Godslayer (15 page)

He said no more, waiting.

Tanaros inclined his head. A moment had passed; an axis had tipped. Something had changed, something was lost. Something bright had slipped away from him, and something else had settled into place. Its roots were deep and strong. There was a surety, a knowledge of self, and the course he had chosen. Beneath its brand, his aching heart beat, each beat reminding him that he owed his existence to Lord Satoris.

A vast and abiding love.

He touched the pouch at his belt, feeling the contours of Hyrgolf's
rhios
through it, letting himself be humbled by the awesome loyalty of the Fjel. The Fjel, to whom it seemed Arahila's forgiveness did not extend. On the far side of the glade, Ushahin's eyes glittered as if he knew Tanaros' thoughts.

Perhaps he did.

"Permit me to escort the Lady Cerelinde to her quarters," Tanaros said to the half-breed. "Then I am at your disposal." Turning to Cerelinde, he extended his arm. "Lady?"

Cerelinde took his arm. "Thank you," she whispered, "for this glimpse of sun."

"For that. Lady, you are welcome." Tanaros heard the unsteadiness in his voice and despised it. He crooked his arm, capturing her fair, white fingers against his torso and made his voice harsh. "Now, come with me."

She went, making no protest.

Behind them came the padding footfalls of the Havenguard, crunching upon the beech-mast. And all the way. Tanaros felt the combined gaze of Ushahin and the ravens of Darkhaven upon him. On his arm. Cerelinde's touch burned; on the outer edges of his sight, Fetch's vision burned, a raven's fitful thoughts, backed by a dragon's roar, and the gleam in Ushahin's mismatched eyes.

Somewhere between the two, lay his path.

So be it. Tanaros thought, conscious of the steady throb of his beating heart, and all that he owed, every breath drawn, to Lord Satoris.

A matter of corruption?

No. Never.

From his perch high atop a pine tree, Dani saw the Fjel.

It was the fourth time that day he had clambered up the tree, using it as a vantage point to survey the barren reach. Each time, he whispered a prayer to Uru-Alat, praying to find the landscape empty as it had been the day before, and the day before it.

On the third day, his luck ran out.

Although it was hard to tell from so far away, they appeared to be the same kind he had seen before—lean and predatory, with smooth, grey hides that were blended into the rocky terrain. If he hadn't been keen-sighted, he might have missed them. But, no, there it was again—a steely flash in the distance, the northern sunlight glinting on armor plate. Clinging to the pine's trunk with his good right arm, he stared intently at the direction of the Fjel. There were more of them this time, though only one wore armor. Save for the waterskins strapped over their torsos, the rest were unadorned.

They were traveling in a pack and they were traveling swiftly. For a moment. Dani watched, mesmerized by their steady, tireless lope. Even at a distance, an awful grace was in it.

Then fear returned in a rush, the sour taste of it in his mouth. Using both feet and the one hand. Dani descended the pine tree in awkward haste, heedless of the prickling needles and rough bark, and hurried into the hidden cave.

"Fjeltroll?" Uncle Thulu's voice was faint and thready.

"Aye." He met his uncle's feverish gaze. "A dozen at least."

"Did they see you?"

"No." Dani shook his head. "They're pretty far south of us and moving fast, all in a pack. It doesn't even look like they're hunting. I think they'll miss us," he added hopefully. "Maybe they're not even looking."

"No." Uncle Thulu coughed weakly and wheezed, one hand scrabbling at his chest. In the dim light, his shirt was stained dark with seeping fluids. Despite Dani's best efforts to clean and tend them, his wounds continued to fester. Yesterday, they had begun to slough dead flesh and the small space stank of it. "Help me sit."

With alacrity, Dani eased him into a sitting position, propped against the cavern wall. "Better?"

"Aye." Uncle Thulu whispered, licking his dry, cracked lips.

"Here." Moving deftly and quietly. Dani made his way to the mouth of the cave. There, in a shallow depression to one side, was a cache of moss he had gathered. It had sustained them during the past three days. Grasping a smooth stone, he ground the spongy moss into a damp paste. Scooping up a handful, he returned to squat beside his uncle. With gentle care, he spread the paste on the elder Yarru's parched lips. "Try to eat."

Uncle Thulu's mouth worked with difficulty, his sluggish tongue taking in the moss paste. Blinking back tears. Dani spread another fingerful on his lips. There was moisture in it, not much, but enough to live on. It was the only thing he had been able to find within half a day's journey of their hiding place. And if he had not seen a single lost elk grazing on it, he might never have thought to try the moss. It was all that had kept his uncle alive.

And barely, at that.

"Enough." Uncle Thulu grasped Dani's wrist with urgent strength and drew in a deep, rattling breath. "Dani, listen to me."

"Yes. Uncle." His chest ached with fear and love.

"They're starting over. That's why they're moving in a hurry. They're going back to pick up our trail from the beginning. And if they've added to their numbers, they're not going to miss us this time." Thulu's eyes were overbright in his wasted face. "Dani, you have to go.
Now
."

"I won't." He refused to hear what Thulu was saying. "Not without you."

His uncle said it anyway. "I'm dying, Dani."

