Banewreaker(84)

He eyed her, slow and thoughtful. "I will tell you, in exchange for knowledge freely given. The Three would see you put to questioning. I, I merely ask, Lady. What is the purpose of Malthus the Counselor?"

He would ask that; he would. Cerelinde hid her face in her hands, wishing she knew the answer. Whether she gave it or not, at least it would be a bargaining chip. With a bitter sense of irony, she remembered Aracus' words in Lindanen Dale. It is for a short time only, my lady. Malthus knows what he is about. She wondered if the Wise Counselor had known what would befall her, and prayed it were not so. It was too cruel to contemplate.

Surely, Aracus had not.

"I don't know," she murmured through her fingers. "I don't."

Satoris waited until she raised her head to look at him. Reading the truth written in her face, he nodded once. "I told them as much. Very well, you may go. We will speak anon, Lady."

"All three?" Cerelinde swallowed. "All of the Three would see me questioned?"

For a long time, he did not answer. The marrow-fire burned soundless, shedding brightness throughout the Chamber of the Font; in its midst, Godslayer hung like a suspended wail, pulsing. Darkness gathered around the Shaper like stormclouds and his eyes sparked a slow, inexorable red.

"No," he said at last. "Not all. Not Tanaros."

It gladdened her heart to hear it in a manner that filled her with uneasiness. How far had she fallen, how deeply had this touched her, that the kindness of Tanaros Kingslayer could make her glad? The Sunderer's lies undermined the foundation of her certainty. Could there be another capable of bringing the Prophecy to fruition, another daughter of the House of Elterrion? Malthus kept his counsel close…

No. No. To believe as much was to open a door onto despair. Satoris Banewreaker was the Prince of Lies, and behind the courtly courtesies General Tanaros extended was a man who had throttled his wife and slain his sovereign. There were no other truths that mattered.

In the garden, a mortexigus flower shivered untouched and loosed its pollen.

Oh, Aracus! Cerelinde thought in despair. I need you!





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EIGHTEEN





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THANKS TO MERONIN FIFTH-BORN, Lord of the Seas, the winds blew fair from Port Eurus and Haomane's Allies arrived safe on Pelmaran soil, where they were met by a deposition from Regent Martinek. Border-guard, Seaholders, Midlanders and Vedasians, not to mention the Host of the Ellylon—it was a difficult thing, establishing preeminence among them.

Out of necessity, all bowed to the Pelmaran regent.

"We need him," shrewd Duke Bornin murmured to Aracus Altorus. "We need all of them, else we will not prevail against the Sorceress."

So it was that Aracus, the last scion of House Altorus and king-in-exile of the West, bent his red-gold head in courteous acknowledgment, and all who followed him followed suit save only the Rivenlost, those of the Host of the Ellylon, who held themselves second in stature to none of the Lesser Shapers.

"Right." Martinek's captain, whose name was Rikard, rode up and down the lists, surveying them with a keen eye. "We're bound for Kranac, then. Is there anyone among you who has trouble acknowledging his honor's sovereignty in the third district of Pelmar?"

He halted his mount before Aracus Altorus, raising dark brows.

"Captain." Aracus' voice was steady. "I am here for one reason only: To assure the safe return of my Lady Cerelinde. All else is naught to me."

"And you?" Rikard paused before Lorenlasse of Valmaré, who commanded the Host of the Ellylon. "What of you, my fine Ellyl lord?"

Now the Ellyl did bow, and the gesture was smooth and dismissive, the gilded bee of his House gleaming at the closure of his cloak, its wings wrought of purest crystal. His arms were immaculate, his face beautiful and impassive. Only his luminous eyes gave evidence of his passion, keen and glittering. "We follow Aracus Altorus, Captain. Our kinswoman and his bride has been lost. All else is as naught."

Rikard grunted. "See that it is so." Raising one arm, he summoned the Regent Martinek's forces, scores of Pelmarans in leather armor augmented with steel rings, keen and ready. "You hear it, lads! We ride to Kranac! The Sorceress' days are numbered!"

Out of port they rode, and into the dark forests of Pelmar.



IT WAS A SWIFT SHIP.

If he'd had to guess, Carfax would not have supposed the Dwarfs would make good seafarers. He would have been wrong. It was choice, and not necessity, that kept them primarily land-bound.

Their ship sailed from Dwarfhorn, making good time under a steady wind. The crew was polite and competent, unapologetic for the inconveniences of tall folk on a Dwarf ship. Whatever it was that had transpired with the Greening of the branch in the orchards of Malumdoorn, it had won the aid of Yrinna's Children, if not their goodwill.