“It was to me.” Lilias turned her gaze on the Ellyl noblewoman. “As you say, Lady, I had done nothing to threaten or harm you. I wished only to be left in peace. Did Beshtanag deserve to be destroyed because of it?”

“For that, no,” the Lady Nerinil said quietly. “But the Soumanië was never meant to be yours to wield, and never in such a manner. You set yourself against Haomane’s will when you did so. Surely you must have known such defiance could not go unanswered forever.”

“Ah, Haomane.” Lilias curled her lip. “We spoke of fear, Lady. What is it Haomane fears? Why is he so jealous of his power that he will not share even the smallest portion of it with a mortal woman?” She paused. “Or is it knowledge the Lord-of-Thought fears? Even Haomane’s Allies seem passing fearful of the wisdom of dragons. Perhaps it is that he sought to extinguish.”

“No.” The Ellyl spoke tentatively, then frowned and repeated the word more strongly. “No.” Scintillant points of light danced around the room as she shook her head once more. “I will not fall prey to your sophistry and lies. You seek but to justify your actions, which served only your own ends.”

“Can Haomane First-Born claim otherwise?” Lilias laughed shortly, feeling old and haggard, and wishing the Ellyl would depart. “At least, unlike the Lord-of-Thought, I know it. Have I ever denied as much?”

The Lady Nerinil looked at her with a fathomless expression in her dark, lambent eyes. “It seems to me that you spoke true words in the Council of Malthus, Sorceress. You are a proud woman, and a vain one.”

“Yes,” Lilias said. “I know.”

“Arahila the Fair bids us to be compassionate,” the Lady Nerinil mused. “May she in her infinite mercy forgive me, for I cannot find it in my heart to pity you, Lilias of Beshtanag.”

The words carried a familiar sting. “I do not want your pity,” Lilias murmured.

“I know.” The Lady Nerinil of the House of Numireth the Fleet inclined her head with grace. “But it is all that you deserve.”

THE TUNNEL WENT ON FOREVER.

After the unforgiving terrain of the northern Fjel territories, it should have been easy. Beyond the initial descent, the tunnel was level. Its floor was worn almost smooth by the passage of countless generations; broad Fjeltroll feet, the booted feet of Men, even horses’ shod hooves, for it was vast enough for two Men to ride abreast. It was warmer beneath the earth than it was above it, out of the elements of wind and rain. They had food and water, and torches to light their way.