“It is his Lordship’s custom to send a madling at such times,” she said, temporizing. The prospect of being accompanied solely by the Fjel filled her with deep unease. Damaged and unpredictable though the madlings were, they were not without reverence for the Lady of the Ellylon.
The Havenguard’s features creased, his leathery upper lip drew back to reveal the tips of his eyetusks. “No more since one tried to kill you, Lady.”
On another race, the expression might have passed for a smile. Cerelinde studied him, wondering if it was possible that the Fjeltroll was amused. “What does his Lordship desire?”
The Havenguard shrugged, indicating the irrelevance of the question. He was Mørkhar Fjel, with a dark, bristling hide beneath the gleaming black armor. Whatever his Lordship ordered, he would do. “You.”
Cerelinde fought back a surge of fear and inclined her head. “As he commands.”
They led her through the halls of Darkhaven, along corridors of gleaming black marble, laced with the blue-white veins of the marrow-fire. Their heavy weapons, polished to a bright shine, rattled against their armor. She found herself wishing Tanaros was there, for the Fjel respected and obeyed him. They had no reverence for the Lady of the Ellylon, no awe. Other races among the Lesser Shapers held the Ellylon in high regard. Not so the Fjel, for whom they held little interest.
It was not that she felt it her due, but it was familiar; understood. There was a measure of comfort was in it.
What a terrible thing it was, Cerelinde thought, to be deprived of Haomane’s Gift, the gift of thought. She pitied the Fjel insofar as she was able. It was difficult to pity the pitiless, and the fierce Fjel seemed to her lacking in all sympathy, even for their own plight. It was Satoris’ doing, she supposed, but it made the Fjel no easier to comprehend. Envy, she understood. All of the Lesser Shapers envied Haomane’s Children, for the Chain of Being bound them but loosely and the light of the Souma was their birthright.
Disinterest was another matter, and incomprehensible.
She walked amid the Havenguard, feeling uncommonly small and insignificant. The least among them topped her by head and shoulders, and the Ellylon were a tall folk. Why had Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters seen fit to make her children so huge?
Such thoughts, while not comforting, were a welcome distraction, for altogether too soon they emerged through the middle of the threefold doors and descended the spiral stair into the Chamber of the Font. There it was, close and hot, reeking of ichor; the glittering Font, the beating ruby heart of Godslayer, the shadows crowding the corners. There he was, a shadow among shadows, speaking to the Fjel in their own guttural tongue, in a voice so low and resonant it lent a harsh beauty to the words. There were the Fjel, saluting and withdrawing. And then there was only Cerelinde and the Shaper.
“Cerelinde.” He said her name; only that The shadows sighed.
“My Lord.” She lifted her chin and sought not to tremble.
Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers, laughed, and the shadows laughed with him. It was a low laugh, insinuating. “Are you so afraid, Lady of the Ellylon? Have I been such a poor host?” He gestured toward a chair, shadows wreathing his arm. “Sit. I mean you no harm. I would but converse with you upon the eve of battle. Who understands it as do we two?”
Cerelinde sat stiffly. “Do you jest?”
“Jest?” His eyes gleamed out of the shadows, twin coals. “Ah, no, Daughter of Erilonde! I made you an offer, once. Do you recall it?”
She remembered the garden by moonlight, the Sunderer’s hand extended, its shadow stark upon the dying grass. What if I asked you to stay? Her own refusal, and the shivering sound of the sorrow-bells. “I do, my Lord.”
“We reap the fruits of our pride, Cerelinde.” He sighed. “And it is a bloody harvest. I ask again; who understands as do we two?”
“It is not pride, my Lord.” Cerelinde shook her head. “It is hope.”
“Hope?” he echoed.
“Hope.” She repeated the word more firmly. “For a world made whole, healed. For the Souma, made whole and glorious, and order restored. For the Lesser Shapers to become our better selves.” The words, the vision, gave her strength. She remembered a question Meara had posed her, and wondered if she dared to ask it after all. “What is it you are afraid to confront, my Lord?” Cerelinde asked, feeling the stir of ancient Ellylon magics creeping over her skin, the scant remnant of gifts the Rivenlost had ceded to the Sundering. “I, too, posed you a question. I do not believe you answered it.”
“Did I not?” the Shaper murmured.
What might-have-been …
Unexpectedly, Cerelinde found tears in her eyes. She swallowed. “Your crossroads, my Lord. There have been many, but only one is foremost. Three times, Haomane Lord-of-Thought asked you to withdraw your Gift from Arahila’s Children. I asked why you refused him, and you did not answer. Do”—she hesitated—“do you wish to know what might have been if you had acceded?”
Satoris lowered his head, and the shadows roiled. His shoulders hunched, emerging like dark hills from the shadowy sea. His hands knotted into fists, sinew crackling. There was another sound, deep and hollow and bitter, so filled with anger that it took Cerelinde a moment to recognize it as laughter.
“Ah, Cerelinde!” He raised his head. The embers of his eyes had gone out; they were only holes, empty sockets like the Helm of Shadows, filled with unspeakable sorrow. “Do you?”
“Yes.” She made herself hold his terrible gaze. “Yes, my Lord. I do wish to know. I am Haomane’s Child, and we do not thrive in darkness and ignorance.”
“Nothing,” the Shaper said softly. “Nothing, is the answer. I need no trifling Ellyl gift to tell me what I have known for far, far too long.”
“My Lord?” Cerelinde was perplexed.
“Not immediately.” He continued as though she had not spoken, turning his back upon her and pacing the confines of the chamber. “Oh, the world would have gone on for a time, Daughter of Erilonde; Urulat, rigid and fixed. An echelon of order in which Haomane’s Children reigned unchallenged, complacent in their own perfection. A sterile world, as sterile as I have become, ruled by the Lord-of-Thought, in which nothing ever changed and no thing, no matter what its passions, no being, no creature, sought to exceed its place. And so it would be, on and on and on, generation upon generation, age upon age, until the stars fell from the sky, and the earth grew cold, and died.” His voice raised a notch, making the walls tremble. “Is that what you wish?”
“No,” she whispered. “Yet—”
“Look!” Rage thundered in the air around him. He drew near, looming over her, smelling of blood and lightning. “Do you not believe me? Use your paltry Rivenlost magics, and see.”
Shrinking back in her chair, Cerelinde stared into his eyes and saw a barren landscape of cold stone, a dull grey vista stretching on endlessly. There were no trees, no grass, not even a trickle of water. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Nothing lived. Overhead there was only a void; perfect blackness, the space between the stars, aching with the pressure of emptiness. Cold, so cold! Her teeth chattered, her flesh like ice, her bones aching to the marrow.
“Please,” she got out through a clenched jaw. “Please!”
“Life quickens, little Ellyl.” Granting her mercy, he turned away. “Quickens unto death, quickens into generation. Living and dying, giving birth unto ourselves. Everything. Even Shapers,” he added in a low voice. “Even worlds.”