Beneath her horse’s hooves, the edge of the path crumbled, sending stones tumbling into the Defile. Tanaros checked his black violently, and it shied against the cliff wall. Ahead of them, Thorun whirled into action, spinning to grab at Cerelinde’s bridle, wedging his bulk between her and the sheer drop. Pebbles gave way as his taloned toes gripped the verge of the path and his eyetusks showed in a grimace as he urged her mount to solid ground by main force, shoving his shoulder against its flank, hauling himself after it
“My thanks,” Cerelinde gasped.
Thorun grunted, nodding, and resumed his plodding pace.
For a time, then, Tanaros rode behind her, watching the shine of her hair, that hung like an Ellyl banner down her spine. Downward wound the path, then upward, winding around another peak. And down again, where the river-basin broadened. Soon they would enter the Weavers’ Gulch. He dug his heels into the black’s sides, jogged his mount alongside hers.
“How does it feel, then, to owe your life to a Fjeltroll?” he asked her.
Cerelinde did not spare him a glance. “You brought me here, Tanaros.”
“Of course.” He bowed from the saddle, mocking. “Proud Haomane will suffer no rivals. Like the Fjel, my Lord Satoris should have remained content with his lot.”
Ahead, the low river-bottom opened onto a narrow gorge. It was flat, as flat as anything might be in the Defile. The dank trickle of water intensified. This was water tainted by the ichor of Satoris the Shaper, seeping slow and dark. It reeked of blood, only sweeter. The walls of the gorge loomed high on either side, strung across with webs like sticky veils,
One by one, the Kaldjager Fjel parted the veils and entered. Ushahin Dreamspinner passed into the gorge, seemingly unperturbed. At the rear of the company, the Staccians mingled with Hyrgolf’s Tungskulder Fjel and made uneasy jests in their own tongue, awaiting their turn.
“What is this place?” Cerelinde asked, her voice low.
“It is the Weavers’ Gulch.” Tanaros shrugged. “There are creatures in Urulat upon whom the Shapers have not laid hands, Lady. In these, my Lord is interested. Do you fear them? They will do us no harm if we leave them undisturbed.”
At the entrance, Thorun waited for them, holding back the skeins of sticky filament so they might pass untouched. A small grey spider scuttled over the gnarled knuckles of his hand. Another descended on a single thread, hovering inches above his head, minute legs wriggling.
Cerelinde looked at what lay beyond and closed her eyes. “I cannot do this.”
“I’m sorry, Lady.” It had turned his stomach, too, the first time. Tanaros touched his sword-hilt. “But willing or unwilling, you will go.”
At the threat, she opened her eyes to regard him. She was Ellylon, and the fineness of her features, the clear luminosity of her skin, were a silent reproach, a reminder that he aspired to that which was beyond him.
Tanaros clenched his teeth. “Go!”
Drawing her hood, the Lady Cerelinde entered the Weavers’Gulch.
ELEVEN
“Here’s a good spot, lieutenant.”
Crawling on his belly, Carfax made his way to Hunric’s side. Saw-toothed blades of sedge grass caught at him, sweat trickled into his eyes and midges buzzed in his ears. He fought the urge to swat at them.
“Hear that, sir?” The tracker laid his ear flat to the ground. “They’ll be along presently. It’s a small company, I’m thinking.”
Carfax rubbed at the sweat on his brow with the heel of his hand, leaving a grimy streak. “As long as they can’t see us.”
“Not here.” Hunric glanced at him. “Long as we stay quiet. It’s tall grass, and we’ve a clear sight-line to the verge, there. Lay low and you’ll see, Lieutenant.”
Overhead, the sun was relentless. One forgot, in Darkhaven, how bright it could be—and how hot. It had made him squint at first and, despite many days on the road, he had not fully adjusted to it. A moist heat arose from the earth, smelling of roots. Carfax was aware of his own odor, too, rank as a badger, and Hunric no better. A good tracker, though, the best in the company. In Staccia, he could track a snow-fox through a blizzard. Pity there wasn’t a blizzard here. The place could use one. Or a good hard frost, like Vilbar had said. It wouldn’t be so bad, hoar-frost glistening on the sedge grass, every blade frozen …
“Sssst!”
Hoofbeats, and a single voice raised in tuneless song, the words unfamiliar. Plastered to the earth, Carfax squinted through the tall grass and caught himself before he whistled in amazement.
“What the sodding hell?” Hunric whispered.
Seven strangers, traveling in company, led by a bearded old man in scholars’ robes, astride what was clearly the best horse in the lot. An Ellyl, who traveled on foot, stepping lightly, with that annoying air of his kind. A young man sweltering in the armor of a Vedasian knight, ill-fitting and much-mended. Another, older, dun-cloaked and watchful.
“Borderguard,” Carfax muttered. “That one’s from Curonan.”
“Blaise Caveros?” Hunric’s eyes widened. Everyone in Darkhaven knew that General Tanaros’ distant kinsman was second-in-command among the Borderguard.
“Could be.”
“Then that’s—”
“Malthus’ Company.” Carfax studied the remaining three. One, to his surprise, was a woman; clad in leathers, a quiver and an unstrung bow at her back. An Archer of Arduan. And good, too. She would have to be. The carcasses of three ravens dangled from her saddle, tied by their feet, a sad bundle of black feathers. But the others … he frowned.
“Charred Folk,” Hunric murmured. “Heard tell of those, Lieutenant.”
Indeed they were, their skins a scorched shade of brown. It was one of the two who was singing tunelessly, riding astride a pack mule, clad only in a threadbare breechclout. From time to time he patted his brown, swelling gut, punctuating his song. Carfax, listening to the incomprehensible words, found himself thinking of water, flowing the hidden pathways of Urulat, coursing like blood in the veins, racing from the leaping snowmelt of a swollen Staccian river to sink torpid in the Delta, bearing life in all its forms …
“One’s scarce more’n a boy,” Hunric observed.
Last among them, a wide-eyed youth, wiry and dark as sin, perched uneasily atop a pony. Something hung about his throat; a flask of fired clay, strung on corded vine. He was the one the Borderguardsman shadowed, unobtrusively wary in his dun cloak.
Small hairs stirred at the back of Carfax’s neck.
He felt a chill, like a wish granted.
“Hunric,” he whispered, his mouth dry. “They’re not following us, and they didn’t come from the Traders’ Road. Or if they did, it was only long enough to buy mounts. They came from the Unknown. This is the Prophecy at work. And whoever sent the ravens, whether it was the Dreamspinner or Lord Satoris, they failed.”
Side by side in the sedge grass, they stared at one another.
“What do we do, Lieutenant?”
It was a gift, an unlooked-for blessing. Malthus’ Company, crossing their path unaware. Three dead ravens, tied by their feet; it meant no one in Darkhaven knew anything of this. Carfax licked his dry lips. There were only seven of them, and two, surely, were no warriors. What about the Counselor? Malthus had fought at the Battle of Curonan, had nearly slain Lord Satoris himself. If the news of Dergail’s fall had not caused the armies of Men to falter, he might even have prevailed.
But he had borne the Spear of Light, then.
He wasn’t carrying it now.
And where was the Soumanië? Mayhap he didn’t bear it, either. It would be foolish, after all, to risk such a treasure on an ill-protected journey. Mayhap, Carfax thought, Malthus had entrusted the Soumanië to the keeping of Ingolin the Wise, who would keep it safe in Meronil. After all, this mission was undertaken in secrecy. And if it were so …