Cerelinde touched them, her fingertips trailing over glossy leaves and rutted, gnarled bark. “There is such pain in the struggle,” she wondered aloud. “Even their roots groan at their travail. And yet they adapt and endure. These are ancient trees.” She glanced at him. “What has done this to them, Tanaros? Is it that Lord Satoris has stricken them in his wrath?”

“No, Lady.” He shook his head. “It is his blood that alters the land in the Vale of Gorgantum, that which flows from his unhealing wound. For thousands upon thousands of years, it has seeped into the earth.”

“A Shaper’s blood,” she murmured.

“Yes.” He watched her, his heart aching. In the muted, blood-shot light beneath the beech canopy, the Lady of the Ellylon shone like a gem. How finely they were wrought, Haomane’s Children! No wonder that Haomane loved them so dearly, having taken such care with their Shaping. “Come, it is this way.”

She paused for a moment as they entered the rookery, where a hundred ragged nests adorned the crooked trees, absorbing the sight in silence. The wood was alive with ravens, bustling busily about their messy abodes, sidling along branches and peering at the visitors with bright, wary eyes. When she saw the small glade and the table awaiting them, Cerelinde turned to him. “You did this?”

“Aye.” Tanaros smiled. “Will you join me in a glass of wine, Lady?”

Another faint blush warmed her cheeks. “I will.”

The table was laid with dazzling white linens and set with a simple wine service; a clay jug and two elegantly turned goblets. It was Dwarfish work, marked by the simple grace that characterized their labors. How it had made its way to Darkhaven, Tanaros did not know. Beneath the glowering light of the Vale, table and service glowed alike, filled with their own intrinsic beauty. And beside the table, proud and upright in plain black livery, stood Speros, who had undertaken the arrangements on his General’s behalf.

“Speros of Haimhault,” Tanaros said. “This is the Lady Cerelinde.”

“Lady.” Speros breathed the word, bowing low. His eyes, when he arose, were filled with tears. In the desert, he had expressed a desire to behold her. It was a wish granted, this moment; a wish that made the heart ache for the beauty, the fineness, that Arahila’s Children would never possess. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

“As you please.” Cerelinde smiled at him, taking her seat. The Mørkhar Fjel dispatched themselves to the four quarters of the glade, planting their taloned feet and taking up patient, watchful stances. “Thank you, Speros of Haimhault.”

“You are welcome.” His hand trembled as he poured, filling her cup with red Vedasian wine. The lip of the wine-jug rattled against her goblet. With a visible effort, he moved to fill his General’s. “Most welcome, Lady.”