Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

“Not at all.” She returned his false smile, watching the Staccian’s eyes narrow. It was a relief, in some ways, to deal with him instead of Tanaros. Vorax the Glutton did not confuse her senses or her thoughts, and however he had spent the long years of his immortality, it had inured him to the allure of the Ellylon. He would as lief see her dead as alive, and made little effort to disguise the fact.

“To the garden, then.” His thick fingers took impersonal possession of her arm, and he steered her down the halls. The pace he set was fast enough to make her stride hurried. Here and there, where tapestries hung, there was a scurrying sound in the walls, and Cerelinde had been in Darkhaven long enough to guess it was Meara, or the other madlings, at work. There seemed no end to their knowledge of the passages that riddled Darkhaven.

She noted, as they passed, that the Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard saluted Vorax with less alacrity than they had Tanaros. It filled her with a sense of uneasy pride.

“Here.” Vorax led her into the narrow corridor, with the door of polished wood and silver hinges at the end of it. Cerelinde shrank back against the wall as he fumbled at his belt for a ring of keys. He shot her a wry glance. “Don’t worry, I’m only fulfilling his Lordship’s wishes. I’ve no interest in aught else.”

Cerelinde straightened. “I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, aye.” He smiled dourly, fitting a small key to the lock. “I can see that.”

It stung her pride, enough to make her reach out and lay gentle fingers on the scabbed skin of his brow. If she had possessed the ancient magics Haomane’s Children were said to have before the world was Sundered, she might have healed him. She watched his eyes widen at the delicate touch of Ellylon flesh against his rude skin. “Are you injured, Lord Vorax?”

“No,” he said shortly, pulling away from her and opening the door. “Go on,” he added, giving her an ignominious shove. “His Lordship is waiting.”

Lifting her skirts, Cerelinde stepped across the threshold and raised her face to the night sky, breathing deep. Arahila’s moon rode high overhead, a silvery half-orb; and yet, it was not the same garden she had visited with Tanaros. There was a sulfuric tang to the moist air that caressed her skin, with an underlying odor of rot. Dead patches pocked the grass, pallid by moonlight.

It hurt to see it, which surprised her.

“My Lord?” Cerelinde called.

“I am here,” the deep voice answered. “Come.”

There, where a dark form blotted out the stars. Stumbling over the dying grass, she made her way toward him. A faint sound shivered the night; bells, crying out. On slender stalks the bell-shaped blossoms shivered, heedless of the acid rain that had pierced their petals, leaving yellowish holes with seared edges. The sound they emitted was a plangent and sorrowful alarum, sounding without cease.

“Oh!” Cerelinde stooped, reaching for them. “Poor blossoms.”

“Clamitus atroxis.” Lord Satoris gazed at the stars revolving in their slow dance. “Sonow-bells, sounding for every act of senseless cruelty in Urulat. Were they as loud, when you heard them before?”

“No.” She bent her head over the flower bed.

“Nor I.” The Shaper sighed. “Though I fear it is I who has set them ringing, I do not relish the sound, Cerelinde.”

Cerelinde stroked the seared petals of the sorrow-bells, feeling them shudder under her fingertips. Aracus. “What have you done, my Lord?” she murmured, the blood running cold in her veins at the Shaper’s words.

“There was time when I did,” he mused. “It was sweet to my ears, a gratifying reminder that you Lesser Shapers are more than capable of wounding one another to the quick without my aid. And yet, I find it not so sweet when I am the cause. Vengeance sours quickly upon the palate when it fails to find its rightful target. It was never my wish to be what fate has made me, Lady.”

Cerelinde straightened and took a step forward. “What have you done?”

“Have no fear.” A hint of contempt edged his voice. “The Son of Altorus is safe enough. It was no one you knew, Lady. Victims of Haomane’s Wrath, once. Now victims of mine. This time, they brought it upon themselves.”

“The Charred Folk.” The knowledge brought relief, and a different sorrow. “Ah, my Lord. Why?”

“Will you tell me you do not know?” the Shaper asked.

“My Lord.” Cerelinde spread her hands. “I do not.”

“Senseless.” Reaching down, Lord Satoris wrenched a handful of sorrow-bells from the earth. Throttling them in his grip, he regarded the thin, trailing roots twitching below. The fragile petals drooped against his dark flesh, still emitting a faint peal. “How so?” he asked the shuddering blossoms. “I Shaped you and gave you existence. Why do you sound for their deaths? Senseless? How so, when they seek to use the Water of Life to extinguish the marrow-fire? How so, when they seek to destroy me?”

Hope leapt in Cerelinde’s breast, warring with unease. “Haomane’s Prophecy,” she breathed.

“Haomane’s Prophecy” He echoed the words with derision, tossing the wilting plants at her feet. “My Elder Brother’s Prophecy is the framework of his will, nothing more, and you are the tools with which he builds it. Do not be so quick to hope, Lady. I have a will of my own, and tools at my disposal.”

Root tendrils writhed over the toes of her slippers and the dying bells’ ringing faded to a whimper, while those left in the bed keened anew in mourning. The Sunderer was in a strange mood, untrustworthy and fey. The copper-sweet tang of his blood mingled with the lingering odor of sulfur. If he were willing to turn upon Darkhaven itself, what hope was there for her? Cerelinde repressed a shudder, mortally tired of living on the knife-edge of fear.

“Why not end it?” she asked, feeling weary and defeated. “If it’s the Prophecy you fear, why not simply take my life? Your Vorax would be glad enough to do it.”

“No,” he said simply. “I will not.”

“ Why? Is it because there is another?” Her pulse beat faster, remembering what he had told her before, the words she had been certain were lies. It would be easier to accept death if they were not. “Is it true? That Elterrion’s line continues elsewhere?”

“No, Lady.” The Shaper gave a bitter laugh. “Oh yes, that part was true. There are others. There will be others. Other heroes, other heroines. Other prophecies to fulfill, other adversaries to despise. There will be stories told and forgotten, and reinvented anew until one day, perhaps, the oldest are remembered, and the beginning may end, and the ending begin. Ah, Uru-Alat!” He sighed. “Until the sorrow-bells fall silent forever, there will be others.”

“I do not understand,” she said, confused.

“What if I asked you to stay?” His mood shifted, and the red light of malice glinted in his eyes. “You might temper this madness that comes too soon upon me, this anger. There would be no need for war were you to choose it willingly. You have seen, Daughter of Erilonde; there is beauty in this place. There would be more, did you choose to dwell here.” He extended a hand to her. “What would you say if I asked it?”

What if they were not lies?

Moonlight cast the shadow of his mighty hand stark on the dead and dying grass. Cerelinde thought of the years of uneasy truce her acquiescence might bring, and measured it against the hope, the eternal hope, of the Rivenlost. Of Urulat, of all the world; but most of all, of her people. It was the ancient dream, the hope bred into their ageless flesh ever since the world was Sundered, of the Souma restored, the land made whole. It was nearer now than ever it had been, and she was willing to die to make it so. She could not allow herself to believe otherwise.