“Listen to me,” he said to the Fjel. “This”—he gestured—“this mayhem, this undisciplined ferocity, this is how Haomane’s Allies see you. This is what they wish the Fjel to be; mindless, unthinking. Ravening beasts. Do you wish to prove them aright? Is that how Neheris Shaped her Children?”
A roar of denial rose in answer. Tanaros smiled and drew his black sword. Its hilt pulsed in his grip, attuned to the hatred that throbbed in his veins. It glowed with its own dark light under the shrouded skies.
“By this sword!” he called. “By the black sword, quenched in his Lordship’s blood, I swear to you! We will obey his Lordship’s orders and see his will is done. And if his will be war, Haomane’s Allies will know what it means to face the wrath, and the might, and the discipline of Darkhaven!”
Their cheers drowned out the distant call of Ellylon horns.
Tanaros sheathed the black sword and turned to Hyrgolf. “Summon your lieutenants and restore some semblance of order. Tell the lads to remain on alert.”
“Aye, General.” Hyrgolf paused. “You think his Lordship means to do it?”
“I don’t know.” Tanaros leaned over in the saddle, clasping the Tungskulder’s shoulder. “We shall see, Field Marshal.”
Lilias startled awake from a dream of Beshtanag.
She had been dreaming of the siege, the endless siege, watching her people grow starved and resentful, waiting for an army that would never come, hearing once more the silvery horns of the Rivenlost blow and the herald repeating his endless challenge. Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!
Waking, she found herself in her pleasant prison-chamber, sunlight streaming through the high windows. Beshtanag was far, far away. And still she heard horns, a faint and distant call echoing through Meronil’s white bridges and towers.
For a terrified moment, she thought it was Oronin’s Horn summoning her to death. In Pelmar it was said those of noble birth could hear it; of a surety, the Were could. But, no, those were Ellylon horns.
“Eamaire.” Swallowing her pride, Lilias pleaded with the attendant when she arrived. “What passes in the world? Is Meronil besieged?”
“While Haomane’s Children draw breath on Urulat’s soil, Meronil stands, Lady.” A cool disdain was in the Ellyl’s leaf-green eyes, as though she had borne witness to Lilias’ darkest fantasies of destruction. “The Lord of the Rivenlost travels with the Host. You do but hear their horns sounding in the distance.”
Lilias took a sharp breath. “Darkhaven?”
The Ellyl hesitated, then shook her head. “It may be. We cannot know.”
She departed, leaving Lilias alone with the memory of her dream and the awful knowledge that it was true, all true, that Beshtanag was lost, everything was lost, and she was to blame. The horns sounded again, reminding her.
Perhaps Oronin’s Horn would not have been so terrible after all.
Lilias sat at her window seat and watched the broad silver ribbon of the Aven River unfurl far, far below, thinking about her dream. Perhaps, she thought, she would sleep and dream it again. As awful as it was, it was no worse than the reality to which she had awakened, the reality she was forced to endure. At least in the dream, Beshtanag had not yet fallen, Calandor still lived, and Lilias was immortal.
There were worse things than death and dreams.
The throne hall was ablaze with marrow-fire. It surged upward from the torches to sear the mighty rafters and laced the walls in stark blue-white veins; earth’s lightning, answering to Lord Satoris’ rage. The Shaper was pacing the dais in front of his carnelian throne, a vast and ominous figure, unknown words spilling from his lips.
The Three glanced at one another and approached.
“My Lord.” Tanaros went to one knee, bowing his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Vorax do the same. Ushahin, unaccountably, remained standing. “We come to learn your will.”
“My will.” Lord Satoris ground out the words. He ceased his pacing and his eyes flashed red as coal-embers. “Did you not hear the challenge Malthus raises? My will, my Three, is to take up Godslayer and split open the very earth beneath his feet until he is swallowed whole by Urulat itself, and my Elder Brother’s allies with him!”
His words echoed throughout the Throne Hall, echoed and continued to echo. Tanaros kept his head bowed, feeling the Shaper’s wrath beating in waves against his skin. The air was filled with the acrid odor of blood and thunder, so dense he could taste it in his mouth.
“Can you, my Lord?” It was Ushahin, still standing and gazing up at Satoris, who asked the question. There was a strange tenderness in his voice. “Can we yet delay this hour?”
The Shaper sighed. His shoulders slumped and his head lowered. A beast brought to bay; and yet no beast had ever stood so motionless, so still. The last echo of his words faded, until there was only the sound of the Three breathing, the crackle and hiss of the torches, and the slow, steady drip of ichor pooling on the dais.
“I cannot.” Satoris whispered the words, turning out his empty hands. “Oh, my Three! I am not what I was. It is a terrible burden to bear. I have borne it too long and spent too much.” A shudder ran through him. “Was I unwise? I cannot say.”
“Not unwise.” Ushahin wiped at his dilated eye, watering in the marrow-fire’s painful glare. “Never that, my Lord.”
“No?” Satoris laughed, harsh and hollow. “And yet, and yet. Ah, Dreamspinner! What did you see in the Delta? Too much, I think; too much. I destroyed the Marasoumië and I reckoned it worth the cost, for it would destroy Haomane’s Weapon within it. And yet he lives, he places himself within my grasp, no longer able to Shape matter, and I …” He glanced at his empty hand. “I cannot seize him. I bleed, I diminish. Clouds I may summon; smoke and fire, signifying nothing. Godslayer beckons, but I cannot rise to its challenge. I cannot Shape the earth. I spent myself too soon.”
“My Lord!” Unable to bear it any longer, Tanaros rose to his feet. “We are here to serve you,” he said passionately. “Tell us your will, and we will accomplish it.”
“My will.” Lord Satoris glanced around him, surveying his creation. “These mountains, this fortress … oh, my Three! Years, it bought me, bought us; ages. How much of myself did I spend to erect them? What folly beckons me to betray them? Ah, Malthus! You are a formidable foe. And I … I am tired. Uru-Alat alone knows, I am tired.” He heaved another sigh. “I would see it ended.”
Tanaros bowed to the Shaper. “My Lord, you have not erected Darkhaven in vain. It can withstand this siege. But if it is your wish to give battle, my Fjel are eager and ready.”
“Can we win?” Vorax asked bluntly. He glanced sidelong at Tanaros and clambered to his feet. “Folly, aye, there’s no question it’s folly. Less of one if we stand a chance of winning.”
“Our chances are good.” Tanaros pictured the army of Haomane’s Allies in his mind. “They are many, but poorly coordinated. It is the effects of Malthus’ Soumanië I fear the most.”
“Malthus will not be so quick to assail your soul once you take to the field wearing the Helm of Shadows, cousin,” Ushahin murmured. “He will be hard-pressed to quell the terrors in his own people.”
“You are eager to do battle for one who can scarce wield a blade, Dreamspinner.” Vorax shook his head. “No, there is too much risk, and too little merit. I like my flesh too well to offer it to the swords of Haomane’s Allies when I have strong walls to protect it. That way lies madness.”