“All right.” Speros gnawed at thumbnail, thinking. The Gulnagel waited patiently and watched him. In General Tanaros’ absence, he was their commander; he was one of Arahila’s Children, endowed with Haomane’s Gift. A piece of irony, that. He’d been raised on tales of Fjel horrors. In Haimhault, parents threatened to feed misbehaving children to the Fjeltroll; at least his own Ma had done, often enough. Now here he was, with four Fjel patiently awaiting his orders. Well, he’d cast his lot, and he had to live with it. Still, it wasn’t so bad, was it? Few mortal men could say they’d had Fjeltroll jump at their command. “Yes, let’s try it. Better by night than by day, when we’d be sitting targets emerging. Odrald, will you take the lead?”

“Aye, boss!” The smallest of the Fjel saluted him.

“Good.” Speros flexed his muscles, anticipating the climb. “You, give me a boost. The rest of you, follow me.”

HE DID NOT SPEAK AFTER he summoned her, not for a long time.

Cerelinde sat in the chair he provided, staring with a fixed gaze at the throbbing image of Godslayer. How could something immersed in the marrow-fire itself retain such a crimson glow? It seemed impossible.

He stalked the outskirts of the chamber.

He was angry; no, he was furious. She felt it on her skin, tasted it in her mouth. A prickling like needles, like an impending storm. A taste of copper, only sweet.

“You know what has happened.” His voice was a husk, but resonant.

“No.” She shook her head, willing her denial to be true. It was true, for the most part. A plan had been made; a plan had failed. That much she knew, and no more. The Fjeltroll had returned. And when she spoke of Tanaros, her maidservant Meara had wailed and fled the room. “I know nothing, Lord Satoris.”

“Malthus was waiting!”

Unseen rafters rattled at the Shaper’s raised voice. Cerelinde winced, and laced her hands together. The light of the marrow-fire cast her raised knuckles in sharp shadow. “Does his Lordship hold me to blame?”

There was a sigh then.

It came from every corner of the room, and it came from him; him. And he was before her, then, stooping as a thundercloud might stoop, humbling himself in front of her. The swell of his shoulders blotted out the marrow-fire. His eyes, crimson as Godslayer’s beating heart. “No, Cerelinde. I do not blame the blameless. That is my Elder Brother’s job.”

She shrank back as far as the chair would allow. At close range, the odor was overwhelming; a sweet charnel reek, burned flesh and an undertone of rotting vegetation. It stirred terror in her; mindless terror, and something else, a dark and awful quickening. Trapped and fearful, she lashed out with words. “Your jealousy speaks, Sunderer! What do you want of me?”

The Shaper laughed.