“Oh, lord!” It was a young woman who spoke, eyes bright with emotion. She kissed his fingertips and pressed his hand to her cheek. “I tried, my lord, I did. Forgive me my weakness!”

“Ah, Meara.” Bending forward, Ushahin caressed her cheek. He touched the surface of her thoughts and saw the shadow of Tanaros’ face therein. He grasped a little of what it betokened and pitied her for it. What was love but a little piece of madness? “All is well. I forgive you.”

She caught her breath in a gasping laugh. “You shouldn’t. I brought her there. We are weak. I am weak.” She cradled his hand, gazing up at him. “You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.”

“Yes.” Ushahin grew still, hearing his own thoughts echoed. “I know.” For a moment, they remained thusly. Then his heart gave a twinge beneath the branded skin that circumscribed it, and he shook his head ruefully and withdrew his hand. “I cannot, little sister. I am sworn to his Lordship, and he would see her live. I cannot gainsay his will. Would you have it otherwise?”

“No.” Unshed tears pooled like diamonds in her eyes.

“Remember what you are,” he said gently to her, “and do not dwell on what-might-have-been. Remember that I love you for that-which-is.”

“I will!” Her head bobbed, overbrimming tears forging swathes down her sallow cheeks. Meara sniffled and scrubbed at her tears. “I will try, lord.”

“Good.” Ushahin gazed past her at the faces of the madlings still awaiting his regard. “Well done, my child.” So many of them! How had their numbers come to swell so large? Their pain made his heart ache. He understood them, understood their weaknesses. What-might-have-been. A rock, clutched in a boy’s hand, descending. What if it had never fallen? A trader’s shadow, darkening the alley before withdrawing; his father, a tall shadow, turning away with averted face. What if someone—anyone—had intervened? It was a dream, a sweet dream, a bittersweet dream.

He understood.

And as for the other thing …

Ushahin shuddered, thinking of the foundations of Darkhaven giving way beneath him. The passages were too narrow to allow the Fjel masons access, and any patchwork Vorax’s Staccians had done was merely a stopgap. If the foundation crumbled, it was symptomatic of things to come. Only his Lordship could root out this decay—if he retained the will and the power and the sanity to do so. Ushahin would speak to him. He prayed his Lordship would hear his words and act upon them, for if he did not …

“May it come later than sooner,” he whispered, opening his arms to his throng. “Oh, please, may it!”

THREE

THREE