Banewreaker (12 page)

One stayed upright through sheer will, glancing at the tall rocks surrounding the empty circle, eyes suspicious by moonlight. The old man smiled. Stubborn, that one. He must be the appointed guardian. And the others…

"Ngurra!" His wife's whisper tickled his ear with delight. "Look! One of the Haomane-gaali."

And so it was, tall and fair, wrought with such grace that thirst and hunger only stripped him to a translucent beauty, his Shaper's intended essence. Ngurra clicked his tongue. Fair, yes, but could Haomane's Children find water in the desert? No.

One of the strangers could, though; their old one—or at least, where he could not find it, he could compel it. And he'd done so, the old wizard. From Dry Basin to Lizard Rock, across the Basking Flats, he'd done it, calling drought-eaters from barren sand. The desert was leached where they had passed, struggling for survival. The old man felt it, himself; there, above his third rib, a dull ache where Thornbrake Bore had run dry.

"Did you see—?" his wife whispered.

"Shhh." He hushed her. "Watch. They have found it."

It was their old one, their wizard. He leaned on his staff, bowing his head. One hand fumbled beneath the moonlit spill of his beard, drawing forth the Soumanie. It shone like a red star in his hand. The wizard raised his head, gazing at the pile of rocks in the center of the Stone Grove. "It is here," he said softly. "Ah, Haomane! The Unknown made Known. Blaise, Peldras, come."

Together, they clambered over the rocks. What they found there, every member of the Yarru knew full well. A cleft, ringed round with rocks, opening onto unfathomable depths, and from it emerging a breath of water, heavy, with a strong mineral tang. A battered tin bucket, sitting atop an endless coil of rope. A faint sigh whispered around the Stone Grove.

"Is it… ?" asked the one called Blaise.

"It is the Well of the World and the Navel of Uru-Alat." The wizard's voice held awe. " '
Try though they may, one and all, by no hand save the appointed Bearer
… '"He halted his recitation. "Let us try, then, and see."

Among the rocks surrounding Stone Grove, the Yarru chuckled, a soft, soughing sound, like the shifting of desert sands. Ngurra rested on his haunches, watching as the strangers fed the tin bucket into Birru-Uru-Alat, the hole at the center of the world. Down and down and down it went, on a coiling rope of thukka-vine. He counted the heartbeats, waiting as the rope uncoiled.

Down…

Down…

Down.

Almost, the strangers gave up after long minutes, for there seemed no end to the coiling rope. Ngurra knew how long it was. He had measured it, cubit by cubit, all the days of his life. That was his charge, as chieftain of the Stone Grove Clan. His grandmother, who had been chieftainess before him, had passed it to him, along with her knowledge. Maintain the rope, inch by inch. It was one of his charges.

A faint splash in the night.

"Water," said Peldras the Haomane-gaali, lying prone above the opening. His ears were sharper than those of Men. "The bucket has struck water, Counselor."

One after another, they tried it. Blaise, the appointed guardian, tried it first, grunting in the moonlight, muscles straining as he sought to raise the bucket. Then the Haomane-gaali Peldras tried, and fared no better. The wizard tried, too, muttering spells that availed him naught, but earned a silent chuckle from the watching Yarru. In the end, they all tried, the whole of Malthus' Company, even the thirsting Archer and the bone-weary Knight, laying hands on the rope together and hauling as one. Yet, even as a whole, bone and muscle and sinew cracking, they failed.

The laden bucket was too heavy to raise.

"Enough," whispered their old one, their wizard. "We have tried, one and all, and fulfilled the letter of the Prophecy." Laying down his staff, he cupped the Soumanie in both hands. His voice grew strong as he spoke the words of the choosing, and the ruddy glow of the chip of the Souma grew, spilling from between his cupped hands to illuminate the Stone Grove. "Yarru-yami! Charred Ones! Children of Haomane's wrath! I call upon you now in his name. Lend us your aid!"

"Time and gone he asked," Warabi muttered.

"Hush, old woman!" Ngurra glared at her. She wouldn't understand the common tongue if he hadn't taught it to her himself. "Kindle the torch."

Still muttering, she obeyed, striking flint to iron. The oil-rich fibers of the bugy-stick sputtered and lit, sending a signal. All around the perimeter of the Stone Grove, bugy-stick torches caught and kindled as, one by one, members of the Six Clans of the Yarru revealed themselves.

