Defeated, Lilias let the back of her head rest against the stone wall, gazing up at him. "I have lived too long already, Borderguardsman. If you were truly an honorable man, you'd let me die." A short laugh escaped her. "And if you were a wise one, you'd do the same. I promise you, this is an action you will regret."
"If you were an honorable woman," Blaise said quietly, "you would not have conspired with the Sunderer to deceive and destroy us."
"All I wanted was to be left in peace," Lilias murmured. "To live, unmolested, in Beshtanag, as I have done for so long. Satoris himself in his fortress of Darkhaven desires nothing more. Is it so much to ask? We require so little space upon the face of Urulat. And yet it seems even that is too much for Haomane's pride to endure. Lord Satoris afforded an opportunity, and I seized it. In the end, it is still Haomane's Allies who raised the specter of war. Did you not seek to fulfill his Prophecy?"
Blaise frowned at her, uncomprehending. "We are neither cruel nor unreasonable, Lilias of Beshtanag. If you give us a chance, you may come to see it. If that is not your will… You know full well, lady, that you may have your freedom—to do whatever you wish with your life, including end it—for one simple price. Tell us how the powers of the Soumanië may be wielded. Give us the dragon's lore."
Lilias shook her head, aware of the solid wall behind her. Her home, her fortress. Her prison, now. Still, it stood, a testament to what she had achieved. A monument to Calandor's death. The irony in what had passed seemed no longer bitter, but fitting. "No, Borderguardsman. Whatever else you may accuse me of, that is one trust I will never betray, and one death I will never forgive."
He sighed. "Then you remain with us."
* * *
TWENTY-EIGHT
« ^ »
"RIGHT HERE, LADS." VORAX TAPPED the map with one thick forefinger. "In the Northern Harrow. There's a node-point in the middle of the range; or was, at any rate. That's where Lord Satoris suspects they landed, based on their trajectory through the Ways."
He glanced up to make sure they were following. Osric and the other Staccians were no worry, but one was never certain with Fjeltroll. A few of them had a look of cheerful incomprehension, or at least one he'd come to recognize as such. For someone unacquainted with their features, it was hard to tell. Still, the one Hyrgolf had recommended to lead their contingent—Skragdal, the young Tungskulder—seemed alert and attentive.
"Now, these are desert folk," Vorax continued. "And bear in mind, they've never been out of their desert before; or at least not that we know of. So they're likely to stick with what they know, which is lowlands. See here, where the Harrow dips." He traced a line on the map. "If they're coming for us, and we have every reason to think they are, they're like to take the valleys, follow the riverbeds."
"Lord Vorax." Osric, bending over the map, met his eyes. The Staccian lieutenant was a man of middle years, solid and reliable. Not the best or boldest of his lads—that had been Carfax, entrusted to lead the decoys—but sensible, a man one could trust. "What if they're not coming for us?"
"Well, then we've nothing to worry about, have we?" Vorax grinned through his beard, clapping Osric's shoulder. "Let's say they are, lad. If we're wrong, you retrace your steps. Pick up their trail at the node-point, or what's left of it, and follow them south. Do you see?"
Osric nodded. "Aye, my lord."
"General." Skragdal frowned at the map. "I know the Northern Harrow, though I do not understand how this shape on paper shows it. This I know to be true. Even if we hurry, we will be many days behind their departure. There are valleys and valleys, routes and routes. How do we know which these smallfolk will take?"
"We don't," Vorax said bluntly. "That's why his Lordship wanted Fjel on this mission. See, here." He pointed. "This line is where Fjel territory ends, and Staccia proper begins. That's what it means."
"Neherinach." The Tungskulder's deep voice was sombre. It was a place the Fjel knew well, the ancient battleground where Haomane's Allies had fallen upon them in the First Age of the Sundered World. Their fate had been sealed at Neherinach, for it was there that they had retrieved Godslayer from the hands of the Rivenlost and brought it to Lord Satoris.
"Aye," Vorax said. "Neherinach. If these… smallfolk… travel southward, Staccians will note their passage. But if they stay to the north, it will be Fjeltroll who track their progress. Either way, they should be easy to mark. They are the Charred Ones, desert folk, dark of skin and unskilled in the ways of mountains." He splayed his hands on the map, gazing at Skragdal. "You may need to divide your forces. That is why I asked both contingents to be present. Hyrgolf said the tribes would give you aid if needed. Is it true, Tungskulder? Does the old oath still stand?"