“Yes.” Lilias drew a shallow breath, wishing Aracus would give her space to draw a deeper one. He was close enough that she could smell him, the tang of metal and the sharp odor of human sweat. This urgency, the exigencies of mortal flesh, pressed too close, reminded her too keenly of the limits that circumscribed her win existence, of her own aching, aging body. “Faranol of Altoria slew the offspring of the Grey Dam Sorash. A hunting party in Pelmar. Surely you must know.”

“Yes.” Because he did not need to, he did not say that Faranol was a hero to the House of Altorus. “I know the story.”

“Hence, Lindanen Dale,” she said simply.

“So.” Aracus’ fingertips pressed his temples. “It is a cycle of vengeance, and I am caught up in it by accident of birth.” With a final sigh he dropped his hands and cast his gaze upon the Were. “You are dying, Oronin’s Child. What power have you to make treaties? Why should I believe you?”

Lying curled upon the ground, Phraotes bared his bloody teeth. “We have walked between life and death since the Glad Hunter Shaped us, blowing his horn all the while. Death walked in his train as it does in yours. We are a pack, son of Altorus, and our Shaper’s Gift lies in those dark corridors. Though Oronin’s Horn now blows for me, the Grey Dam hears me; I speak with her voice. Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is banned from our company. The fetters of old oaths are broken, we are despised in Urulat, and Oronin has raised his hand against us this day. New oaths may be made and honored. What will you, King of the West?”

“Sorceress?”

His eyes were wide, demanding. Demanding, and trusting. For the first time, Lilias understood why they had followed him; Man and Ellyl alike. The knowledge made her inexplicably weary. “For so long as the Grey Dam Vashuka endures,” she said, speaking true words to him, “the Were will abide by what bargain you strike. I have no other counsel.”

“It is enough.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

Something in her heart stirred at his thanks. The mere fact of it made bile rise in her throat. Lilias looked away, not watching as Aracus left her side. He dismounted, walking away a small distance. Others followed, raising voices in argument: gilded Ellylon voices, the deeper tones of the Borderguard, the pleading voice of the woman Archer. Lilias glanced across the backs of milling, riderless horses. Aracus listened to the arguments without speaking, his broad shoulders set, his head bowed under the useless weight of the Soumanië. She wondered if they would regret having sworn their fealty to him this day. There was a twisted satisfaction in the thought.

“He’ll do it, you know.”

Glancing down, she saw Blaise standing beside her mount, gathering its reins in his capable hands. “Do what?”