The healer did not appear to trust him, for a few seconds passed before she finally relented. "As thou dost wish, my Lord. When thou dost wake her, have her drink the potion. But speak quickly, for she will rapidly grow tired, and her sleep will be sound." She shuffled by him. "I will return shortly, my Lord." Then she quietly closed the door to the hall.

Alone, Blackthorn knelt before Shaana's bed. She lay there, her quilt rising and falling with quiet breaths, her hair splayed out upon her pillow and over her bare shoulders. He removed his glove, and touched her forehead. So cold, he thought, and her lips uttered a frightened murmur. With his bare fingers, he gently wiped the dampness from her brow. "Thou art still beautiful," he whispered, and gently raised her head.

When the healer's brew touched her lips, her eyelids fluttered and she murmured contentedly. Eyes still closed, she swallowed the rest of it, then lay back. "'Tis bitterer than usual," she said, voice hoarse and distant, but when she opened her eyes and smiled at him, he knew that she was there with him. "Though sadly, 'tis certainly one of the better drinks that thou hast ever made." Her hand emerged from beneath the quilt, and stroked his beard. "I knew thou wouldst come for me, my Lord."

He placed the vial upon the bed stand, then took her hand and kissed it. "I should have come for thee earlier," he said, solemnly. "I should have journeyed into the Underworld—"

"No," she said, too sharply, for her throat buckled with her coughs. When she had caught her breath, her fingers tightened around his. "Never say that. Never venture into that place." He had never seen her so afraid, never seen her lips tremble as they did now. "There is only death there..."

"No, that is not true," he whispered, "for thou didst survive."

She bolted upright; the quilt slid down from her shoulders to rest delicately on the slopes of her breasts. "I did not survive!" she snarled. Her eyes burned, then dimmed, and she lay back, exhausted, staring at the ceiling. "I did not survive," she repeated. "They simply allowed me to live."

Blackthorn brought the quilt back up to her neck. "Who? Who allowed thee to live, Shaana? Tell me. Please. What happened to thee?"

Her breath shuddered once, then she faced him. "The wraiths, my friend. Three of them. I could not move. I saw them fell our king. Saw them take him." She closed her eyes. "I was powerless to stop them."

Lord British's scribe had chronicled the same. "Remoh," Blackthorn said. "Where is he?"

She shrugged. "Lost? Dead? I am not certain." She managed to open her eyes, though it was clear it took great effort for her to stay awake. "We traveled together, he and I, for days, perhaps months. I cannot say. Time loses meaning down there. There is nothing but night." She licked her lips. "His madness grew, day by day. He had touched one of the wraiths. He would not speak of it, but I saw it. He was never the same. I remember him giggling as he wrote, sometimes screaming. I awoke at some point to simply find him gone. Perhaps he wandered off, perhaps they took him. His journal and supplies remained. I tried to read what he had chronicled. 'Twas all meaningless after that fateful day." Her lips trembled again, and her eyes welled. "I have never been so alone, dear Blackthorn. So alone and afraid. I did not know what to do."

He wiped away her tears and caressed her hand. "Thou art no longer alone," he said. "Thou wilt never be alone, not again. I shall always be with thee."