“Corpse-flowers, my lady.” He saw her lift her head, startled. “At the dark of the moon, they utter the cries of the dead, or so it is said.”

Cerelinde shuddered, stepping back from the vines. “This is a dire beauty, General Tanaros.”

“Yes,” Tanaros said simply, taking her arm. Stars winked overhead like a thousand eyes as he led her to another bed, where blossoms opened like eyes underfoot, five-pointed petals streaked with pale violet. “Have you seen these?” A faint, sweet fragrance hung in the air, tantalizing. His eyes, unbidden, filled with tears.

… her face, his wife Calista, her eyes huge and fearful as she lay upon the birthing-bed, watching him hold the infant in his arms …

“No!” Cerelinde struggled out of his grip, eyeing him and breathing hard. “What manner of flower is this, Tanaros?”

“Vulnus-blossom.” His smile was taut. “What did you see?”

“You,” she said softly. “I saw you, in Lindanen Dale, your sword stained with my kinsmen’s blood.”

Tanaros nodded, once. “Their scent evokes memory. Painful memory.”

Cerelinde closed her eyes. “What do you see, Tanaros?”

“I see my wife.” The words came harsher than he intended. He watched her eyelids, raising like shutters, the sweep of lashes lifting to reveal the luminous grey.

“Poor Tanaros,” she murmured.

“Come.” He dragged at her arm, hauled her to another flowerbed, where bell-shaped blossoms bent on slender stalks, shivering in the moonlight with a pale, fretful sound. “Do you know what these are?”

She shook her head.

“Clamitus atroxis,” Tanaros said shortly. “Sorrow-bells. They sound for every senseless act of cruelty that takes place in the Sundered World. Do you wonder that they are seldom silent?”

“No.” Tears clung to her lashes. “Why, Tanaros?”

“Look.” He fell to his knees, parting the dense, green leaves of the clamitus. Another flower blossomed there, low to the ground, pure white and starry, shimmering in its bed of shadows. “Touch it.”

She did, kneeling beside him, stroking the petals with one fingertip.

The flower shuddered, its petals folding into limpness.

“What have I done?” Cerelinde’s expression was perturbed.

“Nothing.” Tanaros shook his head. “It is the mortexigus, Lady; the little-death flower. That is its nature, to mimic death at a touch. Thus does it loose its pollen.”

Cerelinde knelt, head bowed, watching the plant stir. “Why do you show this to me, Tanaros?” she asked quietly.

A soft breeze blew in the garden, redolent with the odor of memory, making the clamitus sound their fitful chimes. Tanaros stood, his knees popping. He walked some distance from her. “Lord Satoris has summoned you to speak with him.”

“Yes.” She did not move.

“What does he say?”

“Many things.” Cerelinde watched him. “He says that the Prophecy is a lie.”

“Do you believe him?” Tanaros turned back to her.

“No.” A simple truth, simply spoken.

“You should.” A harsh note entered his voice. “He speaks the truth, you know.”