And he was, of course. All save the posset; that was reserved for her.
Pietre knelt to serve it to her, steadying the tray with one hand. There were tears in his eyes now, liquid and shining. “It is what you asked for,” he murmured. “Sarika knew where it was kept. But, oh, please my lady! Both of us beg you …”
“You have my thanks, Pietre. And my blessing, for what it is worth.” Lilias reached eagerly for the cup. Cradling it between her hands, she inhaled deeply of its aroma. Wine and hoarded spices, and an underlying bitterness. It was a fit drink for the occasion. “Both of you,” she added. “Are you sure there is enough?”
“Yes, my lady.” Swallowing tears, he nodded. “Enough for a whole colony of rats. It will suffice.”
Lilias did smile, then, lifting the cup in toast. “You’ve done a noble deed. Farewell, Pietre.”
Bowing his head, he turned away without answering, unable to watch. Still, it gladdened her heart to have him there, loyal to the end. It hadn’t all been the Soumanië’s power, not all of it. She had loved them well, her pretty ones; as she had loved Beshtanag. Its grey crags, its green forests; hers, all hers. From the sheep grazing in mountain pastures to the Were skulking in the shadow of the pines, she had known it, more truly and deeply than anyone else ever would.
And now it was lost to her, all lost. Would it have been different if she had refused Satoris’ emissary? A war to prevent a war, she thought, gazing at the cup’s contents. So Tanaros Blacksword called it. He had been wrong; but he had been right, too. Ever since Dergail’s Soumanië had risen in the West, she had known it; for what Calandor had known, she had shared.
All things must be as they are, little sssisster.
It was a glorious haven they had made in Beshtanag, but the dragon’s wisdom held true. Sooner or later, they would have come for her. Better, perhaps, that it was Haomane’s Allies than the Lord-of-Thought himself. If Haomane First-Born was coming, Lilias did not intend to wait for him.
“Farewell,” she whispered, raising the cup to her lips.
A man’s hand dashed it away, hard and swift.
Crockery shattered, and Lilias shrank backward Into her corner beneath a sudden shadow. Blaise Caveros stood over her, having shoved Pietre out of his way. “Sorceress.” He sighed, rumpling his dark hair. The bandage was gone from his brow and the gash on his temple was knitting cleanly, but he still looked tired and drawn. “Please don’t make this difficult.”
A wine-sodden piece of bread sat on the stone floor, while dark liquid pooled in the cracks between the flagstones. A pair of flies buzzed, sampling the dregs. As Lilias watched, one twitched in midair and fell. Its wings beat feebly, then went still. “You deny me a clean death,” she said in a low voice. “Would you do so if I were a man?”
Blaise nodded at the spilled wine. “Poison? You call that a clean death?”
“It is what is allotted to me!” Lilias shouted, lifting her head. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. “Must I meet you on the battlefield? I’m no warrior, Borderguardsman! I don’t want to wield a sword! You have won; why can you not let me die?”
Her words rang in a warchamber gone abruptly silent. They were staring, now; all of them, Aracus Altorus and the others, leaving off their poring over maps and plans. She hated them for it. The Ellylon were the worst, with their smug compassion, their eternal condescension toward all things mortal.
No; worst was the Archer, the Arduan woman, who stared aghast and uncomprehending. She wouldn’t mind dying on a battlefield.
“You,” Lilias said to her. “Do you think you would be here if you hadn’t proved yourself with a sharp, pointy weapon?” Her voice broke as grief rose up to overwhelm her. “Ah, by all the Shapers! Do you even know what you destroyed?”
“Sorceress.” Blaise moved wearily to block her view, interposing his tall figure between her and the rest of the room. Behind him, the Arduan Archer’s voice rose in anxious query, swiftly hushed by others. Haomane’s Allies resumed their council in more subdued tones. “We are sorry for your grief. Believe me, we are all of us well acquainted with the emotion. But we cannot allow you to take your life.”
Defeated, Lilias let the back of her head rest against the stone wall, gazing up at him. “I have lived too long already, Borderguardsman. If you were truly an honorable man, you’d let me die.” A short laugh escaped her. “And if you were a wise one, you’d do the same. I promise you, this is an action you will regret.”
“If you were an honorable woman,” Blaise said quietly, “you would not have conspired with the Sunderer to deceive and destroy us.”
“All I wanted was to be left in peace,” Lilias murmured. “To live, unmolested, in Beshtanag, as I have done for so long. Satoris himself in his fortress of Darkhaven desires nothing more. Is it so much to ask? We require so little space upon the face of Urulat. And yet it seems even that is too much for Haomane’s pride to endure. Lord Satoris afforded an opportunity, and I seized it. In the end, it is still Haomane’s Allies who raised the specter of war. Did you not seek to fulfill his Prophecy?”
Blaise frowned at her, uncomprehending. “We are neither cruel nor unreasonable, Lilias of Beshtanag. If you give us a chance, you may come to see it. If that is not your will … You know full well, lady, that you may have your freedom—to do whatever you wish with your life, including end it—for one simple price. Tell us how the powers of the Soumanie may be wielded. Give us the dragon’s lore.”
Lilias shook her head, aware of the solid wall behind her. Her home, her fortress. Her prison, now. Still, it stood, a testament to what she had achieved. A monument to Calandor’s death. The irony in what had passed seemed no longer bitter, but fitting. “No, Borderguardsman. Whatever else you may accuse me of, that is one trust I will never betray, and one death I will never forgive.”
He sighed. “Then you remain with us.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Right here, lads.” Vorax tapped the map with one thick forefinger. “In the Northern Harrow. There’s a node-point in the middle of the range; or was, at any rate. That’s where Lord Satoris suspects they landed, based on their trajectory through the Ways.”
He glanced up to make sure they were following. Osric and the other Staccians were no worry, but one was never certain with Fjeltroll. A few of them had a look of cheerful incomprehension, or at least one he’d come to recognize as such. For someone unacquainted with their features, it was hard to tell. Still, the one Hyrgolf had recommended to lead their contingent-Skragdal, the young Tungskulder—seemed alert and attentive.
“Now, these are desert folk,” Vorax continued. “And bear in mind, they’ve never been out of their desert before; or at least not that we know of. So they’re likely to stick with what they know, which is lowlands. See here, where the Harrow dips.” He traced a line on the map. “If they’re coming for us, and we have every reason to think they are, they’re like to take the valleys, follow the riverbeds.”
“Lord Vorax.” Osric, bending over the map, met his eyes. The Staccian lieutenant was a man of middle years, solid and reliable. Not the best or boldest of his lads—that had been Carfax, entrusted to lead the decoys—but sensible, a man one could trust. “What if they’re not coming for us?”.
“Well, then we’ve nothing to worry about, have we?” Vorax grinned through his beard, clapping Osric’s shoulder. “Let’s say they are, lad. If we’re wrong, you retrace your steps. Pick up their trail at the node-point, or what’s left of it, and follow them south. Do you see?”