“No.” With an effort of will, Speros raised his chin and met the half-breed’s glittering gaze. Clenching one hand and pressing it to his heart, he extended it open in the ancient salute. His starlit face was earnest and stubborn. “No, Lord Dreamspinner. I am not afraid.”

Ushahin smiled his crooked smile. “It is a lie, but it is one I will honor for the sake of what you have endured.” He nodded to his left. “Take the grey. Do you follow in my footprints, within the swath the ravens forge, she will bear you in my wake, Tanaros.” He pointed to the black horse. “You rode such a one, once. Here is another. Can your Gulnagel keep pace?”

“Aye,” Tanaros murmured, his assent echoed by the grinning Fjel. He approached the black horse, running one hand along the arch of its neck. Its black mane spilled like water over his hand, and it turned its head, baring sharp teeth, a preternaturally intelligent eye glimmering. Clutching a hank of mane low on the withers, he swung himself astride. Equine muscle surged beneath his thighs; Fetch squawked with displeasure and took wing. Using the pressure of his knees, Tanaros turned the black. He thought of his own stallion, his faithful black, lost in the Ways of the Marasoumië, and wondered what had become of it. “These are Darkhaven’s horses, cousin, born and bred. Where did you come by them?”

“On the southern edge of the Delta.”

Tanaros paused. “My Staccians. The trackers?”

“I fear it is so.” There was an unnerving sympathy in Ushahin’s expression. “They met a … a worthy end, cousin. I will tell you of it, later, but we must be off before Haomane’s dawn fingers the sky, else I cannot keep this pathway open. Night is short, and there are … other considerations afoot. Will you ride?”

“Aye.” Tanaros squeezed the black’s barrel, feeling its readiness to run, to feel the twilit road unfurling like a ribbon once more beneath its hooves. He glanced at Speros and saw the Midlander, too, was astride, eyes wide with excitement. He glanced at the Gulnagel and saw them readying themselves to run, muscles bunching in their powerful haunches. “Let us make haste.”

“Boss?” One held up Tanaros’ helmet. “You want this?”

“No.” Thinking of water holes, of shallow graves and squirrel stew, Tanaros shook his head. “Leave it. It has served its purpose, and more. Let the Midlanders find it and wonder. I do not need it.”

“Okay.” The Fjel laid it gently alongside the road.