And so there was debate.
It began with Malthus the Counselor. “Dani of the Yarru,” he said, leaning upon his staff. “You have seen the red star, the signal of war. In the west, the Sunderer’s army grows, legion upon legion of Fjeltroll streaming to join him. Soon he will move against us like a mighty tide, for it is his will to lay claim to the whole of Urulat and challenge his brother, Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, the Will of Uru-Alat.” The Counselor scowled, his bushy eyebrows fierce. “We can fight, and die, we who are loyal to Haomane and the light of the Souma, who would see Urulat made whole. We will fight, and die. But in the end, only one thing can halt Satoris Banewreaker.”
With his staff he pointed to the rock-pile in the center of the Stone Grove. “Therein,” he said, “lies the Water of Life. It alone can quench the marrow-fire that wards the dagger Godslayer. And you alone can draw it, Dam of the Yarru. You alone can carry it. You are the vessel, a part of the Prophecy of Haomane, the Unknown made Known” The Counselor opened his arms. The Soumanië! gleamed red upon his breast, nestled amid his beard. “It is a grave matter,” he said. “To bear the Water of Life into the Vale of Gorgantum, inside the walls of Darkhaven itself, and extinguish the mamow-fire. We who stand here before you, the Company of Malthus, are pledged to aid you in every step of the way. Yet in the end, the fate of Urulat rests in your hands, Bearer. Choose.”
Such was the beginning.
Many others spoke, and among the Company of Malthus, only the Counselor understood the tongue of the Yarru; for many years had he studied it in his quest to unravel the Prophecy. And what he understood, he kept to himself over the days that followed.
When all was said, Dani the Bearer chose.
EIGHT
“Yes?” Lilias reclined on silk cushions, raising her brows at the page.
“My lady,” he said and gulped, glancing sidelong at pretty Sarika in her scanty attire, kneeling at her mistress’ side and wafting a fan against the unseasonal heat of a late Pelmaran spring. “My lady … there is an ambassador to see you. From the Were.”
“Well?” Lilias arched her carefully plucked eyebrows a fraction higher, watching the page stutter. “Are the Were not our allies? See him in!”
He left in a rush. Sarika ceased her fanning. “You should bind him to you, my lady,” she murmured, lowering her head to press her lips to the inside of Lilias’ wrist. “He would be quicker to serve.”
“I’ve no need of fools and imbeciles, dear one.” She stroked the girl’s hair. “Enough surround me without binding.”
Head bent, Sarika smiled.
Calandor?
Abide, little sister.
The Were ambassador, when he came, entered the room like grey smoke, flowing around corners, low to the ground. Only when he stood and bowed did his form become fixed in the mind’s eye. Sarika let out a squeak, huddling close to her mistress’ couch. “Sorceress of the East.” The Were dipped his muzzle in acknowledgment. “I am Phraotes. I bring you greetings from the Grey Dam of the Were.”
Lilias frowned. “Where is Kurush to whom I spoke a fortnight ago? Has he fallen out of favor with the Grey Dam Sorash?”
Phraotes grimaced, lips curling back to show his sharp teeth. “The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives. Vashuka is the Grey Dam of the Were.”
“Ahhh.” A pang ran through her. For as long as Lilias had lived—far longer than the allotment of Arahila’s Children—Sorash had been the Grey Dam. “I grieve for your loss, Phraotes,” she said in formal response, rising from her couch and extending her hand. “I give greetings to the Grey Dam Vashuka, and recognize the ancient ties of alliance. Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine.”
“Sorceress.” He bowed his head, but his amber eyes glowed uneasily at her. “The Grey Dam values the friendship of Beshtanag.”
The words were a blow. “Friendship.” Lilias withdrew her outstretched hand, regarding Phraotes. “Not alliance.”
The ambassador’s keen, pointed ears tightened against his head. “War comes to Beshtanag. We do not desire war. Only to hunt, and live.”
“You helped to set these forces in motion, Phraotes”
“Yes” His muzzle dipped in a nod. “The Grey Dam Soash had cause for vengeance. Two Brethren accompanied her. All are dead. The debt is paid. The Grey Dam Vashuka does not desire war.”
“Why?” she asked him.
His lip curled. “Once was enough, Sorceress.”
Lilias paced her drawing-room, ignoring the clatter of Gergon’s wardsmen arriving in a panic, waving them back when they sought to enter the room. Phraotes watched her with wary patience. “You prevailed in that war, Phraotes.”
The Were shook his head. “We won our battle, Sorceress. We lost the war.”
It is so, Lilias.
Lilias sighed. “You should have stayed in the west,” she said to Phraotes. “The children of Men would not hunt you beneath the Sunderer’s protection. He commands a vaster territory than I do.”
His amber eyes shone. “Our home is in the east, Sorceress. We are Oronin’s Children and it is here he Shaped us.”
“Oronin should have better care for his Children,” Lilias said sharply.
“No.” Phraotes’ shoulders moved in a shrug. “He is the Glad Hunter. He Shaped us in joy. The Grey Dam Vashuka believes we were foolish to listen to Satoris Banewreaker, who spoke smooth words and roused our ire against Haomane First-Born for denying us the Gift of cleverness. Only Yrinna’s Children were wise.”
“The Dwarfs?” She laughed. “The Dwarfs are content to till the soil and tend the orchards of arrogant Vedasian nobles, ambassador, accepting humility as their lot. You call that wisdom?”
“No one slaughters their young,” said Phraotes. “There is merit in Yrinna’s Peace. So the Grey Dam Vashuka believes. I am sorry, Sorceress. You have been a good friend to the Were. In Beshtanag, we have been safe. No longer, if war comes.” He paused, then added, “We do not abandon you. The Grey Dam pledges a scouting-pack of yearling Brethren to range the western borders, reporting to you. But we will not join in battle. We are too few.”
It is their right, Lilias.
“I know,” she said aloud, replying to the dragon. “I know.” Reluctantly, Lilias inclined her head to the Were ambassador. “I hear your words, Phraotes. Though I am disappointed, they are fair-spoken. Tell the Grey Dam Vashuka that the Sorceress of the East values her friendship. So long as Beshtanag is under my rule, the Were are welcome in it.”
“Sorceress.” He bowed with obvious relief, ears pricked at a more confident angle. “You are wise and generous.”
In the hallway, one of the warders coughed. Lilias suppressed a surge of annoyance. Her wardsmen enjoyed an easy life, and greater freedom than they might elsewhere in Pelmar, subject to the whims of the Regents. With the aid of the Were, she and Calandor defended the boundaries of Beshtanag. All she had done was to forge a holding where she might live in peace, as she chose.
All she asked was loyalty.
Her indulgences were few. There were her attendants, her pretty ones, but what of it? She liked to be surrounded by beauty, by youth. It was a precious and fleeting thing, that span of time wherein youth attained the outer limits of adulthood and reckoned itself immortal, refusing to acknowledge the Chain of Being. It reminded her of why she had chosen to become what she was, the Sorceress of the East.