Ngurra stepped before the torches, gazing down at the small figures gathered around the Birru-Uru-Alat, their shadows stark on the sand. "The Yarru are here," he called in the common tongue, the language his grandmother had taught him. "As we have always been, since before the earth was scorched. What do you seek?"

Malthus the Counselor opened his arms, showing himself weaponless, offering himself as surety. The Soumanie shone like a red star upon his breast. "Speaker of the Yarru, I greet you. We come seeking the Bearer."

In the night, someone gasped.

FOR TWO MORE DAYS, THEY traveled through the tunnels.

Truth be told, Tanaros had never been comfortable in them. They reminded him, too acutely, that Urulat was old, older than his lifespan, unnatural as it was, could reckon. Dragons had carved them, it was said; whether or not it was true, dragons did not acknowledge. Still, they served their purpose for the armies of Darkhaven.

It was harder, with the Lady of the Ellylon.

Vast as they were—broad enough at all times for two horses to ride abreast, and sometimes three—the tunnels were dark and stifling, a mass of earth pressing above at all times. At times, when it was far between vents, the air grew thick and the torches guttered, burning low. Then it was worse, and even Tanaros fought panic, his chest working to draw air into his lungs.

The Fjel, rock-delvers by nature of their Shaping, were untroubled. Their eyes were well suited to darkness and they could slow the very beat of their hearts at need, breathing slow and deep, moving unhurried at a steady pace, carrying heavy packs of supplies. Brute wisdom, mindless and physical, attuned to survival. Even the horses, bred in the Vale of Gorgantum to fear no darkness, endured without panic.

It was different for Men, who thought overmuch.

It was worst of all for the Ellyl.

Tanaros saw, and sympathized against his will. It was simpler, much simpler, to despise her. Ushahin Dreamspinner managed it without effort, his face twisted with pure and absolute despite when he deigned glance her way. By all rights, the Dreamspinner should have hated the tunnels, being human and Ellyl, a creature of open skies. But he was a child of the Were as well, and at home underground.

Not so the Lady Cerelinde.

Her face, by torchlight, was pale, too pale. Skin stretched taut over bones Shaped like lines of poetry, searing and gorgeous. Haomane's Child. Even here, her beauty made the heart ache. Her eyes were wide, swallowed up by darkness. From time to time her pale fingers scrabbled at her throat, seeking to loosen the clasp of a rough-spun wool cloak someone had loaned her on the first day; Hyrgolf, at a guess.

On the second day, Tanaros could bear it no longer.

An escort of marching Fjel surrounded her as she rode, seated on one of the fallen Staccian's mounts. Tungskulder Fjel, Hyrgolf's best lads, their horny heads at a level with her shoulder even as she rode astride. She bore it well, Cerelinde of the Ellylon, only a faint tremor giving evidence to her fear, until the air grew thick once more and she clutched her throat, gasping.

"Give way," Tanaros murmured to the rearguard.

"General!" A Fjeltroll grinned and saluted, dropping back.

He made his way to her side, maneuvering the black horse. "Lady," he said, and her stricken gaze met his. "All is well. There is air, see?" He inhaled deeply, his chest swelling, detecting a waft of fresh air from an unseen vent. His brand pulsed like bands of marrow-fire around his heart. "We will survive, and endure."

"I am afraid." Her frightened eyes were like stars.

Once, Calista had said that to him; his wife. He hadn't know, then, what she meant. Hadn't known of her past-dawning attraction to his blood-sworn kinsman, his king, Roscus Altorus, or the affair it had engendered. He had laughed at her fears, laughed and embraced her, protecting the child that grew in her belly with his own strong arms, believing them strong enough to fend off aught that might harm them.

Now, he didn't laugh.

"I know," he said instead, somber. "Tomorrow we ride above-ground."

Cerelinde of the Ellylon shuddered with relief. "You might die, Kingslayer," she said in her low, musical voice. "If the tunnel fell, deprived of air, you would die and your comrades with you. It would be terrible, but swift. My death would be slow, for such is Haomane's Gift. I would die by inches, and my mind last of all. Though my body held the semblance of death, I would endure. Days, or weeks, alive in the crushing darkness, aware. Think on that, before you name me a coward."

"I would not." He felt embarrassed. "I would not say such a thing."

Her gaze slid sideways, touching him. "What of him?" She indicated the Dreamspinner, who rode before them in the vanguard, trailing the Cold Hunters, the Kaldjager Fjel, who scouted before them to ensure the way was secure. "The blood of Men and Ellylon runs in his veins, yet he knows no fear."

"There is little Ushahin Dreamspinner fears."

"He is mad."

