grime, straps fresh-oiled, boots buffed to a high gloss.
Tanaros, who had beheld this drama many, many times over, watched with pity. "No," he said gently when one, scarce more than a lad, reached for the black sword. "That I tend myself."
"I touch?" The boy threw him a hopeful glance.
"You may touch it in its scabbard, see?" The Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven went to one knee beside the madling lad, guiding his trembling hand. "There."
The boy's fingers touched the scabbard and he groaned deep in his throat, his mouth soft with ecstasy. "My Lord! My Lord's blood!"
"Yes," Tanaros said softly, as he had done many times before, with this lad and others. "It was tempered in the marrow-fire, and cooled in his blood."
The madling cradled the hand that had touched it. "His blood!" he crowed.
"His blood," Tanaros agreed, rising to his feet, knee-joints popping at the effort. Always, it was so; the young men, the youths, drawn to the blade.
"Enough!" Emboldened by the success of her mission, Meara put her hands upon her hips, surveying Tanaros' quarters, finding nothing amiss. "Will you want a bath, Lord General?"
"Later," Tanaros said. The odor of mutton roast teased the air and his stomach rumbled at it. "Later will suffice."
She gave a firm nod. "Ludo will bring it."
"Thank you, Meara." Tanaros made her a courtly half-bow. She shuddered, a rictus contorting her face, then whirled, summoning the others.
"Come! You and you, and you. Algar, pick up the Lord General's greaves. Come, quickly, and let the Lord General eat!"
Tanaros watched them go, hurrying under Meara's command, laden with their burdens. Where did Ushahin find them? The unwanted, the misbegotten, the castoffs of Urulat. Damaged at birth, many of them�slow, simple, ill-formed. Others, the world had damaged; the world, and the cruelty of Men and the Lesser Shapers. Beaten by jealous lovers, shaken by angry parents, ravaged by conquest, they were victims of life, of circumstance or simple accident, fallen and half-drowned, until wits were addled or sanity snapped like a fine thread and darkness clouded their thoughts.
No wonder Ushahin Dreamspinner loved them.
And in their dreams, he summoned them, calling them to sanctuary in Darkhaven. All through the ages, they had come; singly, in pairs, in groups. In this place, they were sacrosanct. Lord Satoris had decreed it so, long, long ago, upon the day Ushahin had sworn the allegiance of his branding. No one was to harm them, upon pain of death.
Vorax had his indulgences.
Tanaros had his army.
Ushahin had his madlings.
Mutton roast steamed as Tanaros removed the covering domes and sat to his dinner. He carved a slab of meat with his sharp knife, juices pooling on the plate. The tubers were flaky, and there were spring peas, pale green and sweet. Sane or no, the madlings of Darkhaven could cook. Tanaros chewed slowly and swallowed, feeling the day's long efforts—the long efforts of a too-long life—settle wearily into his bones.
A warm bath would be good.
"WELL DONE, COUSIN."
A voice, light and mocking. Tanaros opened his eyes to see Ushahin in his drawing-room. The wicks had burned low, but even so the lamplight was less kind to the half-breed, showing up his mismatched features. One cheekbone, broken, sank too low; the other rode high, knotted with old pain.
"Do you jest, cousin?" Tanaros yawned, pushing himself upright in the chair. "How came you here?"
"By the door." The Dreamspinner indicated it with a nod of his sharp chin. "I jest not at all. Readiness, our Lord asked of us; readiness, you have given, Tanaros Blacksword. A pity you do not ward your own quarters so well."
"Should I not trust to the security of Darkhaven, that I myself have wrought? You make mock of me, cousin." Tanaros stifled a second yawn, blinking to clear his wits. A bath had made him drowsy, and he had dozed in his chair. "What do you seek, Dreamspinner?"
The half-breed folded his knees, dropping to sit
Tanaros, who had beheld this drama many, many times over, watched with pity. "No," he said gently when one, scarce more than a lad, reached for the black sword. "That I tend myself."
"I touch?" The boy threw him a hopeful glance.
"You may touch it in its scabbard, see?" The Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven went to one knee beside the madling lad, guiding his trembling hand. "There."
The boy's fingers touched the scabbard and he groaned deep in his throat, his mouth soft with ecstasy. "My Lord! My Lord's blood!"
"Yes," Tanaros said softly, as he had done many times before, with this lad and others. "It was tempered in the marrow-fire, and cooled in his blood."
The madling cradled the hand that had touched it. "His blood!" he crowed.
"His blood," Tanaros agreed, rising to his feet, knee-joints popping at the effort. Always, it was so; the young men, the youths, drawn to the blade.
"Enough!" Emboldened by the success of her mission, Meara put her hands upon her hips, surveying Tanaros' quarters, finding nothing amiss. "Will you want a bath, Lord General?"
"Later," Tanaros said. The odor of mutton roast teased the air and his stomach rumbled at it. "Later will suffice."
She gave a firm nod. "Ludo will bring it."
"Thank you, Meara." Tanaros made her a courtly half-bow. She shuddered, a rictus contorting her face, then whirled, summoning the others.
"Come! You and you, and you. Algar, pick up the Lord General's greaves. Come, quickly, and let the Lord General eat!"
Tanaros watched them go, hurrying under Meara's command, laden with their burdens. Where did Ushahin find them? The unwanted, the misbegotten, the castoffs of Urulat. Damaged at birth, many of them�slow, simple, ill-formed. Others, the world had damaged; the world, and the cruelty of Men and the Lesser Shapers. Beaten by jealous lovers, shaken by angry parents, ravaged by conquest, they were victims of life, of circumstance or simple accident, fallen and half-drowned, until wits were addled or sanity snapped like a fine thread and darkness clouded their thoughts.
No wonder Ushahin Dreamspinner loved them.
And in their dreams, he summoned them, calling them to sanctuary in Darkhaven. All through the ages, they had come; singly, in pairs, in groups. In this place, they were sacrosanct. Lord Satoris had decreed it so, long, long ago, upon the day Ushahin had sworn the allegiance of his branding. No one was to harm them, upon pain of death.
Vorax had his indulgences.
Tanaros had his army.
Ushahin had his madlings.
Mutton roast steamed as Tanaros removed the covering domes and sat to his dinner. He carved a slab of meat with his sharp knife, juices pooling on the plate. The tubers were flaky, and there were spring peas, pale green and sweet. Sane or no, the madlings of Darkhaven could cook. Tanaros chewed slowly and swallowed, feeling the day's long efforts—the long efforts of a too-long life—settle wearily into his bones.
A warm bath would be good.
"WELL DONE, COUSIN."
A voice, light and mocking. Tanaros opened his eyes to see Ushahin in his drawing-room. The wicks had burned low, but even so the lamplight was less kind to the half-breed, showing up his mismatched features. One cheekbone, broken, sank too low; the other rode high, knotted with old pain.
"Do you jest, cousin?" Tanaros yawned, pushing himself upright in the chair. "How came you here?"
"By the door." The Dreamspinner indicated it with a nod of his sharp chin. "I jest not at all. Readiness, our Lord asked of us; readiness, you have given, Tanaros Blacksword. A pity you do not ward your own quarters so well."
"Should I not trust to the security of Darkhaven, that I myself have wrought? You make mock of me, cousin." Tanaros stifled a second yawn, blinking to clear his wits. A bath had made him drowsy, and he had dozed in his chair. "What do you seek, Dreamspinner?"
The half-breed folded his knees, dropping to sit
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