Lief or Cyrene, it would be, who would convince them that he had achieved his goal. They would talk the others into going with him into the dark. Then, whatever would happen would happen.

He cocked an eye at Penthos. The man’s candle was not in evidence, but burning still, apparently. How long do I have before I am not me anymore?

By that time he was at the lip of the cave. Undirected currents of motion issued from within as the denizens shifted their positions, drawing back.

Setting their trap. He hoped it was not the case, but he feared, too…

And yet, he found himself indulging in a curious daydream. What if there was an ambush? What if the humans, following confidently along behind their tame spider guide, were caught utterly unawares? He pictured Penthos all strung up in webs, sparks at his fingers’ ends accomplishing nothing. He thought of Dion cocooned in sheets so thick no light—no Light—could penetrate. He pictured the others, saw Harathes borne down by wave after wave of avenging spiders. He imagined his slaughtered kin avenged. He imagined Cyrene, bow useless, trusting to her blade to fend off the righteous hordes. He pictured Lief dragged down, saw fangs dripping venom raised up…

He shuddered, the shiver passing through every limb and joint of him. No, no, it didn’t work. Desperately he took hold of his imagination and did his best to depersonalize them. They were not individuals: they were just Man, as he had seen them first in the forest. They were a single clumped unit of Man, no names, no faces, no identities.

And he couldn’t do it. He could not rid himself of his knowledge of them. He could not play out that scenario in his mind without touching on the human feelings they had taught him. He could not picture Lief paralyzed, eyes wide with panic, and think, Meat.

And they were following him, the humans. He was pattering into the dark—into the Dark—and Dion and Penthos had light enough to see their way, and so they followed. True, they had their blades out, but how ready could they be? Surely the tight turns of the caves were even less to their advantage than the forest had been.

He was agitated, ill. Had they the wit to see it, they could have read his mood precisely in every twitchy movement that he made. Instead they just plodded on with their lumbering tread, one foot in front of the other and how did they not just fall over? Except he knew, now. He understood how it was to walk with those feet, and the improbable magic of human balance, and other human things.