The sound, a deep, muffled rushing sound, announced it. The walls of the tunnel thrummed and groaned. Cerelinde started in terror even as the Fjel tramped onward, unperturbed.

“Peace, lass,” Hyrgolf rumbled. “It is only the river above us.”

“Above us?” Cerelinde echoed the words, feeling ill. The weight of all that water, rushing overhead, was incomprehensible. She knew the river well. Some leagues to the south, Meronil, the white city, sat on its banks.

“Aye, far above.” Hyrgolf regarded her. “The Fjel know tunnels, lass. You’re safe with us. You’ve no need to fear.”

“Lass!” A despairing laugh escaped her. “Ah, Marshal! So you call me, and yet I have lived long enough for ten score of your generations to toil and die in the Sunderer’s name. Have you any idea what it is you do here?”

He gave another shrug, as though her words glanced off his impervious hide. “As you will, Lady. Can you continue?”

“Yes,” Cerelinde whispered.

Onward they tramped, and the sound of the Aven River grew louder and more terrifying, then faded and vanished. Cerelinde thought of Meronil, of her home, passing steadily beyond her reach, and fought against despair.

After many hours, they reached a vast, open cavern where Hyrgolf called a halt. Cerelinde stood on battered and aching feet, watching as his Fjel made camp, dispersing the supplies they bore. There were food and water, as well as bedrolls and fodder for horses. Others, it seemed, were anticipated. Only the Misbegotten took no part in the preparations, retreating to a dark alcove and crouching in misery, arms wrapped around the case he carried.

Cerelinde was too weary to care. Whatever ailed him, there was no room in her heart for compassion, save for those she had left behind. When Hyrgolf pointed to a hide tent his Fjel had erected for her, pounding tent-pegs into rock with sheer might, she crawled into it without a word, drawing the flap closed behind her. There she lay, staring open-eyed at the tent’s peak, and reliving the bloody memories of Lindanen Dale.

Hours passed.

The hoofbeats, when they came, were weary and slow. Cerelinde lay tense and quiet, listening to the sounds of the camp. There was a Man’s voice speaking in the common tongue, tired, yet filled with command. “How is she?”

“Quiet, Lord General,” answered Hyrgolf’s deep tone.

The voice spoke in Staccian, giving orders. For a moment, Cerelinde relaxed; then came the sound of booted feet drawing near her tent.

“Lady,” the Man’s voice said. “I bring you greetings from my Lord Satoris.”

Her fingers trembled as she drew back the tent’s flap. He averted his gaze as she emerged, allowing her to study him. The sight made her stomach clench. His was the face she had seen through the opening of a Pelmaran helm, bearing down upon her, a bloody sword in his fist.