“Thank you, Lady.” Dani bowed to the Lady Sorhild. “We are grateful for your kindness.”

She shook her head. “It is very little. I pray it is enough, and not too late. Still, I am grateful to have had this chance. We have many years of which to repent.” Tears were in her blue-grey eyes. With a choked laugh, she gave him the traveler’s blessing. “May Haomane keep you, Dani of the Yarru!”

“Come, lad.” Uncle Thulu touched his arm.

Together they went forward, passing beneath the vine curtain. Dani glanced at the face of one of the women holding the vines. It was the young woman who had captured them, the one who had reminded him of Fianna. There were tears in her eyes, too, and the same desperate hope. She was whispering something in Staccian, the words halting on her lips. A prayer, maybe.

It had been a long time since anyone had prayed to Haomane First-Born in Staccia.

He wanted to tarry, to ask her name, to ask what it was the Galäinridder had said to make her so certain of the rightness of their quest, despite the fearful consequences. But they did not speak the same tongue, and there was no time. Already Uncle Thulu was moving past him, taking one of the torches from his bundle. There was a sharp, scraping sound as he struck the flint, a scattering of sparks, and then the sound of pitch sizzling as the torch flared to life.

Yellow torchlight danced over the rocky surfaces. It was a broad tunnel and deep, sloping downward into endless darkness. Beyond the pool of light cast by the torch, there was only black silence.

If they were lucky, that would hold true.

“Shall we go?” Thulu asked quietly.

“Aye.” Dani cast one longing glance behind him. The vines were still parted, and he could see the Lady Sorhild holding up one hand in farewell. The hope in her face, in all their faces, was a heavy burden to carry. He sighed, setting his face toward the darkness, hearing the soft rustling of the vine curtain falling back into place. “Lead me to Darkhaven, Uncle.”

“HE DID WHAT?” LIGHT-HEADED WITH fury, Tanaros grasped the front of Vorax’s doublet, hurling the old glutton against the wall and pinning him there. “Is he mad?”

“Peace, cousin!” the Staccian wheezed, trying to pry Tanaros’ grip loose. His bearded face was turning red. “As to the latter, need you ask?”

A cry of agony thrummed through the stones of Darkhaven, wordless and shattering; once, twice and thrice. It sounded raw and ragged, a voice that had been screaming for a long time. Somewhere, Ushahin Dreamspinner was suffering the consequences of having attempted to circumvent Lord Satoris’ will.

Tanaros swore and released Vorax, who slumped to the floor, rubbing his bruised throat. “What did you have to do with it?”