Then, he gazed ahead.
To Meronil, he did not dare look. Ingolin the Wise kept its boundaries with care, maintaining all that remained of the old Ellyl magics, and even Ushahin Dreamspinner dared not walk the dreams of the Ellylon who dwelt within. But before Meronil was Seahold, a keep of Men, and north of Seahold lay the fertile territories of the Midlands.
There, rumor stalked.
It came from the north; from the mountains of Staccia, winding its way in a whisper of thought, passed from lip to ear. Curious, Ushahin followed it to its source, tracing its path through the mountains, back to the ancient battlefield of Neherinach, where a node-point of the Marasoumië lay dead and buried. Dead, yes, but no longer buried. The node-point lay raw and exposed, granite cooling in the northern sun. Something had disturbed it, blasting it from the very earth.
The Galäinridder.
Such was the word in the Staccian tongue; such was the image that disturbed their dreams, filtering its way from the mountains to the plains, distant as a dream. A rider, a warrior; the Shining Paladin, who rode upon a horse as white as the foam on the crest of a wave. Although his hands were empty, brightness blazed from his robes and the clear gem upon his breast, which shone like a star. His beard crackled with lightning, and power hung in every syllable of the terrible words he spoke, catching their consciences and playing on their fears of Haomane's Wrath.
Ushahin frowned.
What he had found, he did not like; what he had failed to find, he liked less. Where, in all of this, was the Bearer? A little Charred lad, accompanied only by his mortal kin. He should have been easy to find, his terrors setting the world of dreams ablaze. Only Malthus' power had protected him, enfolding him in a veil. If the Counselor were truly trapped in the dying Marasoumië, his power should be failing, exposing the Bearer. Yet… it was not.
"Malthus," Ushahin whispered. "Galäinridder."
East of Seahold, his thoughts turned. Was it Haomane's Counselor they feared? He would give them something better to fear, the grief of their mortal guilt, come back to turn their dreams into nightmares. Ushahin's lips twisted into the bitter semblance of a smile. Were Arahila's Children so sure of right and wrong? So. Let their nights be filled with mismatched eyes and shattered bone, the terrible sight of a rock held in a child's fist, descending in a crushing blow.
Let them awake in the cold sweat of terror, and wonder why.
The flying wedge of ravens altered its course, forging a new path through the twilight, in the borderlands between waking and sleeping. One heel nudged his mount's flank, the rope rein of the hackamore lying against a foam-flecked neck. Obedient, the blood-bay swerved; obedient, the riderless horses followed, shadowing his course.
Together, they plunged into the Midlands.
"THEY ARE COMING, VORAX."
"Very good, my Lord." If he had thought it hot in the Throne Hall, it was nothing to the Chamber of the Font. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging the half-healed blisters he had sustained in the burning rain. Vorax swiped at it with a gauntleted hand, which only made it worse.
"Do you hear me?" Lord Satoris, pacing the perimeter of the Font, gave him a deep look. "Ushahin Dreamspinner comes. Tanaros Black-sword comes. It is only a matter of time. My Three shall be together once more, and then my Elder Brother's Allies shall tremble."
"Aye, my Lord." He tugged his jeweled gorget, wishing he were not wearing ceremonial armor. It would have been better to meet in the Throne Hall. At least his Lordship had not donned the Helm of Shadows. It sat in its niche on the wall, the empty eyeholes measuring his fear. He was glad nothing worse filled it, and glad he had not had to wear it himself since the day Satoris had destroyed the Marasoumië. Still, it stank of his Lordship's unhealing wound in the Chamber, a copper-sweet tang, thick and cloying, and Vorax wished he were elsewhere. "As you say. I welcome their return. Is there something you wish me to do in preparation?"
"No." Lord Satoris halted, staring into the coruscating heart of the Font. His massive hands, hanging empty at his sides, twitched as if to pluck Godslayer from its blue-white fire. "What news," he asked, "from Staccia?"
Vorax shook his head, droplets of sweat flying. "No news."
"So," the Shaper said. His head bowed and his fingertips twitched. But for that, he stood motionless, contemplating the Shard. Dark ichor gleaming on one thigh, seeping downward in a slow rill to pool on the flagstones. "No news."
"No news," Vorax echoed, feeling a strange twinge in his branded heart. "I'm sorry, my Lord, but I'm sure naught is amiss. It will take some time, finding a pair of errant mortals in all of the northlands. We expected no less." He paused. "Shall I send another company? Do you wish me to lead one myself? I am willing, of course."