"What if we went back?" The thought struck him like an offer of salvation. "We could wait for them to pass, then head south! They wouldn't hunt for us once we passed out of Fjel territory, and the Staccians… well, they're just Men, we can hide from Men, Uncle! And get you home, where—"

"Dani." Uncle Thulu's grip tightened on his wrist. "I'm not going anywhere," he said gently. "Do you understand? This is where the journey ends for me. I'm sorry, lad. You've got to go on without me."

"No!" Pulling away, Dani clutched the clay vial around his neck. "For what?" he asked angrily. "For
this
? It's not worth it! It's not
fair
, uncle!" He yanked at the vial with all his strength. For a moment, the braided cord on which it was strung burned the skin of his neck: then it parted with a faint snap. Dani held the vial in one hand. Hot tears burned his eyes, and his voice trembled. "I didn't
ask
to be the Bearer! What's Satoris ever clone to the Yarru-yami, anyway, that we should seek to destroy him? It's not
his
fault Haomane's Wrath scorched the desert, he was just trying to
hide
from it! And if he hadn't… if he hadn't, we wouldn't have found the Water of Life! We wouldn't be the keepers of Birru-Uru-Alat. We wouldn't even be what we
are
!"

The ghost of a smile moved Thulu's cracked lips. "These are fitting questions for the Bearer to ask," he whispered. "But you will have to answer them alone."

Dani unclenched his hand, staring at the vial. It lay on the starry, radiating lines of his grimy palm; a simple object, fragile and crude. Clay, gathered from a scant deposit at one of the Stone Grove's water-holes, fired with baari-wood and dung in a pit dug into the desert's floor.

Inside it was the Water of Life, water he had drawn from the Well of the World and dipped from the bucket, holding it in his cupped palms as old Ngurra had told him to do, filling the vial with care. The lifeblood of Uru-Alat, the World God; the secret the Yarru-yami held in trust. A gift only the Bearer could draw; a burden only the Bearer could carry. A choice in the making.

In the apple orchards of Malumdoorn, while the sun slanted through the trees and the Dwarfs stood watching, a single drop had caused a dead stick to burst into green life; planting roots, sprouting leaves and blossoms.

A dawning certainty grew in him. For the first time. Dani saw clearly the divided path before him and understood that the choice between them was his, and his alone, to make. Not tor the sake or Malthas, whose impassioned words had swayed him: not for the sake of Carfax, who had given his life to save him. Not even for his uncle, who would gainsay it. The choice was his, and his alone. This, and not the Water itself, was the Bearer's true burden.

Dani lifted his head. "No, Uncle. Not just yet."

"Ah, lad!" There was alarm in Thulu's weak voice. "The Water of Life is too precious to waste—"

"Am I the Bearer?" Dani interrupted him. "You keep telling me it is my right to choose. Uncle, and yet you give me no guidance, no hint as to which choice is
right
. Well, I am choosing." With one thumbnail, he pried at the tight cork, working it loose. The faint scent of water, life giving and mineral-rich, trickled into the small cavern. With his heart hammering in hope and fear. Dani bent over his uncle and smoothed his brow, putting the vial close to his lips. "I choose for you to live."

Uncle Thulu exhaled one last, long, rattling breath and closed his eyes in surrender. "May it be as Uru-Alat wills," he whispered.

At close range, the stench of his suppurating wounds vied for dominance with the odor of water. Dani ignored it, concentrating on tilting the flask. Under his breath, he chanted the Song of Being, the story of Uru-Alat and how the World God died to give birth to the world. It was an act of prayer: a Yarru prayer, the oldest prayer, a story learned and told in the deep places of the earth, where the veins of life pulsed and the Yarru had hidden from Haomane's Wrath. It was an old story, older than the Shapers. It was as old as dragons, who were born in the deep places from the bones of Uru-Alat and carried a spark of marrow-fire in their bellies.

A single drop gathered on the clay lip of the vessel. It gathered and swelled: rounding, bottom-heavy. It shone like a translucent pearl, glimmering in the shadowy cavern, reflecting all the light in the world.

Beneath it were his uncle's parted lips. Dark flesh, fissured and cracked, smeared with moss-paste. The tip of his tongue, a pink supplicant lying quiescent on the floor of his thirsting mouth.

Dani tilted the vial.

One drop; two, three!

They fell like stars through the dark air into the mortal void of
Uncle Thulu's waiting mouth. And, oh. Uru-Alat! A sweet odor burst forth as they fell, redoubled in strength: a scent like a chime, like the sharp clap of a pair of hands.

It happened almost too quickly for sight to follow. Uncle Thulu's eyes sprang open, wide and amazed. His chest heaved as he drew in a great, whooping gasp of air. Dani cried aloud in astonishment, scrambling backward and nearly spilling the Water of Life. He shoved the cork into the clay flask, then shoved his knuckles into his mouth, fearful that his outcry would draw the Fjetroll.

"Ah, Dani, lad!" Uncle Thulu sat upright. The brightness in his eyes owed nothing to fever—it was the brightness of sunlight on clear waters, a promise of life and health. "If this is folly, what a glorious folly it is!" fie grinned, showing strong white teeth, and yanked his shirt aside to expose his chest. "Tell me what you see!"