“Son of Altorus.” Lorenlasse of Valmaré addressed him in the common tongue, his voice gentle. “Believe me when I tell you that this news is as grievous to the Rivenlost as to you, if not more so. And yet there is another matter at hand.”

“Yes.” He went still, then turned back to her. “There is.”

Despite everything, Lilias found herself shrinking back against the throne. He should have been afraid. He wasn’t. His grief, this defeat in the midst of victory, had granted him that much. There was no anger in his face, nor mercy, only a weary nobility for which she despised him. Why should he be appointed to this victory? What accident of birth, what vagary of Haomane’s will, vouchsafed him this prize?

Two steps toward her, then three.

He reached out one hand, palm open. “The Soumanië.”

It was a dead weight on her brow and it shouldn’t have hurt to face its loss. It did. Especially to him, to this one. Lilias gripped the granite arms of her throne until her nails bent and bled. “Will you take it from me, then?” she asked him. “How then, when you have not won it? Do you claim a victory here? I think not, Altorus. This prize belonged to the Dragon of Beshtanag” She laughed, the sound of her laughter high and unstrung. “Do you think Calandor did not see his end, and I with him? Do you think I did not see who wielded Oronin’s Bow and the Arrow of Fire? Where is the Archer, son of Altorus? I see no women in your train. Do you fear to give such a prize unto a woman’s hand?”

“Sorceress,” he said patiently. “The Soumanië.”

“No,” she whispered. “Martinek! You are Pelmaran. Think what this means. Will you let him claim sovereignty over my lands and yours?”

The Southeastern Regent shifted, adjusting his sword-hilt, setting his mouth in a hard, thin line. He had the decency not to meet her gaze. “I’ve sworn my allegiance.”

“What of you, my lord Valmaré?” In despair, Lilias forced her tone to one of sweet reason, addressing Lorenlasse of Valmaré. “Have matters changed so in Urulat? Do Haomane’s Children cede the spoils of victory to Arahila’s? This is not a prize for mortal hands to sully. Am I not living proof?”

The Rivenlost Lord frowned, hesitating.

“Lorenlasse.” The travel-worn Ellyl spoke the common tongue with soft regret. “Ingolin the Wise himself dared not take on such a burden. Will you gainsay his wisdom, that Malthus the Counselor informed? Let the Son of Aracus claim it. He is the betrothed of the Lady Cerelinde, granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold. Our time ends, and this is his victory. It is his right.”