Tanaros left him alone, then, and walked under the stars. This time he did not brood on the red one that rose in the west, but on the thousands upon thousands that outnumbered it. There were so many visible, here in the Unknown Desert! Arahila’s Gift against the darkness, flung like diamonds across the black canopy of night. Nowhere else was it so evident. There was a terrible beauty in it.

It made him think of Ngurra’s calm voice.

It made him think of Cerelinde, and her terrible, luminous beauty.

It made him think of his wife.

Alone, he pressed the heels of his hands against his closed lids. Her eyes had shone like that at the babe’s birth. Like stars; like diamonds. Her eyes had shone like that when he killed her, too, glistening with terror as his hands closed about her throat. And yet … and yet. When he sought her face in his memory, it was that of the Lady of the Ellylon he saw instead. And there was no terror in her eyes, only a bright and deadly compassion.

“My Lord!” he cried aloud. “Guide me!”

Something rustled, and a familiar weight settled on his shoulder, talons pricking through his undertunic. A horny beak swiped at his cheek; once, twice. “Kaugh?”

“Fetch.” It was not the answer he sought, but it was an answer. Tanaros’ thoughts calmed as he stroked the raven’s feathers; calmed, and spiraled outward. “How did you know to find me, my friend? How did you penetrate the barrier of my thoughts? Was it the Dreamspinner who taught you thusly?”

“Kaugh,” the raven said apologetically, shuffling from foot to foot.

An image seeped into Tanaros’ mind; a grey, shadowy figure, lunging, jaws open, to avenge an ancient debt. Always, there were her slain cubs, weltering in their blood. A sword upraised between them, and Aracus Altorus’ face, weeping with futile rage as her weight bore him down, halfglimpsed as Tanaros wheeled his mount to flee and the Lady Cerelinde’s hair spilled like cornsilk over his thighs. The Grey Dam of the Were had died that day, spending her life for a greater gain.

“Ah.”

Ushahin’s words rang in his memory. Do you know, cousin, my dam afforded you a gift? You will know it, one day.

“Yes, cousin,” Tanaros whispered. “I know it.” And he stroked the raven’s feathers until Fetch sidled alongside his neck, sheltering beneath his dark hair, and remembered the broken-winged fledgling he had raised; the mess in his quarters, all the small, bright objects gone missing. And yet, never had he known the raven’s thoughts. A small gift, but it had saved lives. On his shoulder, Fetch gave a sleepy chortle. Tanaros clenched his fist and pressed it to his heart in the old manner, saluting the Grey Dam Sorash. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “Thank you, old mother.”

Vengeance. Loyalty. Sacrifice.