For all the dignitaries assembled in the Hall of Meronil, they might have been alone, they two. It had passed between them, a thing understood, undetermined by the counsels of the wise. He reached out to grasp his destiny like a man grasping a burning brand. He would love her with all the fierce passion of his mortal heart. And she, she would love him in turn, in a tempestuous blaze. There was sorrow in it, yes, and grief, but not horror. Love, fair Arahila’s Gift, changed all.

And while it lasted, the fate that overshadowed them would be held at bay. Oh, the price would be high! They knew it, both of them. Death would come hard on its heels, whether by sickness or age or the point of a sword. Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter, would blow his horn, summoning the hero home. And Cerelinde would be left to endure in her grief. Even in victory, if the Sunderer were defeated at last and Urulat healed, her grief would endure. But their children; ah, Haomane! Mortal through their father’s blood, still they would be half-Ellylon, granted a length of days uncommon to Men, able to reckon the vast span of time as no mortals among the Lesser Shapers had done before them. Their children would carry on that flame of hope and passion, uniting their races at last in a world made whole.

The image of the half-breed’s crooked face rose unbidden in her memory, Tanaros’ words echoing dryly. Such as he is, your own children would have been …

A lie; another lie. Surely children conceived in love would be different, would be accepted by both races. Was that not the intent of Haomane’s Prophecy? Cerelinde sat upon the immense bed that had been prepared for her, covering her face with both hands. If she could have wept, she would have, but Ellylon could only shed tears for the sorrow of others. A storm of terror raged in her heart and mind. After five thousand years of resistance, she had relented, had accepted her fate. A moment of joy; an eternity of grief. It was enough; merciful Arahila, was it not enough?

This was not supposed to happen.

“Aracus,” she whispered.

DAWN ROSE ON THE DELTA, and with the return of the light came swarms of gnats. They were merciless, descending in dark clouds, settling on sweat-slick skin already prickling in the heat, taking their measure of blood and leaving itching welts in trade. Turin waved his arms futilely and swore.

It didn’t matter.