“The moon-garden lies within the confines of Darkhaven,” Tanaros said. “The rookery does not I am responsible for your security, Cerelinde.”
She glanced briefly at him. Despite her fear, a faint smile touched her lips. “Do you fear I will use Ellyl magic to effect an escape?”
“Yes,” he said honestly. “I do. I fear enchantments of the sort you invoked in Cuilos Tuillenrad. And I fear …” Tanaros took a deep breath. “I fear I do not trust myself to resist your beseechment, should you seek to beguile me. It is best that the Havenguard are here.”
Color rose to her cheeks, and her reply was unwontedly sharp. “I did not beseech you to do this, Tanaros!”
“True.” He disengaged his arm. “Shall we go back?”
Cerelinde hesitated, searching his face. “Is it truly outside?”
“Yes.” He answered without hesitating, without pausing to consider the pleasure it gave him to answer her with the truth. “It is outside. Well and truly, Cerelinde.”
She turned away, averting her gaze. Strands of her hair, as pale as corn silk, clung to his velvet-clad shoulder. “Then I would fain see it, my lord Blacksword,” she murmured. “I would walk under the light of Haomane’s sun.”
Tanaros bowed. “Then so you shall.”
They exited Darkhaven through the northern portal, with its vast doors that depicted the Council of the Six Tribes, in which the Fjeltroll Elders had voted to pledge their support to Lord Satoris; he to whom they had given shelter, he who had sought to teach the Fjel such Gifts as Haomane had withheld. Tanaros wished that Cerelinde had noticed the depiction and inquired about it. There was much he would have liked to discuss with her, including the quixotic nature of Haomane’s Gift, the gift of thought, which only Arahila’s Children shared.
But beyond the doors, there was daylight.
“Ah, Haomane!” Cerelinde breathed the word like a prayer. Relinquishing his arm, she ran on ahead with swift, light steps; into the daylight, into the open air. Although the sky was leaden and grey, she opened her arms to it, turning her face upward like a sunflower. And there, of a surety, was the sun. A pale disk, glimpsed through the clouds that hovered over the Vale of Gorgantum. “Tanaros!” she cried. “The sun!”
“Aye, Lady.” He was unable to repress a smile. “’Tis where you left it.”
Her face was alight with pleasure. “Mock me if you must, Tanaros, but the light of the sun is the nearest thing to Haomane’s presence, without which the Rivenlost fade and dwindle. Do not despise me for taking joy in it.”
“Lady, I do not.” It seemed to him, in that moment, he could never despise her. “Shall we proceed?”
He escorted her down the paths that led into beechwood. Although the wood lay within the vast, encircling wall that surrounded Darkhaven, the dense trees blotted out any glimpse of its borders. Were it not that the trees grew dark and twisted, their trunks wrenched around knotted boles, they might have been anywhere in Urulat.
Once they were beneath the wood’s canopy, Tanaros gave way, allowing Cerelinde to precede him, wandering freely along the trail. The Mørkhar padded behind them, heavy treads crunching on the beech-mast. Autumn was approaching and the leaves were beginning to turn. Elsewhere, they would have taken on a golden hue. Here in Darkhaven, a splotch of deepest crimson blossomed in the center of the jagged spearhead of each leaf, shading to dark green on the outer edges.
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.”
Tanaros sat opposite Cerelinde and beheld that which made the Midlander tremble. He pitied the lad, for a wish granted was a dangerous thing; and yet. Ah, Shapers, the glory of her! It was a light, a light that shone from within—it was Haomane’s love, shining like a kiss upon her brow. It was present in every part of her; bred into the very fineness of her bones, the soaring architecture of the flesh. All at once, it enhanced and shamed its surroundings.
And she was pleased.
In all his prolonged years, he had never seen such a thing. One of the Ellyl; pleased. Her heart gladdened by what Tanaros had done. It was reflected in the gentle curve of her lips. It was reflected in her eyes, in the limitless depths of her pupils, in the pleated luminosity of her irises, those subtle colors like a rainbow after rain. And although her mood had not yet passed, it would. The thought filled him with a prescient nostalgia. Already he longed to see it once more; yearned to be, in word and deed, a Man as would gladden the heart of the Lady of the Ellylon and coax forth this brightness within her. Who would not wish to be such a Man?
“Cerelinde.” He hoisted his goblet to her.
“Tanaros.” Her smile deepened. “Thank you.”
“Kaugh!”
Tanaros startled at the sound, then laughed. He extended an arm. In a flurry of black wings, Fetch launched himself from a nearby branch, alighting on Tanaros’ forearm. “This,” he said fondly, “is who I wanted you to meet.” He glanced at Speros, feeling an obscure guilt. “Or what, I should say.”