When her heart was at its bleakest, Lilias imagined Meronil beset by the forces of Lord Satoris. She envisioned a horde of rampaging Fjel, besmirching its white towers and bridges with their broad, horny feet; bringing down its very stones with their powerful taloned hands, while Tanaros Kingslayer, the Soldier, sat astride his black destrier and watched and the Ellylon women fled, shrieking in disbelief that it come to this at the last.
Betimes, there was a fierce joy in the vision.
At other times, she remembered Aracus Altorus, with his wideset gaze; trusting, demanding. She remembered Blaise, dark-eyed Blaise, in all his fierce loyalty. They had treated her fairly, and in her heart of hearts she no longer wished to see them slain, lying in a welter of their own gore. It would not bring Calandor back, any more than Lord Satoris’ victory. When all was said and done, they were her people; Arahila’s Children. And yet both of them believed, believed so strongly. A hope, a vision, a world made whole; a faint spark nurtured and blown into a careful flame by Malthus the Wise Counselor, who was Haomane’s Weapon.
Those were the times when Lilias leaned her forehead against the lintel of her window and wept, for she had too little belief and too much knowledge.
One day alone was different, breaking the endless pattern of tedium. Long after Lilias had assumed such a thing would never happen, an Ellyl noblewoman paid a visit to her quarters. It was the Lady Nerinil, who had sat in at Malthus’ Council, who represented the scant survivors of the House of Numireth the Fleet, founder of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass.
She came announced, filling the tower chamber with her unearthly beauty. Lilias had grown accustomed to the handmaidens; the Lady Nerinil was something else altogether. How was it, Lilias wondered, that even among the Rivenlost, one might outshine another? Perhaps it was a form of glamour, a remnant of the magics they had lost when the world was Sundered. She was glad she had asked the handmaidens to remove all mirrors from her room.
“Sorceress of the East!” Nerinil paced the chamber, unwontedly restless for one of her kind. Her tone was belllike and abrupt. “There is a thing that troubles me.”
Lilias laughed aloud. “Only one, Lady?”
The Lady Nerinil frowned. It was an expression of exceeding delicacy, the fine skin between her wing-shaped brows creasing ever so slightly. “In the Council of Malthus, I asked a question of you; one to which you made no reply.”
“Yes.” Lilias remembered; the sweet, ringing tones filled with anger and incomprehension. Why would you do such a thing? She looked curiously at her. “I answered with a question of my own. It was you who did not wish the conversation furthered, Lady. Why, now, do you care?”
Nerinil’s luminous eyes met hers. “Because I am afraid.”
Lilias nodded. “You have answered your question.”
“Fear?” The Ellyl noblewoman gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Only fear? I am afraid, Sorceress, but I do not condemn thousands to death because of it.”
“Yes,” Lilias said wearily. “You do. You, and all of Haomane’s Allies. What do you think will happen when they march upon Darkhaven?”
The Lady Nerinil shook her head, her dark hair stirring. Tiny diamonds were woven into it, and it gleamed like the Aven River reflecting stars at night. “Your question was asked and answered, Sorceress. You know our plight and our dream. We march upon Darkhaven despite our fear, and not because of it.”
Lilias shrugged. “Doubtless that will prove great comfort to the wives and mothers of the slain. I’m sure they will be pleased to know a Midlander farmer’s son died so that the Rivenlost may behold the face of Haomane once more.”
A flash of anger crossed the Lady Nerinil’s features. “You are swift to condemn Haomane’s Allies for leading soldiers to take arms against the Sunderer, Sorceress. And yet you deceived us and sought to lead us into the Sunderer’s trap to be slaughtered. Is this not hypocrisy? The Rivenlost had done nothing to threaten or harm you.”
“No,” Lilias agreed, gazing out the window. “But I would have been next.”
There was silence, then. For a long time, the Lady Nerinil said nothing, for the Ellylon were incapable of lying. “Perhaps,” she said at last, and her voice was low and melodious. “Like the Sunderer, you were a dragon-friend.”
“I was that.” Lilias swallowed, tasting the salt of her tears. Oh, Calandor!
“And your life was worth the lives of thousands?”
“It was to me.” Lilias turned her gaze on the Ellyl noblewoman. “As you say, Lady, I had done nothing to threaten or harm you. I wished only to be left in peace. Did Beshtanag deserve to be destroyed because of it?”
“For that, no,” the Lady Nerinil said quietly. “But the Soumanië was never meant to be yours to wield, and never in such a manner. You set yourself against Haomane’s will when you did so. Surely you must have known such defiance could not go unanswered forever.”
“Ah, Haomane.” Lilias curled her lip. “We spoke of fear, Lady. What is it Haomane fears? Why is he so jealous of his power that he will not share even the smallest portion of it with a mortal woman?” She paused. “Or is it knowledge the Lord-of-Thought fears? Even Haomane’s Allies seem passing fearful of the wisdom of dragons. Perhaps it is that he sought to extinguish.”
“No.” The Ellyl spoke tentatively, then frowned and repeated the word more strongly. “No.” Scintillant points of light danced around the room as she shook her head once more. “I will not fall prey to your sophistry and lies. You seek but to justify your actions, which served only your own ends.”
“Can Haomane First-Born claim otherwise?” Lilias laughed shortly, feeling old and haggard, and wishing the Ellyl would depart. “At least, unlike the Lord-of-Thought, I know it. Have I ever denied as much?”
The Lady Nerinil looked at her with a fathomless expression in her dark, lambent eyes. “It seems to me that you spoke true words in the Council of Malthus, Sorceress. You are a proud woman, and a vain one.”
“Yes,” Lilias said. “I know.”
“Arahila the Fair bids us to be compassionate,” the Lady Nerinil mused. “May she in her infinite mercy forgive me, for I cannot find it in my heart to pity you, Lilias of Beshtanag.”
The words carried a familiar sting. “I do not want your pity,” Lilias murmured.
“I know.” The Lady Nerinil of the House of Numireth the Fleet inclined her head with grace. “But it is all that you deserve.”
The tunnel went on forever.
After the unforgiving terrain of the northern Fjel territories, it should have been easy. Beyond the initial descent, the tunnel was level. Its floor was worn almost smooth by the passage of countless generations; broad Fjeltroll feet, the booted feet of Men, even horses’ shod hooves, for it was vast enough for two Men to ride abreast. It was warmer beneath the earth than it was above it, out of the elements of wind and rain. They had food and water, and torches to light their way.
Set against that was a sense of stifling fear, and Dani would have traded all of the comforts the tunnel afforded to be rid of it In the desert, one could see for leagues all around. Here, there was only the endless black throat of the tunnel. Stone below and stone above, ton upon ton of it. They used the torches sparingly, a tiny pool of firelight moving through the darkness.
Once, Dani had watched an enormous blacksnake swallow a hopping-mouse. Its hind legs were still twitching as it disappeared into the snake’s gullet. Afterward, it made a visible lump as it moved through the long, sinuous body.