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pride. Love, it seems, has found them. A piece of the Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and the Rivenlost endure. May we not rejoice in it?"
    "It is not enough."
    "No." Ingolin glanced unthinking to the west, where Dergail's Soumanie had arisen. "Old friend," he asked, and his voice trembled for the first time in centuries. "Do you hold the answers to these questions you ask?"
    "I might," Malthus the Counselor said slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, fixing the Lord of the Ellylon with a hawk's stare. "I might. But the way will be long and difficult, and there are many things of which I am unsure."
    Ingolin spread his hands. "The aid of the Rivenlost is yours, Malthus. Only tell us how we might serve."
    "You can't, old friend," said Malthus the Counselor. "That's the problem."
     
    IN ANOTHER WING OF THE Hall of Ingolin, a fire burned low in the great hearth. Cerelinde, the granddaughter of Elterrion, gazed at it with unseeing eyes and thought about the deed to which she had committed herself this day.
    She was the Lady of the Ellylon, the last scion of the House of Elterrion. By the reckoning of her people, she was young, born after the Sundering of the world, after the grieving Ellylon had taken the name Rivenlost unto themselves. Her mother had been Erilonde, daughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Ellylon, and she had died in childbirth. Her father had been Celendril of the House of Numireth the Fleet, and he had fallen in battle against Satoris Banewreaker in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World.
    If the courage of Men had not faltered that day, her father might have lived. Haomane's Allies might have triumphed that day, and the world been made whole.
    She had never known the glory of the Souma and Haomane's presence, only the deep, enduring ache of their absence.
    That bitter knowledge had dwelled in her while generations were born and died, for, by the reckoning of Men, she was timeless. She had watched, century upon century, the proud Kings of Altoria, Altorus' sons, as they grew to manhood and took their thrones, made love and war and boasts, withered and died. She had watched as they disdained their ancient friendship with the Ellylon, watched as Satoris Banewreaker calculated his vengeance and shattered their kingdom. She had stopped watching, then, as the remnants of a once-mighty dynasty dwindled into the Borderguard of Curonan.
    Then Aracus had come; Aracus Altorus, who had been tutored by Malthus the Counselor since he was a lad. Like her, he was the last of his line.
    And he was different from those who had come before him.
    She had known it the moment she laid eyes upon him. Unlike the others, the Kings of Altoria in all their glory, Aracus was aware of the brevity of his allotted time; had measured it against the scope of the Sunderer's plan and determined to spend it to the greatest effect. She had seen it in his face, in the wide-set, demanding gaze.
    He understood the price both of them would have to pay.
    And something in her had… quickened.
    In the hall outside the hearth chamber she heard the sound of his bootheels striking the white marble floors, echoing louder than any Ellyl's tread. She heard the quiet murmur of words exchanged with Lord Ingolin's guards. And then he was there, standing before the hearth, the scent of horses and leather and night air clinging to his dun-grey cloak. He had ridden hard to return to her side. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with weariness.
    "Cerelinde."
    "Aracus."
    She stood to greet him. He was tall for a Man and their eyes were on a level. She searched his face. In the dim firelight, it was strange to see the glint of red-gold stubble on his chin. He was Arahila's Child, and not of her kind.
    "Is it done?" she asked.
    "Aye," he said. "The Borderguard carry word of our betrothal."
    Cerelinde looked away. "How long before it reaches the Sunderer's ears?"
    "It has done so." He took her hand. "Cerelinde," he said. "The Sunderer flaunts his defiance. The red