Godslayer (26 page)

It was a fierce hurt to cling to. The Lady Cerelinde should never have shown her something that
nice
. It hurt too much. Kindness was not always kind, even when people begged for it.

A pair of Havenguard were posted outside the Lady's door: Mørkhar Fjel, black and bristling. They were loyal to General Tanaros. Meara held her breath as they examined her tray, lowering their massive heads, sniffing at it with flared nostrils. She kept her head low, tangled hair hiding her face. She knew they could smell her fear, but the Fjel would not think it strange, not in one of Darkhaven's madlings, who were prey to all manner of terror. She did not know if they could smell poison: or if, indeed, there
was
poison.

There must be poison.

If there was, it was nothing the Fjel could detect: nothing that was deadly to
them
. Little could harm the constitution of a Fjeltroll. They unbarred the door and granted her admittance into the Lady's chamber.

Maybe there was no poison.

And then she was inside, and there was the Lady Cerelinde, tall and shining. All the light in the room seemed to gather around her, clinging to her as though it loved her. It shimmered down the length of her golden hair, clung to her silken robes, rested on her solemn, beautiful face in loving benison. Unfair; oh, unfair! It filled her with a terrible yearning for all the lost beauty of the world, all that might have been, and was not. No wonder General Tanaros' face softened when he gazed upon her. Meara ducked her head and ground her teeth, remembering how he had spurned her advances.

She was a fool; no,
he
was a fool. She would have been content with a little, with so little. Was there madness in it, or a desperate sanity? She could no longer tell. Love, soup, poison, loyalty, folly. Which was which?

The Lady smiled at her as she placed the tray upon the table. "Thank you, Meara."

What did it cost her to be gracious? It was all the same in the end. She was one of the Ellylon. They had turned their back on Lord Ushahin when he was no more than an innocent babe, because he was not good enough, though their blood ran in his veins. Tainted by violence, tainted by the seed of Arahila's Children, who had accepted Lord Satoris' Gift. No one was good enough, for them. For
her
.

Not Meara, who was only to be pitied.

Not General Tanaros, who protected her.

Not even his Lordship, no; Lord Satoris, who turned no one away. Whose Shaper's heart was vast enough to embrace
all
of them, even though he bled. Who saw in Ushahin Dreamspinner something rare and wonderful, who understood his pain and respected it. Who offered all of those whom the other Shapers had abandoned this sanctuary, who gave them a reason to live and to serve, who valued the least of their contributions.

Meara loved him; she did.

And still her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth as the Lady of the Ellylon lifted the lid from the crock, steam escaping. Was it right? What was right? Did it mutter? The thought made her uneasy, setting a tide of gibberish rising in her mind, the words she had spoken echoing in the vault of her skull.

You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.

The Lady Cerelinde lowered her silver spoon, filling it with broth, and lifted it to her lips, blowing gently across the steaming surface. Meara would have clone the same. It wasn't fair. Were they so different, Arahila's Children and Haomane's? Thought chased itself around her mind, mingling with her words, her shattered visions and fragmented memories, until a dark pit opened before her. It was as it had been since she was a child of twelve. The world tilted and her thoughts spiraled helplessly, sliding into a chaos of repetition and babble, seeking to give voice to a pattern too vast to compass.

The spoon halted on its journey. "Meara?"

She clutched her head, seeking to silence the rising tide within it.

Be for the best for the best of the rest for the best for the blessed beast for the rest the beast blessed for the beaten breast of the blessed rest be eaten lest the breast be wrest for the quest of the blessed for the best beast that blessed the rest…

Words, slipping between her clutching fingers, slipping onto her seething tongue, sliding between her clenched teeth.

…
eaten lest the blessed beast be beaten lest the beaten rest be left bereft lest the breast bereft be cleft lest the blessed be wrest
…

Words and words and words crawling like insects in her mind, dropping from her lips, a rising tide of them; and somewhere, more words,
other
words, resonant and ringing, words as bright and straight and orderly as the blade of a sword.

The Lady Cerelinde was standing, was speaking; Ellylon words, words of power and ancient magics, words like a sword, bright and blazing. Each syllable rang like a bell, driving back the dark tide of madness, and Meant wept to see it go, for the awful remorse that came in its stead was worse.

