Lilias rose, stiff and aching. The horns, the horns of the Rivenlost were still blowing, still rising and falling, singing of victory and loss, of the glory of Haomane’s Prophecy and the terrible price it exhorted. And yet it seemed to her that beneath it all another note sounded, dark and deep and wild, filled with a terrible promise. It reminded her of her childhood, long, long ago, in the deep fastness of Pelmar, where Oronin the Glad Hunter had once roamed the forests, Shaping his Children to be swift and deadly, with keen jaws and amber eyes.

It sang her name.

Over and over, it sang her name.

“So be it,” Lilias whispered. A weary gladness filled her. The stories that were told in Pelmar were true after all. That was his Gift; Oronin Last-Born, the Glad Hunter. She was mortal, and she was his to summon.

She could resist his call, for a time. Hours, perhaps days. She was the Sorceress of the East and her will was strong. It might be enough to tip the outcome on the battlefield … and yet, in her heart, she no longer believed it. The Helm of Shadows was broken. The things that Calandor had shown her were coming to pass, and while the world that followed might not be the one that Haomane’s Allies envisioned, surely it would be one in which there was no place for Lilias of Beshtanag.

It would be a relief, a blessed relief, to slip the coil of mortality forever. She had tried. She had cast her die and lost, but it did not matter. Not in the end. Whether Haomane’s Prophecy was fulfilled or thwarted, there was no winning for mortals in the Shapers’ War.

And on the other side of death, Calandor awaited her.

There were things even the Shapers did not know.

Lilias embraced that thought as she climbed onto the window seat. She swayed there, leaning forward and spreading her arms. It was a clear day in Meronil, the white city sparkling beneath the sun. The wind fluttered her sleeves, her skirts. A sea-eagle veered away with a harsh cry, making her laugh. Far, far below, the silvery ribbon of the Aven River beckoned, flowing steadily toward the sea.

It was a relief, a blessed relief, to lay down the burden of choice.

“Calandor!” Lilias cried. “I am coming!”

She stepped onto nothingness and plummeted.

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-ONE

DANI RACED DOWN THE HALLS of Darkhaven, his bare feet pounding the marble floors. Behind him, he could hear Uncle Thulu, breathing hard as they ran, accompanied by the blurred rush of their dim reflections in the glossy black walls, fractured by blue-white fire.