It was cool.
It was wet.
It was water, and it was the lifeblood of Urulat; of Uru-Alat, the World-God that was. It was the essence of water, all water, everywhere. Of the snow that fell in the mountains of Staccia, of Meronin's seas that circumscribed dry land. Of rain that fell like mercy on the plains of Curonan, and springs that bubbled in the forests of Pelmar. Of stagnant water standing in the Delta, and swift rivers flowing fresh through the Midlands.
With an effort, Tanaros withdrew his hand.
A single drop of water gathered on the tip of his finger. It was heavy, so heavy! With his free hand, he braced his forearm, watching the drop swell and gather, hanging round and full on his fingertip. It gleamed in the narrow sunbeam, refracting an entire world in its globular walls. Sun and sky, water and stone. As he watched, the drop of water changed shape, its rounded base broadening. Where it touched the pad of his fingertip, there where his skin whorled in tiny ridges, the connection narrowed, becoming a taut band of water, stretching, impossibly thin, until it snapped.
It fell.
A drop of water, falling into the pool. At close range, it rang like a gong in the enclosed space. Slow concentric ripples spread from the center of the pool, measured and perfect. Watching them lap against the edges of the pool and rebound with infinite precision, Tanaros stuck his finger into his mouth and sucked it.
Moisture, the essence of moisture, penetrated his parched tissues.
He hadn't know, until then, how deeply he thirsted. But there was enough life, enough
water
, in the thin film that clung to his skin to revitalize the flesh he had reclaimed from the Marasoumië. Strength, green and young, surged in him; he felt made anew. Every fiber of his being sang with vitality. He had not known such hope and urgency since his wedding night.
That, too, had been a kind of rebirth. A celebration of a mystery, of two becoming one. Of the quickening of desire, the joining of the flesh. A shared breath passed from one mouth to another, hearts beating in rhythm. Calista had laughed aloud in wonder at the discovery; the memory of it still cut like a blade. Tanaros could never have believed, that night, that she would betray their marriage bed.
But she had, and something in him had died. Yet here he was, born anew.
And he had his Lordship's trust, aye, and the loyalty of the Fjel. These things alone sufficed to render life worth the living. Who was to say what else his future held in store? Desire, perhaps; or even love. Not even the Seven Shapers knew the whole of what-might-be.
Tanaros bounded to his feet and laughed. With a standing leap, he caught the lowest tier of holes gouged into the cistern wall, digging his fingers into them. He hung suspended. With an effort he hauled his body upward until his gaze was level with his own knuckles. His armor dragged at him, threatening to dislodge him. Too late to remove it now.
This would be the hard part.
Taking a deep breath, he let go with one hand, reaching upward without hesitation. If he'd swung on Malthus with the same speed at their first encounter, the wizard might have died in the Ways. He shouldn't have hesitated when he saw the boy. Blind and questing, his fingertips found the second tier of handholds; found, and held. Trusting for an instant to his grip, he dangled from one arm. Then he found the second hold with his left hand. His arms strained in their sockets as he hoisted his body upward.
Once more.
In a strange way, it felt good. His muscles quivered in agony at the strain, but it was a simple pain and one he understood. The Water of Life, the lifeblood of Urulat, coursed in his veins and he had never felt more hale or alive. There was no mystery here, only the body's strength, pitted against the sheer rockface. At the third tier of gouges his scrambling feet found purchase. Wedging his booted toes into the lowest holes, Tanaros clung to the cistern wall and caught his breath, letting his legs take his weight.
After that, it was simply a matter of climbing.
It took long hours, and there were times when his fingers ached and his muscles quivered and he could do nothing but press his face to the rock and wait for the trembling to pass, longing only to let go, to let himself fall, plunging into the deep cistern below. Easy, so easy! But he was Tanaros Blacksword, one of the Three, and he would not give up that easily. Inch by inch, he climbed, tenacious as any spider to scale the Defile's walls. Above him, the disk of sunlight broadened, the quality of the light slanting and changing as the sun moved in its circuit westward.
At length his searching hand found no gouge where it reached, only a lip of rough-hewn stone. His fingertips scrabbled, catching a grip. Remembering the taste of the Water of Life in his mouth, Tanaros drew his right leg up beneath him, finding a foothold. Pushing hard and heaving with both arms, he cleared the lip of the well. His head emerged in open air and he shoved hard against the foothold, the rest of his body following as he tumbled over the edge, armor clattering against rock.
