Overhead, the stars wheeled through their courses.
One wouldn't expect a wizard to snore, but he did. One might expect it to loosen his bindings, but it didn't. Carfax struggled against them, testing of his circumscribed thoughts and constrained flesh. The Ellyl watched him, not without pity, an unsheathed blade across his knees. All around them, starlight shone on the hummocks and knolls that had been Carfax's companions when dawn had risen on that day. Now it was night and they were earth and grass, nourished by his bloody spittle, glimmering beneath the stars and a crescent moon.
"She Shaped them, you know." The Ellyl tilted his perfect chin, gazing at the night sky. "Arahila the Merciful took pity on night's blackness and beseeched Haomane to allow her to lay hands upon the Souma, the Eye of Uru-Alat that she might Shape a lesser light to illume the darkness." He smiled compassionately at Carfax's struggle. "It is said among the Rivenlost that there is no sin so great that Arahila will not forgive it."
It was dangerous to match words with an Ellyl; nonetheless, Carfax left off his efforts and replied, the words grating in his throat. "Will she forgive Malthus what he did to my men?"
"It does not please him to do so, Staccian." The Ellyl's voice held sorrow. "Malthus the Wise Counselor would harm no living thing by his own choice. You sought to slay us out of hand."
"What do you seek, Rivenlost?"
"Life." The Ellyl's hands rested lightly on his naked blade. "Hope."
Carfax bared his bloodstained teeth. "And Lord Satoris' death."
Peldras regarded the stars. "We are Haomane's Children, Staccian. It is the Sunderer's choice to oppose him and it is the Rivenlost, above all, who will die for this choice if we do not take it from him." He looked back at Carfax, his gaze bright and direct. "Torath is lost to us and, without the Souma to sustain us, we diminish. Our numbers lessen, our magics fading. If Satoris Banewreaker conquers Urulat, it will be our end. What would you have us do?"
Dangerous, indeed, to match words with an Ellyl. This time, Carfax held his bitten tongue. Better to keep silent and hope against hope for rescue or a clean death that would place him beyond his enemies' reach.
If either could find him here.
On and on the night sank into darkness, the fire settling to embers. Carfax dozed in exhaustion. A mind, borne on dark wings, beat desperately at the outskirts of the Counselor's circle; beat and beat, skittering helpless away. The Vedasian groaned in his sleep, untouchable. In the sedge grass, a saddle sat empty, three dead ravens tied by their feet. Waking, dimly aware, Carfax strained against the Counselor's binding.
Dreamspinner, I am here, here!
Nothing.
* * *
THIRTEEN
« ^ »
"IT TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, cousin." Standing before the dungeon stair with a smoldering torch in one hand, Vorax raised his bushy red brows. "Was it a hard reckoning?"
"No harder than it ought to be," Tanaros said. "His Lordship wanted the details."
"Twenty-three lost in Lindanen Dale."
"Aye. Yours." He met Vorax's gaze. "Good men. I'm sorry for it."
The Staccian shrugged. "They knew the price, cousin. Battle-glory, and fair recompense for the fallen. The couriers will leave on the morrow, bearing purses. At least every man's widow, every man's bereaved mother, will know the cost to a coin of her husband or son's life."
Tanaros touched the pouch where Hyrgolf's rhios hung, thinking on the death of Bogvar in the City of Long Grass, and how Thorun had begged him take his axe-hand. "Do they reckon it enough, in Staccia?"
"They reckon it a fairer trade than any Haomane offered." Vorax raised the torch, peering. Light glittered on the rings that adorned his thick fingers; topaz, ruby, emerald. "Cousin, this can wait until you're rested."
"No." Tanaros gathered himself with an effort. "I want to see the prisoner."
Keys rattled as Vorax sought the proper one to open the door to the lower depths. Tanaros held the torch while he fumbled. The Fjel guard stood at attention. Dank air wafted from the open door, smelling of mold and decay. Below, it was black as pitch. No marrow-fire threaded the veins of the dungeon's stone.
"Phaugh!" Tanaros raised the torch. "I forget how it stinks."
"No point in a pleasant prison," Vorax said pragmatically.
Stepping onto the first stair, Tanaros paused. "You didn't put the Lady Cerelinde in such a place, I hope."
"No." Torchlight made a bearded mask of the Staccian's face. "She's our guest, cousin, or so his Lordship would have it. Her quarters are as fine as my own; more so, if your taste runs to Ellylon gewgaws."