The horses’ hooves thudded softly on the broad, beaten path, gaining speed as Aracus Altorus stepped up the pace to a slow trot. Soon, the vanguard would pull ahead of the foot-soldiers, leaving them behind. An occupying force of Regent Martinek’s men remained to oversee Beshtanag’s affairs. The remaining Pelmarans would assemble a council of Regents to determine what aid they could send westward; in the south, the Vedasian knights would seek to rally their own overlords. Duke Bornin of Seahold would gather the forces of the Midlands. As for the rest of them, they were bound for the Rivenlost haven of Meronil and the counsel of Ingolin the Wise; to seek news of Malthus, to attempt to unlock the power of the Soumanië, to plan an assault upon Darkhaven.

And their prisoner, Lilias of Beshtanag, who held the answers to two of these matters, would be carried along with them like a twig in a flood.

Turning in the saddle, Lilias glanced behind her one last time. Already the fortress was invisible from this angle. She caught a glimpse of the dull grey hummock of Calandor’s remains before low pine branches swept across her field of vision, closing like a curtain upon Beshtanag.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “Good-bye, my love.”

IN HER QUARTERS, CERELINDE BALKED.

“Thank you, Lord Vorax,” she said stiffly. “I pray you tell his Lordship I decline his invitation.”

The madling Meara hissed with alarm in the comer. Vorax the Glutton grimaced, planting his heavy hands on the gilded belt that encircled his girth; which had, in fairness, grown considerably less than it had been when he greeted her at the gates of Darkhaven. “Do you think I fancy being his errand-boy, Lady? I have more important duties. Nonetheless, his Lordship’s invitations are not optional.”

“Very well.” She laid aside the lace-work with which she had been occupying her hours. “As his Lordship commands.”

Vorax held open the door to her chambers with a sardonic bow, smiling in such a way as showed his sturdy teeth above his beard. Small scabs stippled his brow and cheeks. Cerelinde repressed a shudder at having to pass close enough to feel the heat of his body. “You are too kind, Lady.”

“Not at all.” She returned his false smile, watching the Staccian’s eyes narrow. It was a relief, in some ways, to deal with him instead of Tanaros. Vorax the Glutton did not confuse her senses or her thoughts, and however he had spent the long years of his immortality, it had inured him to the allure of the Ellylon. He would as lief see her dead as alive, and made little effort to disguise the fact.