“Go.” He waved one hand. “Go, and begone from my sight, for you pain me.”

Summoned by arcane means, the Havenguard appeared at the top of the spiral stair. There they waited, impassive in the flame-shot darkness.

The Sunderer pointed. “GO!”

Cerelinde climbed the stair slowly, her limbs stiff with the residue of fear and bone-deep cold. Below, Satoris Banewreaker resumed his pacing, disturbing the shadows. He glanced often toward the west and muttered to himself in a strange tongue, filled with potent, rolling syllables; the Shapers’ tongue, that had not been heard on Urulat since the world was Sundered. One word alone Cerelinde understood, uttered in a tone of anguish and betrayal.

“Arahila!”

And then the Fjel led her away and the threefold door closed behind her, and Cerelinde of the House of Elterrion was escorted back to her chambers to await the outcome of the war that would decide her fate.

In the empty garden, beneath Arahila’s moon, sorrow-bells chimed unheard.

SIXTEEN

SIXTEEN

HAOMANE’S ALLIES HAD GONE ON the march under cover of darkness. Dawn broke over the plains to find them encamped a short distance from the foot of the Gorgantus Mountains. The mountains trembled at the roars of the Tordenstem sentries, summoning the Three and their chosen companions.

“By the Six!”

Tanaros heard Speros’ shaking oath behind him. Another time, perhaps, he might have reprimanded the Midlander for it. In Darkhaven, one did not swear by the Six Shapers. Today it seemed meet.

The army covered the plains of Curonan, armor gleaming in the bloody light of dawn. Nothing glimpsed in the Ravensmirror had prepared him for the sight. Even from the overlook high atop the crags, it was immense.

Side by side by side, the Three gazed at the army.

So many companies! There they were, gathered at last in one place, arrayed for battle. The Rivenlost formed the vanguard. It surprised Tanaros, a little; but then, it was the Lady of the Ellylon over whom this war was waged. Perhaps it was a matter of honor.

“Well,” Vorax said. “There they are.”

“Indeed,” Ushahin said drily.

Vorax leaned over in the saddle and spat. “And there they can sodding well stay, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe they’ll go home when they begin to starve.” At his rear, a pair of Staccians chuckled.

Tanaros said nothing, squinting, trying to pick out individuals. The companies were still milling and unsettled. Yes, there; glint of red-gold, a rider moving among the disparate companies, gesturing, giving orders, attempting to stitch them into a cohesive whole. Some of them had fought together at Beshtanag, but many of them had not. Coordination would be difficult in the field.

“You look like you’re sizing them up for battle, cousin.” Ushahin’s remark sounded casual. “Do you lack faith in our fortifications?”