Even if it led to defeat, it would be worthwhile.
“I’m staying.” Setting his heels to his mount’s flanks, he shook off Tanaros’ hand and jogged ahead before the Lord General could say aught else to dissuade him. One of the trotting Gulnagel grinned at him, and Speros grinned back, his sense of alarm fading. These were his comrades, his companions. One had given his life for him. They had given him the honor and respect his own family had denied him. They had labored side by side together, laying the dead to rest. How could he think of leaving?
He would find a way to prove himself to General Tanaros.
Ahead of him, Ushahin Dreamspinner rode astride, swaying as his blood-bay mount picked its way along the path of the Defile. Hearing Speros approach, he glanced languidly over his shoulder. “Weavers’ Gulch, Midlander.” He waved a crabbed hand at the sticky strands crossing the vast loom of the Defile, the scuttling weavers that spun the warp and weft of it. “Does it evoke fond memories for you?”
“Not especially, Lord Dreamspinner.” Speros eyed the hanging veils of webbing and swallowed hard. He touched his bare neck, remembering the sharp sting of a spider’s bite and awakening trussed and bound. “Not especially.”
Ushahin gave his lopsided smile. “The ones who come to me pass through untouched. Such is the protection I afford them in the purity of their madness. Still, I think you must be a little bit mad to attempt it at all.”
Speros shivered and fell back, following in the half-breed’s wake, though it was no longer necessary now that they traveled by ordinary day, and not on the path between dreaming and waking that had carried them through the Midlands and across the plains of Curonan. “Perhaps,” he said.
“Oh, I think it is more than perhaps.” Amid the ghostly veils of webbing, Ushahin smiled once more. “Tanaros Blacksword might disagree, but he’s a little bit mad, too, isn’t he? We will see, in time.”
They made steady progress through the Defile. The Gulnagel breathed deeply through widened nostrils, inhaling the odor of the ichor-tainted waters, the welcome scent of home. Beyond the Weavers’ Gulch, the Defile Gate and its flanking towers loomed amid the vast, encircling wall. Alerted by the Tordenstem, teams of Fjel were already at work opening the gate. Overhead, the ravens circled in grim triumph. The walls were crowded with Fjel, armed to the teeth, waving axes and maces in the air, shields held high. They were shouting.
“Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros!”
“Go on, cousin.” Ushahin nodded. “You’re the one they’ve been awaiting.”
Giving him a deep look, General Tanaros nudged his mount forward. He lifted one hand as he rode between the gates, acknowledging the cries. He looked weary, Speros thought. And why not? He had done a hero’s work, carrying out his Lordship’s bitter orders, keeping them alive in the desert. He had earned a rest.
“You love him, don’t you?” Ushahin asked in a low voice.
“No,” Speros said automatically, then thought of the General’s shoulder beneath his arm, urging him to keep going, step by torturous step. The General’s hands, cradling his head, placing the drought-fruit to his lips. The General, stooping under the starlight, scooping sand in a battered helmet, helping dig a grave for poor Freg. “Aye!” he said then, defiant. “I have a care for him. Why shouldn’t I, after all? My own Da never did half as much for me as the Lord General’s done.”
“Ah, well, then.” The Dreamspinner’s mismatched eyes glittered. “There’s a little piece of madness for you.”
Speros flung his head back. “What would you know of it, my lord?”
“Love?” the half-breed mused. He shook his head, fair hair shimmering. “Not much, Speros of Haimhault. What love I had, I have betrayed. The Grey Dam Vashuka will attest to that. But heed my advice, and make a good job of it.” He nodded at Tanaros. “There’s a hunger in him for the son he never had. And there’s a hunger in him for the woman whose love he lost. One, it would seem, is greater than the other. But who knows? If it comes to a choice, you may find yourself an unexpected fulcrum.”
With that, Ushahin took his leave, passing through the Defile Gate. Speros stared after him while the Gulnagel who had accompanied them passed him by on either side. With a start, he touched his heels to his mount’s flanks. It stepped forward, the color of smoke, obedient to his will.
The Gate closed behind them.
He was home.
It felt strange to be alone in his quarters. They had been tended, and recently; that much was clear. His dining table gleamed with hand-rubbed beeswax, the floors had been swept clean and the carpets beaten. The lamps were lit and a fire was laid. Hot water steamed in the tub in his bathing-chamber, but not a madling was in sight.
Tanaros hadn’t been truly alone since he had birthed himself from the Marasoumië and climbed up the wellshaft of the Water of Life. The silence, the absence of another’s heartbeat, was deafening. He found himself wishing Fetch had stayed with him, but the raven had rejoined his own kin.
Piece by piece, he removed his dirty, dented armor. The straps were stiff with grime. He placed each piece carefully on the stand, then unbuckled his sword belt and propped the sword in the corner. There was no scratch at the door, no madling coming to beg to touch the black blade tempered in his Lordship’s blood. Tanaros frowned and sat on the low stool to pry off his boots.
It wasn’t easy to get them off and it wasn’t pleasant once he did. For a time, he simply sat on the stool. All the weariness of the long, long journey he had endured settled into his bones. There was no part of him that did not ache; save for his branded heart, which no longer tugged like a yearning compass toward the fortress of Darkhaven. He was home, and he was grateful beyond telling that his Lordship had given them a night’s respite before requiring their report.
“Truly, my Lord is merciful.” He spoke the words aloud, half-listening for a murmured chorus of agreement.
No one answered.
With an effort, Tanaros levered himself upright and padded to the bathing-chamber, where he peeled off clothing so filthy it defied description. From one pocket, he withdrew the rhios Hyrgolf had given him, setting it gently upon a shelf. Everything else he left in a stinking pile on the tiled floor.
Beneath the clothing, his naked body was gaunt. The Chain of Being only stretched so far; privation had taken its toll. His ribs made ridges along the sides of his torso. Skin that had not seen daylight for weeks on end was shockingly pale, grey as a ghost. Tanaros sank into the tub, watching the water turn cloudy.
A long, long time ago, when he would return from a hard day’s labor of training Roscus Altorus’ troops, Calista had drawn his bath with her own hands. At least, she had always made a show of pouring the last bucket of steaming water, smiling at him under her lashes. See what I do for you, my love? And then she would draw a stool alongside the tub so she might sit beside him and scrub his back and add a few drops of scented oil to the water. It had smelled like … like vulnus-blossom, only sweet and harmless.
The memory made his eyes sting. Tanaros ducked his head underwater and came up dripping. He grabbed a scouring cloth and a ball of soap and set to work mercilessly on his grimy skin. The water in which he sat grew murkier. Grey skin turned grub-white, in marked contrast to his strong, sun-scorched hands. He had wrapped those hands around her throat.
Slayer. The Yarru Elder Ngurra’s voice stirred in his memory, prompted by the odor of vulnus-blossom. Dark eyes in a creased face, filled with wisdom and sorrow, beneath the hanging shadow of a black sword. Old men, old women, hanging back and clinging to one another’s hands. You do not have to choose this.