"Like you?" Tanaros asked quietly.
Cerelinde's hands fell still. "No," she said. "Like you."
"Like Arahila's Children. Not Haomane's." Shifting the Helm of Shadows under one arm, Tanaros stooped, meeting the old woman's eyes. They were milky with cataracts, blinking under his regard. "You don't understand," he said to Cerelinde, gazing at Sharit. "To Lord Satoris, she is beautiful."
There was magic in the words, enough to summon a smile that broke like dawn across the withered face. Taking his hand, she rose, proceeding down the hall with upright dignity.
Tanaros bowed to Cerelinde.
Her chin lifted a notch. "It would still be kinder to heal her. Do you deny it?"
"You have charged my Lord with Sundering the world," he said. "Will you charge him now with healing it?"
One of the M�rkhar shifted position, coughing conspicuously into a taloned fist.
"It's in his power, Tanaros." Passion and a light like hope lit Cerelinde's eyes. "It is, you know! Did he but surrender to Haomane and abide his will—"
Tanaros laughed aloud. "And Haomane's Children accuse his Lordship of pride! Be sure to tell him that, Lady."
She drew her cloak around her. "I shall."
USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER STEPPED AS LIGHTLY as any Ellyl under the canopy of beech leaves, grown thicker and darker with the advent of summer. Setting loose his awareness, he let it float amid the trunks and branches, using the ancient magic the Grey Dam Sorash had taught him so long ago.
Ah, mother!
Tiny sparks of mind were caught in his net; feathered thoughts, bright-eyed and darting. One, two, three… five. Folding his legs, Ushahin sat in the beech loam, asking and waiting. What is it, little brothers? What has befallen your kin?
A raven landed on a nearby branch, wiped its beak twice.
Another sidled close.
Three perched on the verge of an abandoned nest.
Thoughts, passed from mind to mind, flickered through his awareness. Not a thing seen, no; none who had seen lived to show what had happened in the dark shimmering of the Ravensmirror. Only these traces remained, drifting like down in the flock's awareness. Marshes, an endless plain of sedge grass. A high draft, warm under outspread wings. A target found, a goal attained. One two three four seven, circling lower, a good draft, good to catch, wings tilting, still high, so high, only close enough to see—
Arrow!
Arrow!
Arrow!
And death, sharp-pointed and shining, arcing from an impossible distance; the thump of death, a sharp blow to the breast, a shaft transfixed, wings failing, a useless plummet, down and down and down, blue sky fading to darkness, down and down and down—
Earthward.
Death.
The memory of the impact made his bones ache. Ushahin opened his eyes. The living ravens watched him, carrying the memories of their fallen brethren, waiting and wondering. I am sorry, little ones. It was dangerous, more dangerous than I reckoned. Malthus was clever to bring an Archer.
What was the Company of Malthus doing in the Vedasian marshes?
Ushahin stared at the cloud-heavy sky, seen in glimpses through the beech canopy. It was early yet, too early for the dreams of Men to be abroad. He sighed, flexing his crippled hands. Tonight, then. When the moon rode high over the Vale of Gorgantum, darkness would be encroaching on the marshes.
Time to walk in their dreams.
THE DOORS TO THE THRONE Hall stood three times higher than a tall man, wrought of hammered iron. On them was depicted the War of the Shapers.
The left-hand door bore the Six: Haomane, chiefest of all; Arahila, his gentle sister; Meronin, lord of the seas; Neheris of the north; Yrinna the fruitful; and Oronin, the Glad Hunter. Haomane had raised his hand in wrath, and before him was the Souma—an uncut ruby as big as a sheep's heart, glinting dully in a rough iron bezel.
On the right-hand door were Lord Satoris, and dragons. And they were glorious, the dragons depicted in lengths of coiling scales, necks arching, vaned wings outreaching, the mighty jaws parted to issue gouts of sculpted flame. At the center of it all stood the wounded Satoris, a glittering fragment of ruby representing Godslayer held in both hands like a prayer-offering.
"General!" The Fjeltroll on guard saluted. "His Lordship awaits."
"Krognar. You may admit us."
As ever, Tanaros' heart constricted as the massive doors were opened, parting Torath from Urulat, mimicking the Sundering itself; constricted, then blazed with pride. Beyond was his Lord, who had given him reason to live. The Throne Hall lay open before them, a vast expanse. Unnatural torches burned on the walls—marrow-fire, tamed to the Shaper's whim, casting long, crisscrossing shadows across the polished floor. A carpet of deepest black ran the length of the Hall, a tongue of shadow stretching from the open maw of the iron doors to the base of the Throne. It was carved of a massive carnelian, that Throne, the blood-red stone muted in the monochromatic light.