THREE
A light mist wreathed the beech wood, and their steps were soundless on the mast of fallen leaves, soft and damp after winter. New growth was greening on the trees, forming a canopy overhead.
It was a deeper green than the beeches Tanaros had known as a boy, the leaves broader, fanning to capture and hold the cloud-filtered sunlight The trunks of the trees were gnarled in a way they weren’t elsewhere, twisted around ragged boles as they grew, like spear-gutted warriors straining to stand upright.
They were old and strong, though, and their roots were deep.
Blight, the Ellylon said; Satoris the Sunderer blighted the land, the ichor of his unhealing wound seeping like poison into the earth, tainting it so no wholesome thing could grow.
Tanaros had believed it, once. No longer. Wounded, yes. The Vale of Gorgantum had endured the blow of the Shaper’s wound, as Lord Satoris himself endured it. Deprived of sunlight, it suffered, as Lord Satoris suffered, driven to earth by Haomane’s wrath. Yet, like the Shaper, it survived; adapted, and survived.
And who was to say there was no beauty in it?
Ahead, a rustling filled the wood. There was no path, but Ushahin Dreamspinner led the way, at home in the woods. From behind, he looked hale, his spine straight and upright, his step sure. His gilt-pale hair shone under the canopy. One might take him, Tanaros thought, for a young Ellyl poet, wandering the wood.
Not from the front, though. No one ever made that mistake.
There, the first nest, a ragged construction wedged in the branches high overhead. Others, there and there, everywhere around them as they entered the rookery proper, and the air came alive with the sound of ravens. Ushahin stopped and gazed around him, a smile on his ruined face.
Ravens hopped and sidled along the branches, preening glossy black feathers. Ravens defended their nests, quarreled over bits of twig. Ravens flew from tree to tree, on wings like airborne shadows.
“Kaugh!”
The sound was so close behind him that Tanaros startled. “Fetch!”
There, on a low branch, a raven; his raven. The wounded fledgling he had found half-frozen in his Lord’s garden six years gone by, grown large as a hawk, with the same disheveled tuft of feathers poking from his head. The raven cocked its head to regard him with one round shiny eye, then the other. Satisfied, it wiped its sharp, sturdy beak on the branch.
Tanaros laughed. “Will he come to me, do you think?”
Ushahin gave his uneven shrug. “Try it and see.”
The ravens were the Dreamspinner’s charges, a gift not of Lord Satoris, but of the Were who had reared him. Elsewhere, they were territorial. It was only here, in Darkhaven, that they gathered in a flock—and only when summoned, for Ushahin Dreamspinner had made them the eyes and ears of Lord Satoris, and sent them throughout the land.
This one, though, Tanaros had tended.
“Fetch,” he said, holding out his forearm. “Come.”
The raven muttered in its throat and eyed him, shifting from foot to foot. Tanaros waited. When he was on the verge of conceding, the raven launched himself smoothly into the air, broad wings outspread as he glided to land on Tanaros’ padded arm, an unexpectedly heavy weight. Bobbing up and down, he made a deep, chuckling sound.
“Oh, Fetch.” At close range, the bird’s feathers shone a rich blue-black, miniscule barbs interlocking, layered in a ruff at his neck. Tanaros smoothed them with the tip of one finger, absurdly glad to see him. “How are you, old friend?”
Fetch made his chucking sound, wiped his beak on Tanaros’ arm, then uttered a single low “Kaugh!” and bobbed expectantly. Tanaros reached into a pouch at his belt and drew forth a gobbet of meat, fed it to the raven, followed by others. In the trees, the others watched and muttered, one raising its voice in a raucous scolding.
“He’s very fond of you.” Ushahin sounded amused.
Tanaros smiled, remembering the winter he’d kept the fledgling in his quarters. A foul mess he’d made, too, and he was still finding things the raven had stolen and hidden. “Do you disapprove?”
The half-breed shrugged. “The Were hunt with ravens, and ravens hunt with the Were. It is the way of Men, to make tame what is wild. If you had sought to cage him, I would have disapproved.”
“I wouldn’t.” Finding no more meat forthcoming, the raven took his leave, strong talons pricking through the padded leather as he launched himself from Tanaros’ arm, landing on a nearby branch and preening under the envious eyes of his fellows, the tuft of feathers atop his head bobbing in a taunt. Tanaros watched his mischief with fond pleasure. “Fetch is his own creature.”
“It’s well that you understand it. The Were sent them, but the ravens serve Lord Satoris of their own choosing.” Ushahin rubbed his thin arms against the morning’s chill. “You’ve a need in you to love, cousin. A pity it’s confined to birds and Fjel.”
“Love.” Anger stirred in Tanaros’ heart. “What would you know of love, Dreamspinner?”
“Peace, cousin.” Ushahin raised his twisted, broken hands. “I do not say it in despite. The forge of war is upon us, and all our mettle will be tested. Once upon a time, you loved a son of Altorus. And,” he added, “once upon a time, you loved a woman.”
Tanaros laughed, a sound as harsh as a raven’s calclass="underline" “Altoria lies in ruin because of that love, cousin, and the sons of Altorus are reduced to the Borderguard of Curonan. Do you forget?”
“No,” Ushahin said simply. “I remember. But it was many years ago, and hatred burned in you like the marrow-fire, then. Now, there is yearning.”
The calm, mismatched regard was too much to bear, undermining his anger. What was his suffering, measured against the half-breed’s? Ushahin Dreamspinner had been unwanted even before his birth. It was an ill-gotten notion that had sent an embassy of the Ellylon of the Rivenlost to Pelmar in the Sixth Age of the Sundered World; an ill-gotten impulse that had moved a young Pelmaran lordling to lust.
A son of Men had assaulted a daughter of the Ellylon.
And Ushahin was the fruit of that bitter union, which had dealt the Prophecy a dire blow. Ushahin the Unwanted, whose birth ruined his mother—though he’d had no name, then, and hers was hidden from history. In their grief, the Ellylon laid a charge upon the family of the nameless babe’s father, bidding them raise him as their own.
Instead, they despised him, for his existence was their shame.
Even in the Dreamspinner’s story, Tanaros thought, he could not escape the sons of Altorus, for one had been present. Prince Faranol, Faranol Altorus, who had accompanied the Ellylon embassy on behalf of Altoria. A mighty hunter, that one, bold in the chase. He’d ridden out in a Pelmaran hunting-party, hunting the Were who savaged the northernmost holdings of Men. Oronin’s Children were deadly predators, a race unto themselves, as much akin to wolves as Men. And if they hadn’t found the Grey Dam herself, they’d found her den—her den, her cubs and her mate.
Prince Faranol had slain the Grey Dam’s mate himself, holding him on the end of a spear as he raged forward, dying, the froth on his muzzle flecked with blood. They still told the story in Altoria, when Tanaros was a boy.
A mighty battle, they said.
Was it a mighty battle, he wondered, when Faranol slew the cubs? In Pelmar they had lauded him for it, even as they had turned their backs upon the family of Ushahin’s father. Still, the damage was done, and no treaty reached; the Ellylon departed in sorrow and anger, Faranol Altorus’ deeds went unrewarded, and in the farthest reaches of Pelmar, the Sorceress of the East remained unchallenged.