“I’m staying.” Setting his heels to his mount’s flanks, he shook off Tanaros’ hand and jogged ahead before the Lord General could say aught else to dissuade him. One of the trotting Gulnagel grinned at him, and Speros grinned back, his sense of alarm fading. These were his comrades, his companions. One had given his life for him. They had given him the honor and respect his own family had denied him. They had labored side by side together, laying the dead to rest. How could he think of leaving?

He would find a way to prove himself to General Tanaros.

Ahead of him, Ushahin Dreamspinner rode astride, swaying as his blood-bay mount picked its way along the path of the Defile. Hearing Speros approach, he glanced languidly over his shoulder. “Weavers’ Gulch, Midlander.” He waved a crabbed hand at the sticky strands crossing the vast loom of the Defile, the scuttling weavers that spun the warp and weft of it. “Does it evoke fond memories for you?”

“Not especially, Lord Dreamspinner.” Speros eyed the hanging veils of webbing and swallowed hard. He touched his bare neck, remembering the sharp sting of a spider’s bite and awakening trussed and bound. “Not especially.”

Ushahin gave his lopsided smile. “The ones who come to me pass through untouched. Such is the protection I afford them in the purity of their madness. Still, I think you must be a little bit mad to attempt it at all.”

Speros shivered and fell back, following in the half-breed’s wake, though it was no longer necessary now that they traveled by ordinary day, and not on the path between dreaming and waking that had carried them through the Midlands and across the plains of Curonan. “Perhaps,” he said.

“Oh, I think it is more than perhaps.” Amid the ghostly veils of webbing, Ushahin smiled once more. “Tanaros Blacksword might disagree, but he’s a little bit mad, too, isn’t he? We will see, in time.”

They made steady progress through the Defile. The Gulnagel breathed deeply through widened nostrils, inhaling the odor of the ichor-tainted waters, the welcome scent of home. Beyond the Weavers’ Gulch, the Defile Gate and its flanking towers loomed amid the vast, encircling wall. Alerted by the Tordenstem, teams of Fjel were already at work opening the gate. Overhead, the ravens circled in grim triumph. The walls were crowded with Fjel, armed to the teeth, waving axes and maces in the air, shields held high. They were shouting.

“Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros!”

“Go on, cousin.” Ushahin nodded. “You’re the one they’ve been awaiting.”

Giving him a deep look, General Tanaros nudged his mount forward. He lifted one hand as he rode between the gates, acknowledging the cries. He looked weary, Speros thought. And why not? He had done a hero’s work, carrying out his Lordship’s bitter orders, keeping them alive in the desert. He had earned a rest.