It saddened him, that so few people understood this. There was a pattern at work in the Sundering of Urulat, one would take many ages to come to fruition. Ushahin, born unwanted to two races of the Lesser Shapers, raised by a third, understood this in his ill-mended bones. He wished that Tanaros understood it, too. It would have been good if he had. But Tanaros, when all was said and done, was a Man, burdened with the short sight of his race. Even now, after so long.

Among all the Lesser Shapers, only Men had found no way to make provision for the shortness of memory. Oronin’s Children had done so. What the Grey Dam had known, the Grey Dam knew, and it encapsulated all that every predecessor before her had known. So it was among the Fjel, who passed their memory into the bone and bred it among their descendants. It was why they had remained loyal to Lord Satoris after so many generations, remembering that first promise.

A single thread, Ushahin thought, descending through time.

A pity, after all, that they lacked the scope—the wit—to discern the pattern. That was what Haomane had denied them. A single spider, shuttling on the loom of Weavers’ Gulch, had more perspective.

Of course, no one had Shaped them.

Tanaros should have seen it. After so many centuries in Darkhaven, he had learned to see its underlying beauty. Was that not enough? Ah, but he was a Man, and ruled by his heart. Arahila’s Child, in whom love and hatred grew intertwined. Look at him now, solicitous of the Lady of the Rivenlost. Haomane’s Child, whose people had no need of a remembrance born in the flesh, for their flesh was untouched by time. Of their fallen, they told stories, shaping history in their image. And the Children of Men, who emulated them in all things, learned to do the same though their lives were as the passage of shooting stars measured against the span of the Ellylon.

Yet their numbers increased, while the Ellylon dwindled.

The Lady Cerelinde gave a choked cry, beating at her cloak. Ushahin watched with a cynical gaze as Tanaros aided her, brushing hurriedly at the woolen fabric with his gauntleted hands. Small grey figures dropped, scuttling on the rocks. One of the Tungskulder Fjel stamped after them, squashing them beneath the impervious hide of his feet. It wouldn’t do to have their prize arrive in a state of paralysis.

“This land breeds foulness!” The Lady was pale. “It is the taint of the Sunderer!”