Ingolin the Wise presided at the head of the table, with Malthus the Counselor at his right hand and Aracus Altorus at his left. The others were Ellylon. Lorenlasse of Valmaré she knew; the others, she did not, although their faces were familiar. All of it was familiar. One of the Ellylon was a woman, with features so lovely at close range that Lilias could have wept.

Instead, under the combined weight of their regard, she froze in the doorway.

“Go on.” Blaise prodded her from behind. He pointed to an empty chair on one side of the table, isolated from the rest. “Take your seat.”

Lilias took a deep breath and entered the room, crossing through the bars of blue light. She drew out the chair and sat, glancing back at Blaise. He had positioned himself like a guard beside the tall doorway. High above him, on the pediment that capped the entrance, was the room’s sole imperfection: a shattered marble relief that had once depicted the head of Meronin Fifth-Born, Lord of the Seas.

The memory evoked pain—the splintering pain she had endured when the sculpture had been demolished—but it evoked other memories, too. Lilias raised her chin a fraction, daring to face the assembly.

“Lilias of Beshtanag,” Ingolin said. “You have been brought here before us that we might gain knowledge of one another.”

“Am I on trial here, my lord?” she inquired.

“You are not.” His voice was somber. “We seek the truth, yes. Not to punish, but only to know. Willing or no, you are a guest in Meronil and I have vouched for your well-being.” He pointed at the ruined pediment. “You see here that which was once the work of Haergan the Craftsman. I think, perhaps, that it is not unfamiliar to you, Sorceress. Did you speak to us in this place using Haergan’s creation, claiming that the Lady Cerelinde was in Beshtanag?”

“Yes.” She threw out the truth. Let them make of it what they would. Around the table, glances were exchanged. Aracus Altorus gritted his teeth. She remembered how he had reacted when she had made Meronin’s head speak words he despised, leaping onto the table, hurling an Ellylon standard like a javelin.

“How did you accomplish such a thing?” Ingolin frowned in thought. “It is Ellyl magic Haergan wrought, and not sympathetic to Men’s workings. Even the Soumanië should not have been able to command matter at such a distance.”

“No, my lord.” Lilias shook her head. “I used Haergan’s mirror.”

“Ah.” The Lord of the Rivenlost nodded. “It was in the dragon’s hoard.” Sorrow darkened his grey eyes. “We have always wondered at Haergan’s end. It is a difficult gift to bear, the gift of genius. A dangerous gift.”