"My Lord!" he cried aloud. "Guide me!"
Something rustled, and a familiar weight settled on his shoulder, talons pricking through his undertunic. A horny beak swiped at his cheek; once, twice. "Kaugh?"
"Fetch." It was not the answer he sought, but it was an answer. Tanaros' thoughts calmed as he stroked the raven's feathers; calmed, and spiraled outward. "How did you know to find me, my friend? How did you penetrate the barrier of my thoughts? Was it the Dreamspinner who taught you thusly?"
"Kaugh," the raven said apologetically, shuffling from foot to foot.
An image seeped into Tanaros' mind; a grey, shadowy figure, lunging, jaws open, to avenge an ancient debt. Always, there were her slain cubs, weltering in their blood. A sword upraised between them, and Aracus Altorus' face, weeping with futile rage as her weight bore him down, half-glimpsed as Tanaros wheeled his mount to flee and the Lady Cerelinde's hair spilled like cornsilk over his thighs. The Grey Dam of the Were had died that day, spending her life for a greater gain.
"Ah."
Ushahin's words rang in his memory. Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? You will know it, one day.
"Yes, cousin," Tanaros whispered. "I know it." And he stroked the raven's feathers until Fetch sidled alongside his neck, sheltering beneath his dark hair, and remembered the broken-winged fledgling he had raised; the mess in his quarters, all the small, bright objects gone missing. And yet, never had he known the raven's thoughts. A small gift, but it had saved lives. On his shoulder, Fetch gave a sleepy chortle. Tanaros clenched his fist and pressed it to his heart in the old manner, saluting the Grey Dam Sorash. "Thank you," he said aloud. "Thank you, old mother."
Vengeance. Loyalty. Sacrifice.
Such were the lodestones by which his existence was charted, and if it was not the answer he sought, it was answer enough. Thrusting away the thoughts that plagued him, Tanaros turned back toward the drought-eaters, walking slowly, the raven huddled on his shoulder.
There were not enough stones to build a cairn, so the Fjel were digging. Shadows gathered in the mouth of the grave. Dim figures looming in the starlight, the Gulnagel glanced up as he entered the encampment, continuing without cease to shift mounds of dry sand and pebbles. Tanaros nodded acknowledgment. No need for speech; he knew their ways.
The unsteady figure of Speros of Haimhault labored alongside them. "Lord General," he rasped, straightening at Tanaros' approach.
"Speros." He looked at the fever-bright eyes in the gaunt face, the trembling hands with dirt caked under broken nails. "Enough. You need to rest."
The Midlander wavered stubbornly on his feet. "So do they. And he died carrying me."
"Aye." Tanaros sighed. The raven roused and shook its feathers, launching itself from its perch to land on the nearest drought-eater. "Aye, he did." Casting about, he spotted his helmet amid the rest of his armor. It would hold sand as well as water, and serve death as well as life. One of the Gulnagel grunted, moving to make room for him. "Come on, then, lads," Tanaros said, scooping at the grave, filling his helmet and tossing a load of sand over his shoulder. "Let's lay poor Freg to rest."
Side by side, Man and Fjeltroll, they labored beneath Arahila's stars.
IT WAS ON THE VERGES of Pelmar, a half day's ride outside Kranac, that the Were was sighted. Until then, the journey had been uneventful.
The forest was scarce less dense near one of the capital cities, but the mounted vanguard had been moving with speed since leaving Martinek's foot-soldiers behind, weaving in single-file columns among the trees. If she had not despised them, Lilias would have been impressed at the woodcraft of the Borderguardsmen. Plains-bred they might be, but they were at ease in the forest. The Ellylon, of course, were at home anywhere; Haomane's Children, Shaped to rule over all Lesser Shapers. Although they acknowledged him as kin-in-waiting and King of the West, even Aracus Altorus treated them with a certain respect. Always, there was an otherness to their presence. Grime that worked its way into the clothing and skin of Men seemed not to touch them. The shine on their armor never dimmed and an ever-willing breeze kept their pennants aloft, revealing the delicate devices wrought thereon. Under the command of Lorenlasse of Valmaré, the company of Rivenlost rode without tiring, sat light in the saddle, clad in shining armor, guiding their mounts with gentle touches and gazing about them with fiercely luminous eyes, as if assessing the world of Urulat and finding it lacking.
In some ways, she despised them most of all.
And it was an Ellyl, of course, who spotted the scout.
"Anlaith cysgoddyn!" It was like an Ellylon curse, only sung, in his musical voice. He stood in the stirrups, one finely shaped hand out-flung, pointing. "Were!"