Sullen Marija ignored her, stepping promptly to the base of the throne. A pretty girl, with the high, broad cheekbones of a Beshtanagi peasant. She should have been freed long ago; Radovan had been a friend of hers. Lilias gazed at her with rue and leaned forward, touching the silver collar with two fingers. Holding a pattern in her mind, she whispered three words that Calandor had taught her and undid the pattern the way the dragon had shown her, so many centuries ago.

Silver links parted and slithered to the floor. Eyeing the fallen collar warily, Marija touched her bare throat. With a harsh laugh she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Lilias sighed, pressing her temples. “Come,” she said wearily. “Who is next?”

No one moved.

“Why?” Pietre whispered. “Why, my lady? Have we not served you well?”

She was a thousand years old, and she wanted to weep. Oh, Uru-Alat, the time had gone quickly! “Yes, sweetling,” Lilias said, as gently as she could. “You have. But you see, we are defeated here. And as you are innocent, Haomane’s Allies will show mercy, do you submit to it. It is their way.”

They protested, of course. It was in their nature, the best of her pretty ones. In the end, she freed them all. Pietre was the hardest. There were tears in his eyes as he knelt before her, blinking. He cried aloud when the collar slipped from his neck.

“Be free of it.” Lilias finished the gesture, the unbinding, resting the back of her head against her throne. The last connection slid from her grasp, the final severing complete. It was done. On her brow, the Soumanië guttered, and failed for the last time.

She was done.

“Lady.” Though his throat was bare, Pietre’s hands grasped hers, hard. His throat was bare, and nothing had changed in his steadfast gaze. “A delegation is at the door. Shall I admit them?”

“Yes.” Relying on the unyielding granite to keep her upright, Lilias swallowed against the aching lump in her throat. “Thank you, Pietre,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I am done here. If you would do me one final service, let them in.”

THEY WERE FIVE WHO ENTERED the hall.

The foremost, she knew. She had seen him from afar for too long not to recognize him. His dun-grey cloak swirled about him as he strode and sunlight glinted on his red-gold hair. Mortal, yes; Arahila’s Child, with the breath of Oronin’s Horn blowing hot on his neck. Still, there was something more in his fierce, wide-set gaze, an awareness vouchsafed few of his kind.

Of their kind.