He looked away. “You, who have sent so many to their death?”
“Not so many.” She considered his profile, stern and spare. “Beshtanag was left in peace, mostly. The Regents were afraid of Calandor. Do you think me a monster?”
“I don’t know.” Blaise shook his head. “As you say, I have met you, Sorceress. I do not know you. And of a surety, we are agreed: I do not understand you.” He rode for a time without speaking, then asked, “What was he like?”
“Calandor?” Her voice was wistful.
“No.” He glanced at her. “Ushahin.”
“Ah.” Lilias gave her bitter smile, watching her mount’s ears bob and twitch. “So you would pick over my thoughts like a pile of bones, gleaning for scraps of knowledge.”
He ignored her comment. “Is it true it is madness to meet his gaze?”
“No.” Lilias thought about her meeting on the balcony, the Soumanië heavy on her brow, and her desire to Shape the Dreamer into wholeness, taking away his bone-deep pain. And she remembered how he had looked at her, and her darkest fears had been reflected in his mismatched eyes. Everything he had seen had come to pass. Another hysterical laugh threatened her. “Yes, perhaps. Perhaps it is, after all.”
Blaise watched her. “Have you met others of the Three?”
“The Warrior.” Seeing him look blank, she clarified, “Tanaros Kingslayer. Your kinsman, Borderguardsman.”
“And?” His jaw was set hard.
“What do you wish me to say, my lord?” Lilias studied him. “He is a Man. Immortal, but a Man. No more, and no less. I think he gives his loyalty without reserve and takes betrayal hard.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fianna the Archer watching them with distaste and smiled. “And he does not understand women. You are much like him, Blaise Caveros.”
Blaise drew in a sharp breath to reply, wrenching unthinking at the reins. His mount arched its neck and sidled crabwise.
But before he could get the words out, the fabric of the world ripped.
A hot wind blew across the coastal road, setting the dust to swirling. Haomane’s Allies halted, their mounts freezing beneath them, prick-eared. Borderguardsmen shielded their eyes with their hands; Ellylon squinted. At the head of the column, Aracus Altorus lifted his chin.
A clap of lightning blinded the midday sun.
Out of the brightness, a figure emerged; the Galäinridder, the Bright Rider, astride a horse that shone like seafoam in starlight. The horse’s broad chest emerged like the crest of a wave, churning onto the world’s shoals. The Rider’s robes were white and his white beard flowed onto his chest. Nestled amid it was a gem as clear as water, as bright as a diamond, so bright it hurt to behold it.
“Borderguard!” Aracus’ voice rang as his sword cleared its sheath. “Surround him!”
They moved swiftly to obey, dun cloaks fluttering in the breeze as they encircled the shining Rider, who calmly drew rein and waited. Blaise nodded at Fianna as he moved to join them, entrusting Lilias to her care. At a gesture from Lorenlasse, the Rivenlost archers strung their bows, moving to reinforce the Borderguard.
“How is this, Aracus?” The Rider smiled into his beard. “Am I so changed that you do not know me?”
“I pray that I do.” Aracus nudged his mount’s flanks, bringing him within striking range. His voice was steady, the point of his blade leveled at the Rider. “And I fear that I do not. Are you Malthus, or some trick of the Sunderer?”
The Rider opened his arms. “I am as you see me.”
Sunlight dazzled on the clear gem. Lilias flinched. On her right, Fianna unslung Oronin’s Bow and nocked an arrow, pointing it at Lilias’ heart.
No one else moved.
Aracus Altorus broke into an unexpected grin. “That’s a wizard’s answer if ever I’ve heard one.” He sheathed his sword, leaning forward to extend his hand. “Welcome back, my lord Counselor! We feared you dead.”
“Ah, land.” Malthus’ eyes crinkled as he clasped Aracus’ hand. “I’m harder to kill than that.”
The Borderguard gave a cheer, unbidden. There was no cheering among the Rivenlost, but they lowered their bows, returning arrows to their quivers. Turning her head, Lilias saw that Fianna kept an arrow loosely nocked, aimed in her direction. There was lingering distrust in her gaze.
“How?” Aracus asked simply.
“It took many long days,” Malthus said, “for I spent my strength in maintaining the spell of concealment that hides the Bearer from the Sunderer’s eyes. What strength remained to me, I lost in my battle with his Kingslayer. When the Sunderer destroyed the Marasoumië, I was trapped within it, scarce knowing who I was, let alone where. And yet, in the end, I won free.” He touched the white gem on his breast, his face somber. “I fear the cost was high, my friends. As I am changed, so is the Soumanië. It is a bright light in a dark place, one that may illuminate Men’s souls, but no longer does it possess the power to Shape.”
A murmur of concern ran through the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.
“Is that all?” Aracus Altorus laughed, and removed the gold fillet from his head. A gladness was in his manner for the first time since Cerelinde had been taken from him. “Here,” he said, offering it. “The spoils of Beshtanag. It’s useless to me. I’d thought to ask you teach me how to wield it, but it’s better off in your hands, Malthus. I’m a warrior, not a wizard.”
Toward the rear of the company, Lilias made a choked sound.
“Ah, lad.” Malthus gazed at the fillet in Aracus’ palm, the gold bright in the sunlight, the Soumanië dull and lifeless. “Truly,” he murmured, “you have the heart of a king. Would that the gem could be given as easily. No.” He shook his head. “It is not truly yours to give, Aracus. The Soumanid must be inherited from the dead or surrendered freely by a living owner. Until that happens, I can wield it no more than you.”
Aracus frowned. “Then—”
“No one can wield it.” Malthus lifted his head, and his gaze was filled with a terrible pity. With one gnarled forefinger, he pointed at Lilias, who sat motionless, conscious of the Archer’s arrow pointed at her heart. “Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.”
Dani opened his eyes to see a dark blot swimming in a pool of light hovering above him. His head ached and the bright, blurred light made him feel nauseated. He blinked and squinted until his vision began to clear, and the dark blot resolved itself into the worried face of his uncle, silhouetted against the blue Staccian sky.
“Dani!” Thulu’s face creased into a grin. “Are you alive, lad?”
There seemed to be a stone upon his chest. He tried an experimental cough. It hurt in a number of places. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Are you?”
“Barely.” Thulu sat back, nodding at him. “You can let go of it now, lad. It’s safe enough.”
“What?” He realized his right hand was clutching the flask containing the Water of Life so hard it ached, pressing it hard against his flesh. His fingers had cramped frozen, and it took an effort to open them. The pressure on his chest eased when he released the flask. He tried to sit and floundered, finding his left arm bound and useless.
“Careful.” Uncle Thulu moved to assist him. “There you go.”
“What’s that for?” Sitting upright, Dani looked at his left arm in bewilderment. It was secured in a damp makeshift sling torn from one of their cloaks, knotted around his neck. He tried moving it. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. “Ow!”
“Careful,” Thulu repeated. “What do you remember, lad?”
“The river.” He could hear it roaring nearby. The sound of it cleared some of the mist from his thoughts. “The Fjeltroll. We were attacked.” He blinked at his uncle, remembering red blood swirling in the river foam. “You were wounded.”