Banewreaker (13 page)

And when he pressed them together and made a cup of his hands, those lines met at the precise base of the hollow to form a radiant star, for such was the sign of the Bearer.

He was seventeen years old and his name was Dani.

"Can he hoist the bucket?" Blaise Caveros had asked bluntly.

"Yes, Guardian." The old man Ngurra had shifted a wad of
gamal
into the pocket of his cheek, regarding the Altorian. "He is the Bearer. It is what he was born to do, to carry the water of Birru-Uru-Alat, that weighs as heavy as life. But whether or not he does is his choosing."

And so there was debate.

It began with Malthus the Counselor. "Dani of the Yarru," he said, leaning upon his staff. "You have seen the red star, the signal of war. In the west, the Sunderer's army grows, legion upon legion of Fjeltroll streaming to join him. Soon he will move against us like a mighty tide, for it is his will to lay claim to the whole of Urulat and challenge his brother, Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, the Will of Uru-Alat." The Counselor scowled, his bushy eyebrows fierce. "We can fight, and die, we who are loyal to Haomane and the light of the Souma, who would see Urulat made whole. We
will
fight, and die. But in the end, only one thing can halt Satoris Banewreaker."

With his staff he pointed to the rock-pile in the center of the Stone Grove. "Therein," he said, "lies the Water of Life. It alone can quench the marrow-fire that wards the dagger Godslayer. And you alone can draw it, Dani of the Yarru. You alone can carry it. You are the vessel, a part of the Prophecy of Haomane, the Unknown made Known." The Counselor opened his arms. The Soumanie gleamed red upon his breast, nestled amid his beard. "It is a grave matter," he said. "To bear the Water of Life into the Vale of Gorgantum, inside the walls of Dark-haven itself, and extinguish the marrow-fire. We who stand here before you, the Company of Malthus, are pledged to aid you in every step of the way. Yet in the end, the fate of Urulat rests in your hands, Bearer. Choose."

Such was the beginning.

Many others spoke, and among the Company of Malthus, only the Counselor understood the tongue of the Yarru; for many years had he studied it in his quest to unravel the Prophecy. And what he understood, he kept to himself over the days that followed.

When all was said, Dani the Bearer chose.

"YES?" LILIAS RECLINED ON SILK cushions, raising her brows at the page.

"My lady," he said and gulped, glancing sidelong at pretty Sarika in her scanty attire, kneeling at her mistress' side and wafting a fan against the unseasonal heat of a late Pelmaran spring. "My lady… there is an ambassador to see you. From the Were."

"Well?" Lilias arched her carefully plucked eyebrows a fraction higher, watching the page stutter. "Are the Were not our allies? See him in!"

He left in a rush. Sarika ceased her fanning. "You should bind him to you, my lady," she murmured, lowering her head to press her lips to the inside of Lilias' wrist. "He would be quicker to serve."

"I've no need of fools and imbeciles, dear one." She stroked the girl's hair. "Enough surround me without binding."

Head bent, Sarika smiled.

Calandor?

Abide, little sister.

The Were ambassador, when he came, entered the room like grey smoke, flowing around corners, low to the ground. Only when he stood and bowed did his form become fixed in the mind's eye. Sarika let out a squeak, huddling close to her mistress' couch. "Sorceress of the East." The Were dipped his muzzle in acknowledgment. "I am Phraotes. I bring you greetings from the Grey Dam of the Were."

Lilias frowned. "Where is Kurush to whom I spoke a fortnight ago? Has he fallen out of favor with the Grey Dam Sorash?"

Phraotes grimaced, lips curling back to show his sharp teeth. "The
Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives. Vashuka is the Grey Dam of the Were."

"Ahhh." A pang ran through her. For as long as Lilias had lived—far longer than the allotment of Arahila's Children—Sorash had been the Grey Dam. "I grieve for your loss, Phraotes," she said in formal response, rising from her couch and extending her hand. "I give greetings to the Grey Dam Vashuka, and recognize the ancient ties of alliance. Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine."

"Sorceress." He bowed his head, but his amber eyes glowed uneasily at her. "The Grey Dam values the friendship of Beshtanag."

The words were a blow. "Friendship." Lilias withdrew her outstretched hand, regarding Phraotes. "Not alliance."

The ambassador's keen, pointed ears tightened against his head. "War comes to Beshtanag. We do not desire war. Only to hunt, and live."

"You helped to set these forces in motion, Phraotes."

"Yes." His muzzle dipped in a nod. "The Grey Dam Sorash had cause for vengeance. Two Brethren accompanied her. All are dead. The debt is paid. The Grey Dam Vashuka does not desire war."

"Why?" she asked him.

His lip curled. "Once was enough, Sorceress."

Lilias paced her drawing-room, ignoring the clatter of Gergon's wardsmen arriving in a panic, waving them back when they sought to enter the room. Phraotes watched her with wary patience. "You prevailed in that war, Phraotes."

The Were shook his head. "We won our battle, Sorceress. We lost the war."

It is so, Lilias.

Lilias sighed. "You should have stayed in the west," she said to Phraotes. "The children of Men would not hunt you beneath the Sunderer's protection. He commands a vaster territory than I do."

