“Does the great warrior seek advice?” Mulprek wrinkled her lip and bared dull, yellowing eyetusks. She shuffled forward to peer up at him, laying a hand on his forearm. Her worn talons gleamed like steel against his hide, and she smelled of musk. Despite her age, her eyes were keen and bright. “This is a hunt, not a battle. Your prey has left a trail. You know where they are bound.” She nodded at the Kaldjager Fjel in his company. “Use the Cold Hunters. Flush the prey, and herd them. Lay a trap. So we have always done. So I say.”

It was good advice.

Skragdal nodded. “Let all the tribes remain vigilant,” he said. “All hands may be needed for this.” He turned to Blågen, whom he knew best among the Kaldjager. “Can your lads do this thing?”

“Aye. If you don’t mind losing your scouts.” The Kaldjager’s eyes gleamed yellow. He slapped his waterskin. It made a heavy, sloshing sound. “We’ve no fear of dry land. If the Gulnagel will lead us to the trail, we’ll hunt. We’ll kill them if we can and herd them if we can’t. Where do you want the smallfolk?”

The image of a green field dotted with vine-laced barrows rose in his mind. It lay on their route, and it would be a fitting place to make an end to it. Why these desert smallfolk had chosen to oppose his Lordship, he could not fathom. Already, they had paid a terrible price for their folly.

But it didn’t matter, only that the thing was done.

“Neherinach,” Skragdal said grimly. “Bring them to Neherinach.”

A RIVER OF WINGS FILLED the Tower of Ravens, black and beating.

Flying in a circle.

Tanaros stood outside himself, watching through Fetch’s eyes. He was part and parcel of the endless river, riding the silent current. Curving along the basalt walls. Wings, overlapping like scales, glossy feathers reflecting the blue-white flicker of the marrow-fire. He saw his brethren, bright eyes and sharp beaks. It was important that the wings overlap, beating in intricate layers.

His Lordship had summoned the Ravensmirror.

There he stood, at its center. A core of looming darkness, darkness visible. The Ravensmirror revolved around him. He had spoken the words in the ancient Shapers’ tongue. His blood was a tang in the air.

Through doubled eyes, Tanaros beheld him; and the Three. He saw Vorax, who stood sturdy as a bulwark in the raven’s gaze. To his eyes, the Staccian looked tired and worn. The news out of Gerflod had taken its toll. He saw Ushahin, who shone like a beacon in Fetch’s eyes. Tanaros saw a feverish glitter in the half-breed’s mien. There was power there, gathering and unspent. Where, he wondered, did it come from?

He saw himself.