Yes. These were his people.
"Admit no one," he told the Fjel on guard outside his door. "I will rest."
In his quarters, everything was immaculate. The lamps had been trimmed, the bed-linens were crisp and clean. There were madlings who never left the laundry, taking a remorseless joy in toiling over boiling vats of suds and water, expunging filth. His armor of carbon-blackened steel was arrayed on its stand, each piece polished to a menacing gleam. Buckles and straps had been oiled and replaced. It waited for him to fill it, an empty suit, a warrior of shadows. In the corner, the black sword rested propped in its scabbard. Not even a madling would touch it without permission.
His blood, thought Tanaros, my Lord's blood.
There was a tray laid unasked-for on the table, steam seeping beneath the covered dish-domes. Peering under one, he found a pair of quail in a honey glaze; another held wild rice, and yet another a mess of stewed greens. For dessert, a plate of cheeses and grapes sat uncovered. Candlelight danced over the table, illuminating the soft, misty bloom on the purple grapes.
Drawing up a chair, Tanaros sat and ate, and tried not to think how lonely, how terribly lonely, his quarters were. He missed Fetch, but the raven was gone, the half-frozen fledgling grown into a full-fledged bird, another daring scout in Ushahin Dreamspinner's strange army. Digging into his pocket, he found Hyrgolf's rhios and set it on the table. The sight of it soothed him, the river sprite's face laughing from its rounded curves.
"Is it to your liking, my Lord General?"
Tanaros started at the soft, unfamiliar voice, rising from his chair and half-drawing his dagger. Seeing Meara, he eased. "How did you get in here?"
The madling sidled toward the table, tangled hair hiding her face as she nodded toward his bathing-chamber. "This is Darkhaven. There are ways and ways, Lord General. Is the meal to your liking?"
"Yes," he said gently, pushing away the plate of picked quail bones. "Meara, you should not be here. Is it not our Lord's wish that you attend the Lady Cerelinde?"
"The Lady Cerelinde." Meara sidled closer, her features contorting in a whimper. "It hurts to serve her. She pities us, Lord General. And she grieves, in the manner of the Ellylon. She turns her face to the wall, and orders us away. It was never my wish to leave you, Lord Tanaros. Do you not know it?"
Close, so close! In a paroxysm of courage, she reached him.
Touched him, descended on him.
He could smell the heat of her flesh, of her womanhood. Her hands were on him, beneath the collar of his tunic, sliding against the hard flesh of his chest, the raised ridges of his brand. Tanaros gritted his teeth as her weight straddled him. "Meara…"
"Oh, my lord, my lord!" Her face, so close to his, eyes wide.
"Meara, no."
"He was the Sower, once." Wide eyes, pupils fixed. Her breath was warm against his skin, unexpectedly sweet. "Do you not wonder, Tanaros, do you not know? It was his Gift, when he had one!"
Her mouth touched his, her teeth nipping at his underlip, the tip of her tongue probing. Her weight, warm and welcome, encompassing him. Jolted by desire, he stood upright, his hands encircling her waist to dump her unceremoniously onto the floor, her skull jolting at the impact.
"Meara, no!"
She laughed, then. Limbs akimbo, she laughed, bitter and shrill. "General Tanaros Blacksword! Some hero, some man you are, Tanaros Wifeslayer! Did you offer your wife so little satisfaction? No wonder she found cold comfort in your bed! No wonder she turned to the Altorus to quicken her womb!"
"ENOUGH!" Stooping, unthinking, he struck her across the face.
She whimpered.
"Meara, forgive me." Filled with remorse, Tanaros knelt at her side, dabbing with the hem of his overtunic at a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. "Forgive me, I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt you."
"Poor General." Her eyes were curiously limpid, as if the blow had cleared her wits. She touched his hand with gentle fingers, cupping it against her bruised cheek, caressing his knuckles. "Poor Tanaros. Does it hurt so much, even still?"
Her skin was warm and soft and the pity in her eyes terrified him. Withdrawing from her, he straightened. "You should go now."
Gathering her skirts around her, she stood. Not beautiful, no. A woman, not yet old, with tangled hair and skin sallow for lack of sunlight. She would have been pretty, once, in an ordinary, mortal way. Pity in her gaze, and a terrible knowledge. "I warned you, my lord." she said softly. "You should have heeded me. She will break your heart. She will break all our hearts."
"My heart." He shook his head, touching his branded chest. "No, Meara. That lesson, I learned too well. My heart is dedicated to Lord Satoris' service. No other."