Beneath the foul-crusted wool. Thulu's skin was smooth and dark, gleaming with health. In the dim light, Dani could barely make out three faint lines, pale threads like long-healed scars. He sighed with relief. "They're well and truly healed, aren't they?"
"More than healed!" His uncle's voice reverberated joyously from the cavern walls. "Ah, lad! I've never felt better in my life! Why, I could—"
"Shhh!" Dani laid one hand over Thulu's lips. "The Fjeltroll."
"Right." His uncle nodded. "Aye, of course."
"I'll go look." Without waiting for Thulu to argue, Dani turned to wriggle out of the cavern's narrow opening. With the vial in one hand and the dirty sling still tied around his left arm, it was awkward going. He inched beneath the concealing pine branches and into the open, crawling on his belly until he had a clear view.
There, to the southeast, a moving smudge on the landscape; a dull glint of steel. He didn't even need to climb the tree to spot them. The Fjel had already passed them. They were moving fast… and they would be returning fast, too.
"Have they gone?"
Dani winced at the sound of his uncle's voice. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Thulu standing in front of the cave. "Aye, barely. Uncle, get down.
please
!"
"Sorry, lad." Thulu drew a shuddering breath and dropped to a squat. In the open light of day, he looked even more hale—unnervingly hale. The muscles in his sturdy thighs bunched and twitched with vigor. "It's just… I don't know if I can explain, but it's like a fire in my veins. Dani. I can't hold still." He rubbed his face with both hands, "lust as well, isn't it? We've no time to waste."
"You'll have to sit for a minute." Dani sat in a hunched pose and concentrated on splicing the broken thukka-vine thong on which the vial was strung, braiding the strong fibers. "We're not going anywhere until those Fjeltroll are long out of sight."
"And where shall we go when we do. Bearer?" Despite it all. Uncle Thulu put the question to him gently, remembering the words Dani had spoken in fear and anger. "It seems, against the odds, that I am still here to guide you. Where is it you would go?"
Dani bowed his head, his coarse black hair hiding his expression. "Darkhaven," he murmured. "We go to Darkhaven. Uncle."
"You're sure?"
"Aye." He stroked the pit-fired clay vessel with one fingertip. "I made a choice, Uncle. I'm responsible for it now. And if there are questions the Bearer should ask…" He shrugged. "Perhaps I should ask them in Darkhaven."
Uncle Thulu watched him. "It is Darkhaven's agents who seek your life."
"I know." Dani tested the spliced thong's strength and gauged that it would hold. Raising his good arm, he slipped the vial around his neck, feeling it nestle into place against his chest. "I have given them reason."
"You know, lad." Uncle Thulu nodded at Dani's left arm, bound in its sling. "I know what I said before. But we've a long way to go, and Fjeltroll to outrun. Whatever questions you might ask, it's not going to alter their orders; not here and now. A single drop from that flask—"
"No." Dani shook his head. Fear had passed from him; in its wake, he felt tired and resigned. "You were right. Uncle. It
is
too precious to waste. And how terrible might we become if the Bearer chose to use it thusly? No," he said again. "It was my choice to use it to save your life. It is enough." He glanced behind him, surveying the horizon. There was no glint of sunlight on steel; the moving smudge had gone. "Shall we go?"
"Aye, lad." Uncle Thulu sprang to his feet, then paused. He fumbled at his chest with blunt fingertips, finding no wound, but only the pale ridges of long-healed scars. An expression of perplexity crossed his broad face. "What was I saying? It was a folly of some sort, I fear. Something has changed here, Dani, has it not? I should be dead, and yet I live. And you, you…"
"I am the Bearer," Dani finished softly. For the first time, he had a glimmering of what the words meant, and it made him feel very, very alone. With an effort, he used his good arm as a lever, clambering upright. Once standing, he touched the clay vial at his throat, aware of his burden. "Will you be my guide, Uncle?"
"I will," said his uncle. And he bowed, low. "Aye, lad, I will."
The wall was like a dragon's spine, coiled and sinuous. It stretched for league upon league around Darkhaven, clinging with determination to every sinking valley and rising ridge in the Vale that surrounded Lord Satoris' fortress.
