On the second day, Tanaros could bear it no longer.
An escort of marching Fjel surrounded her as she rode, seated on one of the fallen Staccian’s mounts. Tungskulder Fjel, Hyrgolf’s best lads, their horny heads at a level with her shoulder even as she rode astride. She bore it well, Cerelinde of the Ellylon, only a faint tremor giving evidence to her fear, until the air grew thick once more and she clutched her throat, gasping.
“Give way,” Tanaros murmured to the rearguard.
“General!” A Fjeltroll grinned and saluted, dropping back.
He made his way to her side, maneuvering the black horse. “Lady,” he said, and her stricken gaze met his. “All is well. There is air, see?” He inhaled deeply, his chest swelling, detecting a waft of fresh air from an unseen vent. His brand pulsed like bands of marrow-fire around his heart. “We will survive, and endure.”
“I am afraid.” Her frightened eyes were like stars.
Once, Calista had said that to him; his wife. He hadn’t know, then, what she meant. Hadn’t known of her past-dawning attraction to his blood-sworn kinsman, his king, Roscus Altorus, or the affair it had engendered. He had laughed at her fears, laughed and embraced her, protecting the child that grew in her belly with his own strong arms, believing them strong enough to fend off aught that might harm them.
Now, he didn’t laugh.
“I know,” he said instead, somber. “Tomorrow we ride aboveground.”
Cerelinde of the Ellylon shuddered with relief. “You might die, Kingslayer,” she said in her low, musical voice. “If the tunnel fell, deprived of air, you would die and your comrades with you. It would be terrible, but swift. My death would be slow, for such is Haomane’s Gift. I would die by inches, and my mind last of all. Though my body held the semblance of death, I would endure. Days, or weeks, alive in the crushing darkness, aware. Think on that, before you name me a coward.”
“I would not.” He felt embarrassed. “I would not say such a thing.”
Her gaze slid sideways, touching him. “What of him?” She indicated the Dreamspinner, who rode before them in the vanguard, trailing the Cold Hunters, the Kaldjager Fjel, who scouted before them to ensure the way was secure. “The blood of Men and Ellylon runs in his veins, yet he knows no fear.”
“There is little Ushahin Dreamspinner fears.”
“He is mad.”
“Yes and no.” Tanaros regarded her. “He has reason to hate your kind, Lady. And mine. If it is madness that warps him, it is of our people’s devising.”
She looked away, showing her profile, clear-cut as a cameo. “So you have said,” she said quietly. “And yet, did he come to us, Malthus would heal him. He is wounded in body and mind. It could be done, by one who knew how to wield the Soumanië. Such is the power of the Souma, to Shape and make whole. Even in the merest chip, it abides. In the dagger Godslayer, it abides tenfold. Satoris Banewreaker is cruel to deny him.”
“Deny?” Tanaros laughed aloud.
“You are quick to speak of his pain!” Cerelinde’s voice rose with her temper. “And the Sunderer was quick to turn it to his ends. Did you never think that Ushahin the Misbegotten might be better served by kindness?”
“Kindness?” Tanaros drew rein, halting their progression. Behind them, the Fjel chuckled, amused by their exchange. “Lady, my Lord Satoris has offered healing to the Dreamspinner more times than I can number.” He smiled grimly at her reaction. “Aye, indeed. Do you think the Lord of Darkhaven does not know how to wield Godslayer? He is a Shaper, one of Seven, no matter that Haomane abjures him. It is Ushahin’s choice, to wear this broken face, these crippled hands. He was not denied. He chose to keep his pain, his madness. Again and again, he has chosen.”
“It is not right.” She was shaken.
“Why? Because you say so?” Tanaros shook his head, nudging his mount to a walk. “You understand nothing.”
“Tanaros.” The fear in her voice and the fact that she spoke his name made him turn in the saddle. Her face was pale against the darkness of the tunnel, and her upraised chin trembled. “What does he want of me, the Sunderer? Why was I taken and yet not slain? It makes no sense. When you attacked …” Cerelinde closed her eyes briefly. “When you attacked, I thought you were Beshtanagi in disguise. Haomane help me, I would have sworn to it. Then I awoke, surrounded by Fjeltroll …” She shuddered, swallowing. “Why?”
Pity stirred in his heart, a dangerous thing. “Lady, I cannot say. Only trust that you will be unharmed. My Lord has sworn it.”
There was despair in her face, and disbelief.
“Be we moving or no, Lord General?” Hyrgolf’s rumbling voice called.
“Aye!” Tanaros tore his gaze away and dug his heels smartly into the black’s sides. It snorted, moving at a trot through the ranks of the Fjel, who offered good-natured salutes. “Call the march, Field Marshal!”
“March!” Hyrgolf shouted.
Onward they marched. Tanaros let them pass, falling in beside Ushahin Dreamspinner, who regarded him with an unreadable gaze. “You play a dangerous game, cousin,” he said.
Tanaros shook his head. “There is no game here.”
Ushahin, still clutching the case containing the Helm of Shadows to his belly, shrugged his crooked shoulders. “As you say. Were the choice mine, I would waste no time in killing her.”
“The choice is his Lordship’s.” Tanaros’ voice hardened. “Would you strip all honor from him?”
“In favor of survival?” Ushahin looked bleak. “Aye, I would”
Tanaros reached over to touch his crippled hand where it rested on the case. “Forgive me, cousin,” he said. “The Grey Dam of the Were is due all honor. She spent her life as she chose and died with her eyeteeth seeking her enemy’s throat”
“Aye.” Ushahin drew a deep breath. “I know it.” In the torchlit tunnel, his mismatched eyes glittered. “Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? Even as she died. You will know it ere the end.”
“As you say, cousin.” Tanaros withdrew his hand, frowning in perplexity. Perhaps, after all, the Dreamspinner’s grief had worsened his madness. “Her life was gift enough.”
Ushahin bared his teeth in a grimace. “It was for me.”
The six clans of the Yarru-yami, the Charred Ones, Children of Haomane’s Wrath, debated the matter for two days. In the cool hours of the early morning and the blue hours of dusk they debated, each member given his or her allotted length of time to speak in the center of the Stone Grove, atop the rocks that marked the Well of the World.
The debate hinged on a single Yarru, the one who must choose.
He was young, the Bearer, still a youth. Of average height for one of his folk, his head scarce reached the Counselor’s shoulder, with coarse black hair falling to his shoulders and liquid-dark eyes in an open, trusting face, struggling manfully to listen and weigh all that was said. He was quick and agile, as the Yarru were, with bare feet calloused by the desert floor, and brown-black skin. It was the mark of his people, the Charred Ones, unwitting victims of Haomane’s wrath—save his palms, that were pinkish tan, creased with deep-etched lines.
And when he pressed them together and made a cup of his hands, those lines met at the precise base of the hollow to form a radiant star, for such was the sign of the Bearer.
He was seventeen years old and his name was Dani.
“Can he hoist the bucket?” Blaise Caveros had asked bluntly.
“Yes, Guardian.” The old man Ngurra had shifted a wad of gamal into the pocket of his cheek, regarding the Altorian. “He is the Bearer. It is what he was born to do, to carry the water of Birru-Uru-Alat, that weighs as heavy as life. But whether or not he does is his choosing.”