Angry voices rose in reply; in the saddle, Aracus Altorus held up one hand. “Set him down.” He waited while Blaise and the others obeyed. Phraotes curled into a tight ball and lay panting on the pine mast. His ears were flat against his skull and the shaft of the arrow jerked with each breath, slow blood trickling down his grey fur, but his visible eye was watchful. The Were did not die easily. Aracus gazed down at him, his expression somber. “There remain many scores between us, not the least of which is Lindanen Dale. And yet you say you are an ambassador. What terms do you offer, Oronin’s Child?”

With a sound that was half laugh, Phraotes coughed blood. His muzzle scraped the loam. “The Grey Dam is dead; the Grey Dam lives. Though she carries her memories, the Grey Dam Vashuka is not the Grey Dam Sorash.” One amber eye squinted through his pain. “What terms would you accept, King of the West?”

“Son of Altorus!” There was a stir in the ranks, and the gilded bee of Valmaré fluttered on its pennant as Lorenlasse rode forward, glittering in his armor, to place a peremptory hand on Aracus’ arm. “Dergail the Wise Counselor died through the treachery of Oronin’s Children,” he hissed, “and Cerion the Navigator was lost! The Lady Cerelinde would be your bride if they were not faithless. You may forget, but we remember. Will you treat with them and be a fool?”

Plain steel sang as Blaise Caveros unsheathed his sword. “Unhand him.”

Finely chiseled Ellyl nostrils flared. “What manner of villain do you take me for, traitor-kin?” Lorenlasse asked in contempt. “Our way is not yours. We do not slay out of misguided passion.”

“Enough!” Aracus raised his voice. “Blaise, put up your sword. My lord Lorenlasse, abide.” He sighed again and rubbed his temples, aching beneath the Soumanië’s weight. “Would that Malthus was here,” he muttered. “Sorceress!”

Lilias glanced up, startled. “My lord Altorus?”

“Advise me.” He brought his mount alongside hers and looked hard at her. “You know them; you have made pacts with them, and lived. I do not forget anything, but I have erred once in mistaking my true enemy, and innocent folk have died. I do not wish to err twice. Are the Were my enemy?”

“No.” She shook her head. “They wish only to be let alone.”

“Whence Lindanen Dale?”

He was close, too close. Their horses’ flanks were brushing. His presence crowded her, yet there was no room to shrink away on the narrow path. Lilias swallowed. “It was your kinsmen slew her cubs. Do you not remember?”

“I was not born.” His face was implacable.

“Faranol,” Phraotes rasped. “Prince Faranol.”