She let it carry her back to the ruined city, its path carving a wake through the long grass. There Tanaros stood, watching and awaiting her return. Her dark-dappled mount bore her unerringly to him then stopped, motionless and quiescent.
“Lady,” Tanaros said, bowing to her. “A noble effort. Bravely done.”
Cerelinde searched his face for mockery, finding none. “Would you have done otherwise?” she asked.
“No,” he said simply. “I would not.”
Behind him, grunting Fjel wielded their maces with mighty blows, breaking the chalcedony slabs into rubble, demolishing forever the inscriptions upon them. They were porting massive chunks of moon-blue stone and heaping them atop a fallen comrade to form a cairn. Cerelinde felt herself turn pale at the sight. “They are destroying the resting-place of my ancestors!” Her voice shook. “Ah, Haomane! Is it not enough the city was destroyed long ago? Must you permit this desecration?”
Tanaros’ expression hardened. “Lady,” he said, “Your ancestors marched against theirs long before the City of Long Grass fell. Marched into Neherinach, and took arms against Neheris’ Children in the high mountains. Do you blame them?”
Two spots of color rose on her cheeks. “They chose to shelter the Sunderer!”
“Yes.” He held her gaze. “They did.”
Cerelinde shook her head. “I do not understand you,” she said in a low tone. “I will never understand. Why do you serve one such as Satoris Banewreaker, who exists only to destroy such beauty?”
Tanaros sighed. “Lady, these ruins have stood untouched for centuries. It was you who sought to make a weapon of them,” he reminded her. “For that, I do not blame you. Do me the courtesy of understanding that I must now destroy them in turn.”
Though his words were just, her heart ached within her breast. The Fjel maces swung onward, breaking and smashing, each blow further diminishing the presence of the Rivenlost in the Sundered World. Never again would the wraiths of the valiant dead of the House of Numireth ride the plains of Curonan. “You did not have to choose this,” Cerelinde whispered. “My paltry effort caused you no harm.”
“No harm?” Tanaros stared at her. “Lady Cerelinde, I do not begrudge you either your valor or your vengeance, but I pray you, spare me your hypocrisy. One of my lads lies dead, and that is harm aplenty.” Contempt laced his voice. “Unless that is not what such a word means to your people.”
Without another word, he walked away.
Cerelinde bowed her head, weary and defeated. It was true, she had forgotten about the slain Fjeltroll. Until this moment, she had not known it was possible for a Man to mourn the passing of such a creature.
It seemed it was.
She did not understand.
Ushahin Dreamspinner slept, and dreamed.
On the plains of Curonan, the wind blew low and steady, soughing through the heart-grass. The city of Cuilos Tuillenrad lay three leagues to the south, and the dead lay quiet in it, including Bogvar of the Tungskulder Fjel, who slept the sleep of the dead beneath a cairn of Ellylon rubble.
On the plains, the Cold Hunters stood sentry, watching the grass bow in the wind through yellow eyes that could see in the dark. Even so, Field Marshal Hyrgolf walked the perimeter with heavy steps, peering into the night. No Fjel were to have died on this mission, and his heart was uneasy.
General Tanaros slept, fitful in his bedroll.
In a simple hide tent, Cerelinde of the Ellylon did not sleep, and her eyes were open and wakeful onto the world.
These, the Dreamspinner passed over.
Over and over, ranging far afield. Outside the warded valley of Meronil, he sifted through the sleeping thoughts of Altorian warriors, flinching at their violence as they dreamed of a council of war in the halls of the Rivenlost. On the rocking waters of Harrington Bay, he brushed the mind of a dozing Staccian lieutenant, filled with reef-knots and mainsails and a dagger stuck in a Free Fisherman’s throat.
Further.
Further.
A dry land, so dry the ravens feared it.
There, he found seven minds sheltered, warded against incursions in one manner or another. One, that shone like a red star, he avoided like plague. One was Ellyl, and made him shudder. One was wary, bound with suspicion. One dreamed only of the bow’s tension, the drawn string quivering, the arrow’s quick release.
One dreamed of water, following the veins of the earth, carrying a digging-stick.
One dreamed of marrow-fire and clutched his throat.
But one; ah! One seethed with resentment and dreamed of what displeased him, and his envy made brittle the wardings that protected him until his thoughts trickled through the cracks and he might be known, his place located and found upon the face of Urulat, his destination discerned. Hobard of Malumdoorn was his name, and he was Vedasian. A young knight, given his spurs only because of his family’s long association with the Dwarfs and the secret they guarded. Were it not for that, he would never have been knighted, never sent to Meronil to confer with the wise.
Never chosen for the Company of Malthus.
In the darkness, Ushahin smiled, and woke.
Sitting cross-legged, he summoned the ravens of Darkhaven.
TEN
Sunlight flooded the great hall of Meronil, streaming through the tall windows. The slender panes of translucent blue flanking the clear expanses of glass laid bars of sapphire light across the polished wood of the long table.
Ingolin the Wise surveyed those assembled.
“There are tidings,” he said to them. “Good and ill.”
“Give us the bad news.” It was Aracus Altorus who spoke. The loss of Cerelinde had struck him hard, etching lines of sorrow and self-blame into his features. No longer did the ageless Ellylon behold the Altorian king-in-exile and reckon him young for one of his kind.
“The Lady Cerelinde’s abductors elude us,” Ingolin said. “Even now, we pursue them across the waters. But hope dwindles.”
“Why?” Aracus’ voice was grim. “Do our allies fail us?”
Duke Bornin of Seahold cleared his throat. “Kinsman, I have bargained with the Council of Harrington Bay on our behalf, and all aid they have given us. This much is known. The miscreants booked passage to Port Calibus aboard the Ilona’s Gull. Witnesses in the harbor attest to the fact that the Lady Cerelinde was with them, and seemingly unharmed. But,” he said somberly, “ships returning from Vedasia report passing no such vessel en route. I fear they changed their course at sea.”
There was silence in the great hall.
“So we have lost them?” A single frown-line knit the perfect brow of the Lady Nerinil, who spoke for the surviving members of the House of Numireth.
“Yes.” Ingolin bowed his head to her. “For now. If they are bound for Port Calibus, we will intercept them there. If not—”
“Lord Ingolin, we know where they are bound. All signs point to Beshtanag.” Aracus Altorus flattened his hands in a patch of blue light atop the table. “The question is whether or not the Rivenlost and our allies dare to challenge the Sorceress of the East.” His face was hard with resolve. “Ingolin, I fear the Sorceress and the Soumanië she wields, that we must face without the aid of Malthus the Counselor. I fear the Dragon of Beshtanag in his ancient lair. But I fear more hearing you say, ‘hope dwindles.” He raised his chin an inch, sunlight making a brightness of his red-gold hair. “Cerelinde lives, Ingolin. The Prophecy lives, and where there is life, there is hope. The Borderguard of Curonan will not despair.”