But when it came to war, the Free Fishers would side with Haomane’s Allies, believing Lord Satoris would strip away their independence. Mantuas was right, of course. They couldn’t afford to lose the horses.
If there were more time, Carfax thought, he might try to sway the captain and his crew. They seemed like shrewd men who understood profit and would listen to reason, who could be brought to understand that Lord Satoris offered a greater freedom than they knew existed; freedom from the yolk of Haomane’s will, under which they labored unknowing, trudging like a miller’s oxen in endless circles.
But given the time constraints, it would be much simpler to kill them at sea.
Carfax hoped he remembered how to sail a ship. It had been a long time since he had summered on the shores of Laefrost Lake with his mother’s kin, the clear, ice-blue waters swollen with snowmelt. Well, he thought, crossing the ramp, standing at the railings as the planks were drawn aboard and the mainsail hoisted, the winch grinding as the anchor was raised; we will find out.
The sail bellied full, showing the proud insignia of the Free Fishers of Harrington Inlet, the stone anchor and fishhook. Crewmen scrambled here and there, obeying the captain’s shouted orders. A wedge of open water divided them from the shore, growing steadily as the Ilona’s Gull nudged her prow seaward.
NINE
They emerged from the tunnels in the outskirts of a ruined city.
Once, there had been walls and towers of white onyx, proud spires rising from the plains. Now, the walls were breached and broken, and plain-hawks nested in the toppled towers. Sturdy heart-grass grew in the empty streets, cracking the marble flagstones, and the wind made a mournful sound in the ruins.
The entrance to the tunnel was partially blocked by great slabs of blue chalcedony, and they picked their way out one by one. Cerelinde, emerging into the cloud-shrouded daylight, reached out from her saddle to touch the cracked walls of the adjacent structure from which slabs of precious stone had slid, revealing the granite beneath. “Ellylon made this.”
“Careful, Lady,” Tanaros muttered. “It is unstable.”
“What is this place?” She shivered. “There is sorrow in its bones.”
Hyrgolf glanced backward, his massive head silhouetted against the lowering sky. “Your people called it the City of Long Grass, Lady of the Ellylon,” he answered in his guttural voice. “A long time ago.”
“Ah, Haomane!” Cerelinde flung herself from her mount’s back, kneeling at the base of one chalcedony slab. “Cuilos Tuillenrad.” Her fingers brushed the moon-blue surface with delicate reverence, revealing lines of Ellylon runes therein engraved. “This city belonged to Numireth the Fleet,” she breathed.
“Yes.” Tanaros caught the reins of her mount, glancing around uneasily. The city, or what remained of it, was a desolate place. It had been conquered long ago, in the Third Age of the Sundered World, when Lord Satoris had led the Fjeltroll out of the fastness of the north and swept westward, driving the Ellylon before him. The plains had reclaimed it since. No one else wanted it. “Lady Cerelinde, we must ride.”
“A moment,” she whispered, tracing the runes with her fingertips. “I beg you.”
He glanced at Hyrgolf, who shrugged. The Fjel were engaged in hauling supplies from the tunnel, assessing what must be ported, what could be left behind. There would be ample grazing now that they were on the open plains. It had been carefully chosen, this site; close enough to Darkhaven to ensure a safe return, far enough to ensure that the Lady of the Ellylon did not guess the extent of the tunnel system that lay beneath Urulat, which led to the door of Darkhaven itself.
And, of course, there was the history, which was supposed to remind her of the folly of opposing Lord Satoris’ will. All of these matters were well considered, which did naught to assuage the prickling sensation at the back of Tanaros’ neck.
Why had the plains gone wind-still?
“Cousin.” Ushahin sidled his mount close to Tanaros. His good eye squinted tight. “I mislike this stillness. Something is wrong.”
The Fjel had paused in their labors, broad nostrils sniffing the air. Vorax’s Staccians were huddled together, crowding their mounts’ flanks. Pressure built all around. At the base of the chalcedony slab, the Lady Cerelinde traced runes, whispering under her breath.
“Dreamspinner!” Tanaros grabbed the half-breed’s wrist. “What is she doing?”
“You do not know?” Ushahin’s smile was sickly. “This is the crypt where the fallen of the House of Numireth were interred. The tunnels lie beneath it. Where she kneels?” He nodded toward Cerelinde, whose bridal skirts lay spread in a pool. “It is where their kin offered prayers for vengeance against the Sunderer. I imagine she does the same.”
Every blade of heart-grass stood motionless, waiting, in the gaps of the walls, the cracked and desolate streets. There was only the whisper of Cerelinde’s voice.
Tanaros swore.
“Put on the helm,” he said, his fingers tightening hard on the half-breed’s wrist. “Dreamspinner! Don the Helm of Shadows!”
Too late.
From everywhere and nowhere they came at once; wraiths, the host of the House of Numireth. Misty riders on misty horses, converging from all quarters of the forsaken city. With hollow eyes filled with white flame, the Ellylon dead heeded Cerelinde’s prayer, and the clamor of ancient battle rose as they rode, a grief-stricken wail riding above it all.
“Tungskulder Fjel!” Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring. “Form a square! Kaldjager! To the hunt!”
Tanaros swore again, having lost his grip on the reins of Cerelinde’s mount and on Ushahin. He drew his Pelmaran sword as a ghostly warrior bore down upon him, swinging hard. His blade cleaved only mist, and Ellyl laughter pealed like bells, bright and bitter. Again, and again. The Host of Numireth encircled him, pale mocking in their unsubstantial beauty, riding past to swipe at him with ghostly blades. Filled with unreasoning terror, Tanaros dug his heels into the black’s sides, turning him in a tight circle, lashing out with his sword.
Everywhere he turned, the wraiths surrounded him, riding in a ring, swirling into mist when his steel passed through them, only to coalesce unharmed. White fire filled the hollows of their eyes, and death was written in it. Some yards away through the wraith-mist, Ushahin Dreamspinner had fallen writhing to the ground, clutching his twisted hands over his ears. And then one of the riding wraiths brushed close enough to touch him, and Tanaros heard the voices of the dead whispering in his own mind.
… because of you we were slain whom the Lord-of-Thought made deathless, because of you the world was Sundered, because of you we are bound here …
“No!” Tanaros shouted to silence the rising chorus. “It’s not true!”
… dwelled in peace until the Enemy came from the north and hordes upon hordes of Fjeltroll tore down our walls and slaughtered our armies …
“It’s not true!”
Numireth, Valwe, Nandinor … names out of legend, slain before his birth. Tall lords of the Ellylon with eyes of white fire, and on their breastplates the insignia of their House, the swift plains elbok, picked out in sable shadow. Numireth the Fleet, whose silver helm was crowned with wings. They closed around him, wraith-mist touching his living flesh, the tide of their litany rising in his straining mind.