It was taller than the height of three men, and broad enough for four horsemen to ride astride atop it; or four Fjel to run at a trot. Within its confines lay all that Darkhaven encompassed. There, to the north, were the mines where the Fjeltroll labored, digging iron from the earth. There, closer, were the furnaces where it was smelted, the forges where it was beaten into steel. The Gorgantus River made its sluggish way beneath a pall of grey-black smoke, tapped by the cunning of Speros of Haimhault, who had built a waterwheel and made it serve Darkhaven's purposes.
There was the training-field, the expanse of beaten ground where Tanaros drilled his army, day upon day. And there, southward, were the pastures where Staccian sheep grazed on dark, wiry grass, fattening to fill Fjel bellies, drinking tainted water from the Gorgantus River and thriving upon it. From their blood the foul-smelling
svartblod
, dearly loved by the Fjel, was fermented.
And there, far to the west—a gleam in the distance—was the shoreline of the Sundering Sea, where Dergail the Counselor had met his death at the hands of the Were. Beyond it, somewhere in the shining sea-swell of the distance, lay Torath, the Crown of Urulat, home of the Souma, where the Six Shapers dwelled and Haomane First-Born ruled over them.
It was all visible from the wall, interrupted at regular intervals by the watchtowers, manned by the faithful Havenguard, who kept a watch over the whole of Lord Satoris' empire.
On an empty stretch of wall between towers stood Tanaros Blacksword, who was gazing at none of it. A brisk breeze whipped at his dark hair, lashing it against his cheeks. He was one of the Three, and he was dangerous. Lest it be forgotten, one hand hovered over the hilt of his black sword.
"Tell me," he said to his companion, "of this
corruption
."
His look and his tone would have intimidated any sane comrade. Ushahin Dreamspinner sighed and hugged himself instead, warding off the autumn chill. His thin arms wrapped about his torso, his sharp elbows protruded. Cold seemed to bite deeper since his time in the Delta. It had not been his choice to meet on the wall. "Tell me," he said to Tanaros, "what you know of Darkhaven's construction."
"What is there to know?" Tanaros frowned. "Lord Satoris caused it to be created. After the Battle of Curonan, he retreated to the Vale of Gorgantum and raised up these mountains, using Godslayer's might. And he conceived of Darkhaven, and the Fjel delved deep into the earth and built high into the sky, building it in accordance with his plan. So it was done, and we Three were summoned to it."
"Yes." Ushahin extended one crooked hand and waggled it in a gesture of ambivalence. "And no. Darkhaven was not built by Fjel labor alone, and it is made of more than stone and mortar. It is an extension of its Shaper's will. It exists here because it exists in his Lordship's mind. Do you understand?"
"No," Tanaros said bluntly. "Do you say it is illusion?" He rapped his knuckles on the solid stone ramparts. "It seems solid enough to me, Dreamspinner."
Ushahin shook his head. "Not illusion, no."
"What, then?" Tanaros raised his brows. "Is it Fjel craftsmanship you question, cousin? I tell you, I am no mason, but I would not hesitate to pit their labors against the craftsmanship of Men; aye, or Ellylon, either."
"Then why is it that in two thousand years the Fjel have never built anything else?" Ushahin asked him.
Tanaros opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, considering. "Why would they?" he asked at length. "The Fjel are delvers by nature, not builders. They built Darkhaven for
him
, for his Lordship, according to his design. I say they made a fine job of it, cousin. What is it that you say?"
Ushahin shrugged. "You are too much of one thing, Tanaros, and not enough of another. It is not a matter of questioning the Fjel, but a matter of what causes Darkhaven to
be
. There are places that exist between tilings; between waking and sleep, between being and not-being. Darkhaven is such a place."
"Perhaps. And perhaps you spend too much time among your madlings, cousin." Tanaros eyed him. "What has this do with corruption?"
"Come," said Ushahin. "I will show you."
He walked with Tanaros along the wall, past the watchtowers where the Fjel saluted them, descending the curving stair at the inner gates of the keep. By the time they reached the entryway, Ushahin's bones ached fiercely with the cold. It was a relief to enter Darkhaven proper, to hear the bronze-bound doors close with a thud and the bar drop into place, the clank and rattle of the Havenguard resuming their posts. The black marble walls shut out every breath of wind, and the flickering blue-white veins of marrow-fire warmed the halls and lit them with an eldritch gleam that was gentle to his light-sensitive gaze.
"This way." Ushahin led Tanaros toward the section of the fortress in which his own austere quarters were housed. Madlings skittered from their approach. Although their fealty was unquestioned, he seldom brought anyone this way and it made them wary—even of the Lord General.
