Pale lips, shaping a curse in the tongue of the Were; he watched with mild interest, watched the shapely right arm swing back, then forward, tendrils of smoke swirling in its wake. It all seemed so slow, until it was not. Vorax rocked on his heels at the impact of the half-breed’s palm against his bearded cheek.

“Enough!” he roared, anger stirring in his belly. “Do not try my patience!”

Ushahin’s eyes glittered through the smoke. One was black, drowning-black, swallowed by pupil; the other was silver-grey, fractured into splintered shards, like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces of bad luck, with a pinprick of black at the center. His hand, his right hand, fell upon the Staccian’s shoulder with unexpected strength, spinning him. “Vorax of Staccia, get out of this place!”

There was a shove, a powerful shove between the shoulder blades, and Vorax went, staggering under the impetus, placing one foot after the other until he reached the outermost opening with its narrow ledge. There the air was cold and clean and he breathed deeply of it, gazing at Darkhaven’s holdings until his head began to clear. There was edifice; there was the encircling wall, vanishing to encompass them. There was the Gorgantus River. There, in the distance, were the pastures and the mines; there, nearer, were the furnaces and forges, beneath their pall of smoke.

It made him glance involuntarily behind him; but the smoke of the All-Bane had not followed him. There was only Ushahin, huddled in his sheepskin cloak, looking raw with the cold.

“Are you well, cousin?” he asked in a low voice.

“Aye,” Vorax said roughly. With his chin, he pointed at the Dreamspinner’s hidden right arm. “Who would have thought there was such strength in that wing of yours. So is … that … what you might have been?”

“Perhaps.” Ushahin gave a terse laugh. “I am the Misbegotten, after all.”

“Ah, well. You would have made a doughty warrior, cousin.” There was nothing else in those words he wanted to touch. Vorax breathed slow and steady, watching the sluggish flow of the Gorgantus River below them. The waterwheel Tanaros’ Midlander protégé had built turned with excruciating slowness, murky water dripping from its paddles. Still, it did its job, powering the bellows. “Is it done?” he asked presently.

Ushahin shrugged his hunched shoulders. “Let us see.”

They did, returning step by step, side by side. There was the larder, lined with kegs and loaves and wheels. There, on the floor, a tiny pile of ashes smoldered, no longer smoking. Side by side, they stared at it.

“Is it still dangerous?” Vorax asked.