“Hold on,” Dani repeated, coiling the rope. “A little while.”
The words of the Song of Being whispered through his mind as he worked. Although his lips were silent, he spoke them with his fingertips, plaiting grass into rope; each strand, each loop, each growing inch a prayer to Uru-Alat. He did not measure a second time. The rope was a prayer. It would be as long as the prayer. That was the length that was needed.
When it was done, he knelt beside the shaft and lowered the rope. Wedged between the walls, Uncle Thulu braced himself in place with his legs and lashed the rope around his waist, tying it securely.
“Ready?” Dani called.
Thulu nodded. “Ready.”
Dani got to his feet. He could feel the words of the Song of Being beneath his hands, chanting in his veins. As he hauled, slowly and steadily, hand over hand, he listened to them. There was wisdom in them, old Ngurra had said; the secrets of Life and Death, twined together in the death of Uru-Alat the World God and the birth of the world. Dani was not wise enough to understand them. But he was trying.
It was part of the Bearer’s burden.
Arahila’s moon was riding low when Thulu clambered clear of the shaft. As Dani had done, he could do no more than roll onto the grass and stare at the stars. For his part, Dani dropped where he stood and sat heavily in the grass. He felt as though his limbs were made of stone. It was a long time before he could summon the strength to speak. “Where are we, Uncle?”
Thulu sat up with an effort, rubbing the aching, cramped muscles of his legs and glanced around him. “The plains of Curonan, lad.”
“And Darkhaven?”
Thulu pointed westward across the plains, toward the distant mountains that rose, black and jagged, blotting out the stars. “There.”
The candles burned low in Hyrgolf’s chamber, until the rocky niches held little more than blue flames dancing above puddles of tallow. For long hours, they had conferred on matters regarding the defense of Darkhaven; the posting of sentries, scouting parties of Gulnagel, inspections of the tunnels, manning of the fortifications, battletactics useful against Men and Ellylon and Dwarfs. The night was already old when Hyrgolf rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a half-empty skin of svartblod.
“General,” he said, holding it forth in one enormous hand. “Drink.”
Tanaros hesitated, then accepted it. Uncorking the skin, he took a deep swig. It burned all the way down to his belly, and the foul taste made his eyes water. “My thanks!” he gasped, handing it back.
The Tungskulder Fjel studied him. “I have never smelled fear on you before.”
“Fear.” Tanaros gave a harsh laugh, his throat seared by the svartblod’s heat. “Hyrgolf, my skin crawls with it. There is too much I mislike afoot in this place.”
“The Dreamspinner’s betrayal troubles you,” Hyrgolf said.
“Yes.” Tanaros met his eyes; the Fjel’s familiar gaze, small as a boar’s and steady as a rock. “More than I can say, for I fear there is reason in his madness. Would you do such a thing, Hyrgolf? Would you defy his Lordship’s will and betray his wishes if it would avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single stroke?”
“No,” Hyrgolf said simply. “I do not have the wisdom to meddle in the affairs of Shapers. The Fjel made their choice long ago, General. Haomane’s Prophecy binds us to it.” He smiled with hideous gentleness. “How did you tell me it went? The Fjeltroll shall fall.”
“Yet you do not fear,” Tanaros murmured.
“Death in battle?” Hyrgolf shook his massive head. “No, not that. Lord Satoris …” He paused, raising the skin to drink. “He made us a promise, once. He said one day Men would covet our gifts.” Lowering the skin, he handed it back to Tanaros. “He said Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped us well.”
“She did.” Tanaros took another scalding swig. “She did at that, Marshal.” He wiped his lips and sighed. “Do you think we are so different in the end, Hyrgolf? You and I, Haomane’s Allies?”
“No.” The Fjel shrugged his heavy shoulders, gazing past Tanaros at the crudely carved rhios in a niche behind one of the dwindling candles. His boy’s first effort. Not bad for a mere pup, eh? “Not in the end, General.” He smiled ruefully, a shadow beneath the dense ridge of his brow. “Problem is, we seem to be somewhere in the middle, don’t we?”
“Aye.” Tanaros got unsteadily to his feet, returning the skin to Hyrgolf. He clapped one hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, reassured by the solid warmth of it, the unwavering loyalty. “His Lordship has the right of it, Hyrgolf. Even now, I envy you.”
“General.” Hyrgolf heaved his massive body upright. His taloned hands were surprisingly delicate as they closed around Tanaros’ arm. “Go, and sleep. You have need of it. His Lordship has need of you.”
“He entrusted me with his honor,” Tanaros whispered.
“Aye.” Hyrgolf nodded. “He is wise that way. And you entrust us with yours.”
Tanaros shivered. “At what price, Hyrgolf?”
The Fjel smiled one last time, sad and slow. “I do not think that is ever given to us to know, General. We rejoice in it, for it is all we have, all we have chosen.” He gave Tanaros a gentle shove, and the advice given to the rawest of recruits. “Go now, and sleep. You will feel better once the battle is joined.”
Tanaros went, stumbling slightly. Outside, the cold air struck like a blow, diminishing the intoxicating effects of the svartblod he had drunk. He gazed at the horizon, where Arahila’s moon swam low, a tarnished silver coin, and remembered the night his Lordship had first called them to the tower to see the red star that had arisen. His soft words, the pain in his voice.
Oh, Arahila!
“Why didn’t you stay at his side?” Tanaros, wavering on his feet, addressed the moon. “You, any of you! Neheris, whom the Fjel still worship! Were you frightened? Is that it? Was Haomane Lord-of-Thought that powerful? What did you know that his Lordship did not?”
There was no answer, only a pair of Mørkhar Fjel on patrol, confirming his identity and giving him a wide berth.
Tanaros laughed softly. The air was cold, but the svartblod in his veins insulated him from it. Although he was not drunk, his flesh felt warm. “Or what did he know that Haomane First-Born did not?” he asked the moon. “Tell me that, O my Shaper!”
Light, only light; the light of the Souma, a lesser light, but no less lovely for it. It shed its silent benison. Things grew by it; things that blossomed in his Lordship’s gardens. Tanaros sighed and set his feet on a homeward course.
“He loves you still,” he informed the moon, glancing over his shoulder. “But he has made his choices. As I have made mine, as the Fjel have made theirs. The difference is, we made them freely. And he allowed us to do it. The Lord-of-Thought would not have done as much.”
The moon, the beautiful moon, made no reply.
FOURTEEN
Dawn broke over the plains of Curonan, a glorious and terrifying sight. The sun’s red orb crept slowly over the eastern horizon, staining the waving grass until it resembled a sea of blood. To the west, the mountains of Gorgantum threw up a defiant challenge, their implacable peaks shrouded in darkness.
At night, drenched in silvery moonlight, the plains had been a safe and magical place. It was different by daylight, with the eye of Haomane’s Wrath opening in the east and the baleful shadow of Gorgantum to the west. Caught between the two on the vast, open space of the plains, Dani felt horribly conspicuous.