Banewreaker(5)

It grieved him to say it, as if the Fjeltroll might hold him in some way responsible. After all, if he had killed the babe… if he had killed the babe. The House of Altorus would have ended, then, and there would have been no Prophecy.

Blue eyes, milky and wondering. Red-gold hair plastered to a damp skull.

He hadn't been able to do it. The babe, the child of his cuckolded marriage bed, had succeeded Roscus in the House of Altorus.

"Aye," Hyrgolf said, nodding. "That's as I heard it. The Sundered World made whole, but the cost of it our lives. Well, then, that's only a piece of it, this wedding. There's a good deal more needs happen before the Prophecy is fulfilled, and who knows what the half of it means?"

"His Lordship knows," Tanaros said. "And Malthus."

Their eyes met, then; Man and Fjel, hearing a common enemy named.

"Malthus," Hyrgolf rumbled, deep in his chest. The Wise Counselor, Wielder of the Soumanie, last of three, last and greatest of Haomane's Shapings. "Well, there is Malthus, General, I don't deny you that. But he is only one, now, and we have among us the Three."

Tanaros, Vorax, Ushahin.

"Pray that we are enough," Tanaros said.

"That I do, General," said the Fjeltroll. "That I do."

Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Dark-haven, walked alone to his quarters, a stone the size of an egg in his pocket.

From time to time, he touched it for reassurance.



ELSEWHERE IN THE LAND OF Urulat, flames burnt low and dwindled in their lamps in the archives of Meronil, housed in the Hall of Ingolin, where an elderly figure in scholar's robes bent over a hide-bound tome, muttering. The lamplight caught in his grey, tangled beard, cast shadows in the deep lines of his face, marking them in contrast to the splendid treasures that gleamed about him, housed in the archives for safekeeping.

Footsteps, slow and measured, quiet on the elegant carpets.

"Old friend," said Ingolin, the last Lord of the Ellylon. "You should rest."

The head lifted, sharp nose pointing, eyes fierce under heavy brows. "You know why I do not."

"It is a day for rejoicing, old friend," the Ellyl reminded him.

Malthus the Counselor laughed without mirth. "Can you tell me how to quench the marrow-fire, Ingolin the Wise? Can you render the unknown known?"

"You know I cannot." There was calm acceptance in the Ellyl's reply. In the manner of his people he had lived a long time, and knew the limits of his own knowledge. "Still, Cerelinde has unbent at long last, and Aracus Altorus has bowed his House's ancient pride. Love, it seems, has found them. A piece of the Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and the Rivenlost endure. May we not rejoice in it?"

"It is not enough."

"No." Ingolin glanced unthinking to the west, where Dergail's Soumanie had arisen. "Old friend," he asked, and his voice trembled for the first time in centuries. "Do you hold the answers to these questions you ask?"

"I might," Malthus the Counselor said slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, fixing the Lord of the Ellylon with a hawk's stare. "I might. But the way will be long and difficult, and there are many things of which I am unsure."

Ingolin spread his hands. "The aid of the Rivenlost is yours, Malthus. Only tell us how we might serve."

"You can't, old friend," said Malthus the Counselor. "That's the problem."



IN ANOTHER WING OF THE Hall of Ingolin, a fire burned low in the great hearth. Cerelinde, the granddaughter of Elterrion, gazed at it with unseeing eyes and thought about the deed to which she had committed herself this day.

She was the Lady of the Ellylon, the last scion of the House of Elterrion. By the reckoning of her people, she was young, born after the Sundering of the world, after the grieving Ellylon had taken the name Rivenlost unto themselves. Her mother had been Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Ellylon, and she had died in childbirth. Her father had been Celendril of the House of Numireth the Fleet, and he had fallen in battle against Satoris Banewreaker in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.

If the courage of Men had not faltered that day, her father might have lived. Haomane's Allies might have triumphed that day, and the world been made whole.

She had never known the glory of the Souma and Haomane's presence, only the deep, enduring ache of their absence.

That bitter knowledge had dwelled in her while generations were born and died, for, by the reckoning of Men, she was timeless. She had watched, century upon century, the proud Kings of Altoria, Altorus' sons, as they grew to manhood and took their thrones, made love and war and boasts, withered and died. She had watched as they disdained their ancient friendship with the Ellylon, watched as Satoris Banewreaker calculated his vengeance and shattered their kingdom. She had stopped watching, then, as the remnants of a once-mighty dynasty dwindled into the Borderguard of Curonan.