She sat on the edge of her bed, willing her heartbeat to slow, remembering candlelight reflecting from the edge of Vorax’s sword and meditating upon the nearness of death. This must be, she thought, the way warriors felt in the aftermath of battle; a strange mix of latent terror and exhilaration. Meara paced the boundaries of the room, peering anxiously into every corner. Where she trod upon the soft carpets, the scent of bruised heart-grass followed in a ghostly reminder of the Ellylon weavers who had woven them long ago.

“It is safe,” she pronounced at length. “No one is here.”

“That is well.” Her calm restored, Cerelinde inclined her head. “Forgive me, Meara. Perhaps the venture was illadvised. I would not wish any of you to be placed in danger.”

The madling shot her a glance. “He’s right, you know. Lord Vorax is. You should leave the Lord General alone. There’s nothing but death in it, death and blood and more madness. You should leave us alone. Why don’t you? Why did he have to bring you here?”

“Meara.” She spread her hands, helpless. “To that, I cannot speak. You know I am a hostage here. It is a small gift, a small kindness. You asked me to share it. Since it is all I have to offer, I did.”

“I know.” Meara hunkered at the foot of the bed. “Aye, I know, I did. We are the broken ones, we who want to know. They should not have left us, and they should not have brought you. They should have known better, and you should never have shown me kindness, no.” She gnawed on her thumbnail, then asked abruptly, “Lady, what would you have seen for Lord Vorax? Would you have shown him what the shape of Urulat would be if he had chosen elsewise?”

“No.” Cerelinde shook her head. “A glimpse of the life he might have had, nothing more; a life that would have ended long, long ago. More than that, I cannot say. We are only afforded a faint glimpse, Meara, beyond the greatest of branchings in a single life. It is a small gift, truly.”

“Why?”

She gazed at the madling with sorrow and compassion. “We are Rivenlost, Meara. We were left behind upon the shores of Urulat, while the Bright Ones, those among his Children whom Haomane held dearest, dwell beside him upon the crown of Torath. In curiosity, in innocent desire, those of us who are the Rivenlost wandered too far from Haomane’s side, and we were stranded when the world was Sundered. This small gift was won in bitter hours, when the eldest among us wondered and sought to pierce the veil. What if we had been more diligent? What if we had stood at the Lord-of-Thought’s side during the Sundering? It has been passed down, this gift. We, too, batter our hearts against what might have been.”

“What do you see?” Meara whispered.