The Dreamer, she understood. When all was said and done, they were both Pelmaran. The Were had raised him, and although their ways were strange, she understood them better than anyone else of mortal descent.
And as for the Glutton, his wants were simple. Gold, mayhap; a portion of the fabled dragon’s hoard. Or flesh, carnal desire. Lilias touched the curves of her body, the ample, swelling flesh at her bodice. That too, she understood.
What the Soldier asked would be harder.
The summons at the base of her skull shrilled louder, insistent. Lilias hurried, taking a seldom-used key from the ring at her waist and unlocking the door that led to the caverns and the tunnels below. The ancient steps were roughhewn, carved into the living rock. She held her skirts, descending swiftly. If not for Calandor’s wisdom, she would never have known such things existed.
Now, little sister. He comes now.
Down, and down and down! All beneath the surface of Urulat, the tunnels interlaced, carved out in ages past, before the world was Sundered. Calandor knew them, for it was his brethren who had carved them, long ago, when there were dragons in the earth. And along those passages lay the Ways of the Marasoumië, the passages of the Souma, along which thought traveled, quick as a pulse. Though they were Sundered from Torath and the Souma itself, still they endured; dangerous, yet passable to those who remembered them and dared.
Dragons remembered, as did the Shaper. No others would dare the Ways, save perhaps Malthus the Counselor, who wielded a Soumanië of his own.
Lilias reached the bottom, hurried along the passageway.
Ahead lay the node-point, and blood-red light beat like a heart, bathing the rocky walls. A vaulted chamber, and a tunnel stretching away westward into darkness. Lines of light, the forgotten Ways, pulsed along it, bundled fibers laid in an intricate network, all linked back to the severed bond of the Souma.
The Marasoumië of Uru-Alat, whom Men had once called the World God. Though Uru-Alat had died to give birth to the world, remnants of his power yet existed. The Marasoumië was one.
A figure was coming, dark and blurred, moving at a walking pace with inhuman speed, each motion fanning in her vision, broken into a thousand component parts. Lilias pressed her back to the stony walls of the cavern, reaching desperately for Calandor
All is well.
The node-light flared, red and momentarily blinding. Lilias cried out as a figure stumbled into the chamber, his body stunned by the transition to a mortal pace.
A Man, only a Man.
Lilias the Sorceress pulled herself away from the cavern wall and stood upright to acknowledge him, summoning her dignity and the might of the Soumanië she wore. “Greetings, Kingslayer.”
He flinched at the title, straightening as though his back pained him, pushing dark hair back from his brow. “Greetings, Sorceress.”
A quiet voice, low and husky with exhaustion. He spoke Pelmaran well, with only a trace of a southerner’s accent. It was not what Lilias had expected; and yet it was. Calandor had known as much. He was tall, but not nearly as tall as the stories made him, when he had ridden to battle on the plains of Curonan, wearing the Helm of Shadows. A Man, nothing more, nothing less.
“Your Lord has sent you.”
“Yes.” The Soldier bowed, carefully. “He would beg a favor, my lady. You know that Dergail’s Soumanië has risen in the west?”
“I know it.” A mad laugh rose in Lilias’ throat; she stifled it. It tasted of despair. “I have known it these many weeks, Tanaros Blacksword.”
His eyes were weary. “Shall we speak, then?”
Lilias inclined her head. “Follow me.”
She was aware of him on the stair behind her, his steps echoing hers, following at a respectful distance. The skin of her back crawled and her throat itched, when she remembered how his wife had died.
He offered no threat.
Even so.
“My lady!” Her Ward Commander, Gergon, was waiting at the top of the stair. He took a step forward, frowning. “You should have sent for—” Her stalwart, grizzled commander forgot what he was saying, staring in hushed awe. “General Tanaros!”
“Commander.” The Soldier bowed courteously.
Gergon’s gaze slid to the hilt of the black sword, hanging inconspicuously at Tanaros’ side. He blinked, his mouth working, no words emerging. Behind him, a pair of junior warders clad in the colors of Beshtanag, forest-green and bronze, jostled one another and craned to see over their commander’s shoulder.
Always the blades, with Men.
The dragon’s voice sounded amused, by which token Lilias knew there to be no danger. She sighed inwardly, and exerted the power of the Soumanië. “Commander Gergon, I thank you for your concern. I will summon you if there is need.”
Gergon stood aside, then, having no choice; his junior warders scrambled to fall in beside him. Lilias swept past them, leading Tanaros Blacksword to her private chambers. He followed her without comment, more patient than she would have guessed. His hands hung loose at his sides, and she tried not to think what they had done.
I have killed, little sister. I have eaten Men whole.
“None that you loved,” Lilias said aloud.
Tanaros looked quizzically at her. “Sorceress?”
The dragon chuckled. What is love?
Lilias shook her head. “It is nothing,” she said to Tanaros.
Calandor’s question was too vast to answer, so she ignored it, escorting Tanaros to her drawing-room. A woman’s room; she had chosen it deliberately. A warm fire burned in the grate, chasing away the spring chill. Soft rose-colored cushions adorned the low couches, and tapestries hung on the walls, illustrating scenes from Pelmar’s past. There was a rack of scrolls along one wall, and shelves with curiosities from Calandor’s hoard. In one corner stood a spinning-wheel, dusty for lack of use. The lamps were hooded with amber silk, casting a warm glow. Lilias sank into the cushions, watching Tanaros, lamplight glancing off the lacquered black of his armor.
He was uneasy in the room.
“Sit,” she said, indicating a chair. “You must be in need of refreshment, after your journey.”
He sat, clearing his throat. “The Ways of the Marasoumië are not easy.”
Lilias pulled a bellcord of bronze cabled silk, soft to the touch. Pietre was there almost before she released it, half-belligerent in his eagerness to serve.
“My lady?” He bowed low.
“Pietre.” She touched his luxuriant brown hair, caught in a band at the nape of his neck. The silver collar about his neck gleamed. He shivered with pleasure at her touch, and she repressed a smile. “Bring us wine and water, a terrine with bread and cheese, and some of the Vedasian olives.”
“My lady.” He shivered again before departing.
Tanaros Blacksword watched, expressionless.
“You do not approve?” Lilias raised an eyebrow.
He released his breath in a humorless laugh, pushing at his dark hair. “Approve? I neither approve nor disapprove. It is the way of Men, and the daughters of Men, to make tame what is wild.”
Lilias shrugged. “I Shape only those whose natures it is to serve, as mine was not. Some are more willing than others. I try to choose wisely. Pietre has pride in his labors.”
“And your army?” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, greaves creaking.
“You have seen my Ward Commander, Kingslayer.” Lilias eyed him. “Gergon learned his task at his father’s knee, as did his father before him. Though Dergail’s Soumanië has risen in the west, Beshtanag is secure. You have done as much for Darkhaven, since before his grandfather drew breath. Do you doubt his pride in it?”