Unless they were immortal.
It was Malthus' doing, may he be cursed with the same fate. In the darkness, Tanaros gave a bitter smile. It had been a near thing at the end. He had hesitated when he saw the boy. He shouldn't have done that. It had given the Counselor time, an instant's time to invoke the Marasoumië's power and send them hurtling away, the boy and his protector, flinging them desperately across the warp and weft of the Ways, enfolded in his enchantments.
A pity, that. But it was all, nearly all, the old wizard had left in him. Tanaros had struck, then; had let the rage course through his veins, had swung his sword with all his might at his enemy's neck. Ah, it had felt good! The black blade had bitten deep into the wood of the wizard's staff when Malthus had parried; bitten deep and stuck fast in the spell-bound wood.
He had welcomed the struggle, moving in close to see the fear in the other's eyes, wondering, do you bleed, old one? Of what did Haomane Shape you? Do you breathe, does the blood course warm in your veins? Haomane's Weapon, with my blade so near your throat, do you understand the fragility of your flesh?
And then the Soumanië had flashed, one last time.
The Counselor, it seemed, did not welcome death.
It had cast them both into the oblivion of the Ways. That was his consolation. He had felt it, sensed Malthus spinning adrift, unrooted. Tanaros flexed his hand again, feeling the sword-hilt against his palm, and thought, I am not ready to die either.
There was light, somewhere; a ruddy light, pulsing. So it must seem to a babe in the womb, afloat in blood and darkness. He remembered a birth, his son's birth; the babe he thought his son. How Calista had cried aloud in her travail, her hands closing on his with crushing force as she had expelled the child.
He had been proud, then, terrified and proud. Awe. That was the word. It had filled him with awe, that she would endure this thing; that she could produce such a thing from the depths of her mortal flesh. Life, new life. An infant wholly formed, perfect in every detail, thrust squalling into the light of day. He had cradled the babe, cupping the still-soft skull in his hands, his capable hands, marveling at the shrunken face, the closed eyes. There had been no telling, then, that the eyes behind those rounded lids were blue, blue as a cloudless sky. No telling that the downy hair plastered slick and dark with birthing was the color of ruddy gold.
Oh, my son!
In the darkness, Tanaros groaned. It bit deep, the old betrayal, as deep as his black blade. He remembered the first time he had seen Calista. She had graced Roscus' court with her fresh-faced beauty, her sparkling wit. Their courtship had been filled with passionate banter. Who now would believe Tanaros Blacksword capable of such a thing? Yet he had been, once. He had shouted for joy the day she accepted his marriage proposal. And he had loved her with all the ardor in his heart; as a lover, as a husband, as the father of the child she bore. How had she dared to look at him so? Hollow-eyed and weary, with that deep contentment. Her head on the pillow, the hair arrayed about her shoulders, watching him hold another man's babe.
Once, he had been born again in hatred.
Why not twice?
A node-point was near, very near. Such was the light he perceived behind his lids, the beating red light. His circumscribed heart thumped, responding to its erratic pulse. If he could reach it… one, just one. If he could birth himself into the Marasoumië, he would be alive in the world. And where there was one, there was another, in a trail that led him all the way to Darkhaven.
Home.
Tanaros reached.
* * *
TWENTY-THREE
« ^ »
BESHTANAC ENDURED, HALF-STARVED AND weary.
From her balcony, Lilias watched her enemies, wondering if they knew. Would it matter? Would they act differently? She thought not. They had never known it for a trap. They went about the siege as they had begun it, with determined patience. By late afternoon the skies had cleared, though rain still dripped from the pines. Here and there Aracus Altorus strode, a tiny figure, recognizable by his hair. He wasted no time, ordering construction to begin anew on their siege-engines.
Three days.
That was how long they would have had to wait, if Darkhaven's army had arrived at Jakar as planned. Even now, the Fjeltroll would be on the march, trampling the undergrowth beneath their broad feet, commanded by General Tanaros.
Only they were not coming, would never arrive. Lilias knew. She had gone, alone, to the cavern of the Marasoumië, deep beneath Beshtanag. Had gone and stood, wondering if she dared to flee. The node-lights flickered erratically. Something was wrong, very wrong, in the Ways.
Probing, she had found it. There were not one, but two souls trapped within the Marasoumië; no mere mortals, but beings of power, under whose influence the Ways buckled and flexed. One bore a power equal to her own, a very Soumanië, and only the complete exhaustion of his energies kept him from wielding it. The other was one of the Branded, and the mark of Godslayer and a Shaper's power upon his flesh kept the Marasoumië from devouring him entire. For the rest, it was sheer stubbornness that kept him alive, forcing the Ways to bend to his will.