Everything seemed very quiet, the shouting receding into echoless silence as Tanaros climbed to his feet to face the Counselor, and drew the black sword. “Malthus,” he said, testing the weight of his sword, that was quenched in a Shaper’s blood. His circumscribed heart was unexpectedly light. “Your path ends here.”

“Dani,” Malthus said, ignoring him. “Trust me.”

It was a boy who stepped forth from the Counselor’s fearsome shadow and nodded; a boy, dark-skinned and unobtrusive, accompanied by a wary protector. There was a clay vial at his throat, tied by a crude thong. With a shock, Tanaros recognized it, knew what it must hold. Here, then, was the true enemy, the one who mattered. Here was the Bearer of prophecy, who carried the Water of Life, who could extinguish the marrow-fire itself. And it was a boy, a mere boy, a pawn in Haomane’s game. Their gazes met, and the boy’s was questioning, uncertain.

“No” Tanaros whispered. “Listen …”

Malthus the Counselor lifted his staff, and light shone between his fingers.

Red light pulsed and the Ways opened.

Light flexed, coruscating.

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-TWO

IT HAPPENED AS SHE CROSSED the threshold of her reception hall.

One moment she was walking, grateful for Pietre at her elbow, concentrating on keeping her head proudly erect for the watching servants. Relief at the dragon’s news made it easier. It didn’t matter, now, that the circlet felt too tight around her brow, that the Soumanië lay hot against her flesh, that an unnatural awareness stirred at the base of her skull—those were the harbingers of salvation, signs that the Ways had been opened. Tired as she was, Lilias bore them with gladness.

Between one step and the next, everything changed.

She had been a child, once; a mortal child playing children’s games of hide-and-chase in her father’s estate in Pelmar. Her younger brother had darted from the ice-house, slamming the heavy stone door in her face. A thousand years later she remembered it; the sound like a thunderclap, the unexpected impact and sudden darkness, and how the air was too tight to breathe.

It was like that, only worse, a hundred times worse. A red light burst behind her eyes as a Way was slammed closed, exploding open elsewhere, splintering into a myriad dwindling passages. By the stinging of her palms, she understood that she had fallen onto the flagstones. Her eyes were open and blind. Somewhere, Pietre was tugging at her arm, begging her to get up. There were tears in his voice. Her brother Tomik had sounded that way, once, when he begged her to abandon the Soumanië after she had descended Beshtanag Mountain to show him. “It’s a dragon’s gift, Lilias! Put it back!”

Lilias.

“Calandor,” she whispered.

I am sorry.