His sword cut clean, cleaving the old man’s scrawny chest in a mortal blow. Dark flesh, cleaved by a black blade. There was a single agonized cry from Ngurra’s wife, a collective whimper from the other Yarru. The old man went down without a sound, bleeding onto the desert floor as silently as he’d walked upon it. Turning away, Tanaros nodded to Speros and the four Gulnagel Fjel. “See it finished.”

Meaty thuds filled the air as the Gulnagel went to work with their maces. There were cries of fear and pain; though not many, no. Hunting Fjel preferred to kill with one blow, and the Gulnagel were swift. Tanaros sat on an outcropping of rock, wiping Ngurra’s blood from the black blade. He didn’t glance up from his labors until he heard footsteps approaching. “Is it done?”

“Aye, Lord General.” It was Speros, looking ill and abashed. “The Fjel have finished.” He glanced at the ground, then blurted, “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t do it. I’ve got a grandmam at home.”

“A grandmam.” Tanaros laid his sword across his knees and rubbed his aching temples, not sure whether to laugh or weep. He’d had a grandmother, once. She was long-dead bones, and had died cursing his name. “Ah, Speros of Haimhault! What are you doing here? Why in the name of the Seven Shapers did you come here?”

“Sir?” The Midlander gave him a quizzical look.

“Never mind.” He rose to his feet, sheathing his sword. There was a taste of bile in his throat and he knew, with utter and horrible certitude, that he would never remember this day’s work without cringing in his soul. “Gather the Fjel, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

USHAHIN DREAMSPINNER WAS IN ARDUAN when the Marasoumië was sealed.

He was grateful for Lord Satoris’ warning. It had been unexpected; the reaching tendrils of Godslayer’s power making his scar itch and burn, and suddenly Satoris was there, touching his mind, sifting through his thoughts. So it must feel to mortals when he used his Were-taught skills to walk in their dreams.

“I understand, my Lord,” he said when the Shaper had finished, bowing to the empty air. A pair of Arduans strolling in the marketplace gave him a wide berth. “I will come as I may.”

There was a banyan tree growing on the eastern side of the square. Ushahin found space amid its roots and sat cross-legged in its shade, waiting. He bowed his head, drawing the hood of a cloak he had stolen from a sleeping hunter down to hide his features. It was hot and humid here along the fringe of the Delta; still, better to be uncomfortable than to be recognized.