Calandor’s question was too vast to answer, so she ignored it, escorting Tanaros to her drawing-room. A woman’s room; she had chosen it deliberately. A warm fire burned in the grate, chasing away the spring chill. Soft rose-colored cushions adorned the low couches, and tapestries hung on the walls, illustrating scenes from Pelmar’s past. There was a rack of scrolls along one wall, and shelves with curiosities from Calandor’s hoard. In one corner stood a spinning-wheel, dusty for lack of use. The lamps were hooded with amber silk, casting a warm glow. Lilias sank into the cushions, watching Tanaros, lamplight glancing off the lacquered black of his armor.

He was uneasy in the room.

“Sit,” she said, indicating a chair. “You must be in need of refreshment, after your journey.”

He sat, clearing his throat. “The Ways of the Marasoumië are not easy.”

Lilias pulled a bellcord of bronze cabled silk, soft to the touch. Pietre was there almost before she released it, half-belligerent in his eagerness to serve.

“My lady?” He bowed low.

“Pietre.” She touched his luxuriant brown hair, caught in a band at the nape of his neck. The silver collar about his neck gleamed. He shivered with pleasure at her touch, and she repressed a smile. “Bring us wine and water, a terrine with bread and cheese, and some of the Vedasian olives.”

“My lady.” He shivered again before departing.

Tanaros Blacksword watched, expressionless.

“You do not approve?” Lilias raised an eyebrow.

He released his breath in a humorless laugh, pushing at his dark hair. “Approve? I neither approve nor disapprove. It is the way of Men, and the daughters of Men, to make tame what is wild.”

Lilias shrugged. “I Shape only those whose natures it is to serve, as mine was not. Some are more willing than others. I try to choose wisely. Pietre has pride in his labors.”

“And your army?” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, greaves creaking.

“You have seen my Ward Commander, Kingslayer.” Lilias eyed him. “Gergon learned his task at his father’s knee, as did his father before him. Though Dergail’s Soumanië has risen in the west, Beshtanag is secure. You have done as much for Darkhaven, since before his grandfather drew breath. Do you doubt his pride in it?”

“No.” He exhaled, met her gaze. “How long has it been, lady?”

Such a question! She knew what he meant, and tears, unbidden, stung her eyes. “Over a thousand years. How long for you?”

“twelve hundred.” He bowed his head, touching some unknown talisman in his pocket. His dark hair fell to curtain his features. It was ill-cropped, and there was not a trace of grey in it. “Over twelve hundred.”

Neither of them spoke.