It was a head, the head of Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas; Haomane’s brother and chiefest ally, patron of Meronil. And it adorned a marble pediment atop the doorway into the great hall, his hair wrought into white-capped waves. When the world was Sundered, Meronin had brought the seas to divide the body of Urulat from Torath, the Souma-crowned head of the world.

But truth be told, there was precious little to be seen in the great hall of Meronil. Lilias knew, having looked into the mirror, Haergan’s mirror, through the sculpture’s eyes. Ingolin the Wise convened his assembly, day in and day out. One day, he brought forth a stone in a casket. It blazed with a pale blue light, which seemed to impress those assembled. Well and good; what did it mean?

“I know not,” Calandor had said, though he sounded uneasy, for a dragon. “But it is nothing to do with Beshtanag. This I ssswear, Liliasss.”

She believed him, because she had no choice. If Calandor was false … ah, no. Best not to think of such things, for she would sooner die than believe it. Lilias gripped the mirror, letting her vision diffuse, sinking into its tarnished surface, sensing the marble eyes wrought by Haergan the Craftsman open.

There.

There.

A skewed view, seen from the pediment, Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, presiding over the argumentative assembly. Had it ever been otherwise? There, Bornin of Seahold, stout in his blue livery. There, Lord Cynifrid of Port Calibus, pounding the table with his gauntleted fist There, two representatives of the Free Fishers of Harrington Bay, clad in homespun. And there, Aracus Altorus, taut with energy, willing the Council of War onward.

So few women, Lilias thought, gazing through the marbled eyes. So few!

“Liliassss.”

“I know. I know.” Drawing on the power of the Soumanië, feeling the fillet tighten on her brow, and speaking the words of invocation set forth by Haergon the Craftsman, who had left his knowledge in a dragon’s belly.

In Meronil, Haomane’s Allies gaped.

It was hard, at such a distance. Her flesh was mortal, and not meant to wield a Shaper’s power nor Ellylon magics. Lilias closed her eyes and willed the marble lips to speak, stiff as stone, forming words that boomed in the distant hall.

“GREETINGS … TO … HAOMANE’S … ALLIES!”

Her face felt rigid and unfamiliar, inhabiting the sculpted relief more thoroughly than ever she had dared. She forced open the dense marble lids of her eyes, gazing down at the assembly. They were all on their feet, staring upward at the pediment, giving her a sense of vertigo.

“YOU SEEK … THE LADY … CERELINDE. SHE IS … SAFE … IN BESHTANAG.” The words made a knot in her belly. It was the end of deniability, the beginning of blame. “SHE WILL BE RESTORED TO YOU … FOR A PRICE.”