Tanaros thought of the boy he had seen in the Ways, with a clay vial at his throat and a question in his eyes. He thought of the Yarru elders; of Ngurra, calm and sorrowful beneath the shadow of his black sword.

I can only give you the choice, Slayer.

“Yes,” he said. “They are.”

After that, the Three continued in silence. What his companions thought, Tanaros could not guess with any certitude. They had never spoken of what would befall them if Haomane’s Allies were to prevail.

It had never seemed possible until now.

FOUR

FOUR

THE VALLEY IN WHICH THE Rivenlost haven of Meronil lay was a green cleft shrouded in mist. By all appearances, it filled the valley to the brim, moving in gentle eddies, sunshot and lovely, a veil of rainbow droplets.

Lilias caught her breath at the sight of it.

Blaise Caveros glanced at her. “I felt the same when I first saw it.”

She made no reply, watching as Aracus Altorus and Malthus the Counselor rode to the valley’s edge, peering into the mists. There, they conferred. Aracus inclined his head, the Soumanië dull on his brow. Mist dampened his red-gold hair, making it curl into ringlets at the nape of his neck.

He needs a haircut, Lilias thought.

Aracus didn’t look at her. She wished that he would, but he hadn’t. Not since the day the Counselor had appeared before them, pointing his gnarled finger at her, and spoken those fateful words.

Not so long as the Sorceress of Beshtanag lives.

It was Aracus Altorus who had placed his hand on the Counselor’s forearm, lowering his pointing finger. It was Aracus who had raised his voice in a fierce shout, bidding Fianna the Archer to lower her bow. And it was Aracus who had brought his mount alongside hers, fixing her with his wide-set gaze. All the words that had passed between them were in that gaze. He was not a bad man, nor a cruel one. He had extended trust to her, and mercy, too.

“Will you not release your claim upon it, Lilias?” he had asked her simply.

In the back of her mind there arose the image of Calandor as she had seen him last; a vast mound of grey stone, the crumpled shape of one broken wing pinned beneath him, the sinuous neck stretched out in death. To join him in death was one thing; to relinquish the Soumanië willingly? It would be a betrayal of that memory. While she lived, she could not do it. Tears had filled her eyes as she shook her head. “I cannot,” she whispered. “You should have let me die when you had the chance.”