Always, the Throne, looming larger as they drew near, Darkness seated in it. Fair, once; passing fair. No longer. A smell in the air, the thick coppery reek of blood, only sweeter. The brand that circumscribed Tanaros’ heart blazed; Cerelinde’s fingertips trembled on his forearm, setting his nerves ablaze. Directly beneath the Throne Hall lay the Chamber of the Font, and below it, the Source itself. In the dazzling light, she might have been carved of ivory.

“Tanaros.”

He drew a deep breath, feeling his tight-strung nerves ease at the Shaper’s rumbling voice. Home. “My Lord Satoris!” The bow came easily, smoothly, a pleasing obeisance. He relinquished Cerelinde’s arm, placing the Helm’s case atop the dais. “Victory is ours. I restore to you the Helm of Shadows, and present the Lady Cerelinde of the

Rivenlost, the betrothed of Aracus Altorus.”

Gleaming eyes blinked, once, in the darkness of the Shaper’s face; one massive hand shifted on the arm of the Throne. His voice emerged, deep and silken-soft. “Be welcome to Darkhaven, Elterrion’s granddaughter, daughter of Erilonde. Your mother was known to me.”

Her chin jerked; whatever Cerelinde had expected, it was not that. “Lord Satoris, I think it is not so. Your hospitality has been forced upon me at the point of a sword, and as for my mother … my mother died in the bearing of me.”

“Yes.” A single word, solemn and bone-tremblingly deep. “Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion, wife of Celendril. I recall it well, Cerelinde. In the First Age of the Sundered World, she died. She prayed to me ere her death. It is how I knew her.”

“No.” Delicate hands, clenched into fists. “I will not be tricked, Sunderer!”

. Laughter, booming and sardonic. The rafters of the Throne Hall rattled. The Mørkhar Fjel eyed them with pragmatic wariness. “Is it so hard to believe, Haomane’s Child? After all, it was my Gift … once. The quickening of the flesh. Generation.” The air thickened, rife with the sweet scent of blood, of desire. Satoris’ eyes shone like spear-points. “Do you blame her? Many women have prayed to me in childbirth. I would have saved her if I could.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The words were flung, an accusation. Tanaros shifted uneasily between his beloved Lord and his hostage. The Shaper merely sighed, disturbing the shadows.

“My Gift was torn from me, pierced to the heart by Oronin Last-Born, who drove a shard of the Souma into my thigh. I had nothing to offer your mother. I am sorry. If Haomane had not disdained my Gift when I had it, it might have been otherwise. I grieve that it was not. Your people will dwindle for it, and die, until you pass forevermore from Urulat’s memory.”

Cerelinde eyed him uncertainly. “You lie, Lord Sunderer.”

“Do the Ellylon not dwindle in number?”