It was a hollow sound, filled with bitterness and despair. He bent his head, mighty hands lifting to cover his face. A Shaper’s hands, immaculately articulated, for all they were burned black as pitch by Haomane’s Wrath. His fingertips dug into the flesh of his brow, pitting the blackened skin.

Somehow, that was the most terrible thing of all.

“Want?” His head snapped upright, crimson eyes glaring between his fingers. “Oh, I want, Haomane’s Child! I want my innocence back, and the happy, happy ignorance that has served your race for so long! I want my Gift back! I want to see my sister Arahila’s smile! I want to see my brother Haomane grovel, and his Wise Counselor’s head on a pike!”

“I didn’t—” she breathed.

“Who are you to ask me what I want?”

The Shaper’s words ricocheted and echoed in the cavern. The marrow-fire surged in answer, a fierce blue-white light, casting shadows knife-edged and blinding. Cerelinde held herself taut, frozen with terror, fighting the awful tendrils of pity that probed at her heart. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “My Lord Satoris.”

He rose and turned away from her.

The marrow-fire dwindled. The Shaper’s massive shoulders twitched; or was it a trick of the flickering shadows? “You did not know.” His voice was rough-edged, pitched to an ordinary tone. “Cerelinde.”

She fought back another wave of pity. “I have not lied to you, my Lord.”

“No.” Again he sighed, filling the chamber, and turned to face her. “Do not take too much hope from this, little Ellyl. What has happened, has happened. If my plans have gone awry, no less have my brother’s. And if Tanaros Blacksword is trapped in the Marasoumië, so is the Wise Counselor.”

“Tanaros?” The word escaped her unwittingly.

Something that might have been a smile shifted the Shaper’s ebony features. “My Commander General is resourceful, Cerelinde. Let us hope together, you and I, for his safe return.”

She gripped the arms of her chair and steeled her thoughts, willing them to fix where they belonged. Blue eyes, at once demanding and questioning, met hers in memory. A promise given, a promise made. It lent a sting to her words. “The Kingslayer has wrought his own fate, my Lord. What of Aracus Altorus? What of my betrothed?”

“Your betrothed.” The Shaper turned away from her, resuming his pacing, his shoulders slumping as if beneath a heavy burden. “Ah, Cerelinde! He may fail, you know. Even in Beshtanag, he may yet fail.”

Her chin rose. “And if he does not?”

From a far corner of the chamber, he regarded her with crimson eyes. “He will destroy something precious,” he said softly. “And the fault will be mine.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.