He shrugged again. “I’ve made myself useful.”
“So it seems.” Peldras raised his fair, graceful brows. “Although I fear you may have outlived your usefulness, or Vorax of Staccia would not have been so quick to surrender you. Did I stand in your shoes, young Midlander, I would find it a matter of some concern. The Sunderer’s minions are not known for their loyalty.”
Speros thought of Freg, carrying him in the desert; of the General himself, holding water to his parched lips. He laughed out loud. “Believe as you wish, Ellyl! I am not afraid.”
“You were not at Beshtanag,” Peldras murmured. “I witnessed the price the Sorceress of the East paid for her faith in Satoris Banewreaker, and the greater toll it took upon her people. Are you willing to pay as much?”
“That was different.” Speros shook his head. “I was in the Ways when your wizard Malthus closed them upon us. We would have aided her if we could.”
“The Sunderer could have reopened the Ways of the Marasoumië if he chose.” The Ellyl glanced westward toward the shadowy peaks of the Gorgantus Mountains. “With the might of Godslayer in his hands, not even Malthus the Counselor could have prevented it. He chose instead to destroy them.”
“Aye, in the hope of destroying Malthus with them!” Speros said, exasperated. “You forced this war; you and all of Haomane’s Allies! Will you deny his Lordship the right to choose his strategies?”
“No.” Peldras looked back at him. Under the stars, illuminated by the nearby campfire, his features held an ancient, inhuman beauty. “Ah, Speros of Haimhault! On another night, there is much I would say to you. But I fear sorrow lies heavy on my heart this night, and I cannot find it in me to speak of such matters when on the morrow, many who are dear to me will be lost.”
“Did I ask you to?” Speros muttered.
“You did not.” Rising, the Ellyl touched his shoulder. “Forgive me, young hostage. I pray that the dawn may bring a brighter day. Yet the world changes, and we change with it. It is in my heart that it is Men such as you, in the end, who will Shape the world to come. I can but pray you do it wisely.”
Speros eyed him uncertainly, trying to fathom what trickery lay in the words. “Me?”
“Men of your ilk.” Peldras gave his quiet smile. “Builders and doers, eager for glory, willing to meddle without reckoning the cost.” Tilting his head, he looked at the stars. “For my part, I wish only to set foot upon Torath the Crown, to enter the presence of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, and gaze once more upon the Souma.”
Since there seemed to be no possible reply, Speros made none. The Ellyl left him then, and the Arduan woman Fianna returned. She pointed out a bedroll to him and then sat without speaking, tending to her bowstring. The scent of pine rosin wafted in the air, competing with the myriad odors of the campsite.
Speros wrapped himself in the bedroll and lay sleepless. The frostbitten ground was hard and uncomfortable, cold seeping into his bones. Oronin’s Bow gleamed like polished onyx in the firelight. He wondered what sound it made when it was loosed, if echoes of the Glad Hunter’s horn were in it.
At least the Ellylon horns were silenced by night, although one could not say it was quiet. The vast camp was filled with murmurous sound; soldiers checking their gear, sentries changing guard, campfires crackling, restless horses snuffling and stamping in the picket lines. He could make out Ghost’s pale form against the darkness, staked far from the other cavalry mounts. Haomane’s Allies gave her a wide berth, having learned to be wary of her canny strength and sharp bite.
There was a tent nearby where the commanders took counsel; too far for Speros to hear anything of use, but near enough that he saw them coming and going. Once, he saw it illuminated briefly from within; not by ordinary lamplight or even the diamond-flash of Malthus’ Soumanië, but something else, a cool, blue-green glow. Afterward, Blaise Caveros emerged and spoke to Fianna in a low tone.
“Haomane be praised!” she whispered. “The Bearer lives.”
At that, Speros sat upright. Both of them fell silent, glancing warily at him. It made him laugh. “He knows, you know,” he said conversationally. “Lord Satoris. The Charred Folk, the Water of Life. There is no part of your plan that is unknown to him.”
“Be as that may, Midlander,” Blaise said shortly. “He cannot prevent Haomane’s Prophecy from fulfillment.”
“He can try, can’t he?” Speros studied the Borderguardsman. “You know who you’ve a look of? General Tanaros.”
“So I have heard.” The words emerged from between clenched teeth.
“He says you’re better with a sword than Aracus Altorus,” Speros remarked. “Is it true?”
“It is,” Blaise said in a careful tone, “unimportant.”
“You never know.” Speros smiled at him. “It might be. Have you seen the Lady Cerelinde? She is … how did the General say it? We spoke of her in the desert, before I’d seen her with my own eyes. ‘She’s beautiful, Speros,’ he said to me. ‘So beautiful it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us, yet giving us the wit to know it.’ Is it not so? I think it would be hard to find any woman worthy after her.”
Blaise drew in his breath sharply and turned away. “Be watchful,” he said over his shoulder to Fianna. “Say nothing in his hearing that may betray us.”
She nodded, chagrined, watching as the Borderguardsman strode away. Speros lay back on his bedroll, folding his arms behind his head. “Do you suppose he harbors feelings for his lord’s betrothed?” he wondered aloud. “What a fine turn of events that would be!”
“Will you be silent!” the Arduan woman said fiercely. Her nervous fingers plucked at the string of Oronin’s Bow. A deep note sounded across the plains of Curonan, low and thrumming, filled with anguish. Speros felt his heart vibrate within the confines of his chest. For a moment, the campsite went still, listening until the last echo died.
“As you wish,” Speros murmured. Closing his eyes, he courted elusive sleep to no avail. Strangely, it was the Ellyl’s words that haunted him. Men of your ilk, builders and doers. Was it wrong that he had taken fate in his own hands and approached Darkhaven? He had made himself useful. Surely the General would not forget him, would not abandon him here. Speros had only failed him once, and the General had forgiven him for it. His mind still shied from the memory; the black sword falling, the maces thudding. The old Yarru folks’ pitiful cries, their voices like his grandmam’s. His gorge rising in his throat, limbs turning weak.
But the General had not wanted to do it, any more than Speros had. The Ellyl was wrong about that. He did not understand; would not understand. Though Speros did not want to remember it, he did. The General’s terrible sword uplifted, the cry wrenched from his lips. Give me a reason!
Opening his eyes, Speros blinked at the stars and wondered why so many questions were asked and went unanswered, and what the world would be like if they were not.
Total darkness had fallen before Dani and Thulu dared venture from the tunnels. They crept blindly, bodies grown stiff with long immobility, parched with thirst and weak with hunger, fearful of entering a trap.
But no; by the faint starlight illuminating the opening, the larder appeared empty of any living presence. The supplies stacked within it had been diminished, but not stripped. They fell upon what remained, tearing with cracked and broken nails at the burlap wrapping on a wheel of cheese, gnawing raw tubers for the moisture within them. They stuffed their packs with what scraps and remnants remained. The kegs of wine alone they left untouched, fearing that breaching one would leave evidence of their presence behind.