It was thrice a hundred paces to walk the length of the Throne Hall. The torches burned with a fierce glare, sending gouts of marrow-fire toward the rafters, casting stark shadows. His Lordship sat unmoving in his carnelian throne. Godslayer shone in his hands, and upon his head was the Helm of Shadows.
The sight of it struck Tanaros like a blow. It was never easy to bear, and hardest of all when Lord Satoris wore it, for it was tuned to the pitch of his despair—of the knowledge he alone bore, of the role he was fated to play. Of the anguish of a brother’s enmity, of the loss of a sister’s love. Of immortal flesh seared and blackened, of Godslayer’s prick and his unhealing wound. Of generation upon generation of mortal hatred, eroding the foundations of his sanity.
There was a new pain filling the dark eyeholes: the agony of betrayal, the whirlwind of fury and remorse bound inextricably together, tainted with self-loathing. Tanaros felt tears sting his eyes, and his heart swelled within the constraint of his brand.
“Tanaros Blacksword.” Lord Satoris’ voice was low and weary.
“My Lord!” He knelt, the words bursting fiercely from him. “My Lord, I swear, I will never betray you!”
Beneath the shadow of the Helm, the Shaper’s features shifted into something that might have been a bitter smile. “You have seen the Dreamspinner.”
“He should never have defied your will.” Tanaros gazed up at the aching void. “He should never have added to your pain, my Lord.”
The Shaper bowed his head, studying Godslayer as the shard pulsed between his hands, emitting a rubescent glow. “It was not without reason,” he mused. “And yet … ah, Tanaros! Is there no way to survive without becoming what they name me? I have fought so hard for so long. Ushahin Dreamspinner sought to take the burden on himself, but there is no escaping the pattern of destiny. Oh, loving traitor, traitorous love!” He gave a harsh echoing laugh, making the torches flare. “It is always the wound that cuts the deepest.”
Tanaros frowned. “My Lord?”
“Pay me no heed.” Lord Satoris passed one hand before his helm-shadowed eyes. “I am in darkness, my faithful general. I am surrounded by it. It is all I see, and it grows ever deeper. Pay me no heed. It is your time that is coming, the time of the Three. It is for this that I summoned you, so many years ago. I wonder, betimes, which one …” Glancing at Godslayer, he paused and gathered himself. “Vorax reports that it was done and the Staccian traitors dispatched. Have you ensured that the tunnels have been sealed?”
“Aye, my Lord.” Tanaros touched the hilt of his sword for comfort, feeling its familiar solidity. “I pray you, know no fear. Darkhaven is secure.”
“That is good, then.” The Shaper’s head fell back onto his carnelian throne as though it cost him too much to keep it upright. His shadowed eyes glimmered in the uptilted sockets of the Helm. He held Godslayer loosely in his grip. “Tell me, my faithful general. Did I ask it, did I return Godslayer to the Font, would you swear your oath anew?”
Tanaros stared at the beating heart of the dagger; the rough knob of the hilt, the keen edges, ruby-bright and sharp as a razor. The scar on his chest ached at the memory. It had hurt when his Lordship had plucked the dagger from the marrow-fire and seared his flesh with the pact of binding—more than any mortal fire, more than any pain he had ever known. He raised his gaze. “I would, my Lord.”
“Loyal Tanaros,” Lord Satoris whispered. “It is to you I entrust my honor.”
“My Lord.” Tanaros bowed his head.
The Shaper gave another laugh, weary and edged with despair. “It is no boon I grant, but a burden. Go, now, and tend to your duties. I must … I must think.” He glanced once more at Godslayer, a bitter resentment in his gaze. “Yes, that is it. I must think.”
“Aye, my Lord.” Rising to his feet, Tanaros bowed and made to take his leave.
“Tanaros.” The whisper stopped him.
“My Lord?”
Beneath the Helm, the Shaper’s shadowed features shifted. “Teach the Dreamspinner to hold a blade,” he said softly. “He may have need of the knowledge before the end.”
TWELVE
Days passed in Meronil.
One, Lilias discovered, was much like the other. Sometimes the days were clear and the sun outside her tall windows sparkled on the Aven River far below. Betimes it rained; a gentle rain, silvery-grey, dappling the river’s surface.
Little else changed.
There was no news; or if there was, no one did her the courtesy of telling her. Still, she did not think there was. It was too soon. Somewhere to the north, Haomane’s Allies would be converging, gathering to march across the plains of Curonan and wage their great war. But in the west, the red star still rose in the evenings, a harbinger unfulfilled. It seemed so very long ago that she had watched it rise for the first time.
What does it mean, Calandor?
Trouble.
She had been afraid, then, and for a long time afterward. No longer. Everything she had feared, every private terror, had come to pass. Now there was only waiting, and the slow march of mortality.
She wondered what would happen in the north, but it was a distant, impersonal curiosity. Perhaps Satoris Banewreaker would prevail; perhaps he would restore her to Beshtanag. After all, she had kept their bargain. Perhaps he would even return into her keeping the Soumanië that she had wielded for so long, although she suspected not. No, he would not give such a gift lightly into mortal hands.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered without Calandor.
How was it that in Beshtanag, days had passed so swiftly? Days had blended into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. A decade might pass in what seemed, in hindsight, like the blink of an eye. Ah, but it was a dragon’s eye, slow-lidded and amused, filled with amusement born of fathomless knowledge, gathered since before Shapers strode the earth.
Here, the days passed slowly.
Meronil was filled with women. There were a few men of the Rivenlost; an honor guard, rudimentary and sparse. Lilias watched them from her window as they passed, riding astride without need for saddle or reins. They looked stern and lovely in their bright armor. She wondered at their being left behind; wondered if they had volunteered, if they had been injured in previous battles. Perhaps they were reckoned too young to be on the front lines of a dire war; it was hard to gauge their age.
Mostly, though, there were women.
No children, or none that she saw. Few, precious few, children had been born to the Rivenlost in the last Age of Urulat. Few children had ever been born to the Ellylon; Haomane’s Children, created by the Lord-of-Thought, who had rejected the Gift of his brother Satoris Third-Born.
And for that he was worshipped.
The thought made Lilias shake her head in bemusement. She did not understand—would never understand. How was it that Men and Ellylon alike refused to see that behind their endless quarrels lay the Shapers’ War? It was pride, nothing but pride and folly; two things she had cause to know well.
The women of Meronil spoke seldom to her. There were handmaidens who tended to her needs; Eamaire and others, who brought food, clean water to bathe, linens for her bed. They no longer bothered with disdain, which in some ways was even harder to bear. Captive and abandoned, her power broken, Lilias was beneath their notice; a burden to be tended, nothing more.