“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.”

“Dreamspinner.” Her voice was cool. She had risen, standing straight as a spear.

“Stand down.” Tanaros nodded to Speros and the Fjel and shoved his sword back into its sheath. His hand stung and his chest felt oddly tight, as though the brand over his heart were a steel band constricting it. “What do you want, Dreamspinner?”

“I come on his Lordship’s orders. ‘Tis time to send the ravens afield again.” Ushahin gave his tight, crooked smile. In Cerelinde’s presence, he looked more malformed than ever. Here was the beauty of the Ellylon rendered into its component parts and poorly rebuilt, cobbled together by unskilled hands. “But there is a matter of which I would speak to you, cousin. One that concerns the safety of Darkhaven.” He paused, and in the silence, Fetch descended, settling on his shoulder. “A matter of corruption.”

He said no more, waiting.

Tanaros inclined his head. A moment had passed; an axis had tipped. Something had changed, something was lost. Something bright had slipped away from him, and something else had settled into place. Its roots were deep and strong. There was a surety, a knowledge of self, and the course he had chosen. Beneath its brand, his aching heart beat, each beat reminding him that he owed his existence to Lord Satoris.

A vast and abiding love.

He touched the pouch at his belt, feeling the contours of Hyrgolf’s rhios through it, letting himself be humbled by the awesome loyalty of the Fjel. The Fjel, to whom it seemed Arahila’s forgiveness did not extend. On the far side of the glade, Ushahin’s eyes glittered as if he knew Tanaros’ thoughts.

Perhaps he did.

“Permit me to escort the Lady Cerelinde to her quarters,” Tanaros said to the half-breed. “Then I am at your disposal.” Turning to Cerelinde, he extended his arm. “Lady?”

Cerelinde took his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for this glimpse of sun.”

“For that, Lady, you are welcome.” Tanaros heard the unsteadiness in his voice and despised it. He crooked his arm, capturing her fair, white fingers against his torso and made his voice harsh. “Now, come with me.”

She went, making no protest.

Behind them came the padding footfalls of the Havenguard, crunching upon the beech-mast. And all the way, Tanaros felt the combined gaze of Ushahin and the ravens of Darkhaven upon him. On his arm, Cerelinde’s touch burned; on the outer edges of his sight, Fetch’s vision burned, a raven’s fitful thoughts, backed by a dragon’s roar, and the gleam in Ushahin’s mismatched eyes.

Somewhere between the two, lay his path.