It was, Vorax thought, a well-struck bargain.
Silver hoarfrost sparkled on the sere grass in the moon-garden, shrouded its plants and trees in cerements of ice. No drops fell from the pale pink blossoms of the mourning-tree, and the corpse-flowers’ pallid glow was extinguished. The mortexigus did not shudder in the little death, shedding its pollen, and the shivering bells of the clamitus atroxis waited in silence. Even the poignant scent of vulnus-blossom had been stilled by the cold.
Tanaros wrapped his cloak tighter and wondered if Cerelinde would come. He could have gone to her, or he could have ordered her to come. In the end, he had chosen to ask. Why, he could not have said.
Overhead, the stars turned slowly. He gazed at them, wondering if Arahila looked down upon Darkhaven and wept for her brother Satoris’ folly, for the bloodshed that was certain to follow. He wondered if poor Speros, unwitting victim of Vorax’s bargain, was watching the same stars. He was angry at Vorax for his choice, though there was no merit in arguing it once it was done. Other matters were more pressing; indeed, even now, he wasted precious time lingering in the garden. Still, his spirit was uneasy and an ache was in his heart he could not name.
After a time, he became certain she would not come; and then the wooden door with the tarnished hinges opened and she was there, flanked by the hulking figures of the Havenguard. They remained behind, waiting.
Her gown was pale, its color indeterminate in the starlight. A dark cloak enfolded her like green leaves enfolding a blossom’s pale petals. Its sweeping hem left a trail in the frosted grass as she approached him.
“Tanaros,” she said gravely.
“Cerelinde.” He drank in the sight of her. “I didn’t know if you would come.”
“You have kept your word of honor, and I am grateful for the protection you have given me.” She studied his face. “It is to be war, then?”
“Yes. On the morrow. I wanted to say farewell.”
She laid one hand on his arm. “I wish you would not do this thing.”
He glanced at her hand, her slender, white fingers. “Cerelinde, I must.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You have a choice, Tanaros. Even you, even now. Perhaps it is too late to stem the tide of battle, but it need not be, not for you. There is goodness in you; I have seen it. It is yours to reclaim.”
“And do what?” Tanaros asked gently. “Shall I dance at your wedding, Cerelinde?”
The matter lay between them, vast and unspoken. She looked away. In that moment, he knew she understood him; and knew, too, that unlike his wife, the Lady of the Ellylon would never betray the Man to whom she was betrothed. The ache in his heart intensified. He laid his hand over hers, feeling for a few seconds her smooth, soft skin, then removed her hand from his arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I cannot.”
“There are other things!” She looked back at him and starlight glimmered on her tears. “The world is vast, Tanaros. You could … you could help Staccia rebuild its ties to the rest of Urulat, or the Beshtanagi in Pelmar, or hunt Were or dragons or Fjeltroll—”
“Cerelinde!” He halted her. “Would you have me betray what honor I possess?”
“Why?” She whispered the word, searching his face. “Ah, Tanaros! What has Satoris Banewreaker ever done that he should command your loyalty?”
“He found me.” He smiled at the simplicity of the words. “What has he not done to be worthy of my loyalty, Cerelinde? When love and fidelity alike betrayed me, when the world cast me out, Lord Satoris found me and summoned me to him. He understood my anger. He bent the very Chain of Being to encompass me, he filled my life with meaning and purpose.”
“His purpose.” Her voice was low. “Not yours.”
“Survival.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “He seeks to survive. What else do any of us seek? Because he is a Shaper, the stakes are higher. I tell you this, Cerelinde. His Lordship is here. Wounded and bleeding, but here. And he has given shelter to all of us, all whom the world has bent and broken, all who yearn for a Shaper’s love, all whom the world has despised. He demands our loyalty, yes, but he allows us the freedom to question the order of the world, to be who and what we are. Can you say the same of Haomane Lord-of-Thought?”
“You do not understand.” Cerelinde’s voice trembled. “He is … everywhere.”
“For you, perhaps.” Tanaros touched her cool cheek. “Not for me.”
For a time, they stood thusly; then Cerelinde, Lady of the Ellylon, shuddered like the petals of the mortexigus flower and withdrew from his touch. Wrapped in her dark cloak, she gazed at him with her glorious eyes.
“Tanaros,” she said. “I will not pray for your death on the morrow.”
“Lady.” He bowed low and said no more.
The Havenguard reclaimed her, and she went.
Speros of Haimhault found sleep difficult.
It had all happened so fast. One moment, he had been concentrating on acquitting himself bravely, holding the parley-flag and assessing the forces of Haomane’s Allies to report to the General; the next, he was agreeing to be a hostage.
At least they had been civil.
They were that; he had to admit. Back in the old days, when he was but a piddling horse-thief, he had never been treated with such care. The architect of Darkhaven’s defense! It was a prodigious title, even if Lord Vorax had invented it.
To be honest, their triumvirate of leaders seemed to sense it; they were dismissive. Once they returned to the campsite, white-bearded Malthus made it clear he had greater concerns on his mind, which was just as well. Speros had no desire to find the wizard’s attention focused on him. Aracus Altorus merely looked him up and down as if gauging his worth and finding it wanting. As far as Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was concerned, Speros might as well not exist.
But others were at the campsite; hangers-on, no doubt. Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard commander with an unsettling look of the General about him, took Speros to be a legitimate threat. He assigned a pair of guards fitting to his purported station to him; some minor Ellyl lordling and an Arduan archer They took turns keeping watch over him. A woman, no less! She had a strange bow made of black horn, which she cosseted like a babe. At nightfall she brought him a bowl of stew from the common kettle. After he had eaten, Speros grinned at her, forgetful of the gaps where he was missing teeth.
“Very nice,” he said, nodding at her weapon. “Where did you get it?”
She stared blankly at him. “This is Oronin’s Bow.”
“Oh, aye?” He whistled. “So where did you get it?”
The archer shook her head in disgust. “You tend to him,” she said to the Ellyl, rising to survey the campsite.
“Did I say somewhat to offend her?” Speros asked the Ellyl, who smiled quietly.
“Fianna the Archer slew the Dragon of Beshtanag with that bow,” he said. “Surely the knowledge must have reached Darkhaven’s gates.”
“It did.” Speros shrugged. “I was in the desert at the time.”
“Indeed.”The Ellyl, whose name was Peldras, laced his hands around one knee. “Your Lord Vorax spoke of your efforts concerning a certain Well when he offered you into the keeping of the Wise Counselor.”
“You know it?” Speros repressed a memory of the General’s black sword cleaving the old Yarru man’s chest, the dull thud of the Gulnagels’ maces.
“I do.” Peldras regarded him. “You seem young and well-favored to have risen high in the Sunderer’s service, Speros of Haimhault.”