He waited to see who would come instead.
Outside, the story retold itself, writing a new ending. The Helm of Shadows, that once he had claimed and bent to his own ends, was broken. The Counselor’s Soumanië was clear, clear as water. The Son of Altorus did not flee, but wielded a bloodred pebble of his own. A weary lad carried a grimy clay vessel into the depths of Darkhaven itself. His faithful ones, his remaining minions, raced desperately to prevent them.
They were coming, they were all coming.
And there was naught to do but wait; wait, and endure. Perhaps, in the end, it was as well. He was weary. He was weary of the endless pain, weary of meditating upon the bitterness of betrayal, weary of the burden of knowledge, of watching the world change while everything he had known dwindled and passed from it, while he diminished drop by trickling drop, stinking of ichor and hurting, always hurting; hurting in his immortal flesh, aching for his lost Gift, diminishing into madness and hatred, a figure of impotent, raging despite.
Still, the story was yet to be written.
It was always yet to be written.
The thought pleased him. There were things Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, had never understood. He had not listened to the counsel of dragons. The death and rebirth of worlds was a long and mighty business.
“You are all my Children.”
He whispered the words, tasting them, and found them true. So many lies, so few of them his! One day, perhaps, the world would understand. He was a Shaper. He had been given a role to play, and he had played it.
They were close now.
There was a sound; one of the threefold doors, opening. He lifted his heavy head to see which of them had arrived first.
It was a surprise after all; and yet there were no surprises, not here at the end. The Font burned quietly, spewing blue-white sparks over the impervious stone floor. Within it, Godslayer, the Shard of the Souma, throbbed steadily.
At the top of the winding stair, his visitor regarded him warily.
“My child,” said Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower. “I have been expecting you.”
Ushahin rode back and forth along the edge of the cliffs high above the Defile, gazing at the path far below.
The surviving Fjel had made a safe return to Darkhaven. If nothing else, his actions had accomplished that much. But Haomane’s Allies had managed to clear the first rockslide; and worse, they had spotted the trap that would trigger the second one.
Now they waited, just out of range.
It was a maddening impasse. He wished Tanaros would return, wished Vorax was alive, or Tanaros’ young Midlander protégé; anyone who would take command of the disheartened Tordenstem.
There was no one. It shouldn’t have mattered; Darkhaven was a fortress, built to be defended. Time should be their ally, and a day ago, it might have been so. But now the army of Darkhaven was in tatters, the Helm of Shadows was broken, Haomane’s Prophecy loomed over the Vale of Gorgantum, and Ushahin’s very skin crawled with the urgent need to be elsewhere.
In the Weavers’ Gulch, the little grey spiders scuttled across the vast loom of their webs, repairing the damage the Fjel had done in passing, restoring the pattern. Always, no matter how many times it was shredded, they restored the pattern.
Watching the little weavers, Ushahin came to a decision.
“You.” He beckoned to one of the Tordenstem. “How are you called?”
The Fjel saluted him. “Boreg, sir!”
“Boreg.” Ushahin pointed into the Defile. “You see Haomane’s Allies, there. Watch them. At some point, they will begin to advance. When half their numbers have reached this bend in the path, I want you and your lads to trigger the rockslide”
“Aye, sir.” The Tordenstem looked ill at ease with the command. “Will you not stay?”
“I cannot.” Ushahin laid a hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, feeling the rock-solid warmth of it. “General Tanaros trusts you, Boreg. Do your best.”
“Aye, boss!”
Ushahin spared one last glance at Haomane’s Allies. They were watching; a figure in the distant vanguard raised one hand, and the Soumanië flashed like a red star in the gloomy depths. Ushahin smiled contemptuously, certain that Aracus Altorus dared not waste a precious ounce of strength on assailing him, not with another rockslide and the Defile Gate awaiting. He did not know by what magic the power of the Souma was invoked, but he knew it took a considerable toll.
His Lordship was proof of that, and he was a Shaper.
“Enjoy this taste of victory, Son of Altorus,” he murmured. “I go now to do what should have been done long ago.”
Ushahin turned his mount’s head toward Darkhaven. The blood-bay stallion caught his mood, its hooves pounding an urgent cadence as they made for the fortress. The case containing the sundered Helm jounced, lashed haphazardly to the saddle behind him. His right hand, healed and hale, itched for the hilt of his sword. He remembered how it had felt to move between life and death on the battlefield, to sever the threads that had bound the ageless Ellylon to their immortal souls.
He wondered how it would feel to cleave the life from the Lady Cerelinde’s flesh.
The inner courtyard was jammed with milling Fjel, wounded and dazed, bereft of orders. Ushahin dismounted and pushed his way through the throng of Fjel, carrying the Helm’s case, ignoring their pleas for guidance. There was nothing he could do for them. He was no military strategist.
Inside Darkhaven proper, it was quieter. The Havenguard, oddly subdued, had restored some semblance of order. None of his madlings were about, which gave him a moment’s pause. He thought briefly of summoning them, then shook his head. There was no time.
It had to be done. It should have been done long ago.
There was madness in it; oh, yes. His right arm ached with the memory of his Lordship’s wrath, the merciful cruelty that had Shaped it anew, pulverizing fragments of bone, tearing sinews asunder, a scant inch at a time. Ushahin had no illusions about the cost he would bear for this action.
And he had no doubt about its necessity.
He strode the halls, reaching the door to the Lady of the Ellylon’s quarters. A pair of Havenguard sought to turn him away. With the case containing the broken Helm under his arm, he quelled them with a single, furious glance.
Chastened, they unbarred the door.
Ushahin stepped inside, smiling his bitter, crooked smile. “Lady,” he began, and then halted.
Over a hidden passageway, a tapestry hung askew.
The chamber was empty.
“Expecting me?” Cerelinde whispered the words. “How so, my Lord? For I did not expect to find myself here.”
Some yards beyond the base of the stair, Satoris Banewreaker gazed upward at her with terrifying gentleness. “Will you seek after my knowledge now, little Ellyl? I fear it is too late.” He beckoned. “Come.”
She had never thought to get this far. As she’d paced restless in her chamber, the certainty that she must try had grown upon her. The weight of the burden Haomane’s Allies had placed upon the Bearer, the burden she had laid on Meara’s shoulders, were too great. It was unfair to ask what one was unwilling to give.
Meara might fail her.
The young Bearer’s task might consume him.
And it had come to her that perhaps, after all, it was Haomane’s plan that had placed her here, where she alone among his Allies held the key to fulfilling his Prophecy. Cerelinde knew the way to the threefold door.
She had not expected it to open to her touch. Surely, it must be a trap.
“Come.” The Sunderer gestured at Godslayer. “Is this not what you seek?”