It was a relief to have him gone. Lilias watched a pair of ravens circling in the drafts, hoping they made ready to bear word to Darkhaven on urgent wings. While the wall stood, Beshtanag was safe; but there were so many arrayed against them. She touched the Soumanië at her brow, feeling the Shaping force of it pulsing faintly in her veins, in the stone beneath her feet. Faint, so faint! She was spread too thin. It had taken a great effort to raise the wall, and more to sustain it. Always, it took more effort to create than to destroy. The old linkages were stretched and weak—those incorporating the collars of her pretty ones, binding them to her service; those that bound Beshtanag itself, binding the blood and flesh of her people to loyalty. Even the binding that stretched the great Chain of Being to its limits felt thin and tenuous, and Lilias felt old.

She was old, a thousand years old. Today, she felt it.

Oh, Calandor! she asked silently. What have we done?

There was a long pause before the dragon replied, longer than she remembered.

Wait, little sister, and be strong. You must be strong.

There was sorrow in the thought, deeper than she’d known the dragon to evince. Lilias gripped the balustrade with both hands, staring at the mountain’s base. There, in the shadow of the forest, a flash of red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, bare-headed and arrogant, the would-be King of the West Even at a distance, she saw him pause, his gaze measuring her will and searching the sky for dragon-sign.

And then he turned his back on her, cool and purposeful, ordering his troops as they set about the construction of the implements of war. Ladders of branches, lashed with rope. Siege-towers, capable of holding a dozen men. Entire trunks hewn into battering rams. All of Pelmar’s forests provided fodder for his efforts, as if in league with him. Already Haomane’s Allies had essayed her wall in a score of places. She could hold it, for now, with the aid of Gergon’s wardsmen. What would happen when their stores ran low? What would happen if Malthus arrived to pit himself against her, armed with a Soumanië like her own?

In her deepest self, Lilias knew the answer.

Hurry, she prayed in the direction of Darkhaven; oh, hurry!

TENS OF THOUSANDS OF FJELTROLL were packed into the Chamber of the Marasoumië and the tunnels that underlay Darkhaven. Armor creaked, rough hide jostled hide, horn-calloused feet trod the stony floors. Despite the fact that the ventilation shafts had all been uncovered, the air was stifling with the musky, slightly rank odor of the Fjel. The red node-light was reflected in thousands of eyes, all of them fixed on Tanaros.