"I don't know, Lord General."
"I wonder." Tanaros frowned. "But what would we have offered him, after all? Wealth? Power? Immortality? Those are merely bribes. In the end, it all comes down to the same choice."
Speros shrugged. "A reason to say no, I suppose."
"Yes." General Tanaros glanced across the Stone Glade. The smaller mound that had been erected outside the circle of broken monoliths was barely visible in the deepening twilight. It had taken the Gulnagel less than an hour to dig a grave large enough to contain the corpses of the slaughtered Yarru elders. "I suppose so."
"Sir." Speros cleared his throat. "Will there be a lot of… that sort of thing?"
Tanaros smiled bleakly. "You told me you'd shed innocent blood before, Midlander."
"Aye." He held the General's gaze, though it wasn't easy. "But not gladly." A creeping sense of alarm stirred in his heart. Was the General thinking of dismissing him? Speros ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the gap where one had been lost in the dungeons of Darkhaven. He had gambled everything on this. He thought about the Midlands and the disdain his name evoked, the disappointment in his mother's eyes. He thought about how General Tanaros had deigned to meet him as an equal on the sparring-field. He thought of the camaraderie of the Fjel, and their unfailing admiration and loyalty, and knew he didn't want to lose it. Not for this, not for anything. What did the death of a few old Charred Folk matter? They'd brought it on themselves, after all. The Lord General had asked them to give him a reason to spare them. A reason to say no. It wasn't that much to ask. His hands clenched involuntarily into fists, and he pressed one to his heart in salute. "I failed you, I know. It won't happen again."
It was the General who looked away first. "I almost would that I'd failed myself in this," he murmured, half to himself. "All right." He sighed, placing his hands flat on his thighs. "You say the Well is filled?"
"Aye, sir!" Speros sprang to his feet, light-headed with relief. "It would take a team of Fjel a lifetime to unblock it!"
"Good." General Tanaros stood and gazed at the twilit sky. It seemed larger, here in the desert, and the red star of Dergail's Soumanië pulsed brighter. "We'll take a few hours' rest, and leave ere dawn." Turning, he poked Speros' half-empty waterskin. "The water-hole here is deep; Ngurra told me it never runs dry. So don't stint yourself, Midlander, because I don't know how lucky we'll be crossing the desert."
"Aye, sir." Speros raised the skin and took an obliging swallow.
"I mean it." The General's eyes were shadowed and his face was hard. What had transpired here in the Unknown Desert had taken its toll on him. For a moment it seemed he might speak of it; then he shuddered, gathering himself. He fixed Speros with a clear gaze. "Drink while you can, and see to it that every waterskin we can salvage is filled to bursting. I mean to get us home alive."
"Aye, sir!" Speros smiled, relishing the word. "Home."
* * *
TWENTY-NINE
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"DON'T LOOK."
Blaise Caveros' voice was low as he attempted to interpose his mount between her and the sight of the fallen dragon. It was a futile courtesy. Calandor's bulk loomed beyond the gap in Beshtanag's wall like a second mountain. There was no way Lilias could avoid seeing him as the train of Haomane's Allies made their way down the slope, passing through the broken wall.
It was true, what the old legends claimed. In death, the dragon had turned to stone. The glittering scales had faded to dull grey, veined with a reddish ore. Already, the clean, sinuous lines of his form had grown weathered and vague. Lilias' hands trembled on the reins as she tried to trace his shape with her gaze.
There, she thought; the smaller ridge is his tail, and those are his haunches. How did he land? Oh Shapers, that crumpled part underneath is a wing! It must have broken in the fall.
Without thinking, Lilias drew rein and dismounted, tugging blindly at robes that caught and tore on the buckle of her mount's girth. "Sorceress!" Blaise's call seemed distant and unimportant. She stumbled across the battlefield into the shadow of Calandor's body, hands outstretched. There. That was his shoulder, that was one of his forelegs against which she had so often leaned, feeling the warmth of his mighty heart radiating against her skin.
"Calandor," she whispered, laying her hands on the harsh grey stone. It was sun-warmed. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend. The long ridge of his neck slanted along the ground, ending in the dim outline of his noble head, chin resting on the earth. Only knobs of dead stone remained where his green-gilt eyes had shone. Oblivious to the waiting train, Lilias embraced as much of the fallen dragon as her arms could encompass, and wept.