“Prettier?” Tanaros gazed at the madling, who squirmed away from his scrutiny. He thought about Lilias, whose imperious beauty softened only in the presence of the dragon. “No, Meara. Not prettier.”

She followed him as he left the bathing-chamber, tossing back her hair and glaring. “Another one is coming, you know. Coming here.”

“Another one?”

“A lady.” She spat the word. “An Ellyl lady.”

“Yes.” He wondered how she knew, if they all knew. “Such is the plan.”

“It is a mistake,” Meara said darkly.

“Meara.” Tanaros rumpled his hair, damp from the bath. He remembered the Sorceress, and how the wind on the mountainside had tugged at her hair, that had otherwise fallen dark and shining, bound by the circlet, the red Soumanië vivid against her pale brow. He wondered what the other would be like, and if it were a mistake to bring her here. “The lady is to be under our Lord’s protection.”

The madling shuddered, turned and fled.

Bewildered, Tanaros watched her go.

THERE WAS NEVER ENOUGH TIME to prepare, when it came to it.

The Warchamber was packed with representatives of three of the races of Lesser Shapers, all crowded around the map-table and listening intently to the Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven. It was a simple plan. Tanaros wished he liked it better. Nonetheless, it was his Lord’s will, and he continued, carrying it out to the letter. “And here,”—he pointed at the map—“is the mouth of the tunnel. Here, and here and here, there will be sentries posted, guarding the perimeter of Lindanen Dale. Those,”—Tanaros glanced at the Were Brethren—“will be yours to dispatch, as we agreed.”

A flat voice spoke, passionless and grey. “And here they plight their troth?”

“Aye.” The skin at the back of his neck prickled. With an effort, Tanaros made himself meet the gaze of Sorash, the Grey Dam of the Were, who rested one clawed forefinger upon the heart of Lindanen Dale. “That is where you will strike, honored one, if you be willing.”

The Grey Dam gave him a terrible smile. “I am willing.”

There was no telling her age. The Were had used the strange magics bequeathed them by Oronin Last-Born to circumvent the very Chain of Being, at least for the Grey Dam. Tanaros knew only that she was ancient. Ushahin Dreamspinner had been a boy when Faranol, Crown Prince of Altoria, had slain the Grey Dam’s cubs and her mate in a hunting excursion, heaping glory upon his kindred during a state visit to Pelmar.

“You are brave, honored one,” Tanaros said.

The ancient Were shook her head. “My successor is chosen.”