All the tribes were represented; Tungskulder, Mørkhar, Gulnagel, Tordenstem, Nåltannen, Kaldjager. Tanaros gazed over a sea of Fjel, with thick hides of smooth grey, of a pebbled greenish-brown, or black with bristles. His troops, his men. They wore their armor with pride, pounding the butts of their spears in steady rhythm. They kept their shields raised.

“So many!” Cerelinde whispered.

Tanaros bowed from the saddle. “Welcome to Darkhaven, Lady.”

Before them loomed the edifice itself, twin towers rearing against an overcast sky, dwarfing the entrance until they drew near enough to see that the portal itself was massive; thrice the height of any Fjel. The bar had been raised and the brass-bound inner doors flung open.

In the entrance stood Vorax of Staccia, gleaming in ceremonial armor.

“Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost!” he called. “Lord Satoris welcomes you.”

At his words, a stream of madlings spewed forth from the interior of the fortress, surging into their midst to lay hands on the bridles of their horses. Tanaros dismounted, and helped the Lady down. He felt her trembling underneath his touch.

Her gaze was locked with the Staccian’s. “This hospitality is a gift unwanted, Lord Glutton.”

Vorax shrugged. “It is a gift nonetheless, Lady. Do not disdain it. Hey! Dreamspinner!” He clapped Ushahin on the shoulder. “Still sky-gazing? I hear you did well in the Dale, wielding the Helm of Shadows.”

The half-breed muttered some reply, moving away from the Staccian’s touch, the helm’s case clutched under his arm. Tanaros frowned. Why were the ravens circling? He spared a thought for Fetch as he approached the entrance, hoping the scapegrace was unharmed.

“Blacksword.” The Staccian clasped his forearm.

“Vorax. Your men did well. Commend them for me.”

“I’ll do that.” Vorax paused, lowering his voice. “His Lordship awaits you, Blacksword; you and the Ellyl. Come see me when he’s done.”

“The captive?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll be there.” An escort of Mørkhar Fjel stood waiting just inside the vast doors; four brethren all of a height, the silver inlay on their weapons-harnesses contrasting with their dark, bristling hides. “Dreamspinner?”

“You go, cousin.” Ushahin thrust the helm’s case into his unready arms. “You took the risks, not I. Tell Lord Satoris … tell him I am in the rookery. I will make my report anon.”

“All right.” Tanaros frowned again. It should have been a glorious homecoming, this moment; it was a glorious homecoming. The Prophecy had been averted, and the Lady of the Ellylon was theirs. She didn’t look it, though. As frightened as Cerelinde was—and she was frightened, he’d felt it in his fingertips—she held herself with dignity. “Lady. Are you ready?”

Wide, her eyes; wide and grey, luminous as mist. “I do not fear the Sunderer.”

“Then come,” Tanaros said grimly, “and meet him.”