It was clear that these rooms were designed to house a treasured guest, and not a prisoner. Still, a lock was on the outer door, and beyond her lovely windows awaited a drop of several hundred feet.
The rooms were at the top of one of the outer towers. From her seated vantage point, Lilias could watch the sea-eagles circling the central spire. Their wings were as grey as stormclouds, but their heads and underbellies were pristine white, white as winter’s first snowfall on Beshtanag Mountain.
Every thirty seconds, they completed another circuit, riding the updrafts and soaring past on vast, outspread wings. They made broad circles, coming so close it almost seemed she could touch them as they passed. Close enough to see the downy white leggings above their yellow feet, talons curved and trailing as they flew. Close enough to make out the fierce golden rings encircling the round, black pupils of their eyes. She felt their gaze upon her; watching her as she watched them. Like as not it was true. The Eagles of Meronil served the Rivenlost.
“And why not?” Lilias said, addressing the circling sea-eagles. “That is what we do, we Lesser Shapers. We impose our wills upon the world, and shape it to our satisfaction. After all, are you so different from the ravens of Darkhaven?”
The sea-eagles tilted their wings, soaring past without comment.
“Perhaps not.” Since the eagles did not deign to reply, Lilias answered her own question, reaching out one hand to touch the glass panes of the open window. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Far below, the Aven River beckoned, a silvery ribbon dividing to encompass the island upon which the Hall of Ingolin was built, winding its way toward the sea. “In the end, it is a question of who chooses to use you, is it not?”
There was a scraping sound; in the antechamber, the outermost door to her quarters was unlatched, swinging open.
“Lady Lilias.”
It was an Ellyl voice, fluted and musical. There was much to be discerned from the layering of tones within it That was one of the hardest parts of her captivity; enduring the unspoken disdain and muted hatred of those Rivenlost whom Ingolin had assigned to attend her. “Lady,” yes; after a thousand years of rule, they would accord her that much. Not “my lady,” no. Nobleborn or no, she was none of theirs. Still, it was better than their compassion. Her words in the great hall had put an end to that particular torment. Lilias got to her feet, inclining her head as her attendant entered the parlor.
“Eamaire,” she said. “What is it?”
Her attendant’s nostrils flared. It was a very fine nose, chiseled and straight. Her skin was as pale as milk. She had wide-set, green eyes, beneath gracefully arching brows. The colors of her irises appeared to shift, like sunlight on moving grasses, on the rustling leaves of birch-trees. “There is a Man here to see you,” she said.
Blaise Caveros stood a few paces behind her. “Lilias.”
“Thank you, Eamaire,” Lilias said. “You may leave us.”
With a rigid nod, she left. Lilias watched her go, thinking with longing of her quarters in Beshtanag with their soft, muted lighting, a warm fire in the brazier, and her own attendants, her pretty ones. If she had it to do over, she would do it differently; choose only the willing ones, like Stepan and Sarika, and her dear Pietre. No more surly charms, no.
No more like Radovan.
It hurt to remember him, a flash of memory as sharp and bright as the gleam of a honed paring-knife. On its heels came the crash of the falling wall and Calandor’s voice in her mind, his terrible brightness rousing atop Beshtanag Mountain.
It is time, Lilias.
With an effort, she pushed the memory away and concentrated on Blaise. “My lord Blaise.” She raised her brows. “Have you come to make one last plea?”
“No, not that.” He looked ill at ease amid the graceful Ellylon furnishings. “I don’t know, perhaps. Would it do any good?”
“No,” Lilias said quietly. “But you could sit and talk with me all the same.”
“You’re a stubborn woman.” Blaise glanced away. “I don’t know why I came, Lilias. I suppose … I feel a responsibility for you. After all, I kept you from taking your life.” He smiled bitterly. “You did try to warn me that I would regret it.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He met her eyes, unflinching. “Perhaps not entirely for the reasons you believe.”
Lilias tilted her head, considering him. “Will you not sit and tell me why?”
He sat in one of the parlor’s four chairs, which were wrought of a pale, gleaming wood that seemed not to have been carved so much as woven, the slender branches wrought into an elegant form with arms like the curled ends of a scroll. The chair, made for an Ellyl’s slighter weight, creaked beneath him. Blaise ignored it, waiting for her.
She took her seat by the window. “Well?”
“It was something you said.” He cleared his throat. “That you had the right to seek death in defeat. That I wouldn’t have denied you a clean death on the battlefield if you had been a man.”
“Nor would you,” Lilias murmured.
“No.” Blaise picked restlessly at a loose thread on the knee of his breeches. “There was a man I wanted to kill,” he said abruptly. “A Staccian, Carfax, one of the Sunderer’s minions. His men attacked us outside Vedasia. Malthus … Malthus handled the others. Him, we took prisoner. I thought he was too dangerous to live, especially …”
“In company with the Bearer?” Lilias suggested. She laughed tiredly at his wary glance. “Ah, Blaise! Did you think I didn’t know?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“So you let him live.”
He nodded. “On Malthus’ orders. And in the end … do you know that, too?”
“Yes.” Lilias swallowed against the sudden swelling in her throat. Brightness, falling. All the brightness in the world. “I know all that Calandor knew, Blaise. I know it all, even unto the cruel end.” She rubbed the tears from her eyes, contempt shading her voice. “Will you tell me now what lesson lies within your tale? How even I am not so far gone that Arahila’s mercy cannot redeem me?”
“No.” He shook his head. “That wasn’t my purpose.”
“What, then?”
Blaise shrugged. “To say … what? Although I maintain poison is an unclean death, I do regret depriving you of the dignity of your choice. It was unfairly done; perhaps, even, at cross-purposes with Haomane’s will. Who can say?” He smiled crookedly. “If Malthus had not maintained that Carfax of Staccia had the right to choose, we would not be having this conversation.”
“No,” Lilias said quietly. “We wouldn’t.”
Blaise sighed and rumpled his hair. “I raised the hackles of your pride, Lilias; aye, and your grief, too. I know it, and I know what it has cost us. I know the Counselor’s words in the great hall stroked you against the grain. I knew it when he spoke them. I am here to tell you it was ill-considered.”
Lilias glanced out the window. The Eagles of Meronil soared past on tilted wings, watching her with their goldringed gazes. “Do you suppose any of this will change my mind?” she asked.
“No. Not really, no.” There were circles around his eyes, too; dark circles, born of weariness and long effort. “Lilias …” He hesitated. “Did you know that Darkhaven’s army wasn’t coming?”
There must, she thought, be a great sense of freedom in riding the winds’ drafts; and yet, how free were they, confined to this endless gyre? Lilias thought about that day, during the siege, when she had dared the node-point of the Marasoumië beneath Beshtanag and found it blocked, hopelessly blocked.