"Yes and no." Tanaros regarded her. "He has reason to hate your kind, Lady. And mine. If it is madness that warps him, it is of our people's devising."

She looked away, showing her profile, clear-cut as a cameo. "So you have said," she said quietly. "And yet, did he come to us, Malthus would heal him. He is wounded in body and mind. It could be done, by one who knew how to wield the Soumanie. Such is the power of the Souma, to Shape and make whole. Even in the merest chip, it abides. In the dagger Godslayer, it abides tenfold. Satoris Banewreaker is cruel to deny him."

"Deny?" Tanaros laughed aloud.

"You are quick to speak of his pain!" Cerelinde's voice rose with her temper. "And the Sunderer was quick to turn it to his ends. Did you never think that Ushahin the Misbegotten might be better served by kindness?"

"Kindness?" Tanaros drew rein, halting their progression. Behind them, the Fjel chuckled, amused by their exchange. "Lady, my Lord Satoris has offered healing to the Dreamspinner more times than I can number." He smiled grimly at her reaction. "Aye, indeed. Do you think the Lord of Darkhaven does not know how to wield Godslayer? He is a Shaper, one of Seven, no matter that Haomane abjures him. It is Ushahin's choice, to wear this broken face, these crippled hands. He was not denied. He chose to keep his pain, his madness. Again and again, he has chosen."

"It is not right." She was shaken.

"Why? Because you say so?" Tanaros shook his head, nudging his mount to a walk. "You understand nothing."

"Tanaros." The fear in her voice and the fact that she spoke his name made him turn in the saddle. Her face was pale against the darkness of the tunnel, and her upraised chin trembled. "What does he want of me, the Sunderer? Why was I taken and yet not slain? It makes no sense. When you attacked…" Cerelinde closed her eyes briefly. "When you attacked, I thought you were Beshtanagi in disguise. Haomane help me, I would have sworn to it. Then I awoke, surrounded by Fjeltroll…" She shuddered, swallowing. "Why?"

Pity stirred in his heart, a dangerous thing. "Lady, I cannot say. Only trust that you will be unharmed. My Lord has sworn it."

There was despair in her face, and disbelief.

"Be we moving or no, Lord General?" Hyrgolf's rumbling voice called.

"Aye!" Tanaros tore his gaze away and dug his heels smartly into the black's sides. It snorted, moving at a trot through the ranks of the Fjel, who offered good-natured salutes. "Call the march, Field Marshal!"

"March!" Hyrgolf shouted.

Onward they marched. Tanaros let them pass, falling in beside Ushahin Dreamspinner, who regarded him with an unreadable gaze. "You play a dangerous game, cousin," he said.

Tanaros shook his head. "There is no game here."

Ushahin, still clutching the case containing the Helm of Shadows to his belly, shrugged his crooked shoulders. "As you say. Were the choice mine, I would waste no time in killing her."

"The choice is his Lordship's." Tanaros' voice hardened. "Would you strip all honor from him?"

"In favor of survival?" Ushahin looked bleak. "Aye, I would."

Tanaros reached over to touch his crippled hand where it rested on the case. "Forgive me, cousin," he said. "The Grey Dam of the Were is due all honor. She spent her life as she chose and died with her eye-teeth seeking her enemy's throat."

"Aye." Ushahin drew a deep breath. "I know it." In the torchlit tunnel, his mismatched eyes glittered. "Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? Even as she died. You will know it ere the end."

"As you say, cousin." Tanaros withdrew his hand, frowning in perplexity. Perhaps, after all, the Dreamspinner's grief had worsened his madness. "Her life was gift enough."

Ushahin bared his teeth in a grimace. "It was for me."

THE SIX CLANS OF THE Yarru-yami, the Charred Ones, Children of Haomane's Wrath, debated the matter for two days. In the cool hours of the early morning and the blue hours of dusk they debated, each member given his or her allotted length of time to speak in the center of the Stone Grove, atop the rocks that marked the Well of the World.

The debate hinged on a single Yarru, the one who must choose.

He was young, the Bearer, still a youth. Of average height for one of his folk, his head scarce reached the Counselor's shoulder, with coarse black hair falling to his shoulders and liquid-dark eyes in an open, trusting face, struggling manfully to listen and weigh all that was said. He was quick and agile, as the Yarru were, with bare feet calloused by the desert floor, and brown-black skin. It was the mark of his people, the Charred Ones, unwitting victims of Haomane's wrath—save his palms, that were pinkish tan, creased with deep-etched lines.