The pain was unspeakable. Dimly, Lilias was aware that in the great hall of Meronil, blow after blow was struck at the pediment, gouging chunks of marble, destroying forever the head of Meronin, Haergan’s creation. For the most part, she was aware only of agony, of splintered bones piercing her flesh as she writhed on the floor of the dragon’s cavern, the bronze mirror forgotten beside her.

“My lady, my lady!” It was Gergon’s voice, uncharacteristically terrified. Her Ward Commander’s strong hands covered hers, trying to draw them away from her face. “Are you injured? Lady, let me see!”

“Hurts,” Lilias managed to whisper. “Oh blessed Haomane, it hurts!”

Lilias. Lilias, it is only an illusion.

“Calandor, help me!”

The dragon’s bulk shifted, rasping on the stony floor. One mighty claw reached, talons closing delicately on the round mirror. “Ssstand back, Ssson of Man!”

Gergon scrambled backward, holding her against his chest with one strong arm. With pain-stilted eyes, Lilias peered through her fingers as the dragon bent his sinuous neck. Scales glinted dully as he lowered his head to the object he held in the talons of one uplifted claw. The pale armor of his underbelly expanded as he drew breath.

The dragon roared.

Fire shot from Calandor’s gaping jaws; blue-hot at its core, the flames a fierce orange shading to yellow. Gripped in his talons, Haergan’s mirror melted, droplets of bronze falling molten and sizzling to the cavern floor.

The connection was broken.

The pain stopped.

Cautiously, Lilias felt at her face. It was whole and intact, no bone-splinters piercing her smooth skin. No pain, only the ghost of its memory. There, on her brow, was the Soumanië, nearly lifeless. “Calandor?”

“Forgive me, Liliasss.” The dragon sounded contrite. “I did not … antissssipate … such violence.”

“You’re all right then, my lady?” Gergon asked with gruff solicitude.

“My lady!” Pietre burst into the cavern, flinging himself to his knees. There were tears in his eyes. “I thought you were killed!”

“Not yet, sweetling.” She smiled at him through deep-rooted exhaustion. They were there, they were all there, her pretty ones, crowding behind Pietre. Not wholly willing, not all of them, no, she had not always chosen wisely—there was Radovan, scowling, near time to release him, and sullen Manja—but there was worried Stepan, dusky-eyed Anna, and dear Sarika biting her trembling lip. “Only tired, now.”

“I’ll take you to your quarters, my lady.” Without waiting for permission, Pietre scooped her into his arms and stood. To his credit, he only shivered a little at the dragon’s amused regard.

Too weary to object, Lilias allowed it. Gergon snapped orders, his wardsmen falling in around them. It was a frightening thing, to be this weak, even with a Soumanië in her possession. Now, more than ever, Beshtanag needed her.

Rest, Lilias. Recover.