But he had borne the Spear of Light, then.
He wasn't carrying it now.
And where was the Soumanië? Mayhap he didn't bear it, either. It would be foolish, after all, to risk such a treasure on an ill-protected journey. Mayhap, Carfax thought, Malthus had entrusted the Soumanië to the keeping of Ingolin the Wise, who would keep it safe in Meronil. After all, this mission was undertaken in secrecy. And if it were so…
"Regroup!" he hissed to Hunric. "We need to plan an attack!"
USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER GAZED ABOUT HIM as he rode.
It was a wondrous place, the Weavers' Gulch, though few appreciated it. Everywhere he looked, gossamer filaments were strung, filtering the few rays of cloud-muted sunlight that pierced the gulch with its inward-leaning cliff walls.
And the patterns, ah!
Intricate, they were; and vast. Some, incomprehensibly so. He watched the grey spiders shuttle to and fro, the weavers at their loom. How long did it take for a single spider to spin a web that crossed the Defile? One lifetime? Generations? With delicate thread that broke at a hand's careless wave. But it was strong, too. Given time, Satoris' weavers could spin a cocoon that would render a strong man immobile. And small though they were, their sting was paralyzing.
It could be done, in time.
No wonder Satoris was interested in them.
It saddened him, that so few people understood this. There was a pattern at work in the Sundering of Urulat, one would take many ages to come to fruition. Ushahin, born unwanted to two races of the Lesser Shapers, raised by a third, understood this in his ill-mended bones. He wished that Tanaros understood it, too. It would have been good if he had. But Tanaros, when all was said and done, was a Man, burdened with the short sight of his race. Even now, after so long.
Among all the Lesser Shapers, only Men had found no way to make provision for the shortness of memory. Oronin's Children had done so. What the Grey Dam had known, the Grey Dam knew, and it encapsulated all that every predecessor before her had known. So it was among the Fjel, who passed their memory into the bone and bred it among their descendants. It was why they had remained loyal to Lord Satoris after so many generations, remembering that first promise.
A single thread, Ushahin thought, descending through time.
A pity, after all, that they lacked the scope—the wit—to discern the pattern. That was what Haomane had denied them. A single spider, shuttling on the loom of Weavers' Gulch, had more perspective.
Of course, no one had Shaped them.
Tanaros should have seen it. After so many centuries in Darkhaven, he had learned to see its underlying beauty. Was that not enough? Ah, but he was a Man, and ruled by his heart. Arahila's Child, in whom love and hatred grew intertwined. Look at him now, solicitous of the Lady of the Rivenlost. Haomane's Child, whose people had no need of a remembrance born in the flesh, for their flesh was untouched by time. Of their fallen, they told stories, shaping history in their image. And the Children of Men, who emulated them in all things, learned to do the same though their lives were as the passage of shooting stars measured against the span of the Ellylon.
Yet their numbers increased, while the Ellylon dwindled.
The Lady Cerelinde gave a choked cry, beating at her cloak. Ushahin watched with a cynical gaze as Tanaros aided her, brushing hurriedly at the woolen fabric with his gauntleted hands. Small grey figures dropped, scuttling on the rocks. One of the Tungskulder Fjel stamped after them, squashing them beneath the impervious hide of his feet. It wouldn't do to have their prize arrive in a state of paralysis.
"This land breeds foulness!" The Lady was pale. "It is the taint of the Sunderer!"
Foul is as foul does, Ushahin thought in silence. What harm did the weavers do before you blundered through their webs? If they did not feed, we would have a pestilence of flies in Darkhaven, because yes, Lady, this land is tainted with Lord Satoris' blood, which has seeped into the very ground, which taints the waters we drink. He bleeds and bleeds anon, for the wound that was dealt him with the Godslayer, the wound that destroyed his Gift, is unhealing.
And why was he wounded?
Smiling to himself, Ushahin gazed at the delicate spans of webbing. Hanging veils, swags of filament, finespun and milk-white. The vast network filled him with delight. What architect could have wrought such a thing? A tendril of thread, flung out into empty space, meets another. Is it chance, or destiny? Will the weavers defend their territory in jealous battle, or will they knit their threads together to span the void?
The Ellylon would dwindle, while Men increased.
Lord Satoris was wounded because he defied Haomane's will.
He had refused to withdraw his Gift from Men.
And Ushahin was one of the Three and madness was his moiety, because he had his roots in three worlds and saw too clearly that which none of the Lesser Shapers were meant to know. What sanity he possessed was instilled in a thin strand of pain; the ache of bones ill-set and ill-mended, the sharp pang of light piercing his skull through a pupil unable to contract. Walking this fine-spun thread of pain, Ushahin knew himself sane in his madness.