“No.” Tanaros glanced round at the watchful Fjeltroll, the chagrined Staccians straggling back on their wind-blown mounts. “The first fault was mine. I chose this place without knowing its dangers. Let it be a lesson learned, a bitter one. We are at war. There are no safe places left in the world, and our survival depends on discipline.” He bent and retrieved Thorun’s axe, proffering it haft-first “Hold ranks,” he said grimly. “Follow orders. And keep your shields up. Is this understood?”

“General!” Hyrgolf saluted, the others following suit.

The young Fjel Thorun accepted his axe.

THE TASTE OF FREEDOM WAS sweet; as sweet as the Long Grass in blossom, and as fleeting. She felt the Host of Numireth disperse, its bright presence fading. She felt the Misbegotten’s thought flung out across the plains, a thread of will spun by an unwholesome spider of a mind.

If he had reached for her, Cerelinde might have resisted. Even with the Helm of Shadows, he was weak from the ordeal and here, on the threshold of Cuilos Tuillenrad, she was strong. The old Ellylon magics had not vanished altogether.

But no, he was cunning. He turned her mount instead.

She had dared to hope when it had raced willingly at her urging; another of Haomane’s Children’s ancient charms, the ability to sooth the minds of lesser beasts. But the horses of Darkhaven were willful and warped by the Sunderer’s Shaping, with great strength in their limbs and malice in their hearts. It fought against her charm and the bit alike, its eyes roiling with vile amusement as it turned in a vast circle to answer the Misbegotten’s call.

She let it carry her back to the ruined city, its path carving a wake through the long grass. There Tanaros stood, watching and awaiting her return. Her dark-dappled mount bore her unerringly to him then stopped, motionless and quiescent.

“Lady,” Tanaros said, bowing to her. “A noble effort. Bravely done.”

Cerelinde searched his face for mockery, finding none. “Would you have done otherwise?” she asked.

“No,” he said simply. “I would not.”

Behind him, grunting Fjel wielded their maces with mighty blows, breaking the chalcedony slabs into rubble, demolishing forever the inscriptions upon them. They were porting massive chunks of moon-blue stone and heaping them atop a fallen comrade to form a cairn. Cerelinde felt herself turn pale at the sight. “They are destroying the resting-place of my ancestors!” Her voice shook. “Ah, Haomane! Is it not enough the city was destroyed long ago? Must you permit this desecration?”

Tanaros’ expression hardened. “Lady,” he said, “Your ancestors marched against theirs long before the City of Long Grass fell. Marched into Neherinach, and took arms against Neheris’ Children in the high mountains. Do you blame them?”

Two spots of color rose on her cheeks. “They chose to shelter the Sunderer!”

“Yes.” He held her gaze. “They did.”