“Tell me how to reach him!” Aracus had raged. “Tell me how to use this!”

Lilias had shrugged. “Give me the Soumanië.”

He didn’t, of course; he wasn’t a fool. He had merely glared at her, while the Ellylon spoke to him in hushed tones of what had transpired, explaining that not even one of the Soumanië could undo Godslayer’s work. If they could not tap the Soumanië’s power themselves, still, there were things they knew; things they understood, Haomane’s Children. A death at the heart of Urulat was one such. They explained it to the would-be King of the West, their perfect faces strained and bone-white. The Ellylon did not love the deep places of the earth.

In the end, they trooped back to her warchamber, where Lilias was not allowed to leave. She was a piece of excess baggage, but one too valuable to discard. Dignity, along with privacy, was a thing from another life. She sat in the corner, covering her face with both hands, while Haomane’s Allies spoke in portentous tones of assailing Darkhaven. They let her hear their plans, so little did they fear her. A bitter irony, that.

“My lady,” a voice whispered. “Is there aught I can bring you?”

Lilias gazed upward through the lank curtain of her hair. “Pietre!” It was appalling, the gratitude in her acknowledgment. Tears welled in her eyes. “Are you well? Have they treated you kindly?”

“Aye, my lady, well enough. It is as you said, they show us mercy.” Stooping on one knee, Pietre offered the tray he held; a silver salver from her own cupboards, laden with cheese and dark Pelmaran bread. There was concern in his gaze. “Will you not eat? A bit of bread, at least? I can ask the cooks to sop it in wine, make a posset …”

“No,” Lilias began, then paused. “Would you do this for me?”

“Anything.”

She told him, whispering, her lips close to his ear. Pietre shook his head vehemently, his brown hair brushing her cheek. Only when one of the Ellylon glanced over in idle curiosity did he relent. Even then, his willingness was fitful. “Are you sure?” he asked, begging her with his eyes to say no.

“Yes.” Lilias almost smiled. “I am sure.”

It gave her reason to live, at least for a little while longer, and that, too, was a bitter irony. She huddled in her corner, arms wrapped around her knees, half-listening to the council of Haomane’s Allies while awaiting Pietre’s return. In time he came, carrying the silver platter. It made her proud to see the straight line of his back, the pride with which he performed his duties. Aracus Altorus and his peers accepted his service without thinking, reaching for a bite of bread and cheese, a cup of wine. Only Blaise remained on guard, distrustful, making certain Pietre was willing to taste aught he served to Haomane’s Allies.