“I pray you, Marshal Hyrgolf, do not.” Cerelinde took a shallow breath, conscious of the limited air, of the weight of the earth pressing above them. It was a sickening sensation. Her head ached and her heart felt battered within her breast. Her flesh retained a vague, horrible memory of being borne in the Fjeltroll’s arms. She had been right; there was risk, too much risk.

Lindanen Dale had been a mistake.

“It is no hardship,” Hyrgolf said, misunderstanding her hesitation. His talons brushed her fingertips.

“No!” Cerelinde shrank from his touch. She found the wall of the tunnel at her back and levered herself upright. “If I must walk,” she said, summoning her dignity and gathering it around her, “I shall walk.”

“Lady.” Hyrgolf uttered a few words in the guttural Fjel tongue, and the others shook off their apparent torpor. The light of their torches receded as they began to trot down the tunnel at a steady pace. The other figure, beside the horse, stood unmoving. Hyrgolf gestured for her to precede him. “As you will.”

The rocky floor of the tunnel was harsh beneath her feet, clad in the embroidered slippers of her wedding finery. As they passed the motionless figure with the pale hair, she glanced sidelong.

Ushahin the Misbegotten raised his head, his mismatched eyes glittering with unshed tears and hatred. His combined heritage was stamped on his face, as clearly as the marks of violence left by those who had sought to erase his existence.

“Ah, Haomane!” She breathed the word like a prayer, faltering.

“Come, Lady,” Hyrgolf said low in his throat. His talons were on her arm, hurrying her past. “Leave the Dreamspinner to his grief.”

She went without arguing.

Behind them, she heard the sound of hooves shuffling and stamping, a horse’s snort. And then hoofbeats, following in their wake. When she dared glance behind once more, he was there, riding astride with the leather case in his lap. He stared hard at her, his twisted face a parody of Haomane’s Children, of almost all she held dear.

And there were no more tears in his eyes, only hatred.

She was alone among the Sunderer’s minions.

The Fjel were not swift, but they were steady and tireless. They spoke little, keeping to their pace, and the Misbegotten spoke not at all. Cerelinde walked among them for hours, feeling Ushahin’s hatred at her back, as palpable as the heat of a blazing hearth. The tunnel sloped downward, and with each step she felt herself taken further from the surface, from Aracus and her kinfolk, from clean air and the light of Haomane’s blessed, life-giving sun. The air within the tunnels was dank and close, growing ever more so the further they went Only a handful of shafts pierced the stifling darkness, providing barely enough air to keep them alive, to keep the torches alight

Within the first hour, they passed beneath the Aven River.