In their minds there opened a dry gully of thirst that only red blood could slake. As one, the seven Brethren bowed, obedient to the will of the Grey Dam, and death was their every thought. As one, they crouched low and sprang into motion, seven shadows moving swift and grey through the Pelmaran forests. Only the barest rustle of pine needles marked their passing. Oronin's Children, direst of hunters.
"Go." It was the Were who had guided him who spoke, rising from the shadows to stand upright, his voice harsh and choked. "Go now, no one's son!"
"Old mother…" Helpless, Ushahin reached out a hand toward the motionless figure of the Grey Dam, remembering Sorash-who-was, remembering the touch of her rough pelt as she cradled his broken limbs. His boyhood self, and the only mother he had ever known. The Grey Dam is dead. The Grey Dam lives. The keen wire of pain that defined him grew tighter, madness pressing in close and a sound rising in his mind, rising and rising, a howl unuttered in his branded chest. "Oh, mother! I am sorry…"
"Go!"
* * *
TWENTY
« ^ »
"LADY." TANAROS CAUGHT HIS BREATH at the sight of her. In the confines of her chambers, clad in the robes of her ancestors, she shone like a candle-flame. It made his heart ache, and he bowed low. "I come to bid you farewell."
Cerelinde's hand rose unbidden to her throat. "You depart?"
"On the morrow." He straightened. "I will return."
"You will kill him," she whispered, eyes wide and fearful. "Aracus."
For a long time he did not answer, remembering the battle in Lindanen Dale and Aracus Altorus struggling with the Grey Dam of the Were on the end of his blade; remembering another, Roscus. His king, his foster-brother. A ready grin, an extended hand. A babe with red-gold hair, and his wife's guilt-ridden gaze. At the end, Roscus had looked surprised. It would end, with Aracus. It would be done.
"Yes," he said. "I am sorry."
She turned her back to him, her pale hair a shining river. "Go," she said, her voice taut and shaking. "Go! Go then, and kill, Tanaros Blacksword! It is what you do. It is all you are good for!"
"Lady." He took a step forward, yearning to comfort her and angry at it. "Do you understand so little, even now? Haomane has declared war upon us. We are fighting for our lives here!"
"I understand only grief." Turning, she gazed at him. "Must it be so, Tanaros? Must it truly be so? Is there no room for compassion in your understanding of the world? Haomane would forgive, if you relented."
"Would he?" he asked, taking another step. "Would you?"
Cerelinde shrank from his approach.
"You see." He felt his lips move in a grim smile. "Limits, always limits. You would forgive us, if we kept to our place. Ah, my Lady. I did keep to my place, once upon a time. I was Tanaros Caveros, Commander of the King's Guard in Altoria. I honored my liege-lord and served him well; I honored my wife and loved her well." He opened his arms. "You see, do you not, what it earned me?"
She did not answer, only looked at his spread hands and trembled.
He had throttled his wife with those hands.
"So be it." Gathering himself, Tanaros executed one last bow, crisp and correct. "Lady, you will be well cared for in my absence. I have sworn it so. I bid you farewell." Spinning on his heel, he took his leave of her. No matter that her luminous eyes haunted him; it was satisfying, hearing the door slam upon his departure.
She did not know.
She did not understand.
Cerelinde was Haomane's Child, Shaped of rational thought. She would never understand the passion with which he had loved his wife and his liege-lord alike, and how deeply their betrayal had wounded him. No more could she comprehend Lord Satoris, who had dared defy his Elder Brother in order that his Gift should not be wrested from Men, that thought should not be forever uncoupled from desire.
Things were not always as simple as they seemed.
But Haomane's Children could not think in shades of grey.
Even now, with the old rage still simmering in his heart, it grieved Tanaros to think upon all he had lost, all he had cast aside. How much more so, he wondered, must it grieve his Lordship? And yet Cerelinde refused to see it.
Though he wished that she would.
With an effort, he thrust the thought away. A door closed; well and good. Nothing left, then, but what lay ahead. It had come down to it. All the variables, the plans within plans; what were they to him? Nothing. There was a war. War, he understood. At every corner, Tanaros passed sentries standing guard. Hulking shadows, armed to the eyetusks. They saluted him, each and every one, acknowledging the Commander General of Darkhaven.