Not even Lord Satoris, who would have healed him, who had kindled in his soul a fierce ache of love and pride, understood that part.
It didn't matter, though.
Ahead, a narrow aperture, marking the end of the Weavers' Gulch. The Kaldjager scrambled around it, drawing back the hanging veils of webbing with unexpected care. They, at least, understood that the little weavers were as much a part of the defense of Darkhaven as the strong walls beyond; not for nothing were they called the Cold Hunters. Ushahin, passing through, approved. Of all the Fjel, he understood them best, for they were most like the Were who had raised him.
The thought was accompanied by pain.
Oh, Mother!
She had died well, her jaws snapping at her enemy's throat, Ushahin reminded himself for the hundredth time. It was what she had chosen. And if he could not inherit her memories, still, he would carry the memory of her in his heart. Of the gentleness she had shown, finding him in the Pelmaran forest where he had crawled in blind agony. Of the touch of her rough-padded hands as she cradled his child's body, protecting his broken face, his shattered hands. Of her harsh grey pelt warm against his skin as she carried him to safety, grieving for her own lost ones.
The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives.
Beyond the aperture, the Defile opened onto the Vale of Gorgantum. Ushahin, who passed this way more often than most, was inured to it. He heard a gasp as the Lady Cerelinde beheld it for the first time: the rearing towers that flanked the Defile Gate, the vast wall winding league upon league up the low mountains, the massive edifice of Darkhaven itself.
Marvel at it, Ellyl bitch, he thought; marvel at it and fear. Your visit here has been paid for in blood, with the life of one I held dear. What do you know of kindness and compassion? Your kinfolk left me to die, for I was a shame to them, a reminder of the dark underbelly of the Gift they were denied; Lord Satoris' Gift, which Haomane spurned. And yet he seeks it now, on his own terms. Do you truly believe your offspring would be so different from me? I would be otherwise had your people embraced me.
Atop a high peak, one of the Tordenstem Fjel crouched. As the last of the company emerged from the Weavers' Gorge, he announced them, filling his mighty lungs to bursting and hurling words aloft in his thunderous voice. Boulders shuddered in their stony sockets. Shouts of greeting answered from the sentry-towers, and Tanaros rode forward to salute them and give the password.
The Defile Gate was wrought of black granite, carved with scenes from the Battle of Neherinach. The central panel showed the death of Eldarran and Elduril; the sons of Elterrion the Bold, Cerelinde's uncles. Once the bar was lifted, it took two teams of four Fjel each to shift the massive doors, and it creaked as it opened.
Darkhaven stood open for their victorious entry.
"Dreamspinner." It was one of the Kaldjager, yellow-eyed, who pointed to the specks of darkness circling the spires. "The ravens are restless."
Victorious cries rained down from the sentry-towers and the walls as they entered Darkhaven. The Lady Cerelinde kept her chin aloft, refusing to show the terror that must be coursing her veins. She had courage, Ushahin had to give her that. Tanaros stuck close by her side, clearly torn between reveling in his triumph and protecting his trophy. How not? If he'd had the heart for it, Ushahin would have appreciated the irony. The Lady of the Rivenlost had given her love to a Son of Altorus, even as Tanaros' wife had done so long ago. It must gall the mighty General.
Poor Tanaros.
They must be something, those Sons of Altorus, to command such passion.
Being a portion of the Prophecy and bespeaking as it did the union of Men and Ellylon, it would have interested Ushahin more had the ravens of Darkhaven not been circling. As the cheers rained down, he clutched the case that held the Helm of Shadows close to him, longing only for a quiet place where he could free his mind to roam the length and breadth of Urulat.
If victory was theirs, why were the ravens restless?
"SO THIS IS IT." LlLIAS held the mirror in both hands. It was small and tarnished, reflecting dimly in the low-burning torchlight that augmented the diffuse light of dawn. The dragon did not like any fire save his own to illuminate his lair. "We do it now?"
"It is time, Liliasss." Calandor's claws flexed, sifting through gold coins, jeweled goblets. High above her, his eyes winked like emeralds in the torchlight. "Elterrion's granddaughter has arrived in Darkhaven."
"How can you be sure?"
The emerald eyes stared unwinking. "I am sure."
Outside the mouth of the cavern, a troop of Gergon's wardsmen and her personal attendants huddled, waiting. What Lilias attempted this morning would draw strength from her, even with the aid of the Soumanië. It was Ellylon magic, and not meant to be undertaken by a Daughter of Men. "If we used only the eyes, if we watched them longer, we might learn more of their plans."