"Lord General!" A relieved shout in an unmistakable Midlander accent greeted his arrival. "Am I glad to see
you
!"
TANAROS FOUND HIS FEET AND stood.
The setting sun was as red as blood, flooding the desert with a sanguine hue. He stood atop a promontory of rock situated in the center of a dry basin. Arrayed around its perimeter were standing stones, two and three times the height of a man, casting stark shadows on the sand. Within the circle were other figures, human and Fjel alike, set in a strange tableau.
"Speros!" Tanaros shaded his eyes, unreasoningly glad to see the Midlander alive. "How did you come here? Who
are
these people?"
"As to how we got here, I can't say, my lord." Speros picked a path across the basin, carrying his sword unsheathed in one hand and ignoring the motionless figures who sat on their haunches on the cooling sands. A squadron of four Gulnagel Fjel shifted position as he moved, maces at the ready, keeping a watchful eye on the still figures. "The five of us were caught in the Marasoumië, when the wizard came, and here we found ourselves; or underearth, rather. I'm not one of the Three, to understand the workings of the Ways. But these—" arriving at the base of the rocks, he nodded backward at the squatting humans, "—are the Charred Ones, those whom Haomane's Wrath drove underearth. And unless I miss my guess, Lord General, these are the ones plotting to extinguish the marrow-fire."
Tanaros stared at him.
Behind the Midlander, one of the squatting humans rose to his feet in a painstaking effort, joints creaking. He was old, his dark, wrinkled face bearing a map of his years. They were all old, all of them. An elderly woman beside him hissed in disapproval and tugged at his kneecap, though he paid her no heed. The Gulnagel moved in a step closer, their hided muscles flexing.
Tanaros held up one hand, halting their movement. "You would speak, old one?"
"Slayer!" The old man returned his greeting in the common tongue. Shifting an unseen wad into one cheek, he hawked and spat onto the sands. "Welcome to Birru-Uru-Alat. We have been expecting you."
"YOU DID A GOOD THING back there, Staccian."
The Borderguardsman's voice was quiet, but it spoke volumes in praise. Kneeling over the fire, Carfax felt the back of his neck flush. He concentrated on the fire, feeding it bit by bit, laying branches in such a way as would build a solid blaze. The silence lingered between them, growing heavy. "Don't know about that," he muttered at length. "I couldn't watch the boy slaughtered, is all."
"Or Fianna," Blaise said softly, so softly the Archer could not hear.
Carfax looked up sharply, rubbing his palms on his thighs. "What of her?"
"Nothing." The Borderguardsman shook his head. By firelight his resemblance to General Tanaros was more apparent; the same spare, handsome features, the same errant lock of dark hair across his brow. "You have a good heart, Staccian. Why is it so hard for you to hear?"
On the far side of the fire, the Ellyl stirred as if to speak, then thought better of it, rising instead to check on the horses. The gentle whickering sound of their greeting carried in the night air. Carfax watched as Peldras touched them, laying pale hands on their hides, soothing aching knees, strained hocks. The Ellyl spoke inaudibly to Fianna, who rummaged through their stores. He could hear her soft laugh of delight at whatever the Ellyl said, and wondered what it must be like to move through the world with such grace that all must acknowledge it. Even so, it was the Borderguardsman she loved. The Ellyl was beyond her reach, a Lesser Shaper of a higher order. It had taken Haomane's Prophecy and a thousand years of refusal before the Lady of the Ellylon would consider a mortal lover. An ordinary woman like Fianna would never dare to dream of such a liaison. What the Ellyl thought, only Haomane knew.
"Staccian?" Blaise prompted him.
"I don't know." Carfax mumbled the words. Shifting, he sat on the pine mast, hiding his face against his knees. "Don't be so quick to speak kindly to me," he said without looking up. "If I had thought deeper, my lord Blaise, I might not have acted. Because of me, the Bearer's quest continues."
"Aye," Blaise said. "Haomane's Allies are in your debt."
Carfax gave a strangled laugh. "I have betrayed my loyalties and all I hold dear."
"No. Only those false loyalties you were taught. It is not the same." Removing a whetstone from a pouch at his belt, Blaise began honing his sword, smoothing away the nicks it had gotten battling the Were. It was a homely sound, stone grinding on metal. "I asked you once what manner of man you wanted to be, Staccian. You have shown me through your actions. A man of honor, willing to risk his life to protect the innocent. I tell you tonight, Aracus Altorus would welcome one such as you into his service."
