When the madling had gone, Cerelinde buried her face in her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. When all was said and done, there was too much here beyond her comprehension. She had been grateful for Meara’s request. She had hoped, in sharing this small gift, to bring a measure of compassion to the stark halls of Darkhaven, to the meager lives of those who dwelled within its walls. It had seemed a kindness, a simple kindness, to offer comfort in lieu of the healing she could not effect.

Now, she was not so sure.

Seeking comfort of her own, she thought of Aracus, and tried to imagine his understanding. There was nothing there, only the memory of his gaze, wide-set and demanding, stirring her blood in unaccustomed ways, filling her with hope and pride and the dream of the Prophecy fulfilled.

In this place, it seemed very far away.

She thought of Tanaros instead, and remembered the old madling woman Sharit they had met in the halls of Darkhaven, and how gently he had taken her hand; how proudly she had stood, gripping it tight. Whatever had passed here this day, Tanaros would understand it.

He was not what she would have expected him to be, at once both less and more. Less terrifying; a Man, not a monster. And yet he was more than a Man. Immortal, as Aracus was not. Like the Ellylon, he understood the scope of ages.

Cerelinde wondered what he had been like, so long ago, as a mortal Man. Not so different, perhaps, from Aracus. After all, Tanaros was related by ties of distant kinship and fosterage to the House of Altorus. He must have been as close to his liege-lord as Blaise Caveros was to Aracus. Had he been as fiercely loyal? Yes, she thought, he must have been. The betrayal would not have wounded him so deeply if he were not.

He must have loved his wife, too. What manner of passion had led her to commit such a grievous betrayal? She thought about Aracus, and the quick, hot drive that blazed within him. And she thought about Tanaros, steady and calm, despite the ancient, aching grief that lay behind his dark gaze. Though he was her enemy, he treated her with unfailing courtesy. She did not know the answer.

He was coming.

They were all coming. Vorax the Glutton’s words had confirmed it. Somewhere, in the world beyond Darkhaven’s walls, the tides of fate had shifted. Beshtanag had fallen. Tanaros Kingslayer and Ushahin the Misbegotten were on their way, soon to reunite the Three. And on their heels would be Aracus Altorus, the Borderguard and her kinsmen in his train, intent on storming Darkhaven.

She was the Lady of the Ellylon and his betrothed, the key to fulfilling Haomane’s Prophecy. They would not relent until she was freed or the plains of Curonan were churned to red mud with the last of their dying blood.