They were the Rivenlost.
And Elterrion the Bold had been their Lord, once; but he was dead, and with him Cerion the Navigator and Numireth the Fleet, who were also Lords of the Rivenlost. Only Ingolin was left, who was called the Wise.
Lilias gazed down upon him and felt pity, which she had not expected. A simple fillet of gold bound his shining hair and his brow was marked with worry. His eyes were grey as a storm, and deep with sorrow. How not, when they bore the shadows of centuries unnumbered? Urulat had not been Sundered when Ingolin first walked the earth. Perhaps, if he had been Lord of the Rivenlost in the First Age of the Sundered World and not Elterrion the Bold, it might have been different. Ingolin the Wise spread his arms, his lips shaping words clear enough for her to read: What do you want?
Her marble lips moved, forming the answer.
“I WANT MALTHUS … AND HIS SOUMANIË. BRING THEM TO BESHTANAG.” Chaos followed on the heels of her words. How they quarreled, the Sons of Men! Lilias kept her stone eyes fixed on the Lord of the Rivenlost. “THE LADY IS YOURS IN TRADE.”
A flash of red-gold, caught in periphery. Aracus Altorus had leapt upon the table, his boot-heels scarring the polished wood, his sword-arm cocked. His face was lit with fury and in his hand he held the haft of a standard, snatched from a wall. With a soundless cry, he hurled it at her like a javelin.
A pennant fluttered in midflight. An argent scroll, half open upon a field of sage; the device of the House of Ingolin.
So much and no more did Lilias see before the pointed iron finial that tipped the standard struck, marble shattering at the force of the blow. She cried out loud, feeling her brow-bone splinter at the bridge of her nose, clapping both hands over her face.
“Aaahhhh!”
The pain was unspeakable. Dimly, Lilias was aware that in the great hall of Meronil, blow after blow was struck at the pediment, gouging chunks of marble, destroying forever the head of Meronin, Haergan’s creation. For the most part, she was aware only of agony, of splintered bones piercing her flesh as she writhed on the floor of the dragon’s cavern, the bronze mirror forgotten beside her.
“My lady, my lady!” It was Gergon’s voice, uncharacteristically terrified. Her Ward Commander’s strong hands covered hers, trying to draw them away from her face. “Are you injured? Lady, let me see!”
“Hurts,” Lilias managed to whisper. “Oh blessed Haomane, it hurts!”
Lilias. Lilias, it is only an illusion.
“Calandor, help me!”
The dragon’s bulk shifted, rasping on the stony floor. One mighty claw reached, talons closing delicately on the round mirror. “Ssstand back, Ssson of Man!”
Gergon scrambled backward, holding her against his chest with one strong arm. With pain-stilted eyes, Lilias peered through her fingers as the dragon bent his sinuous neck. Scales glinted dully as he lowered his head to the object he held in the talons of one uplifted claw. The pale armor of his underbelly expanded as he drew breath.
The dragon roared.
Fire shot from Calandor’s gaping jaws; blue-hot at its core, the flames a fierce orange shading to yellow. Gripped in his talons, Haergan’s mirror melted, droplets of bronze falling molten and sizzling to the cavern floor.
The connection was broken.
The pain stopped.
Cautiously, Lilias felt at her face. It was whole and intact, no bone-splinters piercing her smooth skin. No pain, only the ghost of its memory. There, on her brow, was the Soumanië, nearly lifeless. “Calandor?”
“Forgive me, Liliasss.” The dragon sounded contrite. “I did not … antissssipate … such violence.”
“You’re all right then, my lady?” Gergon asked with gruff solicitude.
“My lady!” Pietre burst into the cavern, flinging himself to his knees. There were tears in his eyes. “I thought you were killed!”
“Not yet, sweetling.” She smiled at him through deep-rooted exhaustion. They were there, they were all there, her pretty ones, crowding behind Pietre. Not wholly willing, not all of them, no, she had not always chosen wisely—there was Radovan, scowling, near time to release him, and sullen Manja—but there was worried Stepan, dusky-eyed Anna, and dear Sarika biting her trembling lip. “Only tired, now.”
“I’ll take you to your quarters, my lady.” Without waiting for permission, Pietre scooped her into his arms and stood. To his credit, he only shivered a little at the dragon’s amused regard.
Too weary to object, Lilias allowed it. Gergon snapped orders, his wardsmen falling in around them. It was a frightening thing, to be this weak, even with a Soumanië in her possession. Now, more than ever, Beshtanag needed her.
Rest, Lilias. Recover.
She nodded in silent answer, knowing the dragon understood. Beneath her cheek, the bare skin of Pietre’s chest was warm and resilient. Such a heady elixir, youth! Lilias felt her thousand years of age. It came at a price, cheating death. If her flesh did not show it, still, she felt it in her bones, now as never before. Had she invoked Haomane’s name in her agony? Yes, and there was something fearful in it. Pietre murmured endearments under his breath, walking as though he held something precious in his arms. I should let him go, Lilias thought. I should let them all go, before danger comes. But I am old, and I am afraid of being alone.
Calandor?
I am here, Lilias.
It was enough. It had to be enough. It was the bargain she had made, a thousand years ago. And it had always, always endured. As long as it did, nothing else mattered. The thing was done, the die cast. Why, then, this foreboding?
Calandor?
Lilias, you must rest.
Calandor, where are Lord Satoris’ men?
“Right.” Carfax surveyed his men with a sharp eye. “Vilbar, scrub your face again. Use marsh-root if you have to. You’re still spatch-cocked with dye.”
“That river water stinks, Lieutenant!”
“I don’t care,” he said ruthlessly. “Scrub it! Turin, Mantuas, Hunric—you understand your mission?” There was silence in answer. Mantuas, holding his mount’s reins, kicked stubbornly at a clump of sedge grass. “You understand?”
“Don’t worry, sir.” Hunric leaned on his pommel. “I’ll see ’em through the Delta and on to Beshtanag.”
“Good. With luck, we’ll be no more than a day behind you. But whatever happens here, you need to report what we’ve seen to the Sorceress of the East. Nowt,”—Carfax drew a deep breath—“are the rest of you ready?”
They shouted a resounding yes. With the last remnants of dye washed from their skin, and beards beginning to grow, they looked more like Staccians, members of the boldest nation on earth; Fjel-friends, frost-warriors, allies of the Banewreaker himself. Had they not slain scores of the enemy at Lindanen Dale? And if they could do this thing, if they could capture Malthus’ Company and prevent the Prophecy from being fulfilled …
A grin stretched Carfax’s face. Lord Satoris would be pleased, mightily pleased. Mayhap pleased enough to consider making the Three into Four. Immortality would be a fine thing, indeed.
He drew his sword. “For the honor of Darkhaven!”
TWELVE