Lord Satoris smiled.
Above, the stars shuddered.
“I think,” he said, “that this will not come to pass.”
And other things were shown in the Ravensmirror.
The ravens of Darkhaven had flown the length and breadth of Urulat, save only the vast inner depths of the Unknown, where there was no water to sustain life. But to the south they had flown, and to the east and north. And every place they had seen, it was the same.
Armies were gathering.
In the south, the Duke of Seahold increased his troops, fortifying his borders. Along the curve of Harrington Inlet, where gulls cried above the sea, the Free Fishers laid aside their nets and sharpened their long knives. The knights of Vedasia rode in stately parties along the orchard roads and, here and there, Dwarfs appeared along the roadside, giving silent greeting as they passed. In Arduan, men and women gathered in knots to speak in the marketplace, full quivers slung over their shoulders. The streets of Pelmar City were filled with soldiers, and long trains of them wound through the woods. Along the eastern verge of the desert, the Rukhari whetted their curving swords. To the north, the stone fortresses of Staccia were shut and warded.
“What do they dream, Dreamspinner?”
“War, my Lord,” Ushahin said briefly. “They dream of war. They dream of a red star arisen in the west, and the rumor of a wedding-to-come. They dream, in fear, of the rumor of Fjeltroll moving in the mountains, in such numbers as none have seen in living memory.”
“Do they dream of the Arrow of Fire?”
Ushahin paused, then shook his head. “In Arduan, they do. All Arduans dream of Oronin’s Bow and the Arrow of Fire. But they do not know where it is.”
Satoris Third-Born, whom the Ellylon named Banewreaker and Men called Sunderer, watched the swirling images, motionless as a mountain. “Haomane,” he murmured, then again, “Haomane!” He sighed, gathering himself. “They will not strike, not yet Not unless this wedding occurs, and fills them with the courage of my Elder Brother’s Prophecy, such as they understand it.” A glare lit his eyes. “Then they will bring war to my doorstep.”
“Not Staccia, my Lord,” Vorax promised. “They guard their own, but they have pledged their loyalty on gold, and sent a company in earnest token. As long as we may ward the tunnels, our lines of supply shall remain open. And the desert Rukhari may be bought for swift horses, for they love fine steeds above all else, and despise the Pelmarans.”
“Loyal Vorax,” the Shaper said gently. “Your heart is as vast as your appetite. What you have done, I know well, and I am grateful for it. It the unknown that I fear.”
When the unknown is made known …
Tanaros shivered, brushed by the feather-touch of the Prophecy.
“My Lord.” Ushahin pointed at the Ravensmirror. “There is more.”
Around and around, the dark maelstrom whirled, fleeting visions forming against the black gloss of feathers, the gleam of round eyes pricking like stars. Around and around, inevitable as time, link upon link in the Chain of Being, circling like the ages.
When the companies parted in Lindanen Dale, Blaise Caveros of the Borderguard-Aracus’ second-in-command—went with the Ellylon. He spoke at length with a lieutenant in his company, a young man who saluted him firmly, his jaw set. Aracus Altorus gripped his wrists, gazing into his eyes. And they parted. Blaise rode with the Rivenlost to Meronil, and did not look back, bound to a greater mission.
Tanaros watched him hungrily.
What need could be so great that it would part the second-in-command from his sworn lord? None, in his lifetime, in his mortal lifetime. And yet it was so. Blaise Caveros, who was his own kinsman many times removed, left his lord without glancing back, his grey-cloaked back upright.
“What are you up to, Malthus?” Lord Satoris whispered.
To that, there was no answer. The Ravensmirror swirled onward, giving only taunting glimpses. A contest, and bowstrings thrumming. Fletched arrows, a silent thud. Feathers, scattering. A lone Arduan, setting forth on a journey, coiled braids hidden beneath a leather cap.
On the verges of his journey—hers, as it transpired—there was the Unknown Desert, glimpses assayed by fearful ravens, wary of the lack of water.
Malthus the Counselor keeps his counsel well …
“Enough!” The Shaper’s fists clenched, and the Ravensmirror dispersed, trembling, breaking into a thousand bits of darkness. Roosts were found, bescaled and taloned bird-feet scrambling for perches, bright eyes winking as the Shaper paced, the Tower trembling beneath his footfalls. A single raven, with a tuft of feathers atop his head, croaked a tremulous query. In the air hung the copper-sweet smell of blood.
“It shall not be,” Lord Satoris said. “Though I have left my Elder Brother in peace, still he pursues me, age upon age. I grow weary of his enmity. If it is war Haomane wishes, my Three, I shall oblige him. And I shall not wait for him to bring it to my doorstep.” He turned to Tanaros. His gaze burned, ruddy coals in the night. A line of seeping ichor glistened on his inner thigh, reeking of blood, only stronger. “My General, my rouser of Men. Are you fit to travel the Marasoumië?”
Tanaros bowed.
Tanaros could not do aught else.
“I am yours to command, my Lord,” he said, even as a single raven dispatched itself from the horde, settling on his shoulder. He stroked its ruffled feathers with a fingertip. “Only tell me what you wish.”
Satoris did.
FOUR
Lilias knew.
It came as a stirring, a tensing of her brow, as if the circlet she ever wore had grown too tight. Awareness tickled the base of her skull, and the Soumanië on her brow warmed against her skin, rendering her feverish.
She paced the halls of her fasthold of Beshtanag, restless and uneasy, curt with her body-servants, her pretty ones, when they sought to soothe her. Calandor had shown her long ago how to Shape the hearts and minds of those who served her, and they were her one indulgence. Some of them sulked, but not all. She had always tried to choose them wisely. Little Sarika wept, curling into a ball, damp hair clinging to her tear-stained cheeks. Pietre dogged her steps, squaring his shoulders in a manful fashion until she snapped at him, too. It wasn’t their fault, and she felt guilty at it.
“Calandor,” she whispered, reaching. “Oh, Calandor!”
I am here.
At the touch of the dragon’s thoughts, the Sorceress of the East relaxed, obliquely reassured. “One is coming, traveling the Marasoumie.”
Yes, little sister. One of the Branded.
Lilias grasped the railing of the balustrade and stared down the mountainside.
It was secure, of course. The grey crags, the pine mantle spread like a dark green apron below. Gergon and his wardsmen held it for her and the Were defended its borders, but the mountain was hers, hers and Calandor’s. With the power of the Soumanië, they had made it so. No creature moved upon it, not squirrel nor bat, wolf nor Were, and least of all Man, but that Calandor knew it. And what the dragon knew, the sorceress knew.
So it had been, for a long, long time.
“I shall have to meet him, won’t I?” she asked aloud. “Which one is it?”
The Soldier.
Lilias grimaced. It would have been easier, in a way, had it been one of the others—the Dreamer, or the Glutton.