Tanaros could not say. If there had been compassion in his heart the day he learned Calista and Roscus had betrayed him, perhaps he would have found the strength to walk away. What brought them together? Passion? Compassion? They had lacked the strength to resist desire. And yet that thought, too, was anathema. In their hearts, they had already made a cuckold of him. Had they been stronger, he would have spent his life living an unwitting lie, and the world would be a different place.
He did not know if it would be a better one.
Nothing was simple.
"Lord General?" Another day without shade, another day's trek. If there were a chink in the wall of his heart, it was Speros who thrust a wedge into it. Recovered from the ravages of dehydration, the Midlander had shown surprising and stubborn resilience, regaining sufficient strength to place one foot in front of the other, day after day, refusing the aid of the Gulnagel. Now he turned a sunburnt face in Tanaros' direction, his voice wistful. "What's the Lady of the Ellylon like?"
"Like a woman," he said shortly. "An Ellyl woman."
"Oh." Speros returned his gaze to the desert floor, watching his feet trudge across the sand. It crunched rhythmically under their boots, under the taloned feet of the Gulnagel, who traded glances over their heads. "I've never seen an Ellyl," he said eventually. "I just wondered…"
"Yes." Tanaros took a deep breath, the desert's heat searing his lungs. "They're very beautiful. She is very beautiful. Do you want to know how much?" He remembered Cerelinde in her chamber, the night he had bade her farewell, and how she had shone like a candle-flame, pale hair shining like a river against her jeweled robes as she turned away from him. Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. "So much that it hurts," he said harshly. "So much it makes you pity Arahila for the poor job she made of Shaping us. We're rough-hewn clay, Speros, a poor second next to her Elder Brother's creation. So much it makes you despise Arahila for trying and falling so short, yet giving us the wit to know it. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Speros glanced wryly at him. "Not exactly, my lord."
"Well." Despite himself, Tanaros smiled. The unfamiliar movement made the skin of his dry lips split. "You've seen Ushahin Dreamspinner."
"No." Speros shook his head. "I've only heard tales."
"Ah." Tanaros licked his split lip, tasting blood. "Well, he is a paltry, cracked mirror through which to behold the beauty of the Ellylon, but I imagine you'll see him in time. And if the Dreamspinner isn't Ellyl enough for you, unless I am much mistaken, you'll encounter Ellylon aplenty on the battlefield, and be sorry you did, for they're doughty fighters beneath their pretty hides."
"Aye, Lord General." For a few moments, the Midlander was silent. "I would like to see the Lady, though," he mused. "Just to see her."
Tanaros made no reply.
Speros glanced at him again. "Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?"
"No." The word leapt too quickly from his cracked lips. Tanaros halted, rubbing his hands over his face. It felt gritty with sand and grime. His head ached from the effort of walking, from Speros' questions, from too little food, and too much light. Once, in Beshtanag, he had welcomed the sight of it. Now he yearned for the dim, soothing light of Darkhaven, for the familiarity of its gleaming black walls and corridors. After the endless sunlight of the Unknown Desert, he wouldn't be sorry if he never left the cloud-shrouded Vale of Gorgantum for another mortal lifespan. "Speros, save your breath. We've a long way to go yet today."
"Aye, Lord General."
This time the Midlander was properly subdued, and his silence lasted what Tanaros gauged to be the better part of a league. He set as brisk a pace as he dared, rendering further speech impossible. He wished he could outpace his own thoughts. There were too many words etched into his memory, chasing themselves around and around in his mind. Cerelinde's voice, his Lordship's, Ngurra's… and now Speros', his voice with its broad Midlands accent, asking a question in innocent curiosity.
Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?
The thought of it made his palms itch and bile rise in his throat. He remembered altogether too well how his wife's face had looked in death; blind eyes staring, all her lively beauty turned to cold clay. Even in his fury it had sickened him. The thought of seeing Cerelinde thusly was unbearable.
He was glad when the landscape made one of its dull, inhospitable shifts from rippled sand to barren red earth, dotted here and there with thorn-brush. Loose rocks and scattered boulders made the footing tricky, and it was a relief to have to concentrate on the task of walking. Fetch's shadow wavered on the uneven ground, then vanished as the raven veered westward, becoming a tiny black dot in the unbroken blue sky, then disappearing altogether. Tanaros led his company in the direction the raven had taken, keeping its flight-path fixed in his mind and placing his feet with care. There was little else to relieve the tedium. Once, a hopping-mouse broke cover under a thorn-brush, bounding into the open in unexpected panic.