“So be it.” After considering her words, Tanaros give himself a shake, like a man emerging from a dream. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Lady. I did not come here to speak of such things.”

“What, then?” Cerelinde asked simply.

His dark gaze was steady and direct. “To assure you that I continue to vouch for the safety of your well-being. No more, and no less.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

“Well.” Tanaros flexed his hands upon his knees. He made to rise, then hesitated. “Lady … if it might please you, there is something I might show you outside the walls of Darkhaven proper. On the morrow, perhaps?”

Outside.

For the third time in the space of an hour, Cerelinde’s heart leapt. “Oh, yes,” she heard herself whisper. “Please.”

Tanaros rose, executing another crisp bow. “On the morrow, then.”

Like a good hostess, she saw him to the door. He paused only briefly, searching her face. Something haunted was in his gaze, something that had not been there before. Then he took his leave, averting his eyes. The Fjeltroll on duty saluted him in passing, closing the door upon his departure.

It locked with an audible sound, sealing Cerelinde into her quarters.

Left alone, she placed her hand upon the ironwood door, contemplating her outspread fingers.

“ALL TOGETHER, NOW,” SPEROS SAID encouragingly. “That’s right, you’ve got it, lean on the lever. One, two, three … yes!” He let out a triumphant whoop as the great boulder settled into place with a resounding crash. “Oh, well done, lads!”

On the crude ramp, one of the Tordenstem let loose a reverberating howl, lofting the heavy, pointed log that had served as a lever. Delighted in their achievement, the others echoed his cry until loose pebbles rattled and the very air seemed to tremble.

Despite his aching eardrums, Speros grinned. “Hold on!” he shouted, prowling around the wooden rick on which the boulder rested. “Let’s be sure it will hold.”

It would. The thick branches groaned and the ropes lashing them together creaked, but in time they settled under the boulder’s weight, ceasing their complaint They would hold. High atop the crags above the Defile, Speros lay on his belly, squirming forward on his elbows, inching onto the overhanging promontory until he could peer over the edge.

Far, far below him lay the winding path that led along the desiccated riverbed. The mountains that Lord Satoris had erected around the Vale of Gorgantum were impassable, except perhaps to a determined Fjeltroll. With the tunnels blocked, the path was the only way into the Vale. If Haomane’s Allies sought to penetrate Darkhaven’s defenses, they would have to traverse it.

It would be difficult. Speros meant to make it impossible.