In the city, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré dismissed his company. They parted ways, returning to their homes; to regroup, to await new orders. Lorenlasse bowed low to Aracus Altorus before he took his leave, promising to see him anon. Was there mockery in his bow? Lilias could not say.
Then, they were few. Haomane’s Allies; Malthus’ Company. There was Aracus and Malthus, and Blaise and Fianna, keeping watch over Lilias. Among the Ellylon, only Peldras accompanied them. Ingolin’s escort led them across a wide bridge toward the island, while the River Aven flowed tranquilly below and the denizens of Meronil watched. No longer hidden amid a large party, Lilias shrank under their regard, feeling herself small and filthy beneath it, aware of the stain of her own mortality.
She imagined their disdain.
So this is the Sorceress of the East?
She reclaimed her reins from Blaise and concentrated on holding them, fixing her gaze upon her own reddened, chapped knuckles. It was better to meet no one’s eyes. The Bridge’s Keeper granted them passage. The company alighted on the island. When the doors to the Hall of Ingolin were thrown wide open, Lilias kept her gaze lowered. She dismounted at Blaise’s quiet order and bore out the exchange of courtesies, the embraces given and returned, with little heed. None of it mattered. She wished she were anywhere in the world but this too-fair city.
“Sorceress.”
A voice, a single voice, speaking the common tongue, infused with deep music and bottomless wisdom, a host of magic at its command. It jerked her head upright. Lilias met the eyes of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost.
He was old; so old, though it was not in his features, no. Or if it was, it was not in such a way that mortal Men understood. It was true, his hair was silver-white, falling like a shining river past his shoulders. Still, his shoulders were broad, and his features unlined. Time’s footprints did not touch the Ellylon as they did the rest of the Lesser Shapers. But his eyes … ah!
Fathomless and grey, eyes that had seen the world Sundered.
They met hers, measured and knew her. They saw the hopeless tangle of grief and envy knotted in her heart. Ingolin was not called the Wise for nothing. He bent his head a fraction in acknowledgment of the status she had once held. “Lilias of Beshtanag. We welcome you to Meronil as our guest.”
Others watched her; Aracus, with the dead Soumanië on his brow, filled with longing. Fianna, seething with resentment. Malthus and the Ellyl Peldras, both with that awful compassion. And Blaise; what of Blaise? He sat his mount quietly, scarred hands holding the reins, avoiding her eyes.
Lilias drew a deep breath. “You put a pleasant face upon my captivity, Lord Ingolin.”
“Yes.” Ingolin offered the word simply. “You know who you are, Sorceress; what you have been, what you have done. You know who we are and what we seek.” He indicated the open door. “You will be granted hospitality within these walls; and sanctuary, too. Of that, I assure you. No more, and no less.”
Lilias’ head ached. There was too much light in this place, too much whiteness. She rubbed at her temples with fumbling fingers. “I don’t want it.”
There was no pity in his face, in the eyes that had beheld the Sundering of the world. “Nonetheless, you shall have it.”
“It’s him!” Meara hissed.
Cerelinde’s heart clenched in a spasm of fear. She willed herself to a semblance of calm before glancing up from the embroidery in her lap. “Has Lord Satoris summoned me, Meara?”
“Not his Lordship!” The madling grimaced and jerked her head at the doorway. “General Tanaros. He’s here.”
This time, it was a surge of gladness that quickened her heart. It was more disturbing than the fear. Cerelinde laid aside her embroidery and folded her hands. “Thank you, Meara. Please make him welcome.”
She did, muttering to herself, and made a hasty exit without apology.
And then he was there.
He was taller than she remembered; or perhaps it was the gauntness his travail had left that made him seem so. The room seemed smaller with him in it. Muted lamplight reflected dimly on the glossy surface of his ceremonial black armor. He bowed, exacting and courtly. “Lady Cerelinde”
“General Tanaros.” She inclined her head, indicating the empty chair opposite her. “Will you sit?”
“Thank you.” Encased in unyielding metal, Tanaros sat upright, resting his hands on his knees. He regarded her in silence for a moment, as though he’d forgotten what he’d come to say. “I trust you are well?”
“As well as I may be.” Cerelinde smiled faintly. “Meara has obtained materials that I might indulge in needlework to alleviate the tedium. His Lordship has not permitted Lord Vorax to kill me.”
“Vorax?” The straps of Tanaros’ armor creaked as he shifted. “He wouldn’t.”
“He would like to.”
“He won’t.”
Another silence stretched between them. Cerelinde studied him. He looked tired, his face bearing the marks of sun and wind. The hollows of his eyes looked bruised, and beneath the errant lock of dark hair that fell across his brow, there were furrows that had not been there before. It stirred pity in her heart, an emotion she sought to repress. He was Tanaros Kingslayer, one of the Three, Lord General of the Army of Darkhaven.
Still, he was here, sitting in her well-appointed prison cell, and he was the only sane person she had seen in this place who did not appear to wish her dead.
“In Haomane’s name,” she said quietly, “or any you might honor, will you please tell me what is happening?”
“War.” Tanaros held her gaze without blinking. “Not yet, but soon. Even now, they are gathering in Meronil to plot strategy. They are coming for you, Lady.”
Cerelinde nodded once. “Do they have a chance?”
He shrugged, making his armor creak. “Do I think they can take Darkhaven? No, Lady, I do not. But nothing in war is certain save bloodshed.”
“It could be averted.”
“By letting you go?” Tanaros gave a short laugh. “To wed Aracus Altorus?”
She made no reply.
“Ah, Lady.” His voice roughened. “Even if your answer were no … how long? One mortal generation? Ten? How long do you suppose it will be until another scion of Altorus is born who sets your heart to racing—”
“Enough!”
“—and makes the blood rise to your cheeks?”
“Enough, my lord,” Cerelinde repeated, flushing. “There is no need to be vulgar.”
Tanaros raised his brows. “Vulgar?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Tanaros sighed and rumpled his hair with one hand. “In the end, it matters naught. I do not think Haomane’s Allies would ever be willing to forgo the Prophecy. And I am quite certain, in this instance, that his Lordship is not interested in negotiating.”
“He could relent,” Cerelinde said in a low, impassioned voice. “I have said it before, and it is still true. He could relent and surrender to Haomane’s will. There is that. There is always that.”
“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “No, Lady, I don’t think there is. I don’t think there ever was.”
“Why?” she asked steadily.
He shrugged again. “Ask him, if you truly want to know. Perhaps the answer lies in what-might-have-been.”
“You heard of that?” Cerelinde flushed a second time. “I meant to speak to you of the incident. It is a small gift, a small magic. Vorax was wroth, but I did not mean to disturb, only to bring comfort. It eases them, to glimpse the paths they might have walked.” She considered Tanaros and added softly, “I could show you, if you wished.”