“Would that I knew. But I am a military strategist, not a spymaster, cousin.” Tanaros unfolded his legs and stood, placing a hand in the small of his back, feeling stiff joints pop. Sparring with the young Midlander had taken its toll. “What, then, does his Lordship say?”

“Watch,” Ushahin said flatly, “and wait. Report.”

“Well, then.” Tanaros nodded, half to himself, gazing about the rookery. Haphazard nests rested in the crooks of trees, a dark flurry of twigs protruding. Which one, he wondered, belonged to Fetch? “I can advise you no better, Dreamspinner. Watch, and wait. Learn what you may. In the meantime, I must bring our forces to readiness and plot our course through the Marasoumië. When your knowledge impinges on the disposition of the army, alert me.”

Two strides he took; three, four, before Ushahin’s voice halted him.

“Tanaros?”

He looked small, seated under a beech tree; small and afraid.

“Aye, cousin?”

“He should kill her, you know.” Muscles worked in the half-breed’s throat as he swallowed. “Nothing’s done, nothing’s averted, while she lives.”

It was true. True and true and true, and Tanaros knew it.

Cerelinde.

“He won’t,” he whispered.

“I know.” Unexpected tears shimmered in the mismatched eyes. “There is hope in him; a Shaper’s hope, that would recreate the world in his image. If it comes to it … could you do it, Tanaros?”

On a branch, a raven perched. Twigs, protruding from a rough-hewn nest. The bird bent low, his head obscured by gaping beaks, coughed up sustenance from his craw. What manner was it? Earthworms, insects, carrion. Even here, life endured; regenerated and endured, life to life, earth to earth, flesh to flesh.

Cerelinde.

“I don’t know.”

THE WEATHER WAS BALMY IN Vedasia.

It was the thing, Carfax thought, that one noticed first; at least, one did if one was Staccian. Summer was a golden time in Staccia, with the goldenrod blooming around the shores of inland lakes and coating the harsh countryside in yellow pollen. It was nothing to this. This, this was sunlight dripping like honey, drenching field and orchard and olive grove in a golden glow, coaxing all to surrender their bounty. Fields of wheat bowed their gold-whiskered heads, melons ripened on the vine, the silvery-green leaves of olive trees rustled and boughs bent low with the weight of swelling globes of apple and pear. This was the demesne of Yrinna-of-the-Fruits, Sixth-Born among Shapers.

They had gained the Traders’ Route shortly after entering Vedasia proper and Carfax’s skin prickled as they rode, knowing himself deep in enemy territory. It was a wonder, though, how few folk noted aught awry. Children, mostly. They stared wide-eyed, peering from behind their mothers’ skirts, from the backboards of passing wagons. They pointed and whispered; at the Charred Folk, mostly, but also at the others.

What, he wondered, did they see?