Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

With a sound that was half laugh, Phraotes coughed blood. His muzzle scraped the loam. “The Grey Dam is dead; the Grey Dam lives. Though she carries her memories, the Grey Dam Vashuka is not the Grey Dam Sorash.” One amber eye squinted through his pain. “What terms would you accept, King of the West?”

“Son of Altorus!” There was a stir in the ranks, and the gilded bee of Valmaré fluttered on its pennant as Lorenlasse rode forward, glittering in his armor, to place a peremptory hand on Aracus’ arm. “Dergail the Wise Counselor died through the treachery of Oronin’s Children,” he hissed, “and Cerion the Navigator was lost! The Lady Cerelinde would be your bride if they were not faithless. You may forget, but we remember. Will you treat with them and be a fool?”

Plain steel sang as Blaise Caveros unsheathed his sword. “Unhand him.”

Finely chiseled Ellyl nostrils flared. “What manner of villain do you take me for, traitor-kin?” Lorenlasse asked in contempt. “Our way is not yours . We do not slay out of misguided passion. ”

“Enough!” Aracus raised his voice. “Blaise, put up your sword. My lord Lorenlasse, abide.” He sighed again and rubbed his temples, aching beneath the Soumanië’s weight. “Would that Malthus was here,” he muttered. “Sorceress!”

Lilias glanced up, startled. “My lord Altorus?”

“Advise me.” He brought his mount alongside hers and looked hard at her. “You know them; you have made pacts with them, and lived. I do not forget anything, but I have erred once in mistaking my true enemy, and innocent folk have died. I do not wish to err twice. Are the Were my enemy?”

“No.” She shook her head. “They wish only to be let alone.”

“Whence Lindanen Dale?”

He was close, too close. Their horses’ flanks were brushing. His presence crowded her, yet there was no room to shrink away on the narrow path. Lilias swallowed. “It was your kinsmen slew her cubs. Do you not remember?”

“I was not born.” His face was implacable.

“Faranol,” Phraotes rasped. “Prince Faranol.”

“Yes.” Lilias drew a shallow breath, wishing Aracus would give her space to draw a deeper one. He was close enough that she could smell him, the tang of metal and the sharp odor of human sweat. This urgency, the exigencies of mortal flesh, pressed too close, reminded her too keenly of the limits that circumscribed her win existence, of her own aching, aging body. “Faranol of Altoria slew the offspring of the Grey Dam Sorash. A hunting party in Pelmar. Surely you must know.”

“Yes.” Because he did not need to, he did not say that Faranol was a hero to the House of Altorus. “I know the story.”

“Hence, Lindanen Dale,” she said simply.

“So.” Aracus’ fingertips pressed his temples. “It is a cycle of vengeance, and I am caught up in it by accident of birth.” With a final sigh he dropped his hands and cast his gaze upon the Were. “You are dying, Oronin’s Child. What power have you to make treaties? Why should I believe you?”

Lying curled upon the ground, Phraotes bared his bloody teeth. “We have walked between life and death since the Glad Hunter Shaped us, blowing his horn all the while. Death walked in his train as it does in yours. We are a pack, son of Altorus, and our Shaper’s Gift lies in those dark corridors. Though Oronin’s Horn now blows for me, the Grey Dam hears me; I speak with her voice. Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is banned from our company. The fetters of old oaths are broken, we are despised in Urulat, and Oronin has raised his hand against us this day. New oaths may be made and honored. What will you, King of the West?”

“Sorceress?”

His eyes were wide, demanding. Demanding, and trusting. For the first time, Lilias understood why they had followed him; Man and Ellyl alike. The knowledge made her inexplicably weary. “For so long as the Grey Dam Vashuka endures,” she said, speaking true words to him, “the Were will abide by what bargain you strike. I have no other counsel.”

“It is enough.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

Something in her heart stirred at his thanks. The mere fact of it made bile rise in her throat. Lilias looked away, not watching as Aracus left her side. He dismounted, walking away a small distance. Others followed, raising voices in argument: gilded Ellylon voices, the deeper tones of the Borderguard, the pleading voice of the woman Archer. Lilias glanced across the backs of milling, riderless horses. Aracus listened to the arguments without speaking, his broad shoulders set, his head bowed under the useless weight of the Soumanië. She wondered if they would regret having sworn their fealty to him this day. There was a twisted satisfaction in the thought.

“He’ll do it, you know.”

Glancing down, she saw Blaise standing beside her mount, gathering its reins in his capable hands. “Do what?”

“Forge a truce.” He handed the reins up to her, his fingers brushing hers. Blaise’s eyes were dark and intent. Her chestnut mare snuffled his hair, and he stroked its neck absently, still watching her. “He’s big enough for it, Lilias, despite their fears. I ought to know.”

Lilias shook her head, unsettled in the pit of her stomach. What did it matter that Aracus Altorus had forgiven Blaise Caveros his immortal ancestor’s betrayal? Calandor, her beloved Calandor, was no less dead for it. On the ground, Phraotes coiled tight around a knot of pain and waited. Only the wrinkled, foam-flecked lips of his muzzle gave evidence to his slow death throes. He met her gaze with a glint of irony in his amber eye. He was the only creature here she understood. “It’s easy to be magnanimous in victory, Borderguardsman,” she said.

“No.” Sighing, Blaise straightened. “No, it’s not. That’s the thing.”

In time, the arguments fell silent and Aracus returned, retracing his path with heavy steps. The Rivenlost were amassed behind him, a quiet, glittering threat. A concord had been reached. Aracus Altorus stood above the dying Were, gazing downward, his face in shadow. His voice, when he spoke, sounded weary. “Will you hear my terms, Oronin’s Child? They are twofold.”

Phraotes’ sharp muzzle dipped and lifted. “Speak.”

“One.” Aracus raised a finger. “You will foreswear violence against all the Shapers’ Children, in thought and deed, in property and in person. Only such simple prey as you find in the forest shall be yours. You shall not conspire upon the soil of Urulat in any manner. You will disdain Satoris the Sunderer and all his workings.”

The Were ambassador exhaled, crimson blood bubbling through his nostrils. It might have been a bitter laugh; the arrow in his breast jerked at the movement. “The Grey Dam Vashuka accedes. So it shall be. Do you swear us peace, we will retreat unto the deepest forests to trouble the Lesser Shapers no more, and be forgotten.”

“Two.” Aracus raised a second finger. “You will abjure the Sunderer’s Gift.”

Behind him, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré smiled.

So, Lilias thought; it comes to this. That offering, which Haomane disdained for his Children, he cannot bear another’s to possess. The Shapers’ War continues unending, and we are but pawns within it. Silent atop her mount, she thought of the things Calandor had shown her in his cavern atop Beshtanag Mountain, the things that filled her heart with fear. One day , he had said, when his own are gone , Haomane will adopt Arahila’s Children as his own. Until then, he will eliminate all others.

She wondered if Oronin Last-Born would protest, or if he were willing to sacrifice his Children on the altar of Haomane’s pride for the sin of having aided Satoris Banewreaker. In the silence that followed Aracus’ pronouncement, it seemed that it must be so. Like Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, the Glad Hunter would abide.