Peldras regarded the stars. “We are Haomane’s Children, Staccian. It is the Sunderer’s choice to oppose him and it is the Rivenlost, above all, who will die for this choice if we do not take it from him.” He looked back at Carfax, his gaze bright and direct. “Torath is lost to us and, without the Souma to sustain us, we diminish. Our numbers lessen, our magics fading. If Satoris Banewreaker conquers Urulat, it will be our end. What would you have us do?”

Dangerous, indeed, to match words with an Ellyl. This time, Carfax held his bitten tongue. Better to keep silent and hope against hope for rescue or a clean death that would place him beyond his enemies’ reach.

If either could find him here.

On and on the night sank into darkness, the fire settling to embers. Carfax dozed in exhaustion. A mind, borne on dark wings, beat desperately at the outskirts of the Counselor’s circle; beat and beat, skittering helpless away. The Vedasian groaned in his sleep, untouchable. In the sedge grass, a saddle sat empty, three dead ravens tied by their feet. Waking, dimly aware, Carfax strained against the Counselor’s binding.

Dreamspinner, I am here, here!

Nothing.

THIRTEEN

THIRTEEN

IT TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, cousin.” Standing before the dungeon stair with a smoldering torch in one hand, Vorax raised his bushy red brows. “Was it a hard reckoning?”

“No harder than it ought to be,” Tanaros said. “His Lordship wanted the details.”

“Twenty-three lost in Lindanen Dale.”

“Aye. Yours.” He met Vorax’s gaze. “Good men. I’m sorry for it.”

The Staccian shrugged. “They knew the price, cousin. Battle-glory, and fair recompense for the fallen. The couriers will leave on the morrow, bearing purses. At least every man’s widow, every man’s bereaved mother, will know the cost to a coin of her husband or son’s life.”

Tanaros touched the pouch where Hyrgolf’s rhios hung, thinking on the death of Bogvar in the City of Long Grass, and how Thorun had begged him take his axe-hand. “Do they reckon it enough, in Staccia?”

“They reckon it a fairer trade than any Haomane offered.” Vorax raised the torch, peering. Light glittered on the rings that adorned his thick fingers; topaz, ruby, emerald. “Cousin, this can wait until you’re rested.”

“No.” Tanaros gathered himself with an effort. “I want to see the prisoner.”

Keys rattled as Vorax sought the proper one to open the door to the lower depths. Tanaros held the torch while he fumbled. The Fjel guard stood at attention. Dank air wafted from the open door, smelling of mold and decay. Below, it was black as pitch. No marrow-fire threaded the veins of the dungeon’s stone.

“Phaugh!” Tanaros raised the torch. “I forget how it stinks.”

“No point in a pleasant prison,” Vorax said pragmatically.