His amber eyes shone. "Our home is in the east, Sorceress. We are Oronin's Children and it is here he Shaped us."

"Oronin should have better care for his Children," Lilias said sharply.

"No." Phraotes' shoulders moved in a shrug. "He is the Glad Hunter. He Shaped us in joy. The Grey Dam Vashuka believes we were foolish to listen to Satoris Banewreaker, who spoke smooth words and roused our ire against Haomane First-Born for denying us the Gift of cleverness. Only Yrinna's Children were wise."

"The
Dwarfs
?" She laughed. "The Dwarfs are content to till the soil and tend the orchards of arrogant Vedasian nobles, ambassador, accepting humility as their lot. You call that wisdom?"

"No one slaughters their young," said Phraotes. "There is merit in Yrinna's Peace. So the Grey Dam Vashuka believes. I am sorry, Sorceress. You have been a good friend to the Were. In Beshtanag, we have been safe. No longer, if war comes." He paused, then added, "We do not abandon you. The Grey Dam pledges a scouting-pack of yearling Brethren to range the western borders, reporting to you. But we will not join in battle. We are too few."

It is their right, Lilias.

"I know," she said aloud, replying to the dragon. "I know." Reluctantly, Lilias inclined her head to the Were ambassador. "I hear your words, Phraotes. Though I am disappointed, they are fair-spoken. Tell the Grey Dam Vashuka that the Sorceress of the East values her friendship. So long as Beshtanag is under my rule, the Were are welcome in it."

"Sorceress." He bowed with obvious relief, ears pricked at a more confident angle. "You are wise and generous."

In the hallway, one of the warders coughed. Lilias suppressed a surge of annoyance. Her wardsmen enjoyed an easy life, and greater freedom than they might elsewhere in Pelmar, subject to the whims of the Regents. With the aid of the Were, she and Calandor defended the boundaries of Beshtanag. All she had done was to forge a holding where she might live in peace, as she chose.

All she asked was loyalty.

Her indulgences were few. There were her attendants, her pretty ones, but what of it? She liked to be surrounded by beauty, by youth. It was a precious and fleeting thing, that span of time wherein youth attained the outer limits of adulthood and reckoned itself immortal, refusing to acknowledge the Chain of Being. It reminded her of why she had chosen to become what she was, the Sorceress of the East.

Most of them served of their own volition. And the rest… well. She tried to choose wisely, but perhaps there were a few exceptions. It was a small Shaping, a minor binding at best. None of them took any harm from it, and Lilias dowered them generously, lads and maids alike, when the freshness of their youth began to fade and she dismissed them from her service to go forth and lead ordinary, mortal lives, shaded by the glamor of being part of a story that had begun before they were born, that would continue after their deaths.

None had any right to complain.

And none of them were wise enough to shudder under the shadow of what had occurred here this day, hearing in Grey Dam Vashuka's stance the echo of what was to transpire in the promise of Haomane's Prophecy. Lilias heard its echo, and knew, once more, the taste of fear.

The Were shall be defeated ere they rise…

"Thank you, ambassador," she said. "You have leave to go."

He left, belly low to the ground, flowing like smoke.

"BESHTANAG HAS NEVER DEPENDED ON the Were, little ssissster."

"No." Lilias leaned back against the strong column of the dragon's left foreleg, watching blue dusk deepen in the cavern mouth. "But it's a blow nonetheless. Even if all goes as Tanaros Blacksword claimed, we have to be prepared to keep Haomane's Allies at bay for a day, perhaps longer. Beshtanag won't fall in a day, but it would have helped to have the Were in reserve."

"Yesss."

On the horizon, the red star winked into visibility. "Calandor?"

"Yess, Liliasss?"

"What if he's right?" She craned her neck to look up at him. "What if the Dwarfs
did
choose wisely in choosing Yrinna's Peace? Might we not do the same? Are we wrong to defy the will of Haomane?"

A nictitating membrane flickered over the dragon's left eye. "What is
right
, Liliasss?"

"Right," she said irritably. "That which is not wrong."

"In the beginning," Calandor rumbled, "there was Uru-Alat, and Uru-Alat was all things, and all things were Uru-Alat—"

"—and then came the Beginning-in-End, and the Seven Shapers emerged, and first of all was Haomane, Lord-of-Thought, who was born at the place of the Souma and knew the will of Uru-Alat," Lilias finished. "I
know
. Is it true? Does Haomane speak with the World God's voice? Are we wrong to defy him?"

The dragon bent his sinuous neck, lowering his head. Twin puffs of smoke jetted from his nostrils. "You quote the catechism of your childhood, little ssisster, not mine."

"But is it
true
?"

"No." Calandor lifted his head, sighing a sulfurous gust. "No, Liliasss. You know otherwise. These are things I have shown you. The world began in ending, and it will end in beginning. Thisss, not even Haomane Firsst-Born undersstands. What he grasspss is only a portion of Uru-Alat'ss plan, and his role in it is not as he thinksss. All things mussst be Ssundered to be made whole. It is not finished… yet."

"Calandor," she said. "Why did you tell such things to Satoris Third-Born, yet not to Haomane First-Born?"

