“No.” Resting his elbows on the dazzling white linen of the tablecloth, Tanaros fiddled with the stem of his goblet. He studied the backs of his hands; the scarred knuckles. It had been a long, long time since he had known a woman’s compassion. It would have been a relief to speak of it; a relief so deep he felt the promise of it in his bones. And yet; she was the Lady of the Ellylon, Haomane’s Child. How could he explain it to her? Lord Satoris’ command, his own reluctance to obey it. Strength born of the Water of Life still coursing in his veins, the quietude of Stone Grove and Ngurra’s old head lifting, following the rising arc of his black blade. His refusal to relent, to give a reason, any reason. Only a single word: Choose. The blade’s fall, a welter of gore, and the anguished cry of the old Yarru’s wife. The blunt crunch of the Fjel maces that followed. These things, she would not understand. There was no place for them here, in this moment of civilized discourse. “No,” he said again more firmly. “Lady, I do not.”

“As you please.” Cerelinde bowed her head for a moment, her features curtained by her pale, shining hair. When she lifted her head, a nameless emotion darkened her clear eyes. “Tanaros,” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

All around the rookery, ravens settled, cocking their heads.

“It is a small kindness, Lady, nothing more.” Tanaros glanced around, taking in the myriad bright eyes. There was Fetch, still as a stone, watching him. A strange grief thickened his words. “Do you think me incapable of such deeds?”

“No.” Sorrow, and something else, shaded her tone. “I think you are like these trees, Tanaros. As deep-rooted life endures in them, so does goodness endure in you, warped and blighted by darkness. And such a thing grieves me, for it need not be. Ah, Tanaros!” The brightness returned to her eyes. “There is forgiveness and Arahila’s mercy awaiting you, did only you reach out your hand. For you, and this young Man; yes, even for the ravens themselves. For all the innocent and misguided who dwell beneath the Sunderer’s shadow. Is it asking so much?”

He drew breath to answer, and the rookery burst into a flurry of black wings as all the ravens of Darkhaven took flight at once, a circling stormcloud. Without thinking, Tanaros found himself on his feet, the black sword naked in his fist. The Mørkhar Fjel came at a thundering run, bristling with weapons. Speros, unarmed, swore and smashed the Dwarfish wine-jug on the edge of the table, shattering its graceful form to improvise a jagged weapon. Red wine bled in a widening stain on the white linen.

“Greetings, cousin.” Ushahin stood at the edge of the glade; a hunched form, small and composed. Above him, the ravens circled in a tightening gyre, answering to him as if to one of the Were. His uneven gaze shifted to Cerelinde. “Lady.”