memory flitted from mind to mind: Arrow, arrow, arrow! Bodies tumbling from the sky. The ravens of Darkhaven dared not follow.

“Enough. ”

Lord Satoris made an abrupt gesture, and the Ravensmirror splintered into myriad bits of feathered darkness, scattering about the tower. Black eyes gleamed from every nook and cranny, watching as the Shaper paced in thought.

“It is bad, my Three,” he said in time. “And yet, it is better than I feared. We have strong walls, and the Fjel to withstand their numbers. Malthus’ power is not as it was. What we have seen is not enough to destroy us.” He halted, a column of darkness, and tilted his head to gaze out the window toward the red star of Dergail’s Soumanië. “It is what we have not seen that troubles me.”

“The Bearer,” Ushahin said.

“Yes.” The single word fell like a stone.

“My Lord.” Tanaros felt a pang of love constrict his heart. “The Fjel are hunting. He will be found, I swear it to you.”

The Shaper bent his head toward him. “You understand why this thing must be done, my General?”

“I do, my Lord.” Tanaros did not say it aloud; none of them did. The Prophecy hovered over them like a shroud.

“Perhaps the lad’s dead.” Vorax offered the words hopefully. “The travails of the Marasoumië, a hard journey in a harsh land—they’re desert-folk, they wouldn’t know how to survive in the mountains.” He warmed to the idea. “After all, think on it. Why else would the damnable wizard head south, if his precious Bearer was lost in the northlands?”

“Because Malthus cannot find his Bearer, my Staccian.” Grim amusement was in Lord Satoris’ voice. “The lad is hidden by the Counselor’s own well-wrought spell—from my eyes, and the eyes of Ushahin Dreamspinner. Now that the Soumanië is altered, Malthus cannot breach his own spell. And so he trusts the Bearer to the workings of my Elder Brother’s Prophecy and goes to Meronil to plot war, and because there is a thing there he must retrieve.”

No one asked. After a moment, Ushahin sighed. “The Spear of Light.”

“Yes.” Lord Satoris returned to the window, gazing westward. “I believe it to be true.” His shoulders, blotting out the stars, moved in a slight shrug. “It matters not. Malthus has ever had it in his keeping.”

Tanaros’ mouth was dry. “What is your will, my Lord?”

The Shaper replied without turning around. “Send the runners back to Fjel territory, accompanied by as many Kaldjager as you can spare. The hunt must continue. Once they have gone, set a team to blocking the tunnels. Too many in Staccia know the way, and traitors among them. Tell the Fjel to return overland when they have succeeded.” He did turn then, and his eyes glared red against the darkness. “Tell them to bring me the Bearer’s head. I want to see it. And I want to see Malthus’ face when it is laid at his feet.”

Tanaros bowed his head. “My Lord.”

“Good.” The Shaper moved one hand in dismissal. “The rest you know, my Three. They are coming. Prepare for war.”

They left him there, a dark figure silhouetted against darkness. Wet darkness seeped from his unhealing wound, trickling steadily to form a gleaming pool around his feet. Twin streaks of shadow streamed past his massive shoulders into the night as Ushahin bid the ravens to leave the Tower. Watching them go, Tanaros had an urge to call Fetch back, though he didn’t.

“Well.” Descending the winding stair, Vorax exhaled heavily and wiped his brow. “That’s that, then.”

“War.” Ushahin tasted the word. “Here.”

“Aye.” Vorax grunted. His footsteps were heavy on the stairs. “I still think there’s a fine chance that little Charred lad may be dead, and this a lot of fuss over nothing. It would be like that damnable wizard to play us for fools.” He nudged Tanaros. “What do you say, cousin? Are the Charred Folk that hard to kill?”

Tanaros thought of the boy he had seen in the Ways, with a clay vial at his throat and a question in his eyes. He thought of the Yarru elders; of Ngurra, calm and sorrowful beneath the shadow of his black sword.

I can only give you the choice, Slayer.

“Yes,” he said. “They are.”

After that, the Three continued in silence. What his companions thought, Tanaros could not guess with any certitude. They had never spoken of what would befall them if Haomane’s Allies were to prevail.

It had never seemed possible until now.

The valley in which the Rivenlost haven of Meronil lay was a green cleft shrouded in mist. By all appearances, it filled the valley to the brim, moving in gentle eddies, sunshot and lovely, a veil of rainbow droplets.

Lilias caught her breath at the sight of it.

Blaise Caveros glanced at her. “I felt the same when I first saw it.”

She made no reply, watching as Aracus Altorus and Malthus the Counselor rode to the valley’s edge, peering into the mists. There, they conferred. Aracus inclined his head, the Soumanië dull on his brow. Mist dampened his red-gold hair, making it curl into ringlets at the nape of his neck.

He needs a haircut, Lilias thought.

Aracus didn’t look at her. She wished that he would, but he hadn’t. Not since the day the Counselor had appeared before them, pointing his gnarled finger at her, and spoken those fateful words.

Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.

It was Aracus Altorus who had placed his hand on the Counselor’s forearm, lowering his pointing finger. It was Aracus who had raised his voice in a fierce shout, bidding Fianna the Archer to lower her bow. And it was Aracus who had brought his mount alongside hers, fixing her with his wide-set gaze. All the words that had passed between them were in that gaze. He was not a bad man, nor a cruel one. He had extended trust to her, and mercy, too.

“Will you not release your claim upon it, Lilias?” he had asked her simply.

In the back of her mind there arose the image of Calandor as she had seen him last; a vast mound of grey stone, the crumpled shape of one broken wing pinned beneath him, the sinuous neck stretched out in death. To join him in death was one thing; to relinquish the Soumanië willingly? It would be a betrayal of that memory. While she lived, she could not do it. Tears had filled her eyes as she shook her head. “I cannot,” she whispered. “You should have let me die when you had the chance.”

Aracus had turned away from her then, giving a curt order to Blaise to ensure her safety. There had been dissent—not from Blaise, but among the others, and the Archer foremost among them. Arguing voices had arisen, calling for her death. In the end, Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West, had shouted them down.

“I will not become like our Enemy!”

Throughout it all, Malthus the Counselor had said nothing; only listened and watched. A horrible compassion was in his gaze, and Lilias flinched when it touched her. It had done so all too much since he had rejoined them. She wished he would turn his gaze elsewhere.