Cerelinde rubbed her arms, trying to restore warmth to her flesh. “Is this the famous wisdom of dragons, my Lord? They twist truth into lies and they are not to be trusted.”
“They are older than the Lord-of-Thought, you know.” His head averted, the Sunderer laughed softly. “Ah, Haomane! We are but parts, scattered and broken; heart and head, limbs and organs. None of us perceives the whole, not even you, my Elder Brother. They do. What they think, what they feel … I cannot say. But they know. And I, I spoke to them, and I am cursed with knowledge for it. Skeins of lies, woven with threads of truth; that is the world we have Shaped. You need me. Urulat needs me; Urulat, Uru-Alat that was, that will be again. I did not choose this role. I do what I must. All things, in the end, must be as they are. Is it not so?”
Uncertain whether he spoke to her or to the specter of Haomane First-Born, Cerelinde gazed at the Shaper’s back; the taut sinews, the wrath-blackened flesh. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.”
“No,” he said. “No, I suppose not. And yet it is in the striving that understanding begins, and that is the seed of generation that begets worlds.” Again, Satoris gave his soft, dark laugh. “You should strive, little Ellyl; as all of us should. He made you too well, my Elder Brother did. Mortality serves a purpose. Oronin’s Horn blows seldom for Haomane’s Children. No urgency quickens your flesh, no shadow of exigency spurs your thoughts. What would you have to strive for, were it not for me?”
“You pretend you do us a service,” Cerelinde murmured.
“No.” The Shaper’s shoulders hunched, rising like stormclouds. “I do the world a service. By my very existence, by this role not of my choosing.”
“The world,” Cerelinde echoed, feeling weariness settle upon her. She was tired; tired of fear, tired of lies. Lies, piled upon lies; half-truths and evasions. Some things were known. Some things were true. “My Lord, if you cared so much for the world, why did you Sunder it?”
“I DID NOT SUNDER THE WORLD!”
Satoris Banewreaker’s fist crashed against the wall of the chamber; shadows roiled and sinews cracked, and Darkhaven shuddered from its foundation to its towers. The Font leapt, spewing blue-white fire, shedding sparks on the stone floor. Within its flames, Godslayer pulsed. He stood, breathing hard, his back to her. Ichor ran in rills down his inner thigh, black and oily.
“I did not Sunder the world,” he repeated.
And Haomane smote the earth with his sword, and the earth was divided and the heat of Uru-Alat severed from the body. And in accordance with Meronin’s will, the Sundering Sea rushed in to fill the divide, and so it was done.
“You shattered the Souma,” Cerelinde said in a small voice.
“Not alone.” Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, sighed. Lifting his head, he gazed toward the west, as though he could see through the stone walls of Darkhaven to the isle called Torath, the Crown, where the Six Shapers dwelled in the broken glory of the Souma. “Never alone.” He shivered, lowering his head. “Go, little Ellyl, Daughter of Erilonde. I was wrong to summon you here. There is no hope, no hope at all.”
“There is always hope,” Cerelinde said.
“Will you ever harp upon it?” Satoris pitted his furrowed brow with his fingertips. “For your kind, perhaps. My Gift, the Gift my Elder Brother refused … it lies awaiting you in the loins of the Scion of Altorus. There are ways and ways and ways. Perhaps, then; perhaps not. It is your sole chance. Why else do you suppose Haomane’s Prophecy is as it is?” He smiled grimly. “For me, there is nothing. And yet you are all my Children in the end. Make no mistake, I have sown the seeds of my own regeneration. In one place or another, they will take root.”
“My Lord?”
“Go.” He waved one hand. “Go, and begone from my sight, for you pain me.”
Summoned by arcane means, the Havenguard appeared at the top of the spiral stair. There they waited, impassive in the flame-shot darkness.
The Sunderer pointed. “GO!”
Cerelinde climbed the stair slowly, her limbs stiff with the residue of fear and bone-deep cold. Below, Satoris Banewreaker resumed his pacing, disturbing the shadows. He glanced often toward the west and muttered to himself in a strange tongue, filled with potent, rolling syllables; the Shapers’ tongue, that had not been heard on Urulat since the world was Sundered. One word alone Cerelinde understood, uttered in a tone of anguish and betrayal.
“Arahila!”
And then the Fjel led her away and the threefold door closed behind her, and Cerelinde of the House of Elterrion was escorted back to her chambers to await the outcome of the war that would decide her fate.
In the empty garden, beneath Arahila’s moon, sorrow-bells chimed unheard.
SIXTEEN
Haomane’s allies had gone on the march under cover of darkness. Dawn broke over the plains to find them encamped a short distance from the foot of the Gorgantus Mountains. The mountains trembled at the roars of the Tordenstem sentries, summoning the Three and their chosen companions.
“By the Six!”
Tanaros heard Speros’ shaking oath behind him. Another time, perhaps, he might have reprimanded the Midlander for it. In Darkhaven, one did not swear by the Six Shapers. Today it seemed meet.
The army covered the plains of Curonan, armor gleaming in the bloody light of dawn. Nothing glimpsed in the Ravensmirror had prepared him for the sight. Even from the overlook high atop the crags, it was immense.
Side by side by side, the Three gazed at the army.
So many companies! There they were, gathered at last in one place, arrayed for battle. The Rivenlost formed the vanguard. It surprised Tanaros, a little; but then, it was the Lady of the Ellylon over whom this war was waged. Perhaps it was a matter of honor.
“Well,” Vorax said. “There they are.”
“Indeed,” Ushahin said drily.
Vorax leaned over in the saddle and spat. “And there they can sodding well stay, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe they’ll go home when they begin to starve.” At his rear, a pair of Staccians chuckled.
Tanaros said nothing, squinting, trying to pick out individuals. The companies were still milling and unsettled. Yes, there; glint of red-gold, a rider moving among the disparate companies, gesturing, giving orders, attempting to stitch them into a cohesive whole. Some of them had fought together at Beshtanag, but many of them had not. Coordination would be difficult in the field.
“You look like you’re sizing them up for battle, cousin.” Ushahin’s remark sounded casual. “Do you lack faith in our fortifications?”
“No.” Tanaros wondered why Haomane’s Allies had bothered to waste a precious hour or two of sleep to arrive at dawn. He exchanged a glance with Hyrgolf, who shrugged. There was no element of surprise to be gained. Did they imagine the sight would shock Darkhaven into surrendering? He frowned, studying the army. There, there was another figure he knew, riding to the forefront as the ranks parted to allow him passage. White-robed and whitemaned, the tip of his spear shining like the last star of the morning, a spark of brightness nestled in his snowy beard. He rode astride a horse as white as foam, with an arched neck and hooves that fell with deft precision.
“Is that … him?” Speros asked in a low voice.
“Malthus the Counselor.” Tanaros confirmed it absently, still frowning. “What did you do to my horse, damn you?”