Pitch-pots were ignited and catapults thumped, loosing volley after volley. Some missed; most found their targets. Gergon’s archers followed with a volley of arrows, trailing fire from oil-soaked rags. Where it struck, the pitch spread its flames, igniting dead-dry wood. Heedless of the pouring rain, the towers burned fiercely, wooden skeletons alight. Here and there, cries of agony arose from those too slow to escape. Gouts of fire towered into the sky as Haomane’s Allies retreated, abandoning their siege-engines for the forest’s safety. The Beshtanagi defenders shouted at the victory.

Drained, Lilias swayed on her feet.

“This way,” Pietre whispered, taking her elbow. “My lady.”

Step by stumbling step, she let him lead her back up the mountainside. In the entryway of Beshtanag fortress, another of her pretty ones was on hand to remove her sodden cloak. Radovan, who had pleased her once with his smouldering eyes, rebelling now against the force of her binding, eroding her sapped will. He was one she should have released. Too late, now, to contemplate such niceties.

“Lady.” His hands were solicitous, his voice skirted courtesy. There was contempt in his hot gaze. “Yet again, you protect us.”

Pietre stepped forward, bristling. “leave her alone, Radovan!”

“No.” She laid a hand on Pietre’s chest, wearied by their antagonism. The Soumanië was like an iron weight on her brow. Her neck ached at it, and she wanted only to rest, though dawn was scarce breaking. “Let it be, Pietre.”

Lilias? They come, little sister. Darkhaven’s army travels the Ways.

It was the dragon’s voice. Her head rose as a fierce surge of joy sent new strength through her veins. Hope, blessed and welcome. The plan was intact, and all was not lost. “Calandor?” she asked aloud, too tired to scry the Ways. “Where are they?”

ETERNITY BEFORE, ETERNITY BEHIND.

Only the here was real, and with each step it was elsewhere.

It was a strange thing, to travel the Ways of the Marasoumië without effort, on horseback. Ahead of him, a tunnel of red light pulsed; behind him, the same. Where he had been, he no longer was. Tanaros clamped his thighs hard around the black’s barrel, aware of its solid warmth, its hide damp with sweat. No ordinary mount could have endured the strangeness of this journey. Here, and here, and here it placed its hooves, and there were no echoes in the Ways. There became here, here no longer was. How many leagues passed with the fall of each hoof?

He dared not think upon it.