"Do we have time to warn them?"
"I… don't know." Carfax said the words and something in him eased as he met the Borderguardsman's level gaze. "It may be. I don't know."
Blaise nodded again, surveying the remnants of their Company. Fianna straightened in the saddle, one hand reaching to check for Oronin's Bow and the Arrow of Fire. "So be it, then," he said. "To Beshtanag."
On a nearby tree, a raven took wing.
So be it, Carfax thought.
He felt numb. Better to die with honor than to live without it. It was too late, now. It was done. In the space of a few heartbeats, in a few spoken words, he had irrevocably betrayed his oath of loyalty. The words he had exchanged with Blaise long ago rang in his memory. If he could have smiled, he would have, but the corners of his mouth refused to lift. He wanted to weep instead.
There was only one end awaiting him.
Why do you smile, Staccian?
To make a friend of death.
IT WAS A COLD DAWN over the plains of Rukhar.
Ushahin lay curled among the rocks where he had dragged himself, his ill-knit bones aching and his teeth chattering. Behind him, in the cavern of the Marasoumië, the node-lights were as dead and grey as yesterday's ashes. Unable to raise his head, he stared at the pocked face of a sandstone boulder until the rising light made his head ache beyond bearing and he closed his eyes.
He had failed to hold the Way open.
Footsteps sounded, and he squinted through swollen lids. A pair of booted feet came into view; Rukhari work, with soft leather soles and embroidered laces. The toe of one boot prodded his ribs. Childhood memories, half-forgotten, returned in a flood and filled his mouth with a bitter taste.
"Dream-stalker." Above him was Makneen, the Rukhari commander. The rising sun silhouetted his head. "Where is your army?"
"Gone," Ushahin croaked, squinting upward and wincing at the brightness.
The Rukhari nodded in understanding. Somewhere, near, horses stamped and men muttered in their own tongue. Yesterday, they had feared him. Today, they wanted to see him dead. Makneen's hand shifted to the hilt of his curved sword, wrapped in bright copper wire. "So our bargain is broken."
"No." He spat, clearing his mouth of bile. "Wait…"
"It is broken." Watching him like a wary hawk, the Rukhari raised one hand, then turned away, speaking over his shoulder with careless aplomb. "Tell the Glutton we kept faith. It is you who failed. Now, we go."
They did, even as he struggled to sit upright, lifting the aching burden of his head. Horseflesh surged on either side of him, urged on with jeering cries. Hooves pounded, sending chips of sandstone flying. Ushahin lifted a hand to shield his face from laceration. Whatever Vorax had promised them, it was all gone, all lost. And there was no satisfaction, none at all, in knowing he had been right.
This was Malthus' doing.
He had felt it, had known the instant the Counselor had entered the Ways, seizing control of the Marasoumië and wresting it to his own ends, severing all of Ushahin's influence in one surge of the Soumanië. And he had known, in that instant, utter helplessness.
It should not have happened.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
Weary and defeated, Ushahin buried his face in his hands, taking solace in the familiar darkness, the misshapen bones beneath his fingertips. My Lord, he thought, I have failed you! In a moment, in a few moments, he would make the effort that was needful, freeing his mind from the bonds of what Men called sanity to sift through their dreams. Now—
Now was the sound of claws on sandstone.
Seated on barren rock, Ushahin lifted his weary head from his shel-tering hands. A grey shadow shifted on the rocks, poking his head into view, muzzle twitching. He was young, this one, sent to bear an unwelcome message. Aching and bone-weary as he was, Ushahin observed the old courtesies, asking in his visitor's tongue, "How fares Oronin's Hunt?"
The young Were howled.
It bounded, clearing the ridge with a single leap to land before him. There was pain in its amber eyes, luminous in the sunlight. One fore-limb lashed out, and Ushahin reeled backward as taloned claws raked his misshapen cheek. Groping blindly for power, he drew on the brand that circumscribed his heart, remembering Godslayer and the marrow-fire, and his Lord's long torment. "Enough!" he cried harshly, feeling Lord Satoris' strength in his bones. "What of your quest?"
The Were cowered, ears flat against its skull. "Eight," it whimpered in angry protest. "There were eight!"
Eight?
"No," Ushahin whispered. "Malthus' Company… Malthus' Company numbered seven."
Baring teeth, the young Brother showed him, putting the pictures in his mind, as the Were had done since Oronin Shaped them. There were eight, and the eighth a Staccian, tall and stricken-faced, a burning brand in his hands. A blow struck when the Brethren expected it not. Sparks against the darkness. A branch, a twig to turn a flood.