Drawing up a chair, Tanaros sat and ate, and tried not to think how lonely, how terribly lonely, his quarters were. He missed Fetch, but the raven was gone, the half-frozen fledgling grown into a full-fledged bird, another daring scout in Ushahin Dreamspinner’s strange army. Digging into his pocket, he found Hyrgolf’s rhios and set it on the table. The sight of it soothed him, the river sprite’s face laughing from its rounded curves.

“Is it to your liking, my Lord General?”

Tanaros started at the soft, unfamiliar voice, rising from his chair and half-drawing his dagger. Seeing Meara, he eased. “How did you get in here?”

The madling sidled toward the table, tangled hair hiding her face as she nodded toward his bathing-chamber. “This is Darkhaven. There are ways and ways, Lord General. Is the meal to your liking?”

“Yes,” he said gently, pushing away the plate of picked quail bones. “Meara, you should not be here. Is it not our Lord’s wish that you attend the Lady Cerelinde?”

“The Lady Cerelinde:” Meara sidled closer, her features contorting in a whimper.”It hurts to serve her. She pities us, Lord General. And she grieves, in the manner of the Ellylon. She turns her face to the wall, and orders us away. It was never my wish to leave you, Lord Tanaros. Do you not know it?”

Close, so close! In a paroxysm of courage, she reached him.

Touched him, descended on him.

He could smell the heat of her flesh, of her womanhood. Her hands were on him, beneath the collar of his tunic, sliding against the hard flesh of his chest, the raised ridges of his brand. Tanaros gritted his teeth as her weight straddled him. “Meara …”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!” Her face, so close to his, eyes wide.

“Meara, no.”

“He was the Sower, once.” Wide eyes, pupils fixed. Her breath was warm against his skin, unexpectedly sweet. “Do you not wonder, Tanaros, do you not know? It was his Gift, when he had one!”

Her mouth touched his, her teeth nipping at his underlip, the tip of her tongue probing. Her weight, warm and welcome, encompassing him. Jolted by desire, he stood upright, his hands encircling her waist to dump her unceremoniously onto the floor, her skull jolting at the impact.

“Meara, no!”

She laughed, then. Limbs akimbo, she laughed, bitter and shrill. “General Tanaros Blacksword! Some hero, some man you are, Tanaros Wifeslayer! Did you offer your wife so little satisfaction? No wonder she found cold comfort in your bed! No wonder she turned to the Altorus to quicken her womb!”

“ENOUGH!” Stooping, unthinking, he struck her across the face.

She whimpered.

“Meara, forgive me.” Filled with remorse, Tanaros knelt at her side, dabbing with the hem of his overtunic at a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. “Forgive me, I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you.”