And he had raised one gnarled forefinger like a spear, his eyes as terrible as death, and pointed it at her.

“Nothing,” Lilias said to Blaise. “I saw nothing.”

On that night, the second night, the dream reoccurred; and again on the third. It kindled hope among the Men and unease among the Ellylon, and discussion and dissent among members of both races.

“This is some trick of the Misbegotten,” Lorenlasse announced with distaste.

“I do not think he would dare,” Peldras said softly. There were violet smudges of weariness in the hollows of his eyes. “For all his ill-gained magics, Ushahin the Misbegotten has never dared trespass in the minds of Haomane’s Children.”

On orders from Blaise Caveros, the Borderguard sent scouts to question commonfolk in the surrounding territories. They returned with a confusion of replies; yes, they had seen the Bright Rider, yes, and the other Rider, too, the horses the colors of blood, night, and smoke. A wedge of ravens flying, a desert wind. A stone in a child’s fist, crushing bone; a clear gem, and lightning.

They were afraid.

Lorenlasse of Valmaré listened and shook his fair head. “It is the Misbegotten,” he said with certainty. Others disagreed.

Only Aracus Altorus said nothing. Weariness was in the droop of his shoulders; but he set his chin against the weight of the Soumanië as he rode and glanced northward from time to time with a kind of desperate hope.

And Lilias, whom the visions filled with terror, watched him with a kind of desperate fear.

“You know more than you say, Sorceress,” Blaise said to her on the fourth day.

“Usually.” Lilias smiled with bitter irony. “Is that not why I am here?”

He studied her. “Is it Malthus?”

She shrugged. “Who am I to say? You knew him; I did not.”

Blaise rode for a while without speaking. “Is it Ushahin Dream-stalker?” he asked at length, adding, “You knew him; I did not.”

“I met him,” Lilias corrected him. “I did not know him.”

“And?” He raised his eyebrows.

“What would you have me do?” she asked in exasperation. “You are a courteous enough keeper, Blaise Caveros, but I am a prisoner here. Would you have me aid you, my lord? After you destroyed my life and rendered me”—Lilias held up her wind-chafed, reddened hands—“this?”

“What?” Leaning over in the saddle, Blaise caught her wrist in a strong grip. Their mounts halted, flanks brushing. “Mortal? A woman?” His voice softened. “It is the lot to which you were born, Lilias of Beshtanag. No more, no less. Is it so cruel?”

Ahead of them, the Rivenlost rode in glittering panoply, ageless features keen beneath their fluttering pennants. “Yes,” Lilias whispered. “It is.”

Blaise loosed his grip and retrieved his dropped rein, resuming their pace. “I do not understand you,” he said flatly.

“Nor do I expect you to,” she retorted, rubbing her wrist.