The Lady Cerelinde felt it. Meara could tell; her face was bloodless, as stark and white as the new-risen moon. And yet she trembled only slightly, and the pity in her gaze did not fade. “So it is Ushahin the Misbegotten who wishes me dead,” she murmured. “He uses his servants cruelly, Meara.”

There were footsteps in the hall, coming at a run. It would be Speros, the Midlander. General Tanaros trusted him. Meara glanced involuntarily at the closed door, thinking of the Havenguard beyond it. Her actions would be reckoned a betrayal.

In a swift, decisive movement, the Lady Cerelinde yanked aside the tapestry that concealed the hidden passage into her quarters, throwing back the bolts that barred the door and opening it. “Fly,” she said. “Fly and be gone!”

Meara wanted to stay; wanted to explain. Did not want to be indebted to the Lady of the Ellylon, to whom she had served a bowl of poisoned broth. But the Lady’s face was filled with compassionate valor, and terror was at the door.

“I told him you would break our hearts,” Meara whispered, and fled.

VINES CRAWLED DOWN THE FACE of the rock, concealing the entrance to the Vesdarlig Passage. The sight of them made Dani feel queasy. He swallowed hard, tasting bile as the women of Gerflod parted the dense curtain of vine to expose the dark, forbidding opening. He would feel better if they weren’t touching the vines.

Uncle Thulu whistled between his teeth. “We’d never have found that on our own, lad!” He scanned the ground with a tracker’s eye. “Fjel have been here, but not since the rains. I’d not have seen any sign if I hadn’t known to look.”

“That’s good.” Dani’s voice emerged faint and thready.

Uncle Thulu gave him a hard look. “Are you sure you’ve got the stomach for this, Dani?”

He touched the clay vial at his throat, but there was no comfort in it; not with the women’s careworn hands clutching the vines, patiently waiting. There was only the memory of writhing barrows and green death. He drew strength instead from their faces, from their terrible grief and the fierce, desperate hope to which they clung. Taking a deep breath, he answered, “I’m sure.”

His uncle’s look softened. “Then we’d best not delay.”

Dani nodded, settling his pack on his shoulders. It held a warm blanket and as much food as he could carry; dried and salt-cured provender, laid up for the winter. They were dressed in sturdy, clean attire; warm woolens from the clothing-chests of men whose blood had stained the flagstones of Gerflod Keep. A fresh sling had been tied around his arm, giving respite to his still-aching shoulder. Their waterskins were full. In his pack, Uncle Thulu carried a bundle of torches soaked with a rendered pitch that burned long and slow.

The women of Gerflod had been generous.