“Enough!” The Shaper’s fists clenched, and the Ravensmirror dispersed, trembling, breaking into a thousand bits of darkness. Roosts were found, bescaled and taloned bird-feet scrambling for perches, bright eyes winking as the Shaper paced, the Tower trembling beneath his footfalls. A single raven, with a tuft of feathers atop his head, croaked a tremulous query. In the air hung the copper-sweet smell of blood.

“It shall not be,” Lord Satoris said. “Though I have left my Elder Brother in peace, still he pursues me, age upon age. I grow weary of his enmity. If it is war Haomane wishes, my Three, I shall oblige him. And I shall not wait for him to bring it to my doorstep.” He turned to Tanaros. His gaze burned, ruddy coals in the night. A line of seeping ichor glistened on his inner thigh, reeking of blood, only stronger. “My General, my rouser of Men. Are you fit to travel the Marasoumië?”

Tanaros bowed.

Tanaros could not do aught else.

“I am yours to command, my Lord,” he said, even as a single raven dispatched itself from the horde, settling on his shoulder. He stroked its ruffled feathers with a fingertip. “Only tell me what you wish.”

Satoris did.

FOUR

FOUR

LILIAS KNEW.

It came as a stirring, a tensing of her brow, as if the circlet she ever wore had grown too tight. Awareness tickled the base of her skull, and the Soumanië on her brow warmed against her skin, rendering her feverish.

She paced the halls of her fasthold of Beshtanag, restless and uneasy, curt with her body-servants, her pretty ones, when they sought to soothe her. Calandor had shown her long ago how to Shape the hearts and minds of those who served her, and they were her one indulgence. Some of them sulked, but not all. She had always tried to choose them wisely. Little Sarika wept, curling into a ball, damp hair clinging to her tear-stained cheeks. Pietre dogged her steps, squaring his shoulders in a manful fashion until she snapped at him, too. It wasn’t their fault, and she felt guilty at it.

“Calandor,” she whispered, reaching. “Oh, Calandor!”

I am here.

At the touch of the dragon’s thoughts, the Sorceress of the East relaxed, obliquely reassured. “One is coming, traveling the Marasoumie.”

Yes, little sister. One of the Branded.

Lilias grasped the railing of the balustrade and stared down the mountainside.

It was secure, of course. The grey crags, the pine mantle spread like a dark green apron below. Gergon and his wardsmen held it for her and the Were defended its borders, but the mountain was hers, hers and Calandor’s. With the power of the Soumanië, they had made it so. No creature moved upon it, not squirrel nor bat, wolf nor Were, and least of all Man, but that Calandor knew it. And what the dragon knew, the sorceress knew.

So it had been, for a long, long time.