There was squabbling, then, in the great hall of Meronil. Lilias watched them through marble eyes, dimly aware that in a Beshtanagi cavern, the edges of a small mirror bit into her clutching palms. Some were shouting as if she could hear them. She watched and waited, and wished again that Haergan the Craftsman had given ears to his creation.

One knew better.

Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. Ignoring the chaos, he approached to stand beneath the pediment, his ageless face tilted upward.

Among the Ellylon, the best and brightest had stood nearest to the Souma. When the world was Sundered and the seas rushed in to fill the divide, they remained upon the isle Torath, and there they dwelt, singing the praises of Haomane and the Six Shapers. It was only those who dwelt upon the body of Urulat who were stranded, separated forever from Haomane First-Born who Shaped them.

They were the Rivenlost.

And Elterrion the Bold had been their Lord, once; but he was dead, and with him Cerion the Navigator and Numireth the Fleet, who were also Lords of the Rivenlost. Only Ingolin was left, who was called the Wise.

Lilias gazed down upon him and felt pity, which she had not expected. A simple fillet of gold bound his shining hair and his brow was marked with worry. His eyes were grey as a storm, and deep with sorrow. How not, when they bore the shadows of centuries unnumbered? Urulat had not been Sundered when Ingolin first walked the earth. Perhaps, if he had been Lord of the Rivenlost in the First Age of the Sundered World and not Elterrion the Bold, it might have been different. Ingolin the Wise spread his arms, his lips shaping words clear enough for her to read: What do you want?

Her marble lips moved, forming the answer.

“I WANT MALTHUS … AND HIS SOUMANIË. BRING THEM TO BESHTANAG.” Chaos followed on the heels of her words. How they quarreled, the Sons of Men! Lilias kept her stone eyes fixed on the Lord of the Rivenlost. “THE LADY IS YOURS IN TRADE.”

A flash of red-gold, caught in periphery. Aracus Altorus had leapt upon the table, his boot-heels scarring the polished wood, his sword-arm cocked. His face was lit with fury and in his hand he held the haft of a standard, snatched from a wall. With a soundless cry, he hurled it at her like a javelin.

A pennant fluttered in midflight. An argent scroll, half open upon a field of sage; the device of the House of Ingolin.

So much and no more did Lilias see before the pointed iron finial that tipped the standard struck, marble shattering at the force of the blow. She cried out loud, feeling her brow-bone splinter at the bridge of her nose, clapping both hands over her face.

“Aaahhhh!”