"If you wanted to meet in your quarters—" Tanaros began.
"Here." Ushahin halted in front of a niche. The arch that framed it rose almost to the vast ceiling above. On the back wall of the niche was a sculpture depicting the Wounding of" Satoris, standing out in high relief, the outer limbs reaching across the arch into open air to engage one another.
Two figures were in opposition, tall enough to dwarf even a Fjel onlooker; Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter, and Lord Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. They grappled like giants, both figures shimmering with a fine network of marrow-fire. Satoris' hands were raised to parry a blow, one catching Oronin's left wrist; Oronin's right leg was extended, indicating how he had slipped as he lunged, planting the Shard of the Souma in Satoris' thigh with his right hand. Where
Godslayer's haft stood out from his Lordship's marble flesh, a node of marrow-fire shone, brighter than the rest, and a bright vein trickled down his thigh.
"Forgive me. Dreamspinner," Tanaros said. "It is a mighty piece of work, but I don't understand—"
"Look closely." Ushahin waited patiently as Tanaros examined the niche. It was not easy to spot the opening, a low, narrow doorway hidden in the recesses and rendered almost invisible by the deep shadow cast by the bright figures.
"Ah." Tanaros saw it at last. "One of your madlings' passageways?"
"Yes."
"What would you have me say?" Tanaros shrugged. "I would that there were none, cousin, but they do no harm as long as they are confined within the inner walls. Indeed, forbid it be so, but were Darkhaven ever to face invasion, they might serve a purpose. Did not Lord Satoris himself cede you such rights?"
"Yes," said Ushahin. "To the spaces in between, where creatures such as I belong. But Tanaros, who built the passageways?" Watching the other's expression, he shook his head. "They were not here when I was first summoned, cousin. My madlings did not build them; others, yes, but not one such as this, built into the very structure of the wall. It would require inhuman strength."
"The Fjel…"
Ushahin pointed at the narrow gap, accessible only between the braced legs of the two Shapers' figures. "What Fjeltroll could fit in that space? I have asked and the Fjel have no knowledge of it, not in any generation. It was not there, and then it was. Darkhaven
changes
, Tanaros; its design shifts as his Lordship's thoughts change. This is what I seek to tell you."
"Ah, well." Tanaros gazed at the sculpted face of Lord Satoris. The Shaper's expression was one of agony, both at Godslayer's plunge and the greater loss. Oronin's blow had dealt him his unhealing wound, that which had stolen his Gift. "He is a Shaper, cousin. Is it such a surprise?"
"No, Blacksword. Not
this
. I've known about
this
for centuries." Ushahin shook his head in disgust. Ducking beneath Oronin's outstretched arm, he opened the hidden door onto the passageways between the walls. "Come with me."
Once behind the walls, he led with greater confidence, following a winding path with a shallow downward slope. The air grew closer and hotter the farther they went, then leveled once more. Tanaros followed without comment, his footsteps crunching on rubble. When they reached the rough-hewn chamber the madlings had claimed for their own. Tanaros paused. The madlings had not gathered here since the day Vorax had found them with the Lady of the Ellylon, and his Staccians had cleared much of the debris, but the evidence of their presence remained—scratched gibberish on the walls, overlooked candle-butts wedged into crevices.
Tanaros sighed. "Will you tell me this is his Lordship's doing? I have spoken with Vorax, cousin; and I have spoken with Cerelinde, too. I know what happened here."
"Oh, I know you've spoken with
Cerelinde
, cousin." A dark tone edged Ushahin's voice. "No, it's not this. Further."
They squeezed through a narrow portion of the passage. A lew paces beyond it, the level path dropped into a sharp decline. Ushahin led them onward, down and down, until a blue-white glow was visible ahead, as bright and concentrated as the sculpted node of Godslayer's dagger.
"Do you see it?" he asked.
"Aye." Tanaros' jaw was set and hard. "It is no more than Vorax told me."
A roaring sound was in the air, and an acrid odor, like the breath of dragons. Ushahin grinned, his mismatched eyes glittering with reflected marrow-light. "Come see it, then."
They descended the remainder of the way with Ushahin leading, sure-footed on the pathways that were his own, his aching joints at ease in the hot, stifling air. There, all the way to the bottom of the decline.