A hunting-party emerged from the fringe of the forest, whooping in triumph. They carried long poles over their shoulders, a pair of deer between them. Regent Martinek’s men, clad in his leather armor overlaid with steel rings. Lilias ground her teeth. Already, they had scoured her smallholders’ estates, laying claim to their flocks. Where the armies of Men were camped, the ground was strewn with mutton-bones. Now, they took the bounty of the forest itself while her people went hungry.

“My lady.”

It was Gergon, his helmet under his arm. He looked unspeakably tired.

“Ward Commander.” Lilias made room for him upon the balcony. “What is it?”

“It is said … “He paused, surveying Haomane’s Allies. In the waning sunlight, the Ellyl herald was stepping forth to give his third utterance of the day, demanding in a clarion voice the surrender of the Lady Cerelinde. Gergon met her gaze, his features blunt and honest “You were heard, in the reception hall, where you took ill, my lady. It is said Darkhaven’s army is not coming. Is it true?”

Lilias did not answer, watching the Ellyl herald. How could armor shine thusly? It flamed in the slanted rays of sunlight as he turned on his heel, marching back to rejoin the Rivenlost. They held themselves apart from the armies of Men, from the Pelmaran encampment and their feast of bones. Only Aracus Altorus strode between them, stitching together their alliance, Haomane’s Children and Arahila’s, keeping them united for the sake of the woman he loved; the woman he believed she held captive.

“Is it true?” Gergon’s voice was soft and insistent.

What folly, what amazing folly! To think that they had come so far and fought so hard for naught. “No,” she said. “It is a lie.”

Her Ward Commander gave a sigh from the depths of his being. “Shapers be blessed! Where are they, my lady? How long will it be?”

She met his eyes unflinching. “Three days. They travel from Jakar.”

Gergon gave a grim nod and bowed to her. “Then we will hold.”

“Good.” Lilias bit her lip and swallowed hard. The lie, spoken, seemed to lodge in her throat. And yet what else was there to do? Haomane’s Allies might grant merciful terms if she surrendered, but they would take no pity on her. Beshtanag would be dismantled, the Soumanië stripped from her. And Calandor … they would slay him if they could. She wanted to weep; for herself, for Gergon, for all of Beshtanag. But it would not do to let Gergon see her weak. Gathering her skirts, Lilias brushed past him. “Carry on, commander.”