“Here you are, then.” Vorax clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He’s the architect of Darkhaven’s defense. Try the Defile, and see what he’s got in store for you! Word is he engineered the means to let General Tanaros fill in that pesky Well in the Unknown Desert, though you might know more of it than I. Any mind, he’s been Tanaros Blacksword’s right-hand Man for some time. Will he suffice?”

They looked shocked; all save Malthus. Did nothing on the face of Urulat shock the damned Counselor? He inclined his head, white beard brushing his chest.

“He will suffice,” Malthus said somberly.

“Good.” Vorax glanced at the sky, gauging the angle of the sun. “You’ll withdraw your troops by dawn on the morrow, on pain of the Lady’s death?”

“We will.”

“Then we will meet you ere noon. You’ll know our signal when we give it.” He grinned. “Gentlemen, I will see you anon!”

His Staccians closed in tight, following as he turned his mount and headed into Defile’s Maw, the Fjel guarding their retreat, step by backward step, shields held high. Below them, Speros of Haimhault sat on his ghost-grey mount and watched them go with desperate eyes.

It was, Vorax thought, a well-struck bargain.

SILVER HOARFROST SPARKLED ON THE sere grass in the moon-garden, shrouded its plants and trees in cerements of ice. No drops fell from the pale pink blossoms of the mourning-tree, and the corpse-flowers’ pallid glow was extinguished. The mortexigus did not shudder in the little death, shedding its pollen, and the shivering bells of the clamitus atroxis waited in silence. Even the poignant scent of vulnus-blossom had been stilled by the cold.

Tanaros wrapped his cloak tighter and wondered if Cerelinde would come. He could have gone to her, or he could have ordered her to come. In the end, he had chosen to ask. Why, he could not have said.

Overhead, the stars turned slowly. He gazed at them, wondering if Arahila looked down upon Darkhaven and wept for her brother Satoris’ folly, for the bloodshed that was certain to follow. He wondered if poor Speros, unwitting victim of Vorax’s bargain, was watching the same stars. He was angry at Vorax for his choice, though there was no merit in arguing it once it was done. Other matters were more pressing; indeed, even now, he wasted precious time lingering in the garden. Still, his spirit was uneasy and an ache was in his heart he could not name.

After a time, he became certain she would not come; and then the wooden door with the tarnished hinges opened and she was there, flanked by the hulking figures of the Havenguard. They remained behind, waiting.

Her gown was pale, its color indeterminate in the starlight. A dark cloak enfolded her like green leaves enfolding a blossom’s pale petals. Its sweeping hem left a trail in the frosted grass as she approached him.