She wondered if Oronin Last-Born would protest, or if he were willing to sacrifice his Children on the altar of Haomane’s pride for the sin of having aided Satoris Banewreaker. In the silence that followed Aracus’ pronouncement, it seemed that it must be so. Like Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, the Glad Hunter would abide.

“No cubs?” Phraotes rasped. “No offspring?”

Aracus Altorus shook his head. “None.”

It took longer to obtain an answer. The Were’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body writhing upon the loam. Whatever path his thoughts traveled, it was a difficult one. Phraotes gnashed his teeth, blood and foam sputtering. His body went rigid, then thrashed, the protruding arrow jerking this way and that, his clawed hands digging hard and scoring deep gouges in the pine mast.

“Lord Aracus,” Peldras the Ellyl whispered. “Such a request, whether you will it or no, embroils the Were in the Shapers’ War …”

Aracus raised one hand, intent. “Such are my terms.”

Say no, Lilias thought, concentrating her fierce will. Say no, say no, say NO!

“Yea!” Phraotes, panting, opened slitted eyes. “The Grey Dam Vashuka accedes. Do you leave us in peace, Oronin’s Children will abjure the Gift of Satoris Third-Born, and procreate no more in her lifetime. Like Yrinna’s Children, we shall not increase; nor shall we remain. We shall dwindle, and pass into legend. Like—” his amber gaze fell upon Lorenlasse, “—like Haomane’s Children, in all their pride.” Head lolling, he gave his bloody grin. “Is it a bargain, King of the West? Will you swear to leave us in peace, and guarantee the word of all who are sworn to your allegiance?”

“I will,” Aracus said simply. “I do.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of horses shifting, stamping restless hooves, cropping at foliage. It didn’t seem right, Lilias thought. There should have been a vast noise; a shuddering crash such as there had been when Calandor fell, an endless keening wail of Oronin’s Horn. Not this simple quietude. She wanted to weep, but there were no tears left in her, only a dry wasteland of grief.

“So be it.” Phraotes closed his eyes. “Oronin has wrought this and the Were consent. With my death, it is sealed. Draw out the arrow, King of the West.”

Aracus knelt on one knee beside the crumpled figure, placing his left hand on the Were’s narrow chest. With his right, he grasped the arrow’s shaft. Murmuring a prayer to Haomane, he pulled, tearing out the arrow in one hard yank. Blood flowed, dark and red, from the hole left by the sharp barbs. Phraotes hissed, tried to cough, and failed. His lids flickered once and, with a long shudder, he died.