"Why?" he whispered.
"Because he understands what it means to be King of the West." Fianna had approached him from behind, her steps inaudible on the pine mast. Her hands lit on his shoulders, her face bending down beside his. "Oh, Carfax! You have proved a true companion in this venture when all but the Wise Counselor would have doubted you. Do you think Aracus Altorus will not see it?"
It was hard to think, with her soft breath brushing his cheek. Exhaling hard, he lifted his head and focused on the Borderguardsman. "Why
him
, Blaise? What has he done to win
your
loyalty?"
"Can you not guess?" Blaise Caveros laid his sword across his knees. His dark eyes held Carfax's in a steady gaze. "You, who have served under the Kingslayer? He trusted me, Staccian. Since we were boys. Always." His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "If the Kingslayer's wife had not betrayed him, his blood would run in Aracus' veins. Instead, Aracus is the last scion of the House of Altorus, while for a thousand years, my family's name has been a byword for betrayal. Aracus Altorus measured me by the contents of my heart and made me his right hand. He gave my family back its honor, Staccian. Is that not enough? Can you say as much of Tanaros Blacksword?"
"No," Carfax whispered.
"And Satoris Banewreaker?" Blaise's voice hardened. "How is it you serve
him
? Has the Sunderer dealt so gently with his Staccian allies?"
"No." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Yes! I don't know, my lord!" Carfax drew a long, shuddering breath. "What would you have me say?" he asked miserably, raising his bloodshot gaze. "He played us fair! Battle-glory and generous recompense for the fallen. That's the bargain Lord Vorax has ever offered on Lord Satoris' behalf, and from time out of mind, we've taken it. And he has kept his terms! For a thousand years, no enemy has lifted a blade within our borders, and no child has hungered. This, Lord Satoris has done for us. Can any other nation of Men claim the same? My family dwells in peace and comfort because I serve his Lordship. Is it so wrong?"
"If it keeps the world Sundered, aye." Blaise's tone was surprisingly gentle. "Forgive me, Staccian, but I do believe it."
"You have so much
faith
!" The words burst from his lips. Carfax glared at them; glared at them all, for now the Ellyl had returned and all four were arrayed about the campfire. "How can you
know
? How can you be so
surer"
They glanced at one another, and at him, pitying.
It was Peldras who answered, lowering himself gracefully to sit cross-legged beside the fire. "Carfax of Staccia," he said, "let me ask you this: How is it you cannot?"
Carfax shook his head, unable to articulate a reply.
"My people are dying." The Ellyl tilted his head, regarding the distant stars. "We are fading, bit by bit. We are Haomane's Children, and we drew our strength from the Souma. Without it, we are bereft. We are the Rivenlost. The way home is forbidden us." He turned the weight of his luminous gaze on Carfax. "We are Haomane's Children, and while we live, we are an affront to the Sunderer, and one he would destroy. Do you deny it?"
"No," he said, miserable. "But—"
"But tomorrow we will be in Beshtanag," Blaise said brusquely. "Which is a trap. You have said so yourself, Staccian. I mean to give warning to my lord Aracus Altorus. I spoke the truth, before. You acquitted yourself well. Now I need to know: Do you stand with us or against us? Will you pledge your loyalty to me?"
Carfax blinked, his vision streaked by tears. Why was it that the rest of the world seemed so far away? It felt like a lifetime had passed since he set out from Darkhaven. These people had become his companions, the only ones left to him. He had traveled with them, eaten with them, fought with them back-to-back. One had sacrificed himself to save his worthless life. He remembered Hobard, his father's sword in his hand and urgency straining his bloodstained face, the wave of Were that had swallowed him.
This is my death. Go
!
But…
He remembered Turin, Hunric; the men he had left behind, obedient to his orders. He remembered the men he had led and how they had trusted him. How he had led them into battle, singing, sure of victory. They had been good comrades, and true. They had trusted his leadership, and General Tanaros had trusted him to lead them. And he had erred in his folly and the earth had risen to engulf them. He was a traitor, aye. He had saved Dani's life. He had admitted that Beshtanag was a trap, and Lord Satoris' raven had watched him do it. Oh, aye, Carfax of Staccia was a traitor of the first order, but he was man enough still not to profit by it. Not while his own men rotted in barrows beneath the sedge grass.