He saw the tray then and understood that, too. Ushahin Dreamspinner shook his head gently, releasing her. “Do not speak to me of what you carry, Meara. Whatever it is, I may not know it for certain.”
“I’m … I’m not certain, my lord. But whatever it is, is it worth …” She swallowed, tasting the bitter taste. “Defying his Lordship?”
“Out of loyalty, yes.” A somber expression settled over his uneven features. “Do not fear. Whatever you do, I will protect you. Betimes it falls to madness to preserve sanity, child. Too many things have transpired, and now, in Neherinach, something further. An entire company of Fjel is missing.” He shook his head once more, frowning into the unseen distance. “I sent my ravens too far afield, seeking the Bearer, and there were none that saw. It was an error. Yet there are too few of them for all of Haomane’s Allies afoot, and the Bearer’s pace swifter than I reckoned. How was I to know?”
“My lord?” Meara was confused.
“Never mind.” Lord Ushahin smiled at her. “Serve the Lady her supper, Meara.”
The halls had never seemed so long. She would have taken the secret ways, but General Tanaros had barred from within the entrances that led into the Lady’s chambers. He was wary of her safety. Meara’s rapid footfalls echoed, setting off a series of endless reverberations. She caught glimpses of her reflection in the shining black marble with its glimmering striations of marrow-fire; a hunched figure, scuttling and fearful. She remembered the might-have-been that the Lady Cerelinde had shown her: a pretty woman in an apron kneading dough, her hands dusty with flour. A man had entered the kitchen, embracing her from behind, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. He was tall and handsome, with dark hair.
It was a fierce hurt to cling to. The Lady Cerelinde should never have shown her something that nice. It hurt too much. Kindness was not always kind, even when people begged for it.
A pair of Havenguard were posted outside the Lady’s door, Mørkhar Fjel, black and bristling. They were loyal to General Tanaros. Meara held her breath as they examined her tray, lowering their massive heads, sniffing at it with flared nostrils. She kept her head low, tangled hair hiding her face. She knew they could smell her fear, but the Fjel would not think it strange, not in one of Darkhaven’s madlings, who were prey to all manner of terror. She did not know if they could smell poison; or if, indeed, there was poison.
There must be poison.
If there was, it was nothing the Fjel could detect; nothing that was deadly to them. Little could harm the constitution of a Fjeltroll. They unbarred the door and granted her admittance into the Lady’s chamber.
Maybe there was no poison.
And then she was inside, and there was the Lady Cerelinde, tall and shining. All the light in the room seemed to gather around her, clinging to her as though it loved her. It shimmered down the length of her golden hair, clung to her silken robes, rested on her solemn, beautiful face in loving benison. Unfair; oh, unfair! It filled her with a terrible yearning for all the lost beauty of the world, all that might have been, and was not. No wonder General Tanaros’ face softened when he gazed upon her. Meara ducked her head and ground her teeth, remembering how he had spurned her advances.
She was a fool; no, he was a fool. She would have been content with a little, with so little. Was there madness in it, or a desperate sanity? She could no longer tell. Love, soup, poison, loyalty, folly. Which was which?
The Lady smiled at her as she placed the tray upon the table. “Thank you, Meara.”
What did it cost her to be gracious? It was all the same in the end. She was one of the Ellylon. They had turned their back on Lord Ushahin when he was no more than an innocent babe, because he was not good enough, though their blood ran in his veins. Tainted by violence, tainted by the seed of Arahila’s Children, who had accepted Lord Satoris’ Gift. No one was good enough for them. For her.
Not Meara, who was only to be pitied.
Not General Tanaros, who protected her.
Not even his Lordship, no; Lord Satoris, who turned no one away. Whose Shaper’s heart was vast enough to embrace all of them, even though he bled. Who saw in Ushahin Dreamspinner something rare and wonderful, who understood his pain and respected it. Who offered all of those whom the other Shapers had abandoned this sanctuary, who gave them a reason to live and to serve, who valued the least of their contributions.
Meara loved him; she did.
And still her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth as the Lady of the Ellylon lifted the lid from the crock, steam escaping. Was it right? What was right? Did it matter? The thought made her uneasy, setting a tide of gibberish rising in her mind, the words she had spoken echoing in the vault of her skull.
You should kill her, you know. It would be for the best.
The Lady Cerelinde lowered her silver spoon, filling it with broth, and lifted it to her lips, blowing gently across the steaming surface. Meara would have done the same. It wasn’t fair. Were they so different, Arahila’s Children and Haomane’s? Thought chased itself around her mind, mingling with her words, her shattered visions and fragmented memories, until a dark pit opened before her. It was as it had been since she was a child of twelve. The world tilted and her thoughts spiraled helplessly, sliding into a chaos of repetition and babble, seeking to give voice to a pattern too vast to compass.
The spoon halted on its journey. “Meara?”
She clutched her head, seeking to silence the rising tide within it.
Be for the best for the best of the rest for the best for the blessed beast for the rest the beast blessed for the beaten breast of the blessed rest be eaten lest the breast be wrest for the quest of the blessed for the best beast that blessed the rest . . .
Words, slipping between her clutching fingers, slipping onto her seething tongue, sliding between her clenched teeth.
… eaten lest the blessed beast be beaten lest the beaten rest be left bereft lest the breast bereft be cleft lest the blessed be wrest …
Words and words and words crawling like insects in her mind, dropping from her lips, a rising tide of them; and somewhere, more words, other words, resonant and ringing, words as bright and straight and orderly as the blade of a sword.
The Lady Cerelinde was standing, was speaking; Ellylon words, words of power and ancient magics, words like a sword, bright and blazing. Each syllable rang like a bell, driving back the dark tide of madness, and Meara wept to see it go, for the awful remorse that came in its stead was worse.
In the silence that followed, the Lady turned back to the table. Droplets of broth had spattered the white linen. In a slow, reluctant gesture, she extended one hand above the steaming crock and whispered a soft incantation. There was a ring on her finger, set with a pale and glowing moonstone. Even as Meara watched, the stone darkened, turning a remorseless shade of black.
If it could have spoken, it would have uttered a single word: Poison.
“Oh, Meara!” The Lady’s voice was redolent with sorrow. “Why?”
“Lady, what is it?” Meara scuttled forward, despising herself for her flinching movements, for the remorse she felt. She clapped the lid on the crock, making the poison vanish. “Is it not to your liking, the soup?” she asked, feigning anxiety. “Thom did but try a new recipe. If you do not like it, I will bring another.”