“For you, perhaps.” Tanaros touched her cool cheek. “Not for me.”

For a time, they stood thusly; then Cerelinde, Lady of the Ellylon, shuddered like the petals of the mortexigus flower and withdrew from his touch. Wrapped in her dark cloak, she gazed at him with her glorious eyes.

“Tanaros,” she said. “I will not pray for your death on the morrow.”

“Lady.” He bowed low and said no more.

The Havenguard reclaimed her, and she went.

SPEROS OF HAIMHAULT FOUND SLEEP difficult.

It had all happened so fast. One moment, he had been concentrating on acquitting himself bravely, holding the parley-flag and assessing the forces of Haomane’s Allies to report to the General; the next, he was agreeing to be a hostage.

At least they had been civil.

They were that; he had to admit. Back in the old days, when he was but a piddling horse-thief, he had never been treated with such care. The architect of Darkhaven’s defense! It was a prodigious title, even if Lord Vorax had invented it.

To be honest, their triumvirate of leaders seemed to sense it; they were dismissive. Once they returned to the campsite, white-bearded Malthus made it clear he had greater concerns on his mind, which was just as well. Speros had no desire to find the wizard’s attention focused on him. Aracus Altorus merely looked him up and down as if gauging his worth and finding it wanting. As far as Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was concerned, Speros might as well not exist.

But others were at the campsite; hangers-on, no doubt. Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard commander with an unsettling look of the General about him, took Speros to be a legitimate threat. He assigned a pair of guards fitting to his purported station to him; some minor Ellyl lordling and an Arduan archer They took turns keeping watch over him. A woman, no less! She had a strange bow made of black horn, which she cosseted like a babe. At nightfall she brought him a bowl of stew from the common kettle. After he had eaten, Speros grinned at her, forgetful of the gaps where he was missing teeth.

“Very nice,” he said, nodding at her weapon. “Where did you get it?”

She stared blankly at him. “This is Oronin’s Bow.”

“Oh, aye?” He whistled. “So where did you get it?”

The archer shook her head in disgust. “You tend to him,” she said to the Ellyl, rising to survey the campsite.

“Did I say somewhat to offend her?” Speros asked the Ellyl, who smiled quietly.

“Fianna the Archer slew the Dragon of Beshtanag with that bow,” he said. “Surely the knowledge must have reached Darkhaven’s gates.”

“It did.” Speros shrugged. “I was in the desert at the time.”