Then Aracus had come; Aracus Altorus, who had been tutored by Malthus the Counselor since he was a lad. Like her, he was the last of his line.
And he was different from those who had come before him.
She had known it the moment she laid eyes upon him. Unlike the others, the Kings of Altoria in all their glory, Aracus was aware of the brevity of his allotted time; had measured it against the scope of the Sunderer's plan and determined to spend it to the greatest effect. She had seen it in his face, in the wide-set, demanding gaze.
He understood the price both of them would have to pay.
And something in her had… quickened.
In the hall outside the hearth chamber she heard the sound of his bootheels striking the white marble floors, echoing louder than any Ellyl's tread. She heard the quiet murmur of words exchanged with Lord Ingolin's guards. And then he was there, standing before the hearth, the scent of horses and leather and night air clinging to his dun-grey cloak. He had ridden hard to return to her side. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with weariness.
"Cerelinde."
"Aracus."
She stood to greet him. He was tall for a Man and their eyes were on a level. She searched his face. In the dim firelight, it was strange to see the glint of red-gold stubble on his chin. He was Arahila's Child, and not of her kind.
"Is it done?" she asked.
"Aye," he said. "The Borderguard carry word of our betrothal."
Cerelinde looked away. "How long before it reaches the Sunderer's ears?"
"It has done so." He took her hand. "Cerelinde," he said. "The Sunderer flaunts his defiance. The red star of war has risen. I saw it as I rode."
Her fingers trembled in his grasp. "So quickly!"
His voice grew softer. "You know what is said, my lady. One of the Three stalks the dreams of mortal Men."
"The Misbegotten." Cerelinde shuddered.
Aracus nodded. "Aye."
Cerelinde gazed at their joined hands. His fingers were warm and calloused, rough against her soft skin. It seemed she could feel his lifeblood pulse through them, urgent and mortal, calling to her. She tried not to think of Ushahin the Misbegotten, and failed.
"Our children…" she murmured.
"No!" Aracus breathed the word, quick and fierce. His grip tightened, almost painful. Lifting her head, she met his eyes. "They will not be like that one," he said. "Wrenched forth from violence and hatred, cast out and warped. We honor the Prophecy. Our children will be conceived in love, in accordance with Haomane's will, and Arahila's."
She laid her free hand upon his chest. "Love."
"Aye, lady." He covered her hand with his own, gazing at her. "Never less. I swear it to you. Though my heart beats to a swift and mortal tune, it beats true. And until I die, it lies in your keeping."
"Ah, Aracus!" His name caught in her throat. "We have so little time!"
"I know," he murmured. "All too well, I know."
ELSEWHERE ON URULAT, NIGHT CREPT crept westward.
Slowly, it progressed, a gilt edge fading to the blue of twilight, drawing a cloak of darkness behind it. Where it passed—over the fields and orchards of Vedasia, over the dank marshes of the Delta, over Harrington Inlet, across the Unknown Desert and Staccia and Seahold and Curonan—the stars emerged in its wake.
It came to the high mountains of Pelmar, where a woman stood on the steep edge of a cavern, and a gem bound in a circlet at her brow shone like the red star that flickered low, low on the far western horizon.
Her name was Lilias, though Men and Ellylon called her the Sorceress of the East. She had been a mortal woman, once; the daughter of a wealthy Pelmaran earl. The east was the land of Oronin Last-Born, in whose train death rode, and his lingering touch lay on those Men, Arahila's Children, who settled in Pelmar as their ever-increasing numbers covered the earth. It was said those of noble birth could hear Oronin's Horn summon them to their deaths.
Lilias feared death. She had seen it, once, in the eyes of a young man to whom her father would have betrothed her. He was a duke's son, well made and gently spoken, but she had seen in his eyes the inevitability of her fate, old age and generations of children yet unborn, and she had heard the echo of Oronin's Horn. Such was the lot of Arahila's Children, and the mighty Chain of Being held her fast in its inescapable grip.
And so she had fled into the mountains. Up, she went, higher than any of her brothers had ever dared climb, scaling the height of Beshtanag Mountain and hiding herself in its caverns. It was there that she had encountered the dragon.
His name was Calandor, and he was immortal after his kind. If he had hungered, he might have swallowed her whole, but since he did not, he asked her instead why she wept.