Probing, she had found it. There were not one, but two souls trapped within the Marasoumië; no mere mortals, but beings of power, under whose influence the Ways buckled and flexed. One bore a power equal to her own, a very Soumanië, and only the complete exhaustion of his energies kept him from wielding it. The other was one of the Branded, and the mark of Godslayer and a Shaper’s power upon his flesh kept the Marasoumië from devouring him entire. For the rest, it was sheer stubbornness that kept him alive, forcing the Ways to bend to his will.
Either way, it was unsafe to enter.
She had stared at the node-point for a long time. Once, she might have dared it, when she was young enough to be fearless in her abilities. Not now, when she had spent so much of herself, pouring it into the stone and wood of this place. In the end, did it matter? Beshtanag was her home. She didn’t know where she would go if she fled it.
So she had stayed.
A hunting-party emerged from the fringe of the forest, whooping in triumph. They carried long poles over their shoulders, a pair of deer between them. Regent Martinek’s men, clad in his leather armor overlaid with steel rings. Lilias ground her teeth. Already, they had scoured her smallholders’ estates, laying claim to their flocks. Where the armies of Men were camped, the ground was strewn with mutton-bones. Now, they took the bounty of the forest itself while her people went hungry.
“My lady.”
It was Gergon, his helmet under his arm. He looked unspeakably tired.
“Ward Commander.” Lilias made room for him upon the balcony. “What is it?”
“It is said … “He paused, surveying Haomane’s Allies. In the waning sunlight, the Ellyl herald was stepping forth to give his third utterance of the day, demanding in a clarion voice the surrender of the Lady Cerelinde. Gergon met her gaze, his features blunt and honest “You were heard, in the reception hall, where you took ill, my lady. It is said Darkhaven’s army is not coming. Is it true?”
Lilias did not answer, watching the Ellyl herald. How could armor shine thusly? It flamed in the slanted rays of sunlight as he turned on his heel, marching back to rejoin the Rivenlost. They held themselves apart from the armies of Men, from the Pelmaran encampment and their feast of bones. Only Aracus Altorus strode between them, stitching together their alliance, Haomane’s Children and Arahila’s, keeping them united for the sake of the woman he loved; the woman he believed she held captive.
“Is it true?” Gergon’s voice was soft and insistent.
What folly, what amazing folly! To think that they had come so far and fought so hard for naught. “No,” she said. “It is a lie.”
Her Ward Commander gave a sigh from the depths of his being. “Shapers be blessed! Where are they, my lady? How long will it be?”
She met his eyes unflinching. “Three days. They travel from Jakar.”
Gergon gave a grim nod and bowed to her. “Then we will hold.”
“Good.” Lilias bit her lip and swallowed hard. The lie, spoken, seemed to lodge in her throat. And yet what else was there to do? Haomane’s Allies might grant merciful terms if she surrendered, but they would take no pity on her. Beshtanag would be dismantled, the Soumanië stripped from her. And Calandor … they would slay him if they could. She wanted to weep; for herself, for Gergon, for all of Beshtanag. But it would not do to let Gergon see her weak. Gathering her skirts, Lilias brushed past him. “Carry on, commander.”
In her quarters, Sarika startled to her feet, but she shook her head at the girl. Let her get some rest. All her people were hollow-eyed for lack of sleep and hunger. Haomane’s Allies had come early; the siege had already endured longer than anticipated. Unattended, Lilias made her way through the fortress, the lie churning in her belly. It would give them hope, for a little while. How long, she could not say.
Her feet trod a familiar path along the stone hallways of Beshtanag, taking her to the tiny egress hidden at the rear of the fortress. For once, it was unguarded; every man who could be spared was on the siege-lines. This too did not matter. No one went this way save her except under duress. Lilias slipped through the door and started up the winding path, heedful of sharp rocks beneath her slippers. After the claustrophobic atmosphere of the fortress, it was good to be outdoors.
The mountain stretched down below her, ringed around with the great wall she had raised. She allowed herself a moment to contemplate it with satisfaction. Even viewed from above, it was a formidable obstacle and, for all their numbers, Haomane’s Allies had not breached it yet.
They were trying, though. There, on the eastern side, a group of Altorus’ Borderguardsmen had built a roaring fire, seeking to weaken the bindings that held the granite together. Lilias paused, frowning down at them. Tiny figures clustered around a mighty log, a battering ram with its prow sheathed in bronze. Closing her eyes, she probed the section of wall they assailed.
There … yes, there. A breach-point, where the smooth stone, annealed by fire, threatened to crack, remembering the composite rocks from which it had been rendered. Faint lines showed on its surface. Drawing on the Soumanië, she Shaped it, restoring it to a seamless whole.
The effort left her weak.
It didn’t matter. At the top of the mountain, Calandor was waiting. Gorse bushes caught at her skirts, dragging her back. Lilias tore free, forcing her way upward. Step by weary step, she made her way to the crest of Beshtanag Mountain. When she reached the mouth of the cavern, she was breathless.
He was there, waiting.
“You knew,” she panted, the tears coming unbidden. “You knew!”
For a long time, the dragon was silent; then he moved, one clawed foot scraping the cavern floor as his mighty head lowered until one green-gold eye was level with hers. “No, Liliasss.” A deep voice, laden with sorrow and sulfur fumes. “Only what mussst be. Not when, nor how.”
“Why?” Her voice cracked. “Why?”
He let her strike him then, her soft fists thudding against his bronze-plated cheeks and jaw. His sinuous neck bent to gather her in a protective coil. “All things musst be as they mussst, little sssisster,” Calandor murmured, his voice rumbling in his furnace-chest beneath her ear. “All things.”
Defeated, she slumped against him. “Must it be now?”
The dragon moved, his vanes stirring. “Is it your wish that I carry you, Liliasss? Far away? To Sstaccia, with itss ice and sssnow?”
Uncertain, she drew back. “Is there such a place, where no one could find us?”
“Yesss.” The dragon’s eyes glowed with regret. “And no. For a time, Liliasss. Only that. In the end, they will always find usss. Is it your wish?”
Walking away, she stood with her back to him, gazing down the mountain. There were dozens of campfires burning at its base. The evening breeze carried the faint strains of revelry and shouting. Inside the wall, Gergon’s warders paced the perimeter, or hunkered around braziers and gnawed half-rations, keeping a watchful eye out for assaults. How many, she wondered, would live to see the end of this? They were her people. For generation upon generation, Lilias had bound them to her service. Her actions had brought this fate upon them. It was too late to undo what was done, and yet, if she could do nothing else, at least she would not abandon them.
She would stand or fall with Beshtanag.
It was not much, but it was all she had to offer.
“No,” she said. “I will stay.”
Even for the Gulnagel, it was difficult.