They robed him and led him, gently, to his great ironwood chair. It, too, was carved in the likeness of a bear. That had been his family's insignia, once. Now it was his, and his alone. He sank into it, into the familiar curves, the ironwood having conformed over long centuries of wear to his own shape. One of his handmaids fetched a pitcher of Vedasian wine, pouring him a brimming goblet. He quaffed half at a gulp, while another handmaid hurried to the door, her soft voice ordering a message relayed to the kitchen. A meal in nine courses, including soup to whet his appetite, a brace of pigeon, a whole rack of lamb, grilled turbot, a cheese course and sweets to follow. His belly growled plaintively at the prospect. This day called for sustenance on a grand scale. He drank off the rest of the goblet's contents, held it out to be refilled, and drank again. Warmth spread throughout him from within. The wine began to ease his stiff joints, rendering the throbbing bruise on his knee a distant ache. His free arm lay in magisterial repose over the top of the chair's, fingers curling into the bear's paws. His feet were propped on soft cushions. He groaned as another of his handmaids knelt, kneading his stockinged soles with her thumbs.
"Is it good, my lord?" Her blue-grey eyes gazed up at him. There was a spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. They would have been innocent, those eyes, save for a reflection of gold coin held cunning in their depths. The youngest daughter of a Staccian lordling, she knew where her family's margin of profit lay. "Your supper will arrive anon."
"Aye," he said gently, thinking of the Lady Cerelinde's blush, of her terrible beauty, and the scent of vulnus-blossom. Some things were better measured in coin. " 'Tis good, sweetling."
A scratch at the door announced the arrival of his supper. Vorax inhaled deeply as the dishes were uncovered and the savory aroma of food filled his quarters. His Staccian handmaids helped him to the table, filled to groaning with his repast. They brought the wine-pitcher, placing his goblet in easy reach. Eyeing the repast, he selected a bowl of consomme and raised it to his lips with both hands.
It would take a mountain of food to ease the memory of his misstep in the Chamber, of Lord Satoris' anger, of the silence out of Staccia, of the madlings' gathering, of the Lady of the Ellylon's presence among them, and above all, of that gaping chasm in the secret heart of Darkhaven.
Drinking deep from the bowl, Vorax began.
"GO, LADY, GO!" MEARA ACTUALLY shoved her from behind, then snatched her hands back as if the touch burned. Caught unawares, Cerelinde stumbled over the threshold of the hidden door, pushing the heavy tapestry aside to enter her quarters.
It was blessedly quiet within.
She sat on the edge of her bed, willing her heartbeat to slow, remembering candlelight reflecting from the edge of Vorax's sword and meditating upon the nearness of death. This must be, she thought, the way warriors felt in the aftermath of battle; a strange mix of latent terror and exhilaration. Meara paced the boundaries of the room, peering anxiously into every corner. Where she trod upon the soft carpets, the scent of bruised heart-grass followed in a ghostly reminder of the Ellylon weavers who had woven them long ago.
"It is safe," she pronounced at length. "No one is here."
"That is well." Her calm restored, Cerelinde inclined her head. "Forgive me, Meara. Perhaps the venture was ill-advised. I would not wish any of you to be placed in danger."
The madling shot her a glance. "He's right, you know. Lord Vorax is. You should leave the Lord General alone. There's nothing but death in it, death and blood and more madness. You should leave us alone. Why don't you? Why did he have to bring you here?"
"Meara." She spread her hands, helpless. "To that, I cannot speak. You know I am a hostage here. It is a small gift, a small kindness. You asked me to share it. Since it is all I have to offer, I did."
"I know." Meara hunkered at the foot of the bed. "Aye, I know, I did. We are the broken ones, we who want to know. They should not have left us, and they should not have brought you. They should have known better, and you should never have shown me kindness, no." She gnawed on her thumbnail, then asked abruptly, "Lady, what would you have seen for Lord Vorax? Would you have shown him what the shape of Urulat would be if he had chosen elsewise?"
"No." Cerelinde shook her head. "A glimpse of the life he might have had, nothing more; a life that would have ended long, long ago. More than that, I cannot say. We are only afforded a faint glimpse, Meara, beyond the greatest of branchings in a single life. It is a small gift, truly."
"Why?"
She gazed at the madling with sorrow and compassion. "We are Rivenlost, Meara. We were left behind upon the shores of Urulat, while the Bright Ones, those among his Children whom Haomane held dearest, dwell beside him upon the crown of Torath. In curiosity, in innocent desire, those of us who are the Rivenlost wandered too far from Haomane's side, and we were stranded when the world was Sundered. This small gift was won in bitter hours, when the eldest among us wondered and sought to pierce the veil. What if we had been more diligent? What if we had stood at the Lord-of-Thought's side during the Sundering? It has been passed down, this gift. We, too, batter our hearts against what might have been."