There was another sound. The dragon’s roar.
It hurt Carfax to move his head, but he did. Enough to see the black horn of Oronin’s Bow silhouetted against the sky and the blazing shaft of the Arrow it held taut. Enough to see the tension in her body as the stooping dragon began its last dive, growing from a dwindling speck of brightness to a massive comet. Fianna’s legs were trembling, though she had her feet firmly planted. He saw the strong muscles of her calves quivering in fear. But she was the Archer of Arduan and her arms held steady. In the midst of chaos and battle, she held. Even in the face of the dragon’s dive, as its wings shadowed the sky and its gleaming talons threatened to gouge the earth.
Even when its jaws gaped wide, revealing the depths of its impossible gullet, and fire spewed from the furnace of its belly. With tears on her face, she held her ground, shoulders braced, a shaft of white-gold fire blazing in the arc of horn and hair circumscribed by her hands. As he watched, her lips shaped a single, desperate prayer and her fingers released the string.
The Archer of Arduan shot the Arrow of Fire.
Trailing white-gold glory, it flew true between the dragon’s jaws; flew true and pierced the gullet, pierced the mighty furnace of its belly. There was an explosion, then; a column of fire that seared the skies, while Men and Ellylon flung themselves to earth, and from somewhere, a cry, a terrible descant like the sound of a heart breaking asunder.
Dying, the dragon fell.
The impact made the mountain shudder.
Once the tremors faded there was a great deal of activity. Crushed Men screaming, defeated Men surrendering. Hailing shouts, and orders given crisply. Ellylon voices like a choir, intermingled with the sound of horns. A name uttered in a futile paean. None of it had anything to do with him. Carfax closed his eyes, and did not open them for a long time. It would have been better not to know. Still, he looked. Near him, so near him, a massive jaw lay quiescent on the scree, attached to a sinuous neck. Twin spirals of smoke trickled from bronze nostrils, wisping into nothingness in the empty air. The massive body lay beyond the bounds of his vision, broken-winged. Life was fading from a green-gilt eye. “I’m sorry,” Carfax said; or tried to say, mouthing the words. There was no strength in his lungs to voice them, and his eardrums were broken. “I’m sorry.”
Distant shouting; victory cries.
In a green-gilt eye, a dying light flickered, and a faint voice spoke in his mind. This battle is not of your making, Arahila’s Child. You played your part. Be forgiven. And then words, three words, wrested forth in an agonizing wrench, one final throe before the end. Lilias! Forgive me!
Not for him. No matter. It was enough.
Carfax sighed, and died.
TWENTY-SIX
The crash shook the very foundations of Beshtanag.
Brightness, fading. All the brightness in the world. Kneeling on the terrace, Lilias bent double and clutched at her belly, feeling Calandor’s death go through her like a spear. Her throat was raw from the cry his fall had torn from her and her heart ached within her, broken shards grinding one another into dust.
Whatever scant hope remained, his final agonized words destroyed.
Lilias! Forgive me!
Calandor! No!
She clung to the fading contact until his mighty heartbeat slowed and stopped forever. Gone. No more would the sun gleam on his scales, no more would he spread his wings to ride the drafts. Never again would she see a smile in the blink of a green-slitted eye. Her heart was filled with bitter ashes and the Soumanie was a dead ember on her brow, scraping the flagstones as she rocked in her grief, pressing her forehead to the grey stones. For a thousand years he had been her mentor, her friend, her soul’s companion. More than she knew. More than she had ever known. “Calandor,” she whispered. “Oh, Calandor! Please, no!”
In her mind, only silence answered.
Huddled over the flagstones, the Sorceress of the East grieved.
“My lady.” At length a hand touched her shoulder. Lilias raised her tear-streaked face to meet Pietre’s worried gaze. He nodded toward the base of the mountain, the linked chains of silver that bound him to her will gleaming around his throat. “They are coming.”
They were coming.
Calandor was dead.
On stiff limbs she rose, staggering under the weight of her robes. Pietre’s hand beneath her elbow assisted her, nearby, Sarika hovered, her pretty face a study in anguish. At the base of Beshtanag Mountain, her wall lay in ruins. Beyond—no. She could not look beyond the wall, where Calandor’s corpse rose like a hillock. Inside the gap, Haomane’s Allies were accepting the surrender of her Chief Warder. Even as she looked, Gergon lay his sword at Aracus Altorus’ feet and pointed toward the terrace.
“Our archers—” Pietre hissed.
“No.” With a weary gesture, Lilias cut him short, touching his cheek. There was courage of a kind in resolve. “Sweetling, it is over. We are defeated. Escort me to my throne room. I will hear their terms there.”
They did, one on either side of her, and she was grateful for their assistance, for the necessity their presence imposed. Without it, she could gladly have laid down and died. Step by step, they led her into the grey halls of Beshtanag, past the silent censure of her people, hollow-eyed and hungry. They had trusted her, and she had failed them. Now they awaited salvation from another quarter. Her liveried servants, who wore no collars of servitude, had vanished. Her throne room seemed empty and echoing, and the summer sunlight that slanted through the high, narrow windows felt a mockery.
“How is it, my lady?” Sarika asked anxiously, helping her settle into the throne. It was wrought of a single block of Beshtanagi granite, the curve of the high back set with emeralds from Calandor’s hoard. “Are you comfortable? Do you wish water? Wine? There is a keg set aside for your usage. We saw to it, Pietre and I.”
“It’s fine, sweetling.” The effort it took to raise the corners of her mouth in something resembling a smile was considerable. Closing her eyes, Lilias gathered the remnants of her inner resources, the thin trickle of strength restored since Radovan’s death. A faint spark lit the Soumanië. It was not much, but enough for what was necessary. She opened her eyes. “Do me a favor, will you? Summon my attendants. All of them, all my pretty ones.”
Pietre frowned; Sarika fluttered. In the end, they did her bidding. Marija, Stepan, Anna—all of them stood arrayed before her, their silver collars gleaming. All save Radovan, whose lifeless body lay unmoving on the terrace. So young, all of them! How many had she bent to her will in the course of a thousand years? They were countless.
And now it was over. All over.
“Come here.” Lilias beckoned. “I mean to set you free”
“No!” Sarika gasped, both hands rising to clutch her collar.
Sullen Marija ignored her, stepping promptly to the base of the throne. A pretty girl, with the high, broad cheekbones of a Beshtanagi peasant. She should have been freed long ago; Radovan had been a friend of hers. Lilias gazed at her with rue and leaned forward, touching the silver collar with two fingers. Holding a pattern in her mind, she whispered three words that Calandor had taught her and undid the pattern the way the dragon had shown her, so many centuries ago.