“Lorenlasse.” Peldras touched the Ellyl warrior’s arm. “Listen—”
“Let me be, kinsman.” Lorenlasse shook off his touch.
“Child.” Malthus’ voice, gaining in power, rolled around the confines of the tent. He closed the lid of the coffer with a thud, extinguishing the light of the tourmaline. “Haomane’s Child. Do not mistake what we do here! Our hopes ride upon the Bearer as surely as they do upon the Lady; indeed, even more.”
Lorenlasse of Valmaré stared at him with bright Ellyl eyes. “It is too small a hope, Counselor.”
“No.” Malthus spoke the word softly, and although he damped the power in his voice, it surged through his being, emanating from the Soumanië on his breast. He laughed; an unexpected sound, free and glad, his arms spreading wide. Despite fear, despite sorrow, he opened his arms in embrace. The light he had quenched upon closing the coffer resurged threefold, dazzling, from the clear Soumanië. “No, Haomane’s Child. While hope lives, it is never too small.”
They believed, then; they hoped. All around the tent, backs straightened and eyes kindled. Only Aracus Altorus sighed, bowing his red-gold head. A mortal Man, he felt the burden of those lives he must send into battle.
“Counselor,” he said heavily. “It is in my heart that you are right. The Bearer’s quest is his own, and there is no aid we may give him. All we can do is afford him the opportunity, by pursuing our own goals.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “At least insofar as we may. The Sunderer has had many years in which to render Darkhaven unassailable.”
A silence followed his words, but Malthus smiled and the clear light of his Soumanië was undimmed. “Trust me, Son of Altorus,” he said. “I know Satoris Banewreaker. I have a plan.”
They fled for several leagues before they rested, following the hidden route of the White River, which went to earth outside Neherinach. Once they did, Dani found himself shuddering all over. He felt unfamiliar in his own skin. Within his narrow breast, his heart pounded like a drum.
He could not forget it, the sight of the vines coming to life, engulfing the Fjeltroll. Rampant life, breeding death. Dragging them down, one by one, stopping their mouths, piercing their entrails. It must have been a horrible death. He did not like to imagine it.
But they had killed his people.
Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?
He hadn’t.
No one remembered the Yarru. Even Haomane First-Born had forgotten them, bent on pursuing his vengeance. It didn’t matter. The Yarru had survived, and understood. It was the Shapers’ War. They had fled beneath the earth and forgiven Haomane his Wrath; they had understood. That was the greater knowledge with which they had been charged, the understanding of how Uru-Alat, dying, had Shaped the world. And of the Well of the World, and what it meant
Dani had not reckoned on Satoris’ anger.
He willed his trembling to subside, his breathing to slow. At his side, Uncle Thulu did the same. They had not spoken to one another since Neherinach. Now his uncle glanced sidelong at him, a slow smile spreading over his face. He patted himself down, feeling for wounds and finding none.
“Well done, lad,” he said. “Well done!”
“Was it?” Dani murmured.
Uncle Thulu frowned at him. “Would you have done elsewise?”
“No.” Dani shivered, remembering the way the vinewrapped Fjeltroll had rolled his eyes to meet his when he had plucked the vial from its palm. It had spoken the common tongue. He hadn’t expected that. Malthus should have warned him. They were more than mere beasts.
Killers, nonetheless.
Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions.
He shivered harder, wrapping his arms around himself, wondering how they had died. Quickly, he hoped. The Fjeltroll had offered him as much.
There was no pursuit; not that day, nor the next. They turned southward, making their way through a dense forest of spruce. The trees were ancient, their trunks covered with green moss, so vast Dani and Thulu could not have encircled them with joined arms. Ferns grew thick on the forest floor, turning brown and brittle with the advent of autumn. It was hard to walk without them crackling underfoot. With each crunching footfall, Dani felt the skin between his shoulder blades prickle.
Still, they saw no Fjeltroll. On the third day, they learned why.
No boundary stone marked the border between Fjel territory and Staccia, a nation of Men. They had no way of knowing they had crossed it until they emerged from the forest to find a vast structure of grey stone; a stone Keep, built by Men’s hands. Dani froze, staring at it uncomprehending. After endless days without a glimpse of human life, something so big seemed impossible.
“Back into the woods, lad,” Uncle Thulu muttered. “Quick and quiet, before we’re seen!”
Too late. Behind them, the ferns crackled.
“Vas leggis?” It was a woman’s voice, sharp with anger. “Vas jagen?”
Dani turned slowly, showing his open hands. The woman was young, scarce older than he, clad in leather hunting gear, with blonde hair tied in a braid. As she glared at him, he saw fear and confusion in her face; but it was resolute, too. She reminded him a little bit of Fianna, for she held a hunting bow, an arrow nocked and aimed at his heart, and he did not doubt that she knew how to use it.
“I am sorry,” he said in the common tongue. “We do not speak your language. We are lost. We will go.” Moving cautiously, he tapped his chest then pointed into the forest. “We will go, leave.”
“No.” She shook her head, gesturing toward the Keep with the point of her arrow. Her brow furrowed as she searched for words. “Go there.”
Dani glanced at his uncle.
“Go there!” The arrow gestured with a fierce jerk.
“I don’t think she means to give us a choice, lad,” Uncle Thulu said.
If his skin had prickled in the forest, it was nothing to what he felt here, crossing open territory with the point of a drawn arrow leveled at his back. The Keep loomed before them, grey and ominous. A reek of charred wood was in the air, as though a hundred campfires had been extinguished at once.
As they drew nearer, Dani saw the source. There was a wooden building in the courtyard, or had been, once. Where the foundation had stood, there was nothing but a heap of ash and debris, strewn with scorched beams. He touched the vial at his throat for reassurance, glancing over his shoulder at the woman. “What happened here?”
She stared at him. “Fjeltroll.”
At the tall doors of the Keep, she rapped for entry, speaking in Staccian to the woman who opened the spy-hole to peer out at her. The spy-hole was closed, and they waited. Dani eyed the doors. They were wrought of massive timbers, wood from the forest. Here and there, pale gouges showed where Fjel talons had scored them.
“I thought the Fjeltroll and the Staccians were allies,” he whispered to his uncle.
“So did I,” Uncle Thulu whispered back. “Keep quiet, lad; wait and see.”
The doors were unbarred and flung open with a crash. Dani jumped and felt the point of an arrow prod his back. Their captor repeated her words, mangling the syllables with her thick accent. “You go there!”
They entered the Keep.
Inside, a dozen women awaited them, hands grasping unfamiliar weapons. Dani glanced about him. Women, all women. Where were the men? There were only women. From what little he knew of life outside the desert, the genders did not dwell apart any more than they did within it. On each of their faces, he saw the same emotions manifested: a resolute anger, belying the shock and horror that lay beneath it.