Something in her heart stirred at his thanks. The mere fact of it made bile rise in her throat. Lilias looked away, not watching as Aracus left her side. He dismounted, walking away a small distance. Others followed, raising voices in argument: gilded Ellylon voices, the deeper tones of the Borderguard, the pleading voice of the woman Archer. Lilias glanced across the backs of milling, riderless horses. Aracus listened to the arguments without speaking, his broad shoulders set, his head bowed under the useless weight of the Soumanië. She wondered if they would regret having sworn their fealty to him this day. There was a twisted satisfaction in the thought.
"He'll do it, you know."
Glancing down, she saw Blaise standing beside her mount, gathering its reins in his capable hands. "Do what?"
"Forge a truce." He handed the reins up to her, his fingers brushing hers. Blaise's eyes were dark and intent. Her chestnut mare snuffled his hair, and he stroked its neck absently, still watching her. "He's big enough for it, Lilias, despite their fears. I ought to know."
Lilias shook her head, unsettled in the pit of her stomach. What did it matter that Aracus Altorus had forgiven Blaise Caveros his immortal ancestor's betrayal? Calandor, her beloved Calandor, was no less dead for it. On the ground, Phraotes coiled tight around a knot of pain and waited. Only the wrinkled, foam-flecked lips of his muzzle gave evidence to his slow death throes. He met her gaze with a glint of irony in his amber eye. He was the only creature here she understood. "It's easy to be magnanimous in victory, Borderguardsman," she said.
"No." Sighing, Blaise straightened. "No, it's not. That's the thing."
In time, the arguments fell silent and Aracus returned, retracing his path with heavy steps. The Rivenlost were amassed behind him, a quiet, glittering threat. A concord had been reached. Aracus Altorus stood above the dying Were, gazing downward, his face in shadow. His voice, when he spoke, sounded weary. "Will you hear my terms, Oronin's Child? They are twofold."
Phraotes' sharp muzzle dipped and lifted. "Speak."
"One." Aracus raised a finger. "You will foreswear violence against all the Shapers' Children, in thought and deed, in property and in person. Only such simple prey as you find in the forest shall be yours. You shall not conspire upon the soil of Urulat in any manner. You will disdain Satoris the Sunderer and all his workings."
The Were ambassador exhaled, crimson blood bubbling through his nostrils. It might have been a bitter laugh; the arrow in his breast jerked at the movement. "The Grey Dam Vashuka accedes. So it shall be. Do you swear us peace, we will retreat unto the deepest forests to trouble the Lesser Shapers no more, and be forgotten."
"Two." Aracus raised a second finger. "You will abjure the Sunderer's Gift."
Behind him, Lorenlasse of the Valmaré smiled.
So, Lilias thought; it comes to this. That offering, which Haomane disdained for his Children, he cannot bear another's to possess. The Shapers' War continues unending, and we are but pawns within it. Silent atop her mount, she thought of the things Calandor had shown her in his cavern atop Beshtanag Mountain, the things that filled her heart with fear. One day, he had said, when his own are gone, Haomane will adopt Arahila's Children as his own. Until then, he will eliminate all others.
She wondered if Oronin Last-Born would protest, or if he were willing to sacrifice his Children on the altar of Haomane's pride for the sin of having aided Satoris Banewreaker. In the silence that followed Aracus' pronouncement, it seemed that it must be so. Like Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters, the Glad Hunter would abide.
"No cubs?" Phraotes rasped. "No offspring?"
Aracus Altorus shook his head. "None."
It took longer to obtain an answer. The Were's eyes rolled back into his head, his body writhing upon the loam. Whatever path his thoughts traveled, it was a difficult one. Phraotes gnashed his teeth, blood and foam sputtering. His body went rigid, then thrashed, the protruding arrow jerking this way and that, his clawed hands digging hard and scoring deep gouges in the pine mast.
"Lord Aracus," Peldras the Ellyl whispered. "Such a request, whether you will it or no, embroils the Were in the Shapers' War…"
Aracus raised one hand, intent. "Such are my terms."
Say no, Lilias thought, concentrating her fierce will. Say no, say no, say NO!
"Yea!" Phraotes, panting, opened slitted eyes. "The Grey Dam Vashuka accedes. Do you leave us in peace, Oronin's Children will abjure the Gift of Satoris Third-Born, and procreate no more in her lifetime. Like Yrinna's Children, we shall not increase; nor shall we remain. We shall dwindle, and pass into legend. Like—" his amber gaze fell upon Lorenlasse, "—like Haomane's Children, in all their pride." Head lolling, he gave his bloody grin. "Is it a bargain, King of the West? Will you swear to leave us in peace, and guarantee the word of all who are sworn to your allegiance?"