He had felt it, had known the instant the Counselor had entered the Ways, seizing control of the Marasoumië and wresting it to his own ends, severing all of Ushahin’s influence in one surge of the Soumanië. And he had known, in that instant, utter helplessness.

It should not have happened.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Weary and defeated, Ushahin buried his face in his hands, taking solace in the familiar darkness, the misshapen bones beneath his fingertips. My Lord, he thought, I have failed you! In a moment, in a few moments, he would make the effort that was needful, freeing his mind from the bonds of what Men called sanity to sift through their dreams. Now—

Now was the sound of claws on sandstone.

Seated on barren rock, Ushahin lifted his weary head from his sheltering hands. A grey shadow shifted on the rocks, poking his head into view, muzzle twitching. He was young, this one, sent to bear an unwelcome message. Aching and bone-weary as he was, Ushahin observed the old courtesies, asking in his visitor’s tongue, “How fares Oronin’s Hunt?”

The young Were howled.

It bounded, clearing the ridge with a single leap to land before him. There was pain in its amber eyes, luminous in the sunlight. One forelimb lashed out, and Ushahin reeled backward as taloned claws raked his misshapen cheek. Groping blindly for power, he drew on the brand that circumscribed his heart, remembering Godslayer and the marrow-fire, and his Lord’s long torment. “Enough!” he cried harshly, feeling Lord Satoris’ strength in his bones. “What of your quest?”

The Were cowered, ears flat against its skull. “Eight,” it whimpered in angry protest. “There were eight!”

Eight?

“No,” Ushahin whispered. “Malthus’ Company … Malthus’ Company numbered seven.”

Baring teeth, the young Brother showed him, putting the pictures in his mind, as the Were had done since Oronin Shaped them. There were eight, and the eighth a Staccian, tall and stricken-faced, a burning brand in his hands. A blow struck when the Brethren expected it not. Sparks against the darkness. A branch, a twig to turn a flood.

“Why?” Ushahin groped for a thread of mortal thought. “Why?”

“We have done.” Emboldened, the young Were reared on its haunches, spat its words, red tongue working in its muzzle. “This says the Grey Dam! No more debts, no one’s son. There were eight! We will Hunt for us, only, and fight no more!”

Done.

A slash of talons, a bounding leap. Claws scrabbled on sandstone, and the Were was gone, leaving Ushahin bereft, aching in the cold light of dawn, at last and truly alone.

“Mother.” He whispered the word, remembering her scent, her sharp, oily musk. How she let him seek comfort in her form, burying his aching, broken face in her fur. How her hackles raised at any threat, menacing all enemies and affording him safety, a safety he had never known. He had healed in her shadow.