Inward and inward wound their course, through hallways that spiraled like the inner workings of a nautilus shell. There were other passageways, of course; secret ones, doors hidden in alcoves, behind tapestries, in cunning reliefs. Some were in common usage, like those that led to the kitchens. Some were half-forgotten, and others existed only as rumor. Madlings used many, of course, taking care not to be seen. Vorax disdained them, and Ushahin preferred them. Tanaros used them at need. The Fjel used them not at all, for the passages were too winding and narrow to admit them. No one knew all their secrets.

Only Lord Satoris, who conceived them—or their beginnings.

And so the main halls spiraled, vast curving expanses of polished black marble, lit only by the veins of marrow-fire along the walls. It was a winding trap for would-be invaders, Fjel guards posted at regular intervals like hideous statues. It should have awed even the Lady of the Ellylon.

Tanaros stole a sidelong glance at her to see if it did.

There were tears in her luminous eyes. “So many!” she whispered, and he thought she meant the Fjel again; then he saw how her gaze fell on the madlings. She paused, one hand extended, letting them draw near enough to touch and turning a reproachful look upon him. “Merciful Arahila! What manner of cruelty is this, Tanaros? What has been done to these folk?”

“Done?” He stared at her. “They sought sanctuary here.”

“Sanctuary?” Her brows, shaped like birds’ wings, rose. “From what?”

“From the world’s cruelty, which drove them to madness.” Tanaros reached out, grabbing the arm of the nearest madling; by chance, it was one he knew. A woman, young when she came to Darkhaven, elderly now, with a birthmark like a dark stain that covered half her wrinkled face. “This, my Lady, is Sharit. Her parents sold her into marriage to a man who was ashamed of her, and beat her for his shame. Do you see, here?” He touched her skull beneath wispy hair, tracing a dent. “He flung her against a doorjamb. Here, no one will harm her, on pain of death. Is that cruelty?”

“You’re frightening her,” Cerelinde said softly.

It was true. Repentant, he released the madling. Sharit keened, creeping to crouch at Cerelinde’s skirts, fingers plucking. The Mørkhar escort waited, eyeing Tanaros. “I didn’t mean to,” he said.

“I know.” She smiled kindly at the madling, laying a gentle hand on the withered cheek, then glanced at Tanaros. “Very well. I do not deny the world’s cruelty, General. But your Lord, were he compassionate, could have healed her suffering. You said as much; he offered to heal the half-breed.” Her delicate fingers stroked Sharit’s birthmark, and the madling leaned into her touch. “He could have made her beautiful.”

“Like you?” Tanaros asked quietly.

Cerelinde’s hands fell still. “No,” she said. “Like you.”