“Perhaps not.” Since the eagles did not deign to reply, Lilias answered her own question, reaching out one hand to touch the glass panes of the open window. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Far below, the Aven River beckoned, a silvery ribbon dividing to encompass the island upon which the Hall of Ingolin was built, winding its way toward the sea. “In the end, it is a question of who chooses to use you, is it not?”

There was a scraping sound; in the antechamber, the outermost door to her quarters was unlatched, swinging open.

“Lady Lilias.”

It was an Ellyl voice, fluted and musical. There was much to be discerned from the layering of tones within it That was one of the hardest parts of her captivity; enduring the unspoken disdain and muted hatred of those Rivenlost whom Ingolin had assigned to attend her. “Lady,” yes; after a thousand years of rule, they would accord her that much. Not “my lady,” no. Nobleborn or no, she was none of theirs. Still, it was better than their compassion. Her words in the great hall had put an end to that particular torment. Lilias got to her feet, inclining her head as her attendant entered the parlor.

“Eamaire,” she said. “What is it?”

Her attendant’s nostrils flared. It was a very fine nose, chiseled and straight. Her skin was as pale as milk. She had wide-set, green eyes, beneath gracefully arching brows. The colors of her irises appeared to shift, like sunlight on moving grasses, on the rustling leaves of birch-trees. “There is a Man here to see you,” she said.

Blaise Caveros stood a few paces behind her. “Lilias.”

“Thank you, Eamaire,” Lilias said. “You may leave us.”

With a rigid nod, she left. Lilias watched her go, thinking with longing of her quarters in Beshtanag with their soft, muted lighting, a warm fire in the brazier, and her own attendants, her pretty ones. If she had it to do over, she would do it differently; choose only the willing ones, like Stepan and Sarika, and her dear Pietre. No more surly charms, no.

No more like Radovan.

It hurt to remember him, a flash of memory as sharp and bright as the gleam of a honed paring-knife. On its heels came the crash of the falling wall and Calandor’s voice in her mind, his terrible brightness rousing atop Beshtanag Mountain.

It is time, Lilias.

With an effort, she pushed the memory away and concentrated on Blaise. “My lord Blaise.” She raised her brows. “Have you come to make one last plea?”

“No, not that.” He looked ill at ease amid the graceful Ellylon furnishings. “I don’t know, perhaps. Would it do any good?”

“No,” Lilias said quietly. “But you could sit and talk with me all the same.”