Banewreaker(17)

"It is," Lilias said.

Turning to his Brethren, Kurush spoke in his own tongue, the harsh sounds falling strange on human ears. Lilias waited patiently. She did not take the alliance of the Were for granted. Once, the east had been theirs; until Men had come, claiming land, driving them from their hunting grounds. In the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, the Were had given their allegiance to Satoris Banewreaker, who held the whole of the west. Haomane's Counselors had arrived from over the sea, bearing the three Soumanie and the weapons of Torath, the dwelling-place of the Six Shapers: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light, the Arrow of Fire.

There had been war, then, war as never before. Among the races of Lesser Shapers, only the Dwarfs, Yrinna's Children, had taken no part in it, taking instead a vow of peace.

While Men, Ellylon and Fjel fought on the plains of Curonan, the Were had lain in wait, on the westernmost shore of Urulat—the last place they would be expected. When the ships of Dergail the Counselor and Cerion the Navigator made landfall, thinking to assail Satoris from the rear, the full force of the Were met them and prevailed. Dergail flung himself into the sea, and his Soumanie and the Arrow of Fire were lost. Cerion the Navigator turned his ships and fled, vanishing into the mists of Ellylon legend.

And yet it was no victory.

If the Were had remained in the west, perhaps. Though Satoris had been wounded and forced to take refuge in the Vale of Gorgantum, there he was unassailable. But no, Oronin's Children returned east to the forests of their homeland, flowing like a grey tide, and the wrath of Men was against them, for Haomane's Counselors and the army of Men and Ellylon they led had failed, too. And Men, always, increased in number, growing cunning as they learned to hunt the hunters, waiting until spring to stalk Were-cubs in their dens, while their dams and sires foraged.

Not in Beshtanag. Many centuries ago, Lilias had made a pact with the Grey Dam, the ruler of the Were. Oronin's Children hunted freely in the forests of Beshtanag. In return, they held its outer borders secure.

Concluding his discussion with his Brethren, the ambassador Kurush dropped into a crouch. Gergon ordered his wardsmen a protective step closer to Lilias, and the two Brethren surged forward a pace.

"Hold, Gergon." Lilias raised her hand, amused. It had been more than a mortal lifetime since she had cause to summon the Were. Betimes, she forgot how short-lived her Ward Commanders were. "The ambassador Kurush does but speak to the Grey Dam."

With a dubious glance, Gergon shrugged. "As my lady orders."

Kurush crouched, lowering his head. His taloned hands dug into the forest loam, the lean blades of his shoulders protruding like grey-furred wings. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites, as he communed with the Grey Dam.

Oronin's Children possessed strange magics.

A gratifyingly short time passed before Kurush relaxed and stood. With another sharp grin he extended his hand. "Yea," he said. "The Grey Dam Sorash accedes."

Lilias clasped his hairy hand. His pads were rough against her palm and his claws scratched lightly against the back of her hand. She recited the ritual words of their alliance. "Thy enemies shall be mine, and my enemies shall be thine."

"My enemies shall be thine, and thy enemies shall be mine," Kurush echoed.

Dipping his muzzle to her, the Were ambassador turned, his Brethren following. In the space of a few heartbeats, they had melted back into the forest from which they had come. The pact had been affirmed. Beshtanag's defenses were secure.

From his distant eyrie, Calandor's thoughts brushed hers, tinged with warm approval.

Well done, Lilias.



IT WAS THE DARK OF the moon, and dark in the Tower of Ravens.

There was no view, here, though the windows stood open onto the night. The rooftops of Darkhaven fell away beneath them, illuminated faintly by starlight.

All of them were there, all of the Three.

And in the center of them stood the Shaper.

"They are ready, Dreamspinner?" he asked.

Ushahin bowed low and sincere, starlight glimmering on his moon-pale hair. "They are, my Lord."

"Come," Lord Satoris whispered, his voice carrying on the night breeze "Come!" And other words he added, uttered in the tongue of the Shapers, tolling and resonant, measured syllables that Shaped possibilities yet unformed.

Beating wings filled the air.

Through every window they came, filling the tower chamber; ravens, the ravens of Darkhaven, come all at once. They came, and they flew, round and around. Silent and unnatural, swirling in a glossy-black current around the tower walls—so close, wings overlapping like layered feathers, jet-bright eyes gleaming round and beady. Around and around they went, raising a wind that tugged at Vorax's ruddy beard, making the Staccian shudder involuntarily.