And he was, of course. All save the posset; that was reserved for her.

Pietre knelt to serve it to her, steadying the tray with one hand. There were tears in his eyes now, liquid and shining. “It is what you asked for,” he murmured. “Sarika knew where it was kept. But, oh, please my lady! Both of us beg you …”

“You have my thanks, Pietre. And my blessing, for what it is worth.” Lilias reached eagerly for the cup. Cradling it between her hands, she inhaled deeply of its aroma. Wine and hoarded spices, and an underlying bitterness. It was a fit drink for the occasion. “Both of you,” she added. “Are you sure there is enough?”

“Yes, my lady.” Swallowing tears, he nodded. “Enough for a whole colony of rats. It will suffice.”

Lilias did smile, then, lifting the cup in toast. “You’ve done a noble deed. Farewell, Pietre.”

Bowing his head, he turned away without answering, unable to watch. Still, it gladdened her heart to have him there, loyal to the end. It hadn’t all been the Soumanië’s power, not all of it. She had loved them well, her pretty ones; as she had loved Beshtanag. Its grey crags, its green forests; hers, all hers. From the sheep grazing in mountain pastures to the Were skulking in the shadow of the pines, she had known it, more truly and deeply than anyone else ever would.

And now it was lost to her, all lost. Would it have been different if she had refused Satoris’ emissary? A war to prevent a war, she thought, gazing at the cup’s contents. So Tanaros Blacksword called it. He had been wrong; but he had been right, too. Ever since Dergail’s Soumanië had risen in the West, she had known it; for what Calandor had known, she had shared.

All things must be as they are, little sssisster.

It was a glorious haven they had made in Beshtanag, but the dragon’s wisdom held true. Sooner or later, they would have come for her. Better, perhaps, that it was Haomane’s Allies than the Lord-of-Thought himself. If Haomane First-Born was coming, Lilias did not intend to wait for him.

“Farewell,” she whispered, raising the cup to her lips.

A man’s hand dashed it away, hard and swift.

Crockery shattered, and Lilias shrank backward Into her corner beneath a sudden shadow. Blaise Caveros stood over her, having shoved Pietre out of his way. “Sorceress.” He sighed, rumpling his dark hair. The bandage was gone from his brow and the gash on his temple was knitting cleanly, but he still looked tired and drawn. “Please don’t make this difficult.”