Lilias sat unmoving and watched them come. Over her head, emeralds winked against the back of her granite throne, ordinary gems sunk into the very stone. She had wrought it herself when Calandor first taught her to use the Soumanië to Shape elements, almost a thousand years ago. For that long, for ill or for good, had she ruled Beshtanag from this seat.

The delegation halted before her.

No one bowed, least of all their leader. “Sorceress.” His voice was curt. “I am Aracus Altorus of the Borderguard of Curonan, and I speak for Haomane’s Allies. You know what we have come for. Is she here?”

Lilias looked past him to the other four. Two of them were mortal, and one she knew; Martinek, Regent of Southeastern Pelmar, whose face bore a cruel, gloating expression. The other, a Borderguardsman, seemed unsteady on his feet. There was something vaguely familiar about him; his dark, sombre eyes and the shock of hair falling over his pale and bandaged brow. The remaining two were Ellylon, their fine-wrought features startling in her stone halls. One of these too she knew, having seen his standard oft enough; Lorenlasse of Valmaré, gleaming in his armor. The other Ellyl, in travel-worn garb, she did not recognize. He looked at her with sorrow.

“No,” she said at last; to him, to all of them, letting the word fall like a stone. Her fingers clutched the throne’s arms; there was a bitter satisfaction in the message. “You have assailed us in vain, would-be King of the West. Beshtanag has committed no crime. The Lady Cerelinde of the Rivenlost is not here.”

Aracus Altorus’ sword rasped free of its scabbard. The point of it came to rest in the hollow of her throat. Lilias sat unflinching. Calandor was dead, Beshtanag had fallen, and she did not care if she lived or died. He leaned forward, one foot on the throne’s base, pressing hard enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“Where is she?”

His breath was hot on her face; well-fed, smelling of heat and battle-rage, his strength fueled by mutton and deer purloined from the pastures and forests of Beshtanag. “Aracus,” the wounded Man murmured, cautioning. One of the Ellylon spoke to the other in their melodious language. Lilias ignored them and smiled with all the bleak emptiness in her heart.

“Darkhaven,” she said, relishing his reaction. “She is in Darkhaven, in the Sunderer’s keeping. It is where she has been all along, my lord of the Borderguard. Your people were misled.”

He swore, Aracus Altorus did, turning away from her. His shoulders shook, and cords stood out in his neck, taut with anguish. Lilias was glad of it. Let him suffer, then, as she did. Let him know the taste of failure. He had destroyed everything she held dear. And for what? For nothing.