"Because," the dragon said. "He asssked."

For a long moment, neither spoke. At length, Lilias said, "Is that why Haomane despises him?"

The dragon shifted. "Perhapss, Liliasss. I cannot sssay."

"Between them, they will tear the world asunder anew," she said in a low voice.

"Yesss," Calandor agreed. "One in his pride, one in his defiansse. Sso it musst be. All things change and transsmute, even Shapers. They play the roles they mussst."

"Do they know?" she asked.

Calandor blinked once, slowly. "Sssatoriss knows."

In the unseasonal warmth she shivered, wrapping her arms about herself, pressing her body against the scaled forelimb. Even the forge-heat of the dragon's body could not dispel her chill. "Calandor, what of us? What happens if we fail?"

"Fail?" There was amusement in the dragon's deep voice. "What is
failure
?"

"RIGHT." THE CAPTAIN OF THE
Ilona's Gull
scratched his stubbled chin, running a calculating eye over Carfax' company. "My bargain was for twenty men, not horses. 'Specially not
these
horses. Reckon they'll wreak right hell in my hold if the crossing's rough, won't they?"

In the bright sunlight of Harrington Bay, the measures taken to disguise the horses of Darkhaven held up poorly. Even with burred manes and ill-kept coats, their eyes gleamed with preternatural intellect, muscles gliding like oil under their bunching hides.

"Look, man." Carfax struggled for calm, finding his hand reaching for his sword-hilt. Nothing on earth was more frustrating than dealing with the Free Fishers of Harrington Inlet. They owed allegiance to no mortal ruler, and their independence was legendary. "A bargain was made. My understanding is that it was for passage for my men and their mounts… and for the lady. Will you keep it or no?"

A crowd was gathering on the quai, which was to the good. They wanted witnesses who could testify that a group of armed men, likely Pelmaran, had departed on the
Ilona's Gull
, escorting a woman garbed in a cloak of white silk wrought by Ellylon, the gold-embroidered crowns and ruby Souma glinting in the sunlight.

What they
didn't
want was witnesses who crowded close enough to note that the supposed Pelmarans spoke the common tongue with a Staccian accent, the horses they rode were found nowhere else on earth, and beneath the shadow of her exquisite hood, the Ellyl noblewoman sported blond beard-stubble.

"I might…" the captain drawled, winking at his mates. "For a price. A damage tax, y'see."

"Fine," Carfax snapped. If he'd had the luxury of time, he'd have showed the Free Fisherman what it meant to bargain with a disciple of mighty Vorax, whose appetite was matched only by his shrewdness. But somewhere behind them—hours, at best—a host of Haomane's Allies pursued them. "Name your price."

The Free Fisher captain pursed his wind-chapped lips. "I might do it for a pair of those fine steeds you ride, goodman."

"Two horses?" Carfax raised his hand, cutting off a protest from his comrades.

"Two." The captain nodded. "Aye, two will do it. Reckon they'll fetch a good price in Port Calibus." He grinned, revealing strong white teeth. "They do like to cut a fine figure astride, those Vedasian knights."

"Done."

The bargain struck, the planks were laid, and Carfax's company began boarding the
Ilona's Gull
. The horses of Darkhaven permitted themselves to be led down the ramps with wary dignity, eyes rolling as they descended into the ship's hold. Turin in his Ellyl cloak was hustled aboard, surrounded by an escort. Carfax breathed a sigh of relief as he disappeared.

"Lieutenant." One of his men, young Mantuas, tugged at his elbow. "Lieutenant," he hissed in Staccian, "we
can't
part with any of the horses! 'Twill leave a trail pointing straight to Darkhaven!"

"Peace, lad," Carfax muttered out of the side of his mouth. "At least speak in common, if you must. Hey!" he added, shouting at the pressing crowd, affecting a Pelmaran accent rather well, he thought. "You and you, get back! This is important business, and none of yours!"

They withdrew a few paces, the Free Fishers; net-men and fishwives, curious children with bright eyes. A few paces, no more. Carfax hid a smile. Lord Vorax had a fondness for the Free Fishers of Harrington Inlet, truth be told. Stubborn as they were, they had the pride of their self-interest, unabashed and free—some, like this captain, even willing to strike deals with agents of suspect origin.

But when it came to war, the Free Fishers would side with Haomane's Allies, believing Lord Satoris would strip away their independence. Mantuas was right, of course. They couldn't afford to lose the horses.

If there were more time, Carfax thought, he might try to sway the captain and his crew. They seemed like shrewd men who understood profit and would listen to reason, who could be brought to understand that Lord Satoris offered a greater freedom than they knew existed; freedom from the yolk of Haomane's will, under which they labored unknowing, trudging like a miller's oxen in endless circles.

But given the time constraints, it would be much simpler to kill them at sea.

Carfax hoped he remembered how to sail a ship. It had been a long time since he had summered on the shores of Laefrost Lake with his mother's kin, the clear, ice-blue waters swollen with snowmelt. Well, he thought, crossing the ramp, standing at the railings as the planks were drawn aboard and the mainsail hoisted, the winch grinding as the anchor was raised; we will find out.