In the silence that followed, the Lady turned back to the table. Droplets of broth had spattered the white linen. In a slow, reluctant gesture, she extended one hand above the steaming crock and whispered a soft incantation. There was a ring on her finger, set with a pale and glowing moonstone. Even as Meara watched, the stone darkened, turning a remorseless shade of black.

If it could have spoken, it would have uttered a single word:
Poison
.

"Oh, Meara!" The Lady's voice was redolent with sorrow. "Why?"

"Lady, what is it?" Meara scuttled forward, despising herself for her flinching movements, for the remorse she felt. She clapped the lid on the crock, making the poison vanish. "Is it not to your liking, the soup?" she asked, feigning anxiety. "Thorn did but try a new recipe. If you do not like it, I will bring another."

"Meara." A single word, breathed; her name. All the gathered light in the room, all the gathered light of Darkhaven, shone in the Lady's eyes. She sighed, a sigh of unspeakable weariness, bowing her head. "What must I do?"

"I don't know," Meara whispered, sinking to her knees. "Lady…"

"Perhaps I should drink it." Cerelinde regarded the blackened gem upon her finger. "Do you say so. Meara? It is the simplest solution, after all. If I were no more, all of
this
would cease to be." Her gaze settled on Meara. "Would it be for the best, Meara of Darkhaven?"

"I don't know!" The words burst from her in agony; she raised her head to meet the terrible beauty of the Lady's gaze. "I don't know."

"Perhaps I should, after all," the Lady said softly. She lifted the lid from the crock and picked up the spoon.

"No!" Meara darted forward, snatching away the tray. The Lady touched her cheek. The skin of her hand was soft, impossibly soft, and her touch burned with cool fire. A bottomless pity was in her luminous eyes.

"Ah, Meara!" she said. "See, there is goodness in you yet, despite the Sunderer's corruption. Would that I could heal you. I am sorry I have only this poor Rivenlost magic to offer, that affords but a moment's respite. But take heart, for all is not lost. While goodness exists, there is hope. What I cannot do. Malthus the Wise Counselor may. He could heal you, all of you. He could make you whole, as Urulat itself could be made whole."

There were words, more words, spinning into skeins of answers, filling Meara's head until the pattern of her thoughts was as tangled as the webs in the Weavers' Gulch. She wanted to tell the Lady that it was too late, that Malthus should have cared for them long ago instead of letting them be lost and forgotten. That they had chosen the only love anyone ever offered them, that Ushahin Dreamspinner understood them, for he was one of them; yes, and so was Lord Satoris, in all his wounded majesty. That all pride was folly; the pride of Ellylon, of Men, yes, even of Shapers. That they had chosen the folly they understood best. Mad pride; a madling's pride, broken, but not forgotten.

There were words, but none would come.

Instead, something else was coming; fury, rising like a black wind from the bowels of Darkhaven. Lord Satoris knew; Lord Satoris was angry. The touch of Ellylon magic had alerted him. Beneath the soles of her feet, Meara felt the floor vibrate. His fury rose, crawling over her skin, making her itch and tremble. The lid on the crock rattled as she held the tray in shaking hands.

"Dreamspinner!"

The roar shook the very foundations of Darkhaven. It blew through Meara's thoughts, shredding them into tatters, until she knew only terror. The promise of Lord Ushahin's protection held little comfort.

The Lady Cerelinde felt it. Meara could tell; her face was bloodless, as stark and white as the new-risen moon. And yet she trembled only slightly, and the pity in her gaze did not fade. "So it is Ushahin the Misbegotten who wishes me dead," she murmured. "He uses his servants cruelly, Meara."

There were footsteps in the hall, coming at a run. It would be Speros, the Midlander. General Tanaros trusted him. Meara glanced involuntarily at the closed door, thinking of the Havenguard beyond it. Her actions would be reckoned a betrayal.

In a swift, decisive movement, the Lady Cerelinde yanked aside the tapestry that concealed the hidden passage into her quarters, throwing back the bolts that barred the door and opening it. "Fly," she said. "Fly and be gone!"

