There were no hewn blocks, no mortar—only smooth and polished granite, flecks of mica glinting in the sun.
"Such is the power of the Soumanië?" Ushahin glanced at her.
"Yes."
In daylight, the ravages wrought on his body were more evident. Whatever other gifts the Were possessed, healing was not one. How many bones, Lilias wondered, had been broken? There was a Pelmaran children's counting rhyme that gave the litany, all the way from one left eye-socket to each of his ten fingers. It was told as a heroic act in Pelmar, that beating, a blow struck against the Misbegotten, minion of the Sunderer himself. The stories failed to take into account the fact that it was a child beaten, a child's bones broken. Ill-knit, all of them, from his knotted cheekbone to his skewed torso.
On her brow, the Soumanië flickered into life.
Birds rode the currents of wind above Beshtanag, calling out inconsequential news. Lilias touched the half-breed's arm with her fingertips, watching his knuckles whiten on the railing. It would be easy, so easy, to Shape his bones, to straighten what was crooked, smooth what was rough. Easier than Shaping granite, to mold flesh and bone like clay. And he would be beautiful, oh! Prettier than her pretty ones, were he healed.
"Sorceress." Ushahin's mismatched eyes glittered. "Do not think it."
And then he was there, in her thoughts, peeling away her defenses to lay bare her deepest fear—there, alone and defeated, the Soumanië stripped from her brow, leaving her naked and defenseless, alone. The Chain of Being reclaimed her, mortality, age sinking its claws into her, withering flesh, wrinkling skin, and at the end of it Oronin the Glad Hunter sounding his horn, for her, for her…
"Stop it!" Lilias cried aloud.
"So be it." He turned away, watching the birds soaring on the air. "Leave me my pain, Sorceress, and I will leave you your vanity."
"Is it vanity to cling to life?" she whispered.
The half-breed ignored her and closed his eyes. His long, pale lashes curled like waves against the uneven shoals of his sockets. One of the soaring birds broke loose from its broad spiral, a sturdy-winged raven with a rakish tuft of feathers protruding from his gleaming head. Circling tight, he cawed and chattered at the Dreamer. Frown lines appeared between Ushahin's brows.
"Gulls carry rumors," he said, opening his eyes. "And ravens hear them. Lady, what do you know of a ship sailing from Dwarfhorn?"
Lilias stared at him. "Dwarfhorn?"
"I am uneasy." Ushahin made a gesture at the raven, which made a sharp sound and winged off southward, in the direction of the southern coast of Pelmar. "Lady Sorceress, I would speak with the Dragon of Beshtanag."
Calandor? she asked.
Bring him.
She escorted him to the guarded exit at the rear of the fortress, where a doubled guard of ward-soldiers saluted her, eyeing the Dreamer askance with unconcealed fear. Outside, he did not wait for her lead, but climbed steadily up the winding mountain path. Lilias followed, a shadow of fear lying over her thoughts. Ushahin the Misbegotten, who could walk in the darkest places of the mortal mind. It was said he could drive Men mad with a glance. And she had thought, in her folly, that he would be less dangerous, less strange, than Tanaros Kingslayer.
Lilias, little sister.
Ahead on the ledge, a massive brightness shone, bronze scales gleaming in the sun. Calandor awaited them. At the sight of him, her heart lifted, the darkness clearing. "Calandor!"
"Liliasss." The dragon bent his sinuous neck so she could press her cheek to the scale-plated warmth of his. Lifting his head, he fixed his slitted green stare on the half-breed. "Child of three rassses, ssson of none. What is it you ssseek?"
Ushahin stood unflinching. "Knowledge, Lord Calandor."
A nictitating blink, the dragon's slow smile. "You ssseek the Counsselor."
"Yes."
"He chasses the Prophesssy, Dreamsspinner."
"I know that." A muscle twitched along Ushahin's jaw. "Where?"
"I do not know, Dreamssspinner." Raising his head to its full height, Calandor gazed out over the dark green forests of Pelmar. "Uru-Alat is Sssundered, and Malthus the Counssselor was Shaped on the far ssside of that ssschism. Him, I cannot sssee, nor any weapon Shaped there. Only the effectss of their actions."
"What actions?" His voice was taut. "Where?"
"In the desert of Haomane's Wrath." The dragon sounded amused and regretful "Sssuch a sssmall choissse, on which to hinge ssso much. A boy and a bucket of water. Is that what you ssseek to know, ssson of no one?"
Ushahin, pale as death, nodded. "Yes."