"I can't." The words came harshly, catching in his throat. The tears were flowing freely, coursing his cheeks. "Forgive me, Blaise, but I can't."
The Borderguardsman nodded with regret.
"Carfax, please!" Fianna's face swam in his vision, and there were tears in her own eyes, shining on her cheeks. How not? Archer or no, she was a woman, and women reckoned the cost. Always, women reckoned the cost. Her hands found his, gripping them tightly. "You saved my life! How can you name yourself aught but a friend?"
"I wasn't prey." He blinked at her, clutching her hands. Soft, so soft, save for the bowstring's calluses. "Do you understand? The Were wouldn't attack me. I might as well have struck an unarmed man."
"As they did!" Her voice rose. "You defended Dani, too, who never raised his hand to anyone! Where is the wrong in that?"
Carfax shook his head and looked away, withdrawing from her grasp. "Dani raised his hand against Darkhaven when he drew forth the Water of Life," he murmured. "Malthus knew it, if the boy did not. And the Were knew it, too. I'm sorry, Fianna." Gathering himself, he met Blaise's eyes. "I'll do nothing to thwart your purpose. You have my word on that, my lord. But I cannot pledge you my loyalty." He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I ride into Beshtanag as your prisoner."
"So be it." The Borderguardsman's gaze was steady. "My hand is extended in friendship, Staccian. It will be there should you wish to take it."
Not trusting himself to speak, Carfax nodded.
* * *
TWENTY-FIVE
« ^ »
THE WALL WAS FAILING.
It was simply too much to hold. For three days, Haomane's Allies had assailed it without cease. Day and night, night and day. No one could sleep for the sound of battering rams thudding mercilessly against granite, seeking cracks where Lilias' power weakened.
She had held out longer than she had dreamed possible. It wasn't easy work, Shaping, and she was neither Ellyl nor Counselor, with Haomane's Gifts in her blood to make it easier. Rock and stone fought her will, seeking to return to their original form. Again and again, her bindings loosened. With grim determination, she held them in place, until exhaustion left her weak and dizzy, forgetful of her surroundings.
"Please, my lady! You must drink."
The cool rim of a cup touched her lower lip. Raising her head with a jerk, Lilias saw Sarika kneeling before her, eyes pleading. "Sweet-ling." She steadied the girl's hands with her own, drinking deep. The water forged a cool trail into her empty belly, lending the illusion of fullness. "Our stores endure?"
"Water." Sarika licked her lips involuntarily. "There is water, and quarter-rations of gruel for the wardsmen. As you ordered, my lady."
"Yes." Lilias pressed one hand to her brow, feeling the weight of the Soumanië. "Of course." A hollow boom shook the mountain as a battering ram struck her wall for the hundredth time that morning, and she shuddered. "Where is Gergon?"
"He's coming." It was Radovan's voice that spoke; Radovan, whose smouldering eyes had pleased her once. Now they stared at her with dark hatred, and disdain laced his voice. "My lady." He spat the words like an epithet, running one grimy finger beneath the linked silver collar that bound him to her.
It was folly, of course. She should have freed him before this began; should never have bound them so close. Any of them, her pretty ones. It had never been necessary, not with the good ones. How had it begun? A sop to her mortal vanity; to pride, to desire. What was power good for if not for that? It pleased her to be surrounded by youth in all its fleeting beauty. What was immortality good for without simple pleasures? She was a generous mistress. None of them had ever taken any harm from it, only tales to tell their grandchildren.
Too late, now. As strained as the linkage was, it would take more to sever it than to maintain it. Lilias shoved aside her regrets and shook her head like a fly-stung horse, impatient. "Gergon?"
"There, my lady." Sarika pointed, her voice soothing.
He looked like an ant toiling up the mountainside. They all looked like ants. Her wardsmen, the Warders of Beshtanag, defending the mighty wall. Other ants in bright armor swarmed it, creeping along the top with their siege-towers and ladders, while the battering ram boomed without ceasing. Lilias sat back in her chair, surveying her crumbling empire. She remembered, now. She'd had a high-backed chair of office placed here, on the terrace of Beshtanag Fortress itself, to do just that.
Lilias.
Calandor's voice echoed in her skull. "No," she said aloud. "No."