“No!” The word exploded from his lips. He took a slow breath, bracing his hands on his knees. “No,” he repeated more gently. “Do you think I don’t know, Lady? An ordinary cuckold’s life, with all the small shames and painful sympathies attendant upon it. Believe me, I know what I abandoned”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Cerelinde looked at his braced hands, then raised her gaze to his face. “Is that why you killed her?”
“No.” Tanaros lifted his hands, examining them in the dim lamplight. “I was angry.” He met her gaze. “I held her hand through the birth. I wept tears at her pain. It was only afterward, when I saw the babe. I saw his red hair, and I remembered. How she and Roscus had smiled at one another. How they had fallen silent when I entered a room. A thousand such incidents, meaningful only now. I asked her, and she denied it. Lied. She lied to me. It was not until my hands were at her throat that she confessed. By then, my anger had gone too far.” He paused. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Neither portion, I fear.”
“It is said the Ellylon cannot lie,” he mused. “Is it so?”
“We are Haomane’s Children,” Cerelinde said, perplexed. “The Lord-of-Thought Shaped us. To think is to speak; to speak is to be. How can we speak a thing that is not true? We might as well unmake ourselves. It is not a thing I can fathom.”
“Ah, well.” Tanaros gave her a twisted smile. “We are Arahila’s Children, and the truth of the heart does not always accord with that of the head. Be mindful of it, Lady, since you propose to wed one of us. If I am wrong, and we lose this coming war, it may matter.”
“Aracus would not lie,” she said certainly.
“Perhaps,” he said, echoing her words. “Perhaps not.”
Silence fell over the room like a shroud.
“Tanaros Kingslayer,” Cerelinde said aloud. “Do you lay that death, too, at anger’s doorstep? For it seems to me you must have loved him, once, for him to have wounded you so deeply.”
For a long time, he was silent. “Yes,” he said at length. “Anger, and love. It is the one that begat the other’s strength, Cerelinde. He was my liege-lord; and for many years, like unto a brother to me.” His mouth quirked into another bitter smile. “Do the Ellylon understand betrayal?”
“Yes.” She did not tell him what was in her mind; that the Ellylon had known betrayal at the hands of Men. So it had been, since before the world was Sundered. From the dawning of the Second Age of Urulat, Arahila’s Children had coveted the Gifts of Haomane’s. And they had made war upon the Ellylon, believing in their folly that a Shaper’s Gift could be wrested away by force. “We do.”
“So be it.” After considering her words, Tanaros give himself a shake, like a man emerging from a dream. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Lady. I did not come here to speak of such things.”
“What, then?” Cerelinde asked simply.
His dark gaze was steady and direct. “To assure you that I continue to vouch for the safety of your well-being. No more, and no less.”
She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“Well.” Tanaros flexed his hands upon his knees. He made to rise, then hesitated. “Lady … if it might please you, there is something I might show you outside the walls of Darkhaven proper. On the morrow, perhaps?”
Outside.
For the third time in the space of an hour, Cerelinde’s heart leapt. “Oh, yes,” she heard herself whisper. “Please.”
Tanaros rose, executing another crisp bow. “On the morrow, then.”
Like a good hostess, she saw him to the door. He paused only briefly, searching her face. Something haunted was in his gaze, something that had not been there before. Then he took his leave, averting his eyes. The Fjeltroll on duty saluted him in passing, closing the door upon his departure.
It locked with an audible sound, sealing Cerelinde into her quarters.
Left alone, she placed her hand upon the ironwood door, contemplating her outspread fingers.
“All together, now,” Speros said encouragingly. “That’s right, you’ve got it, lean on the lever. One, two, three … yes!” He let out a triumphant whoop as the great boulder settled into place with a resounding crash. “Oh, well done, lads!”
On the crude ramp, one of the Tordenstem let loose a reverberating howl, lofting the heavy, pointed log that had served as a lever. Delighted in their achievement, the others echoed his cry until loose pebbles rattled and the very air seemed to tremble.
Despite his aching eardrums, Speros grinned. “Hold on!” he shouted, prowling around the wooden rick on which the boulder rested. “Let’s be sure it will hold.”
It would. The thick branches groaned and the ropes lashing them together creaked, but in time they settled under the boulder’s weight, ceasing their complaint They would hold. High atop the crags above the Defile, Speros lay on his belly, squirming forward on his elbows, inching onto the overhanging promontory until he could peer over the edge.
Far, far below him lay the winding path that led along the desiccated riverbed. The mountains that Lord Satoris had erected around the Vale of Gorgantum were impassable, except perhaps to a determined Fjeltroll. With the tunnels blocked, the path was the only way into the Vale. If Haomane’s Allies sought to penetrate Darkhaven’s defenses, they would have to traverse it.
It would be difficult. Speros meant to make it impossible.
“Right.” He squirmed backward and got to his feet. “We’ll need to pile it high, with as much as it can hold. If we can get enough weight to take off the edge of this crag …” He made a chopping gesture with one hand. “It will block the path. But first we need to get our fulcrum in place.” He glanced around, seeking a smallish boulder. “How about that one?”
“Aye, boss!” A Tordenstem Fjel padded cheerfully down the log ramp. It dipped under his heavy tread. He splayed his legs and squatted, lowering his barrel chest near to the ground, and wrapped powerful arms around the rock. It came loose in a shower of pebbles. “Where do you want it?”
“Here.” Speros pointed to the spot.
The Fjel grunted and waddled forward. There was a second crash as he set down his burden at the base of the wooden rick. “There you are, then.”
“That’s done it. Shall we see if it will work?” Speros reclaimed the lever and tested it, lodging the pointed tip of the log beneath the mammoth boulder they had first moved. He positioned the midsection over the rock intended to serve as the fulcrum and leaned all his weight on the butt.
“Careful, boss,” one of the Tordenstem rumbled.
“Don’t worry.” Speros bounced on the lever. Nothing so much as shifted. “Can you move it, Gorek?”
The Fjel showed the tips of his eyetusks in a modest smile. “Like as not.” He approached the lever, taloned hands grasping the rough bark, and pushed.
It shifted, and the entire structure groaned.
“All right!” Speros said hastily. “One, then; or two of you at the most. We’ll work it out later. Come on, lads, let’s load the rick.”
Hoofbeats sounded along the path that led from Darkhaven proper as the Fjel formed a chain, piling the wooden rick high with loose rocks and stones. Speros went out to meet the approaching rider. And there was Tanaros, clad in black armor, all save his helmet, astride the black destrier he had claimed in the Midlands, surveying his—his—accomplishments.
“Lord General!” Speros felt his face split in another grin. “Do you see what we’ve done here?”
“Indeed.” Tanaros drew rein and took it in; the rick, the boulders, the lever, the Tordenstem padding their way up the crude ramp to deposit heavy stones. Dismounting, he strode to the edge of the promontory and gazed at the path below, gauging the trajectory. The wind stirred his dark hair. “Would it block the path entirely?”