For a time, then, Tanaros rode behind her, watching the shine of her hair, that hung like an Ellyl banner down her spine. Downward wound the path, then upward, winding around another peak. And down again, where the river-basin broadened. Soon they would enter the Weavers’ Gulch. He dug his heels into the black’s sides, jogged his mount alongside hers.

“How does it feel, then, to owe your life to a Fjeltroll?” he asked her.

Cerelinde did not spare him a glance. “You brought me here, Tanaros.”

“Of course.” He bowed from the saddle, mocking. “Proud Haomane will suffer no rivals. Like the Fjel, my Lord Satoris should have remained content with his lot.”

Ahead, the low river-bottom opened onto a narrow gorge. It was flat, as flat as anything might be in the Defile. The dank trickle of water intensified. This was water tainted by the ichor of Satoris the Shaper, seeping slow and dark. It reeked of blood, only sweeter. The walls of the gorge loomed high on either side, strung across with webs like sticky veils,

One by one, the Kaldjager Fjel parted the veils and entered. Ushahin Dreamspinner passed into the gorge, seemingly unperturbed. At the rear of the company, the Staccians mingled with Hyrgolf’s Tungskulder Fjel and made uneasy jests in their own tongue, awaiting their turn.

“What is this place?” Cerelinde asked, her voice low.

“It is the Weavers’ Gulch.” Tanaros shrugged. “There are creatures in Urulat upon whom the Shapers have not laid hands, Lady. In these, my Lord is interested. Do you fear them? They will do us no harm if we leave them undisturbed.”

At the entrance, Thorun waited for them, holding back the skeins of sticky filament so they might pass untouched. A small grey spider scuttled over the gnarled knuckles of his hand. Another descended on a single thread, hovering inches above his head, minute legs wriggling.

Cerelinde looked at what lay beyond and closed her eyes. “I cannot do this.”

“I’m sorry, Lady.” It had turned his stomach, too, the first time. Tanaros touched his sword-hilt. “But willing or unwilling, you will go.”

At the threat, she opened her eyes to regard him. She was Ellylon, and the fineness of her features, the clear luminosity of her skin, were a silent reproach, a reminder that he aspired to that which was beyond him.

Tanaros clenched his teeth. “Go!”

Drawing her hood, the Lady Cerelinde entered the Weavers’Gulch.

ELEVEN

ELEVEN

“HERE’S A GOOD SPOT, LIEUTENANT.”

Crawling on his belly, Carfax made his way to Hunric’s side. Saw-toothed blades of sedge grass caught at him, sweat trickled into his eyes and midges buzzed in his ears. He fought the urge to swat at them.

“Hear that, sir?” The tracker laid his ear flat to the ground. “They’ll be along presently. It’s a small company, I’m thinking.”