Banewreaker(126)

"My lady." At length a hand touched her shoulder. Lilias raised her tear-streaked face to meet Pietre's worried gaze. He nodded toward the base of the mountain, the linked chains of silver that bound him to her will gleaming around his throat. "They are coming."

They were coming.

Calandor was dead.

On stiff limbs she rose, staggering under the weight of her robes. Pietre's hand beneath her elbow assisted her; nearby, Sarika hovered, her pretty face a study in anguish. At the base of Beshtanag Mountain, her wall lay in ruins. Beyond—no. She could not look beyond the wall, where Calandor's corpse rose like a hillock. Inside the gap, Haomane's Allies were accepting the surrender of her Chief Warder. Even as she looked, Gergon lay his sword at Aracus Altorus' feet and pointed toward the terrace.

"Our archers—" Pietre hissed.

"No." With a weary gesture, Lilias cut him short, touching his cheek. There was courage of a kind in resolve. "Sweetling, it is over. We are defeated. Escort me to my throne room. I will hear their terms there."

They did, one on either side of her, and she was grateful for their assistance, for the necessity their presence imposed. Without it, she could gladly have laid down and died. Step by step, they led her into the grey halls of Beshtanag, past the silent censure of her people, hollow-eyed and hungry. They had trusted her, and she had failed them. Now they awaited salvation from another quarter. Her liveried servants, who wore no collars of servitude, had vanished. Her throne room seemed empty and echoing, and the summer sunlight that slanted through the high, narrow windows felt a mockery.

"How is it, my lady?" Sarika asked anxiously, helping her settle into the throne. It was wrought of a single block of Beshtanagi granite, the curve of the high back set with emeralds from Calandor's hoard. "Are you comfortable? Do you wish water? Wine? There is a keg set aside for your usage. We saw to it, Pietre and I."

"It's fine, sweetling." The effort it took to raise the corners of her mouth in something resembling a smile was considerable. Closing her eyes, Lilias gathered the remnants of her inner resources, the thin trickle of strength restored since Radovan's death. A faint spark lit the Soumanië. It was not much, but enough for what was necessary. She opened her eyes. "Do me a favor, will you? Summon my attendants. All of them, all my pretty ones."

Pietre frowned; Sarika fluttered. In the end, they did her bidding. Marija, Stepan, Anna—all of them stood arrayed before her, their silver collars gleaming. All save Radovan, whose lifeless body lay unmoving on the terrace. So young, all of them! How many had she bent to her will in the course of a thousand years? They were countless.

And now it was over. All over.

"Come here." Lilias beckoned. "I mean to set you free."

"No!" Sarika gasped, both hands rising to clutch her collar.

Sullen Marija ignored her, stepping promptly to the base of the throne. A pretty girl, with the high, broad cheekbones of a Beshtanagi peasant. She should have been freed long ago; Radovan had been a friend of hers. Lilias gazed at her with rue and leaned forward, touching the silver collar with two fingers. Holding a pattern in her mind, she whispered three words that Calandor had taught her and undid the pattern the way the dragon had shown her, so many centuries ago.

Silver links parted and slithered to the floor. Eyeing the fallen collar warily, Marija touched her bare throat. With a harsh laugh she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Lilias sighed, pressing her temples. "Come," she said wearily. "Who is next?"

No one moved.

"Why?" Pietre whispered. "Why, my lady? Have we not served you well?"

She was a thousand years old, and she wanted to weep. Oh, Uru-Alat, the time had gone quickly! "Yes, sweetling," Lilias said, as gently as she could. "You have. But you see, we are defeated here. And as you are innocent, Haomane's Allies will show mercy, do you submit to it. It is their way."

They protested, of course. It was in their nature, the best of her pretty ones. In the end, she freed them all. Pietre was the hardest. There were tears in his eyes as he knelt before her, blinking. He cried aloud when the collar slipped from his neck.

"Be free of it." Lilias finished the gesture, the unbinding, resting the back of her head against her throne. The last connection slid from her grasp, the final severing complete. It was done. On her brow, the Soumanië guttered, and failed for the last time.

She was done.

"Lady." Though his throat was bare, Pietre's hands grasped hers, hard. His throat was bare, and nothing had changed in his steadfast gaze. "A delegation is at the door. Shall I admit them?"