They met hers, measured and knew her. They saw the hopeless tangle of grief and envy knotted in her heart. Ingolin was not called the Wise for nothing. He bent his head a fraction in acknowledgment of the status she had once held. “Lilias of Beshtanag. We welcome you to Meronil as our guest.”

Others watched her; Aracus, with the dead Soumanië on his brow, filled with longing. Fianna, seething with resentment. Malthus and the Ellyl Peldras, both with that awful compassion. And Blaise; what of Blaise? He sat his mount quietly, scarred hands holding the reins, avoiding her eyes.

Lilias drew a deep breath. “You put a pleasant face upon my captivity, Lord Ingolin.”

“Yes.” Ingolin offered the word simply. “You know who you are, Sorceress; what you have been, what you have done. You know who we are and what we seek.” He indicated the open door. “You will be granted hospitality within these walls; and sanctuary, too. Of that, I assure you. No more, and no less.”

Lilias’ head ached. There was too much light in this place, too much whiteness. She rubbed at her temples with fumbling fingers. “I don’t want it.”

There was no pity in his face, in the eyes that had beheld the Sundering of the world. “Nonetheless, you shall have it.”

“IT’S HIM!” MEARA HISSED.

Cerelinde’s heart clenched in a spasm of fear. She willed herself to a semblance of calm before glancing up from the embroidery in her lap. “Has Lord Satoris summoned me, Meara?”

“Not his Lordship!” The madling grimaced and jerked her head at the doorway. “General Tanaros. He’s here.”

This time, it was a surge of gladness that quickened her heart. It was more disturbing than the fear. Cerelinde laid aside her embroidery and folded her hands. “Thank you, Meara. Please make him welcome.”

She did, muttering to herself, and made a hasty exit without apology.

And then he was there.

He was taller than she remembered; or perhaps it was the gauntness his travail had left that made him seem so. The room seemed smaller with him in it. Muted lamplight reflected dimly on the glossy surface of his ceremonial black armor. He bowed, exacting and courtly. “Lady Cerelinde”

“General Tanaros.” She inclined her head, indicating the empty chair opposite her. “Will you sit?”

“Thank you.” Encased in unyielding metal, Tanaros sat upright, resting his hands on his knees. He regarded her in silence for a moment, as though he’d forgotten what he’d come to say. “I trust you are well?”

“As well as I may be.” Cerelinde smiled faintly. “Meara has obtained materials that I might indulge in needlework to alleviate the tedium. His Lordship has not permitted Lord Vorax to kill me.”

“Vorax?” The straps of Tanaros’ armor creaked as he shifted. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would like to.”

“He won’t.”