Grey her voice, grey her name, grey her being. One year of their lives, that was what each of the Were surrendered that the Grey Dam might endure. So it had been, in the beginning; now, it was more, for their numbers had dwindled. Five years, ten, or more. Tanaros knew naught of what such ceremonies might entail, how it was enacted. Only that the Grey Dam endured, until the mantle was passed, and endured anew.

It had been many centuries since that had happened.

“You know you will die, old mother?”

Ushahin’s voice, raw and aching. It was not the first time he had asked it.

“Little Man-cub, little son.” The old Were’s amber gaze softened, and she patted his misshapen cheek with her padded, hairy palm. “You have assuaged my pain these many years, but the time has come to make an end. It is a good way to die. If the Glad Hunter wills it, my teeth will meet in the flesh of an Altorus before the finish.”

He bowed his head. The Were Brethren growled softly.

Tanaros cleared his throat. “Then you will strike here, honored one, and your Brethren will clear the way. In the confusion, we will make our move, here.” He traced a pathway on the map. “Under my command, a company of Lord Vorax’s men will seize Cerelinde of the Rivenlost, and fall back to the meeting point, where the switch will be made. From thence, they will flee east, with the decoy. Lord Ushahin, weave what visions you may. The remaining men and I will hold them as long as we dare, before we retreat to the tunnels and the Kaldjager Fjel hide our passage.”

And there it was, the first phase of it, in all its risky totality.

“General.” Hyrgolf’s shrewd eyes met his with a soldier’s frankness. “The Fjel are ready to serve. It would be better if you did not command the raid yourself.”

“It must be,” Tanaros said bluntly. “It is his Lordship’s will, and there is no room for error. Hyrgolf, I would trust you to lead it, and I would trust any lieutenant of your appointing. But if we are to convince the Ellylon and the Altorians that this raid originated in Beshtanag, there can be no hint of the presence of Fjeltroll.”

“Cousin, I would command my own—” began Vorax.

Ushahin cut short his words, his tone light and bitter. “You can’t, fat one. Your bulk can’t be concealed under Pelmaran armor, as can the rest of your beard-shorn Staccians, and Tanaros, too.” With a twisted smile, he raised his crippled hands that could grip nothing heavier than a dagger. “I would do it myself, if I could. But I think my skills do not avail in this instance.”