Their eyes met, then; Man and Fjel, hearing a common enemy named.

“Malthus,” Hyrgolf rumbled, deep in his chest. The Wise Counselor, Wielder of the Soumanië, last of three, last and greatest of Haomane’s Shapings. “Well, there is Malthus, General, I don’t deny you that. But he is only one, now, and we have among us the Three.”

Tanaros, Vorax, Ushahin.

“Pray that we are enough,” Tanaros said.

“That I do, General,” said the Fjeltroll. “That I do.”

Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven, walked alone to his quarters, a stone the size of an egg in his pocket.

From time to time, he touched it for reassurance.

ELSEWHERE IN THE LAND OF Urulat, flames burnt low and dwindled in their lamps in the archives of Meronil, housed in the Hall of Ingolin, where an elderly figure in scholar’s robes bent over a hide-bound tome, muttering. The lamplight caught in his grey, tangled beard, cast shadows in the deep lines of his face, marking them in contrast to the splendid treasures that gleamed about him, housed in the archives for safekeeping.

Footsteps, slow and measured, quiet on the elegant carpets.

“Old friend,” said Ingolin, the last Lord of the Ellylon. “You should rest.”

The head lifted, sharp nose pointing, eyes fierce under heavy brows. “You know why I do not.”

“It is a day for rejoicing, old friend,” the Ellyl reminded him.

Malthus the Counselor laughed without mirth. “Can you tell me how to quench the marrow-fire, Ingolin the Wise? Can you render the unknown known?”

“You know I cannot.” There was calm acceptance in the Ellyl’s reply. In the manner of his people he had lived a long time, and knew the limits of his own knowledge. “Still, Cerelinde has unbent at long last, and Aracus Altorus has bowed his House’s ancient pride. Love, it seems, has found them. A piece of the Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and the Rivenlost endure. May we not rejoice in it?”

“It is not enough.”

“No.” Ingolin glanced unthinking to the west, where Dergail’s Soumanië had arisen. “Old friend,” he asked, and his voice trembled for the first time in centuries. “Do you hold the answers to these questions you ask?”

“I might,” Malthus the Counselor said slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, fixing the Lord of the Ellylon with a hawk’s stare. “I might. But the way will be long and difficult, and there are many things of which I am unsure.”

Ingolin spread his hands. “The aid of the Rivenlost is yours, Malthus. Only tell us how we might serve.”

“You can’t, old friend,” said Malthus the Counselor. “That’s the problem.”

IN ANOTHER WING OF THE Hall of Ingolin, a fire burned low in the great hearth. Cerelinde, the granddaughter of Elterrion, gazed at it with unseeing eyes and thought about the deed to which she had committed herself this day.