“To the garden, then.” His thick fingers took impersonal possession of her arm, and he steered her down the halls. The pace he set was fast enough to make her stride hurried. Here and there, where tapestries hung, there was a scurrying sound in the walls, and Cerelinde had been in Darkhaven long enough to guess it was Meara, or the other madlings, at work. There seemed no end to their knowledge of the passages that riddled Darkhaven.

She noted, as they passed, that the Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard saluted Vorax with less alacrity than they had Tanaros. It filled her with a sense of uneasy pride.

“Here.” Vorax led her into the narrow corridor, with the door of polished wood and silver hinges at the end of it. Cerelinde shrank back against the wall as he fumbled at his belt for a ring of keys. He shot her a wry glance. “Don’t worry, I’m only fulfilling his Lordship’s wishes. I’ve no interest in aught else.”

Cerelinde straightened. “I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, aye.” He smiled dourly, fitting a small key to the lock. “I can see that.”

It stung her pride, enough to make her reach out and lay gentle fingers on the scabbed skin of his brow. If she had possessed the ancient magics Haomane’s Children were said to have before the world was Sundered, she might have healed him. She watched his eyes widen at the delicate touch of Ellylon flesh against his rude skin. “Are you injured, Lord Vorax?”

“No,” he said shortly, pulling away from her and opening the door. “Go on,” he added, giving her an ignominious shove. “His Lordship is waiting.”

Lifting her skirts, Cerelinde stepped across the threshold and raised her face to the night sky, breathing deep. Arahila’s moon rode high overhead, a silvery half-orb; and yet, it was not the same garden she had visited with Tanaros. There was a sulfuric tang to the moist air that caressed her skin, with an underlying odor of rot. Dead patches pocked the grass, pallid by moonlight.

It hurt to see it, which surprised her.

“My Lord?” Cerelinde called.

“I am here,” the deep voice answered. “Come.”

There, where a dark form blotted out the stars. Stumbling over the dying grass, she made her way toward him. A faint sound shivered the night; bells, crying out. On slender stalks the bell-shaped blossoms shivered, heedless of the acid rain that had pierced their petals, leaving yellowish holes with seared edges. The sound they emitted was a plangent and sorrowful alarum, sounding without cease.

“Oh!” Cerelinde stooped, reaching for them. “Poor blossoms.”

“Clamitus atroxis.” Lord Satoris gazed at the stars revolving in their slow dance. “Sonow-bells, sounding for every act of senseless cruelty in Urulat. Were they as loud, when you heard them before?”

“No.” She bent her head over the flower bed.