Tanaros watched the ravens, his raven. “Do you never yearn, cousin?”

“I yearn.” The half-breed’s voice was dry, colorless. “I yearn for peace, and a cessation to striving. For a world where the Were are free to hunt, as Oronin Last-Born made them, free of the encroachments of Men, cousin. I yearn for a world where ones such as I are left to endure as best we might, where no one will strike out against us in fear. Do you blame me for it?”

“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “I do not.”

For a moment, Ushahin’s face was vulnerable, raw with ancient pain. “Only Satoris has ever offered that hope. He has made it precious to me, cousin; this place, this sanctuary. Do you understand why I fear?”

“I understand,” Tanaros said, frowning. “Do you think I will fail his trust?”

“I do not say that,” the half-breed replied, hesitating.

Tanaros watched the raven Fetch, sidling cunningly along the low branch, bobbing his head at a likely female, keeping one eye cocked lest he, Tanaros, produce further gobbets of meat from his pouch. “Ravens mate for life, do they not, cousin?”

“Yes.” Ushahin’s eyes were wary.

“Like the Fjel.” Tanaros turned to face the Dreamspinner, squaring his shoulders. “You need not doubt me, cousin. I have given my loyalty to his Lordship; like the Fjeltroll, like the ravens, like the Were.” Beneath the scar of his branding, his heart expanded, the sturdy beating that had carried him through centuries continuing, onward and onward. “It is the only love that has never faltered.”

Love, yes.

He dared to use that word.

“You understand that what you see this night may pain you?” Ushahin asked gently. “It involves your kindred, and the sons of Altorus.”

“I understand.” Tanaros inclined his head. “And you, cousin? You understand that we are speaking of a union between Men and Ellylon?”

Ushahin grimaced, baring his even teeth. “I understand, cousin. All too well”

“Then we are in accord,” Tanaros said.

The raven Fetch chuckled deep in his throat, shifting from foot to foot.

THREE WERE EMERGED FROM THE dense forest at the base of Beshtanag Mountain, drifting out of the foliage like smoke. They rose from four legs to stand upon two, lean and rangy. Oronin’s Children, Shaped by the Glad Hunter himself. They were vaguely Man-shaped, with keen muzzles and amber eyes, their bodies covered in thick pelts of fur.

One among them stood a pace ahead of the others. He addressed Lilias in the Pelmaran tongue, a thick inflection shading his words. “Sorceress, I am the ambassador Kurush. On behalf of the Grey Dam Sorash, we answer your summons.”