Meara wanted to stay; wanted to explain. Did not want to be indebted to the Lady of the Ellylon, to whom she had served a bowl of poisoned broth. But the Lady's face was filled with compassionate valor, and terror was at the door.

"I told him you would break our hearts." Meara whispered, and fled.

Vines crawled down the face of the rock, concealing the entrance to the Vesdarlig Passage. The sight of them made Dani feel queasy. He swallowed hard, tasting bile as the women of Gerflod parted the dense curtain of vine to expose the dark, forbidding opening. He would feel better if they weren't touching the vines.

Uncle Thulu whistled between his teeth. "We'd never have found
that
on our own, lad!" He scanned the ground with a tracker's eye. "Fjel have been here, but not since the rains. I'd not have seen any sign if I hadn't known to look."

"That's good." Dani's voice emerged faint and thready.

Uncle Thulu gave him a hard look. "Are you sure you've got the stomach for this, Dani?"

He touched the clay vial at his throat, but there was no comfort in it; not with the women's careworn hands clutching the vines, patiently waiting. There was only the memory of writhing barrows and green death. He drew strength instead from their faces, from their terrible grief and the fierce, desperate hope to which they clung. Taking a deep breath, he answered, "I'm sure."

His uncle's look softened. "Then we'd best not delay."

Dani nodded, settling his pack on his shoulders. It held a warm blanket and as much food as he could carry; dried and salt-cured provender, laid up for the winter. They were dressed in sturdy, clean attire; warm woolens from the clothing-chests of men whose blood had stained the flagstones of Gerflod Keep. A fresh sling had been tied around his arm, giving respite to his still-aching shoulder. Their water-skins were full. In his pack. Uncle Thulu carried a bundle of torches soaked with a rendered pitch that burned long and slow.

The women of Gerflod had been generous.

"Thank you, Lady." Dani bowed to the Lady Sorhild. "We are grateful for your kindness."

She shook her head. "It is very little. I pray it is enough, and not too late. Still, I am grateful to have had this chance. We have many years of which to repent." Tears were in her blue-grey eyes. With a choked laugh, she gave him the traveler's blessing. "May Haomane keep you, Dani of the Yarru!"

"Come, lad." Uncle Thulu touched his arm.

Together they went forward, passing beneath the vine curtain. Dani glanced at the face of one of the women holding the vines. It was the young woman who had captured them, the one who had reminded him of Fianna. There were tears in her eyes, too, and the same desperate hope. She was whispering something in Staccian, the words halting on her lips. A prayer, maybe.

It had been a long time since anyone had prayed to Haomane First-Born in Staccia.

He wanted to tarry, to ask her name, to ask what it was the Galäinridder had said to make her so certain of the lightness of their quest, despite the fearful consequences. But they did not speak the same tongue, and there was no time. Already Uncle Thulu was moving past him, taking one of the torches from his bundle. There was a sharp, scraping sound as he struck the flint, a scattering of sparks, and then the sound of pitch sizzling as the torch flared to life.

Yellow torchlight danced over the rocky surfaces. It was a broad tunnel and deep, sloping downward into endless darkness. Beyond the pool of light cast by the torch, there was only 'black silence.

If they were lucky, that would hold true.

"Shall we go?" Thulu asked quietly.

"Aye." Dani cast one longing glance behind him. The vines were still parted, and he could see the Lady Sorhild holding up one hand in farewell. The hope in her face, in all their faces, was a heavy burden to carry. He sighed, setting his face toward the darkness, hearing the soft rustling of the vine curtain falling back into place. "Lead me to Darkhaven, Uncle."

"He did
what
?" Light-headed with fury. Tanaros grasped the front of Vorax's doublet, hurling the old glutton against the wall and pinning him there. "Is he
mad
?"

"Peace, cousin!" the Staccian wheezed, trying to pry Tanaros' grip loose. His bearded lace was turning red. "As to the latter, need you ask?"

A cry of agony thrummed through the stones of Darkhaven, wordless and shattering; once, twice and thrice. It sounded raw and ragged, a voice that had been screaming for a long time. Somewhere, Ushahin Dreamspinner was suffering the consequences of having attempted to circumvent Lord Satoris' will.

Tanaros swore and released Vorax, who slumped to the floor, rubbing his bruised throat. "What did you have to do with it?"