“General.” A Fjeltroll stepped forward, yellow-eyed in the pulsing light of the chamber. One of the Kaldjager, the Cold Hunters, who patrolled the vast network of tunnels. “We have scouted passage to Lindanen Dale. We may pass below the Aven River. An entrance lies less than a league to the north. Kaldjager hold it secure. We took pains not to be seen.”
“Good” Tanaros collected his wits, which were beginning to function once more. “Good. And Vorax, on your end?”
The Staccian shrugged. “I am in readiness. A chamber has been prepared, fit for a Queen. As for the rest, there’s a fast ship awaiting in Harrington Bay, and a company of my lads ready to outrace the Ellylon to it, posing as Beshtanagi in disguise.”
“Good,” Tanaros repeated. “And the Dreamspinner? Did he succeed?”
“Well … don’t go a-walking in the wood, cousin.” Vorax grinned. “Does that answer it for you?”
It did.
It was a plan, a simple plan.
Tanaros considered it as he lay in his bath.
The difficulty lay in gaining access, for the full might of the Rivenlost would. be turned out to safeguard this wedding; aye, and the Borderguard of Curonan, too. And unless Tanaros missed his guess, the Duke of Seahold would have a contingent present as well. Every inch of ground within a dozen leagues of Lindanen Dale would have been scouted and secured.
Except the tunnels.
It was a pity they could not make use of the Marasoumië, but that would come later. Merely to hold the Ways open for so many would require two of the Three, taxing them to their utmost, and Ushahin was needed for this plan. The tunnels would be slower, but they would suffice.
It was a pity, a grave pity, that he could not bring the entire army through them with sufficient time to assemble. That would put an end to it. The army of Darkhaven was not so vast as Men believed it; that was Ushahin Dreamspinner’s work, who walked in the dreams of Men and magnified their fears, playing them into nightmares. But it was vast enough, Tanaros thought, to win in a pitched battle. Under Lord Satoris’ protection, the numbers of the Fjel had grown steadily throughout the centuries. Not enough to rival Men, who held nearly the whole of Urulat as their domain, but enough. And Tanaros had trained them.
On level ground, on the open field … ah, but the Ellylon and the sons of Altorus were too clever for that gambit. Once, it had worked. Long ago, on the plains of Curonan. He had donned the Helm of Shadows, and led the army of Darkhaven against the forces of Altoria, bringing down a nation, securing a buffer zone.
Altoria had had a Queen, then. He had never met her, never seen her. He wondered, sometimes, if she had resembled his wife. In the adamance of her pride, at the urging of her advisors, she had poured all the resources of her realm into that war, until nothing was left. In the end, Altoria lost Curonan and the throne, leaving the remnants of the sons of Altorus to patrol the verges of the lost plains.
Now, it was different. They needed to draw their Enemy out into the open. And they needed bait to do it. That was where the tunnels came into play, and Beshtanag, and above all, the Were that Ushahin had brought to Darkhaven.
The bath-water was growing cool. Tanaros stood, dripping.
“Here, Lord General.”
Meara, the madling, slunk around the entrance to his bathing-chamber, proffering a length of clean linen toweling and eyeing him through her tangled hair. She had never done such before.
“Thank you, Meara.” He dried himself, self-conscious for the first time in many decades. Physically, his body was unchanged. Save for the mark of his branding, it was little different than it had been on his wedding night, strong and lean and serviceable. Only the puckered, silvery scar on his breast gave evidence of his nature; that, and the deep ache of years.
“Does it hurt?” She pointed at his chest.
“Yes.” He touched the scar with his fingertips, feeling the ridged flesh, remembering the searing ecstasy he’d felt when his Lord took Godslayer from the blazing marrow-fire and branded him with it, using the force of the Souma to stretch the Chain of Being to its limits to encompass him. “It hurts.”
Meara nodded. “I thought so.” She watched him don his robe. “What was she like, Lord General?”
“She?” He paused.
Her eyes glittered. “The Sorceress.”
“She was … courteous.”
“Was she prettier than me?” she asked plaintively.
“Prettier?” Tanaros gazed at the madling, who squirmed away from his scrutiny. He thought about Lilias, whose imperious beauty softened only in the presence of the dragon. “No, Meara. Not prettier.”
She followed him as he left the bathing-chamber, tossing back her hair and glaring. “Another one is coming, you know. Coming here.”
“Another one?”
“A lady.” She spat the word. “An Ellyl lady.”
“Yes.” He wondered how she knew, if they all knew. “Such is the plan.”
“It is a mistake,” Meara said darkly.
“Meara.” Tanaros rumpled his hair, damp from the bath. He remembered the Sorceress, and how the wind on the mountainside had tugged at her hair, that had otherwise fallen dark and shining, bound by the circlet, the red Soumanië vivid against her pale brow. He wondered what the other would be like, and if it were a mistake to bring her here. “The lady is to be under our Lord’s protection.”
The madling shuddered, turned and fled.
Bewildered, Tanaros watched her go.
There was never enough time to prepare, when it came to it.
The Warchamber was packed with representatives of three of the races of Lesser Shapers, all crowded around the map-table and listening intently to the Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven. It was a simple plan. Tanaros wished he liked it better. Nonetheless, it was his Lord’s will, and he continued, carrying it out to the letter. “And here,”—he pointed at the map—“is the mouth of the tunnel. Here, and here and here, there will be sentries posted, guarding the perimeter of Lindanen Dale. Those,”—Tanaros glanced at the Were Brethren—“will be yours to dispatch, as we agreed.”
A flat voice spoke, passionless and grey. “And here they plight their troth?”
“Aye.” The skin at the back of his neck prickled. With an effort, Tanaros made himself meet the gaze of Sorash, the Grey Dam of the Were, who rested one clawed forefinger upon the heart of Lindanen Dale. “That is where you will strike, honored one, if you be willing.”
The Grey Dam gave him a terrible smile. “I am willing.”
There was no telling her age. The Were had used the strange magics bequeathed them by Oronin Last-Born to circumvent the very Chain of Being, at least for the Grey Dam. Tanaros knew only that she was ancient. Ushahin Dreamspinner had been a boy when Faranol, Crown Prince of Altoria, had slain the Grey Dam’s cubs and her mate in a hunting excursion, heaping glory upon his kindred during a state visit to Pelmar.
“You are brave, honored one,” Tanaros said.
The ancient Were shook her head. “My successor is chosen.”
Grey her voice, grey her name, grey her being. One year of their lives, that was what each of the Were surrendered that the Grey Dam might endure. So it had been, in the beginning; now, it was more, for their numbers had dwindled. Five years, ten, or more. Tanaros knew naught of what such ceremonies might entail, how it was enacted. Only that the Grey Dam endured, until the mantle was passed, and endured anew.
It had been many centuries since that had happened.
“You know you will die, old mother?”