The Lady Cerelinde lowered her silver spoon, filling it with broth, and lifted it to her lips, blowing gently across the steaming surface. Meara would have done the same. It wasn’t fair. Were they so different, Arahila’s Children and Haomane’s? Thought chased itself around her mind, mingling with her words, her shattered visions and fragmented memories, until a dark pit opened before her. It was as it had been since she was a child of twelve. The world tilted and her thoughts spiraled helplessly, sliding into a chaos of repetition and babble, seeking to give voice to a pattern too vast to compass.

The spoon halted on its journey. “Meara?”

She clutched her head, seeking to silence the rising tide within it.

Be for the best for the best of the rest for the best for the blessed beast for the rest the beast blessed for the beaten breast of the blessed rest be eaten lest the breast be wrest for the quest of the blessed for the best beast that blessed the rest . . .

Words, slipping between her clutching fingers, slipping onto her seething tongue, sliding between her clenched teeth.

… eaten lest the blessed beast be beaten lest the beaten rest be left bereft lest the breast bereft be cleft lest the blessed be wrest …

Words and words and words crawling like insects in her mind, dropping from her lips, a rising tide of them; and somewhere, more words, other words, resonant and ringing, words as bright and straight and orderly as the blade of a sword.

The Lady Cerelinde was standing, was speaking; Ellylon words, words of power and ancient magics, words like a sword, bright and blazing. Each syllable rang like a bell, driving back the dark tide of madness, and Meara wept to see it go, for the awful remorse that came in its stead was worse.

In the silence that followed, the Lady turned back to the table. Droplets of broth had spattered the white linen. In a slow, reluctant gesture, she extended one hand above the steaming crock and whispered a soft incantation. There was a ring on her finger, set with a pale and glowing moonstone. Even as Meara watched, the stone darkened, turning a remorseless shade of black.

If it could have spoken, it would have uttered a single word: Poison.

“Oh, Meara!” The Lady’s voice was redolent with sorrow. “Why?”

“Lady, what is it?” Meara scuttled forward, despising herself for her flinching movements, for the remorse she felt. She clapped the lid on the crock, making the poison vanish. “Is it not to your liking, the soup?” she asked, feigning anxiety. “Thom did but try a new recipe. If you do not like it, I will bring another.”

“Meara.” A single word, breathed; her name. All the gathered light in the room, all the gathered light of Darkhaven, shone in the Lady’s eyes. She sighed, a sigh of unspeakable weariness, bowing her head. “What must I do?”