“ … worked together, you see, Lady. Used to be the Tordenstem—Thunder Voices, you call them—would herd game for the Cold Hunters, driving them to the kill. They’d flee the sound, you see, and there would be plenty for all. When your folk invaded the Midlands, they did the same. It worked, too.”

Her face was pinched. “You herded my people to slaughter.”

“Well.” Hyrgolf scratched the thick hide on his neck, nonplussed. “Aye, Lady. You could see it as such. The Battle of Neherinach. But your folk, your grandsire’s sons and the like, were the ones brought the swords.”

“You sheltered the Sunderer!”

Cerelinde’s voice, raised, bounced off the walls of the Defile, clear and anguished. A sound like bells chiming, an Ellylon voice, such as had not been heard within a league of Darkhaven for ten centuries and more. The Kaldjager crouched yellow-eyed in the heights, and the Tordenstem were silent.

“Aye, Lady,” Hyrgolf said simply, nodding. “We did. We gave shelter to Lord Satoris. He was a Shaper, and he asked our aid. We made a promise and kept it.”

He left her, then, trudging to the head of the line, a broad figure moving on a narrow path, pausing here and there to exchange a word with his Fjel. Tanaros, who had listened, waited until they rounded a bend, bringing his mount alongside hers when there was room enough for two to ride abreast. Side by side they rode, bits and stirrups jangling faintly. The horses of Darkhaven exchanged wary glances, snuffled nostrils, and continued. The Lady Cerelinde sat upright in the saddle and stared straight ahead, her profile like a cut gem.

“I do not understand,” she said at length, stiffly.

“Cerelinde.” Tanaros tasted her name. “Every story has two sides. Yours the world knows, for the Ellylon are poets and singers unsurpassed, and their story endures. Who in Urulat has ever listened to the Fjeltroll’s side of the tale?”

“You blame us.” Cerelinde glanced at him, incredulous. “You blame us! Look at them, Tanaros. Look at him.” She pointed at the Fjel Thorun, marching in front of them in stoic silence. He had spoken seldom since Bogvar’s death. His broad, horny feet spread with each step, talons digging into the stony pathway. The pack he bore on his wide shoulders, battle-axe lashed across it, would have foundered an ox. “Look.” She opened her delicate hands, palm-upward. “How were we to stand against that?”

Ahead, the path veered left, an outcropping of rock jutting into the Defile. Thorun lingered, pausing to lead first Cerelinde’s mount, then Tanaros’, around the bend. Though he kept his eyes lowered, watching the horses’ hooves, unsuited for the mountainous terrain, his hand was gentle on the bridle.

“He speaks Common, you know,” Tanaros said.

The Lady of the Ellylon had the grace to blush. “You know what I mean!”