"What," she asked, "is Malthus plotting?"
"Cerelinde." Aracus leaned over to touch her arm. "Nothing is certain and much is yet unknown. I pray you, ask me no questions I cannot answer. Malthus has bidden me keep his counsel, at least until we are wed."
"Even from me?" Anger stirred in her. "Am I not the Lady of the Ellylon? Does the Wise Counselor find even me unworthy of his trust?"
"No." It was Blaise who answered, shaking his head. "Lady, I know not where I am bound, nor does Aracus. It is Malthus who asks that we trust him."
"Malthus." Cerelinde sighed. "Haomane's Weapon keeps his counsel close; too close, perhaps. Haomane's Children do not like being kept in ignorance."
"It is for a short time only, my lady. Malthus knows what he is about." Aracus gazed at her. His eyes were a stormy blue, open and earnest, filled with all the passion of his belief. "Will you not abide?"
Cerelinde thought about all they risked, and the pain both of them would suffer. Time would claim him, leaving her untouched. There would be pain enough to spare, and no need to inflict more upon them, here and now, at the beginning. For the sake of what brief happiness was theirs to claim, she was willing to set aside her pride.
"So be it," she said. "I will abide."
THE EDIFICE OF DARKHAVEN EMBRACED the whole of the Vale of Gorgantum.
The fortress itself loomed at the center, black and gleaming, veined throughout with the marrow-fire. Its steep walls and immaculate lines had a stark beauty, tempered here and there with an unexpected turret, a hidden garden, an elaborate gable. To the west rose the Tower of the Observatory, where Satoris had met with the Three. In the east, there arose the Tower of Ravens, seldom used, though to good effect.
Between and below lay the Chamber of the Font, and Godslayer, where Lord Satoris dwelt.
Deeper still lay the Source.
Of that, one did not speak.
Tanaros had been there, in the Chamber of the Font. He had beheld Godslayer, pulsing like a heart in the blue-white flames. And he had knelt, gasping his allegiance, while the Lord Satoris had reached into the marrow-fire and taken Godslayer for his own, reversing the dagger, the Shard of the Souma, and planting its hilt above Tanaros' heart, searing his mortal flesh.
What lay beneath the Font?
The Source.
One did not speak of that which might be extinguished.
And from the Source at its center, Darkhaven spiraled outward to encompass the Vale entire, a double spiral with the two Towers as opposite poles. At its outermost perimeter, black walls coiled up the mountainsides, here and there punctuated by sentry posts, lit with watch-fires emerging visible in the dusk. There, to the east, a gap where the watch-towers flanked the Defile, their signal fires burning low and steady. Tanaros noted them as he rode, numbering them like a merchant counting coin. All was as it should be in the realm of Lord Satoris.
Inside the inner walls of the sanctuary, Tanaros made his way to the stables, dismounting with a groan. He had grown stiff in the saddle, stiff in the service of his Lord. A young stablehand came for the stallion, shadowy and deft, eyes gleaming behind the thatch of his forelock. One of Ushahin's madlings. The lad bobbed a crooked bow, then crooned to the stallion. It arched its neck, flaring its nostrils and huffing in gentle response.
"You needn't walk him long," Tanaros said in the common tongue, laying a hand on the stallion's glossy hide and finding it cool. "He's had his ease since the skirmish."
The madling sketched him a second bow, eyes bright with knowing.
What did he hear, Tanaros wondered; what did he understand? One never knew, with the Dreamspinner's foundlings. This one understood the common tongue, of that he was sure. Most of them did. A few did not. The madling led his mount away, still crooning; the stallion bent his head as if to listen, sleek black hide rippling under the light of the emerging stars. This one, Tanaros thought, loved horses. So much he knew, and no more. Only Ushahin, who walked in their dreams, knew them all.
With stiff fingers, Tanaros unbuckled his helm and approached the postern gate.
"General Tanaros!" The pair of Fjeltroll on duty saluted smartly, slapping the butts of their spears on the marble stair. "We heard the exercise went well," one added cunningly. "Too bad the Havenguard weren't there, eh?"
Pulling off his helm and tucking it under his arm, Tanaros smiled at the ploy. "I'll match Lord Vorax's offer, lads. A measure of svartblod to all who stood duty, and see it sent round to the lads on the wall, a full skin to each sentry-post. Send word to the quartermaster that it's on my orders."
They cheered at that, standing aside to let him pass. In some ways, the Fjel were like children, simple and easy to please. Loyalty was given, and loyalty was rewarded. No more could be asked, no more could answer.