“No, Blacksword. Not this. I’ve known about this for centuries.” Ushahin shook his head in disgust Ducking beneath Oronin’s outstretched arm, he opened the hidden door onto the passageways between the walls. “Come with me.”
Once behind the walls, he led with greater confidence, following a winding path with a shallow downward slope. The air grew closer and hotter the farther they went, then leveled once more. Tanaros followed without comment, his footsteps crunching on rubble. When they reached the rough-hewn chamber the madlings had claimed for their own, Tanaros paused. The madlings had not gathered here since the day Vorax had found them with the Lady of the Ellylon, and his Staccians had cleared much of the debris, but the evidence of their presence remained—scratched gibberish on the walls, overlooked candle-butts wedged into crevices.
Tanaros sighed. “Will you tell me this is his Lordship’s doing? I have spoken with Vorax, cousin; and I have spoken with Cerelinde, too. I know what happened here.”
“Oh, I know you’ve spoken with Cerelinde, cousin.” A dark tone edged Ushahin’s voice. “No, it’s not this. Further.”
They squeezed through a narrow portion of the passage. A few paces beyond it, the level path dropped into a sharp decline. Ushahin led them onward, down and down, until a blue-white glow was visible ahead, as bright and concentrated as the sculpted node of Godslayer’s dagger.
“Do you see it?” he asked.
“Aye.” Tanaros’ jaw was set and hard. “It is no more than Vorax told me.”
A roaring sound was in the air, and an acrid odor, like the breath of dragons. Ushahin grinned, his mismatched eyes glittering with reflected marrow-light. “Come see it, then.”
They descended the remainder of the way with Ushahin leading, sure-footed on the pathways that were his own, his aching joints at ease in the hot, stifling air. There, all the way to the bottom of the decline.
A new chasm had erupted.
There was the old one, patched over by Vorax’s Staccians. They had made a fair job of it for mortal Men. The old path was clearly visible, scuffed with gouges where a slab of stone had been dragged with great effort, capping the breach. It was braced by beams that had been soaked in water, already faintly charred by the heat of the marrow-fire, but holding. Rocks and rubble had filled the gaps.
And there, to the left of it—a gaping wound, emitting a violent, erratic light. Above it, a vaulted hollow soared. At the bottom, far, far below, the Source of the marrow-fire blazed and roared like a furnace. Heedless of danger, Tanaros stood at the edge and looked downward.
The sides of the sheer drop beneath his feet were jagged and raw. The marrow-fire was so bright it seared his eyes. He gazed upward, where his shadow was cast large and stark, flickering upon the hollow chamber of the ceiling. It, too, appeared new, as though hunks of rock had been sheared away.
Tanaros frowned. “There is some fault in the foundation that causes this. Small wonder, cousin, when it is built upon this.” He turned to Ushahin. “Have you spoken of it to his Lordship?”
“Yes,” Ushahin said simply.
“And?”
In the stifling heat, Ushahin wrapped his arms around himself as if to ward off a chill. His voice, when he answered, held an unwonted note of fear. “His Lordship says the foundation is sound.”
Tanaros returned his gaze to the fiery, seething depths of the chasm. For a long moment, he was silent. When he spoke, it was without turning. “I will ask again, Dream-spinner. What does this have to do with corruption?”
“There is a canker of brightness at the core of this place,” Ushahin said quietly. “Even as it festers in the thoughts of my madlings, even as it festers in your very heart, cousin, it festers in his Lordship’s soul, gnawing at his pride, driving him to stubborn folly. There is no fault in the structure, Blacksword. Lord Satoris is the foundation of Darkhaven. How plainly would you have me speak?”
“You speak treason,” Tanaros murmured.
“He caused rain to fall like acid.”
The words, filled with unspoken meaning, lay between them. Tanaros turned around slowly. His dark eyes were bright with tears. “I know,” he said. “I know. He had reason to be wroth, Ushahin!” He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “There is madness in fury, aye. No one knows it better than I. Everything I have, everything I am, his Lordship has made me. Would you have me abandon him now?”
“No!” Ushahin’s head jerked, his uneven eyes ablaze. “Do not mistake my meaning, cousin.”
“What, then?” Tanaros stared at him and shook his head. “No. Oh, no. This is not Cerelinde’s fault. She is a pawn, nothing more. And I will not gainsay his Lordship’s orders to indulge your hatred of the Ellylon, cousin.”
“It would preclude the Prophecy—”
“No!” Tanaros’ voice rang in the cavern, echoes blending into the roar of the marrow-fire. He pointed at Ushahin, jabbing his finger. “Do not think it, Dreamspinner. Mad or sane, his will prevails here. And, aye, his pride, too!” He drew a shaking breath. “Would you have him become less than Haomane? I will not ask his Lordship to bend his pride, not for your sake nor mine. It has kept him alive this long, though he suffers agonies untold with every breath he takes. Where would any of the Three be without it?”
“As for that, cousin,” Ushahin said in a low voice, “you would have to ask the Lady Cerelinde. It lies in the realm of what-might-have-been.” Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, touching his lids like a blind man. “So be it. Remember, one day, that I showed you this.”
Turning, he began to make his way back toward the upper reaches.
“I’ll bring Speros down to have a look at it,” Tanaros called after him. “He’s a knack for such things. It’s a flaw in the structure, Dreamspinner! No more and no less. You’re mad if you think otherwise!”
In the glimmering darkness, Ushahin gave his twisted smile and answered without pausing, the words trailing behind him. “Mad? Me, cousin? Oh, I think that should be the least of our fears.”
Lilias sat beside an open window.
The chambers to which she was confined in the Hall of Ingolin were lovely. The parlor, in which she sat, was bright and airy, encircled with tall windows that ended in pointed arches; twin panes that could be opened or closed, depending on whether one secured the bronze clasps that looked like vine-tendrils. The Rivenlost did love their light and open air.
A carpet of fine-combed wool lay on the floor, woven with an intricate pattern in which the argent scroll insignia of the House of Ingolin was repeated and intertwined. It gave off a faint, sweet odor when she walked upon it, like grass warmed by the sun.
In one corner of the parlor was a spinning-wheel. A bundle of the same soft, sweet-smelling wool lay in a basket beside it, untouched. Ellylon noblewomen took pride in their ability to spin wool as fine as silk.
There had been a spinning-wheel in Beshtanag. In a thousand years, she had scarce laid a hand to it.
On the southern wall was a shelf containing half a dozen books, bound in supple leather polished to a mellow gleam. They were Rivenlost volumes—an annotated history of the House of Ingolin, the Lost Voyage of Cerion the Navigator, the Lament of Neherinach—crisp parchment pages inscribed with Ellylon characters inked in a flowing hand. Although Calandor had taught Lilias to speak and read the Ellylon tongue, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to read any of them.