“Nothing!” The Staccian scowled up at him. “Did we not just ride together, you and I? Did we not do his Lordship’s bidding? Vent your anger elsewhere, cousin!”

Tanaros drew his sword, touching the point of it to Vorax’s chest. The hilt throbbed in his grip, resonating to the anger of Lord Satoris, in whose blood its black blade had been tempered. The same beat throbbed in his chest, the scar over his heart pulsing with it. “Poison deadly enough to slay one of the Ellylon is not obtained with ease. Don’t lie to me … cousin.”

Vorax raised his hands. “Ask your Lady, since you value her so much.”

Tanaros nodded once, grimly. “So I shall.”

He sheathed the sword before he strode through the halls of Darkhaven. It didn’t matter. His fury, Lord Satoris’ fury, beat from him in waves, white-hot and searing. No one would stand in its way. Madlings and Havenguard alike fell back before it; the former scuttling to hide, the latter falling in at his back, exchanging glances.

The door to her quarters was ajar.

That alone was enough to fill him with rage. Tanaros flung the door wide open, striding through as it crashed. The sight of Cerelinde in all her beauty speaking to Speros rendered him momentarily speechless.

“General Tanaros.”

“Lord General!”

They both rose to their feet to greet him. Cerelinde’s face was grave and guarded; Speros’ was open and grateful. Tanaros struggled for control. Somewhere, there was the scent of vulnus-blossom.

No.

It was imagination, or memory. Once, he had come upon them thusly; not these two, but others. Calista, his wife. Roscus Altorus, his lord. Not these two.

“What happened here?” Tanaros asked thickly. “Tell me!”

“It was one of the Dreamspinner’s madlings, boss.” Speros watched his face warily, standing clear of his sword; the blade Tanaros had no memory of having drawn since he had left Vorax. “Tried to poison her, near as I can figure. His Lordship’s in a proper fury. The Lady says she doesn’t know which one it was that brought the poison.”

With an effort, Tanaros brought his breathing under control, pointing the tip of his blade at Cerelinde. “Who was it?”

Her chin rose. “I cannot say, General.”

She was lying; or as near to a lie as the Ellylon came. She knew. She would not say. Tanaros stared at her, knowing it. Knowing her, knowing she would seek to protect those she perceived as lesser beings, loving her and hating her at once for it. His wife had offered him the same lie, seeking to protect her unborn child, but he had seen the truth in the child’s mien and read it in her gaze. He could do no such thing with the Lady of the Ellylon.

“So be it.” He pointed his sword at Speros. “Keep her safe, Midlander. It is his Lordship’s will.”