“His Lordship knows,” Tanaros said. “And Malthus.”
Their eyes met, then; Man and Fjel, hearing a common enemy named.
“Malthus,” Hyrgolf rumbled, deep in his chest. The Wise Counselor, Wielder of the Soumanië, last of three, last and greatest of Haomane’s Shapings. “Well, there is Malthus, General, I don’t deny you that. But he is only one, now, and we have among us the Three.”
Tanaros, Vorax, Ushahin.
“Pray that we are enough,” Tanaros said.
“That I do, General,” said the Fjeltroll. “That I do.”
Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven, walked alone to his quarters, a stone the size of an egg in his pocket.
From time to time, he touched it for reassurance.
Elsewhere in the land of Urulat, flames burnt low and dwindled in their lamps in the archives of Meronil, housed in the Hall of Ingolin, where an elderly figure in scholar’s robes bent over a hide-bound tome, muttering. The lamplight caught in his grey, tangled beard, cast shadows in the deep lines of his face, marking them in contrast to the splendid treasures that gleamed about him, housed in the archives for safekeeping.
Footsteps, slow and measured, quiet on the elegant carpets.
“Old friend,” said Ingolin, the last Lord of the Ellylon. “You should rest.”
The head lifted, sharp nose pointing, eyes fierce under heavy brows. “You know why I do not.”
“It is a day for rejoicing, old friend,” the Ellyl reminded him.
Malthus the Counselor laughed without mirth. “Can you tell me how to quench the marrow-fire, Ingolin the Wise? Can you render the unknown known?”
“You know I cannot.” There was calm acceptance in the Ellyl’s reply. In the manner of his people he had lived a long time, and knew the limits of his own knowledge. “Still, Cerelinde has unbent at long last, and Aracus Altorus has bowed his House’s ancient pride. Love, it seems, has found them. A piece of the Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and the Rivenlost endure. May we not rejoice in it?”
“It is not enough.”
“No.” Ingolin glanced unthinking to the west, where Dergail’s Soumanië had arisen. “Old friend,” he asked, and his voice trembled for the first time in centuries. “Do you hold the answers to these questions you ask?”
“I might,” Malthus the Counselor said slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, fixing the Lord of the Ellylon with a hawk’s stare. “I might. But the way will be long and difficult, and there are many things of which I am unsure.”
Ingolin spread his hands. “The aid of the Rivenlost is yours, Malthus. Only tell us how we might serve.”
“You can’t, old friend,” said Malthus the Counselor. “That’s the problem.”
In another wing of the Hall of Ingolin, a fire burned low in the great hearth. Cerelinde, the granddaughter of Elterrion, gazed at it with unseeing eyes and thought about the deed to which she had committed herself this day.
She was the Lady of the Ellylon, the last scion of the House of Elterrion. By the reckoning of her people, she was young, born after the Sundering of the world, after the grieving Ellylon had taken the name Rivenlost unto themselves. Her mother had been Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Ellylon, and she had died in childbirth. Her father had been Celendril of the House of Numireth the Fleet, and he had fallen in battle against Satoris Banewreaker in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.
If the courage of Men had not faltered that day, her father might have lived. Haomane’s Allies might have triumphed that day, and the world been made whole.
She had never known the glory of the Souma and Haomane’s presence, only the deep, enduring ache of their absence.
That bitter knowledge had dwelled in her while generations were born and died, for, by the reckoning of Men, she was timeless. She had watched, century upon century, the proud Kings of Altoria; Altorus’ sons, as they grew to manhood and took their thrones, made love and war and boasts, withered and died. She had watched as they disdained their ancient friendship with the Ellylon, watched as Satoris Banewreaker calculated his vengeance and shattered their kingdom. She had stopped watching, then, as the remnants of a once-mighty dynasty dwindled into the Borderguard of Curonan.
Then Aracus had come; Aracus Altorus, who had been tutored by Malthus the Counselor since he was a lad. Like her, he was the last of his line.
And he was different from those who had come before him.
She had known it the moment she laid eyes upon him. Unlike the others, the Kings of Altoria in all their glory, Aracus was aware of the brevity of his allotted time; had measured it against the scope of the Sunderer’s plan and determined to spend it to the greatest effect. She had seen it in his face, in the wide-set, demanding gaze.
He understood the price both of them would have to pay.
And something in her had … quickened.
In the hall outside the hearth chamber she heard the sound of his bootheels striking the white marble floors, echoing louder than any Ellyl’s tread. She heard the quiet murmur of words exchanged with Lord Ingolin’s guards. And then he was there, standing before the hearth, the scent of horses and leather and night air clinging to his dun-grey cloak. He had ridden hard to return to her side. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with weariness.
“Cerelinde.”
“Aracus.”
She stood to greet him. He was tall for a Man and their eyes were on a level. She searched his face. In the dim firelight, it was strange to see the glint of red-gold stubble on his chin. He was Arahila’s Child, and not of her kind.
“Is it done?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said. “The Borderguard carry word of our betrothal.”
Cerelinde looked away. “How long before it reaches the Sunderer’s ears?”
“It has done so.” He took her hand. “Cerelinde,” he said. “The Sunderer flaunts his defiance. The red star of war has risen. I saw it as I rode.”
Her fingers trembled in his grasp. “So quickly!”
His voice grew softer. “You know what is said, my lady. One of the Three stalks the dreams of mortal Men.”
“The Misbegotten.” Cerelinde shuddered.
Aracus nodded. “Aye.”
Cerelinde gazed at their joined hands. His fingers were warm and calloused, rough against her soft skin. It seemed she could feel his lifeblood pulse through them, urgent and mortal, calling to her. She tried not to think of Ushahin the Misbegotten, and failed.
“Our children …” she murmured.
“No!” Aracus breathed the word, quick and fierce. His grip tightened, almost painful. Lifting her head, she met his eyes. “They will not be like that one,” he said. “Wrenched forth from violence and hatred, cast out and warped. We honor the Prophecy. Our children will be conceived in love, in accordance with Haomane’s will, and Arahila’s.”
She laid her free hand upon his chest. “Love.”
“Aye, lady.” He covered her hand with his own, gazing at her. “Never less. I swear it to you. Though my heart beats to a swift and mortal tune, it beats true. And until I die, it lies in your keeping.”
“Ah, Aracus!” His name caught in her throat. “We have so little time!”
“I know,” he murmured. “All too well, I know.”
Elsewhere on Urulat, night crept westward.
Slowly, it progressed, a gilt edge fading to the blue of twilight, drawing a cloak of darkness behind it. Where it passed—over the fields and orchards of Vedasia, over the dank marshes of the Delta, over Harrington Inlet, across the Unknown Desert and Staccia and Seahold and Curonan—the stars emerged in its wake.