“I don’t know,” Meara whispered, sinking to her knees. “Lady …”

“Perhaps I should drink it.” Cerelinde regarded the blackened gem upon her finger. “Do you say so, Meara? It is the simplest solution, after all. If I were no more, all of this would cease to be.” Her gaze settled on Meara. “Would it be for the best, Meara of Darkhaven?”

“I don’t know!” The words burst from her in agony; she raised her head to meet the terrible beauty of the Lady’s gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I should, after all,” the Lady said softly. She lifted the lid from the crock and picked up the spoon.

“No!” Meara darted forward, snatching away the tray. The Lady touched her cheek. The skin of her hand was soft, impossibly soft, and her touch burned with cool fire. A bottomless pity was in her luminous eyes.

“Ah, Meara!” she said. “See, there is goodness in you yet, despite the Sunderer’s corruption. Would that I could heal you. I am sorry I have only this poor Rivenlost magic to offer, that affords but a moment’s respite. But take heart, for all is not lost. While goodness exists, there is hope. What I cannot do, Malthus the Wise Counselor may. He could heal you, all of you. He could make you whole, as Urulat itself could be made whole.”

There were words, more words, spinning into skeins of answers, filling Meara’s head until the pattern of her thoughts was as tangled as the webs in the Weavers’ Gulch. She wanted to tell the Lady that it was too late, that Malthus should have cared for them long ago instead of letting them be lost and forgotten. That they had chosen the only love anyone ever offered them, that Ushahin Dreamspinner understood them, for he was one of them; yes, and so was Lord Satoris, in all his wounded majesty. That all pride was folly; the pride of Ellylon, of Men, yes, even of Shapers. That they had chosen the folly they understood best. Mad pride; a madling’s pride, broken, but not forgotten.

There were words, but none would come.

Instead, something else was coming; fury, rising like a black wind from the bowels of Darkhaven. Lord Satoris knew; Lord Satoris was angry. The touch of Ellylon magic had alerted him. Beneath the soles of her feet, Meara felt the floor vibrate. His fury rose, crawling over her skin, making her itch and tremble. The lid on the crock rattled as she held the tray in shaking hands.

“Dreamspinner!”

The roar shook the very foundations of Darkhaven. It blew through Meara’s thoughts, shredding them into tatters, until she knew only terror. The promise of Lord Ushahin’s protection held little comfort.