“No.” Cerelinde thought of the unknown Charred lad and all he had risked, all he must have endured. Gathering every measure of courage she possessed, she pushed her fear aside and gazed at the Shaper with clear eyes. In the coruscating light of the Font, he stood without moving, awaiting her. “No, Lord Satoris,” she said. “I will not.”

And though her legs trembled, she forced herself to move, step by step, descending the stair into the Chamber of the Font and the Sunderer’s presence.

USHAHIN GATHERED HIS MADLINGS.

They came, straggling, in answer to his summons; his thoughts, cast like a net over Darkhaven, gathering all of those who were his. They crowded, as many as could fit, into the Lady’s chambers, others spilling into the hallways.

“What has happened here?” he asked.

They explained in a mixture of glee and terror; the hunt, the Charred Man, the Lord General’s furious arrival, and how they had scattered before it.

“And the Lady?” he asked them. “How is it that she knew to flee?”

They exchanged glances, fell to their knees, and cried out to him, professing denial; all save one, who remained standing. And Ushahin’s gaze fell upon her, and he knew what it was that she had done.

“Meara,” he said gently. “How is it that I failed you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Not you,” she whispered. “Never you, my lord.”

The others wailed.

Ushahin raised one hand. “No. I have failed you, all of you. I have been remiss in accepting my burden. But with your aid, it will end here.”

The wailing continued; growing louder, interspersed with cries of fear and deeper, guttural shouts, the sound of pounding feet and jangling armor. Even as Ushahin opened his mouth to call for silence, one of the Havenguard burst into the room, forging a path through the kneeling madlings like a ship plowing through shallow waves. He was panting, the breath rasping harshly in the thick column of his throat. “Lord Dreamspinner!” He saluted. “Haomane’s Allies approach the Defile Gate!”

“What?” Ushahin stared at the Fjel. “The rockslide—”

“Too late.” The Havenguard shuddered. “The wizard, the white gem; I know not what he did, only that the lads were slow and the rocks fell too late.” He paused, his small eyes beneath the heavy brow ridge bright with anxiety. “Will you come?”

They were gazing at him; all of them, his madlings, the Fjel, guilt-ridden Meara. Ushahin tasted despair.