“I am not so sure.” Aracus shook his head. “It was Men who made war upon the Ellylon, believing they withheld the secret of immortality from us. If we had not done so, perhaps Haomane First-Born would not have been forced to ask the Sunderer to withdraw his Gift from us.”
Ingolin laid a hand upon Aracus’ arm. “Do not take so much upon yourself. The House of Altorus has never been an enemy to the Ellylon.”
“Perhaps not,” Aracus said. “But I would atone for the deeds of my race by working to see Haomane’s Prophecy fulfilled. And then perhaps, in a world made whole, we might become what once we were.”
A silence followed upon his words. Even Lorenlasse of the Valmaré was respectful in the face of Aracus’ passion.
Malthus smiled at Lilias. White light flashed in the depths of his transfigured Soumanië, casting scintillating points of brightness around the room. “Is your question answered in full, Lilias of Beshtanag?”
“Yes, Counselor.” Lilias rubbed at the familiar ache in her temples. “Your point is made. I understand the purpose of this meeting. You may now ask me once more to relinquish the Soumanië.”
“I do not ask on my own behalf.” Resonant power filled Malthus’ voice, making her lift her head to meet his eyes. “I ask it on behalf of the Lady Cerelinde, who suffers even as we speak. I ask it on behalf of the Rivenlost, who endure the pain of separation, dwindling year by year. I ask it on behalf of those noble Men who would atone for the misdeeds of their race. I ask it on behalf of all Urulat, that this vision we share might come to pass. And I ask it, yes, on behalf of those poor souls who have fallen into folly, through the lies of Satoris Banewreaker, that they might know redemption. The Soumanië that Aracus Altorus bears was Shaped by Haomane himself, carried into battle by Ardrath the Wise Counselor, who was like unto a brother to me. Lilias of Beshtanag, will you release your claim upon it?”
“No.” The word dropped like a stone from her lips. Despite the welling tears and the ache in her head, Lilias laughed. “It is a pleasant fiction, Counselor. But there is a problem with your story. You are Haomane’s Weapon, Shaped after the world was Sundered. How can you claim knowledge of the First Age of Urulat?”
At the head of the table, Ingolin stirred. With a frown creasing his brow, the Lord of the Rivenlost bent his gaze on Malthus. “How do you answer, old friend?”
Something deep shifted in Malthus’eyes, and it was as if a veil had been withdrawn, revealing ancient and terrible depths. “I am as the Lord-of-Thought Shaped me,” he said softly. “And I possess such knowledge as he willed. More than that, Sorceress, I cannot say, nor may I.”
Lilias nodded. “Can you tell me, then, why Haomane refused when Satoris offered his Gift to Haomane’s Children?”
“Because such a thing was not meant to be.” Malthus shook his head, and the semblance of age and weariness returned to his mien. “Thus was the will of Uru-Alat, which only the Haomane First-Born, the Lord-of-Thought, sprung from the very brow of the world, grasps in its fullness.”
“Except for dragons, of course. But perhaps it wasn’t Haomane’s will that you possess that knowledge.” Lilias pushed back her chair and stood, gazing at their silent, watching faces. Her vision was blurred with the weak, foolish tears she couldn’t seem to suppress. “You should have tried to woo me,” she said to Aracus. “It might even have worked.” Thick with tears, her voice shook. “I am a proud woman, and a vain one, and if you had begged me for the Soumanië I might have relented. But although I am flawed, I have lived for a very long time, and I am not a fool.” She dashed at her eyes with the back of one hand, a choking laugh catching in her throat. “I’m sorry, Counselor,” she said to Malthus. “It must disappoint you to learn that your Soumanië has not illuminated my soul.”
“Yes.” There was no mockery in Malthus’ tone, only abiding sorrow. He gazed at her with profound regret. “It does.”
“Yes, well.” Lilias took another shaking breath. “Perhaps I am protected by the claim I have not relinquished, or perhaps this place suffers from a surfeit of brightness already. Perhaps, after all, my soul is not so black as it has been painted.” She stood very straight, addressing all of them. “I know who I am and what I have done. I have endured your compassion, your mercy, your righteous outrage. But you should not have brought me here to humiliate me with your goodness.”
“Such was not our intention, Sorceress,” Ingolin murmured. “If that is your feeling—”
“No.” She shook her head. “You claimed to want knowledge, Ingolin the Wise, but all you truly wanted was my repentance. And the Soumanië.” Lilias smiled through her tears and spread her arms. “And yet, I cannot gainsay what I know. All things must be as they are. For the price of my life, the Soumanië is yours. Will you take it and be forsworn?”
The Lord of the Rivenlost exchanged glances with Aracus and Malthus. “No, Sorceress,” he said with terrible gentleness. “We will not.”
“Well, then.” Lilias swallowed, tasting the bitter salt of her tears. “Then I will keep my claim upon it until I die of uselessness and shame.” She turned to Blaise. “Will you take me back to my quarters, please?”
Blaise looked to Aracus, who gave a curt nod. Without a word, Blaise opened the door. She followed him through it.
Behind her, the silvery voices arose.
The lady Cerelinde smiled at him. “General Tanaros.”
“Lady.” He bowed in greeting, thinking as he straightened that perhaps it had been a mistake to come here. The impact of her presence was always greater than he remembered. “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
Out of the courtly habit he had kept for over a thousand years, Tanaros extended his arm to her as he escorted her from her chamber. Cerelinde took it as she had done the night he brought her to the moon-garden, her slender, white fingertips resting on his forearm. He had forgone his armor, wearing only the black sword belted at his waist, and he could feel her touch through the velvet sleeve of his austere black doublet Clear and distinct, each fingertip, as though she were setting her own brand upon him through some forgotten Ellyl magic; as powerful as Godslayer, yet more subtle.
What would it be like, that delicate touch against bare skin?
The thought came before he could quell it, and in its wake arose a wave of desire so strong it almost sickened him, coupled with a terrible yearning. It was a nameless emotion, its roots as old as mortality; covetous envy thwarted, manifesting in the desire to possess something so other, so fine.
“Are you all right?” There was concern in her voice.
“Yes.” Standing in the hallway outside her door, Tanaros caught the eye of the leader of the Havenguard quartet he had assigned to accompany them. The sight of the Mørkhar Fjel looming in armor steadied him. He touched the rhios that hung in a pouch at his belt, feeling its smooth curves, and willing his racing pulse to ease. “Krognar,” he said. “This is the Lady Cerelinde. Your lads are escorting us to the rookery.”
“Lady,” Krognar rumbled, inclining his massive head.
“Sir Krognar.” She regarded him with polite, fascinated horror.
Tanaros could feel the tremor that ran through her. “This way, Lady,” he said.
The quartet of Mørkhar Fjel fell in behind them as he led her through the winding corridors of Darkhaven. The marble halls echoed with the heavy pad and scritch of their homy, taloned feet, accompanied by the faint jangle of arms.
“You needed no guard the night you brought me to see Lord Satoris’ garden,” Cerelinde said presently. Although her voice was level, her fingers clenching his forearm were tight with fear.