“Brightness.” Cerelinde smiled, glancing westward. “Brightness, and joy.”

“So.” Squatting, Meara wrapped both arms about her knees and tucked her chin into her chest, hiding her face. “You cannot see the small might-haves.”

“No.” She thought, with regret, of a myriad small mighthave-beens. What if she had consented to wed Aracus in the sturdy mortal confines of Seahold? What if Aracus had consented to their wedding vows being held in the warded halls of Meronil, under the aegis of Ingolin the Wise? What if … what if … she had never agreed to wed him at all? “I would that I could, Meara. But, no. The tapestry is too vast, and there are too many threads woven into it. Pluck at a small one, and others unravel. Only Haomane the Lord-of-Thought is vouchsafed that knowledge.”

Meara tilted her head. Her eyes, peering through a thicket of hair, held a cunning gleam. “What about his Lordship?”

“Lord … Satoris?” Without thinking, Cerelinde stiffened. In memory’s eye, she saw the Shaper’s form blotting out the stars, the shadow of his extended hand lying stark and black on the desiccated grass of the moon-garden, patiently proffered for her inevitable refusal.

“Aye.” Meara nodded sharply.

Cerelinde shook her head. “He is a Shaper. He is beyond my ken.”

“There was a … what do you call it? A great branching.” Studying the floor, Meara plucked at the carpet, then sniffed at the sweet odor of heart-grass on her fingertips. “When he refused, three times, to withdraw his Gift from Arahila’s Children.” Her sharp chin pointed upward, eyes glancing. “What might have been, had he not? You could see that for him.”

A chill ran the length of Cerelinde’s spine. “I do not think,” she said gently,“his Lordship would consent to seek this knowledge.”

“You could ask.” Meara straightened abruptly, tossing back her hair. “It would be interesting to know, since some of Arahila’s Children disdain it. His Lordship’s Gift, that is. Which is odd, since it is all they have that you do not; and all I do, too. I do, you know.” Placing her hands on her hips, she fixed the Lady of the Ellylon with a disconcerting stare. “I will go now. Thank you, for what you did. It meant very much to some people. I am sorry to have placed you in danger, but I do not think Lord Vorax will kill you. Not yet, anyway”

“Good,” Cerelinde said simply, staring back.