The Lady’s face changed again as hope went out of it, and it was as though someone had blown out all the lamps in the room. “Thank you, Meara,” she said, releasing her.

“I’ll go see about your dinner, Lady,” Meara said humbly. Everything was normal and the world was no longer tilting; and yet it seemed as though something precious had been lost. A memory came unbidden and she offered it up. “The younger one did have a flask, Lady. A little one made of clay, tied on a thong around his neck.”

There was a long pause, a not-daring-to-hope pause. “You’re certain of this, Meara?”

She nodded, miserable. She should not have spoken.

The world spun crazily as hope returned in a blaze; brightness, brightness in the room, brightness in the Lady Cerelinde’s face. The Lady was speaking, more words that rang like swords, bright and terrible, and Meara longed for the black pit to open, for the tide of gibberish to rise in her head, silencing words she did not want to hear. Anything, anything to drown out the awful charge. But no black pit opened, no tide arose. The voices were silent, driven into abeyance by the Lady’s fierce glory.

“ … must find them, Meara, seek them out and find them, hide them from the Sunderer’s minions! Give them what aid you may, for unless I am sore mistaken, the fate of the world rests upon their shoulders.” She stooped to gaze into Meara’s face. “Do you understand?”

Meara freed her tongue from the roof of her mouth to answer. “No,” she whispered.

“I speak of healing the world,” the Lady Cerelinde said gravely. She touched Meara, cupping her head in her fair, white hands. “All the world, Meara; Urulat and all that lies within it. Even you. All that might have been may yet be.”

Fire, cool fire. Why did Haomane have to Shape such majesty into his Children? Why must it be given to us to know, to compare? No wonder Tanaros ached for her; and he did, he did. Meara knew he did. I told him you would break our hearts. She felt tears well in her eyes, her nose running. Ugly, unglamorous; a filthy madling, no more. She longed to wipe it, longed to break away from the horrible burden of trust in the Lady’s glorious eyes.

“I can’t!” she gasped. “I can’t!”

“You can.” Still stooping, the Lady Cerelinde touched her lips to Meara’s damp brow. An oath, a promise, a lance of cool fire piercing her fevered brain. “Haomane’s Prophecy is at work here. And there is goodness in you, Meara of Darkhaven. In that, I believe.”