The Martyr’s Blood

By Joel Manners

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2022 Joel Manners

ISBN 979-8-9874664-2-1

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Cover art by Bayard Wu

Map by Joel Manners

Colquhoun Books, Austin, TX. 78703

www.JoelManners.com

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For

Christie

The girl from my dreams.

Part One

Pursuers

Mairi stumbled through the stinging rain, staggered over hidden roots, and slipped on buried leaves. Fiery needles surged into her hands with every heartbeat, and she gasped for breath against a choking pressure in her chest that swelled into her throat.

Mairi’s father struggled to free his bow as he raced ahead of her, his heavy pack snagging as he plunged through the grasping branches of a ragged bush.

Another scream pierced the shadowy forest, followed by a terrified, desperate shout, “Cara, run!”

Branches tore at Mairi’s face and hair as she hurled herself past a gnarled tree. The narrow track they had been following all night wound beneath a steep embankment here, where moss-smoothed boulders huddled on the slope, clutched by the gripping roots of a tangle of bent trees. The trail was a quagmire of mud and puddles, trampled by lurching figures that swirled in the shadows.

Mairi’s father dropped to a knee and tore the laces of his quiver open as Mairi stumbled to a halt next to him, her fingers uselessly clutching at the hilt of her knife as she stared.

The husk had Cara by her dress, and its withered fingers ripped the rough wool as it dragged her toward it. She twisted and strained against its iron grip, screaming again as her boots slipped and she sprawled helplessly into the muck at the husk’s feet.

“No!” Mairi heard Eira’s cry before she saw the red-haired hunter hurl herself onto the husk. Her wide-bladed axe hewed into the husk’s shoulder. Eira ripped the axe free and swung again, wild with fear and fury, her thin body twisting as she lashed out with the wiry strength of her legs and back and arms. The blade caught the husk in its ribs and tore it off Cara as the steel embedded itself in ancient, withered flesh with the sound of dead wood cracking.

Die… Mairi begged the husk, but as Eira tugged to free her axe, the husk’s ragged fingers clawed at Eira’s coat, and it slashed a twisted, rusted dagger across her arm. Blood splattered thickly onto the mud as Eira hissed in pain and tried to pull free.

“Eira!” Cara screamed in terror as Eira stumbled under the husk’s clawing weight. Eira grabbed the husk’s arm, straining to hold the knife away. Desiccated skin tore along the husk’s forearm under her grip, revealing bone and ragged sinew, but its implacable strength dragged Eira beneath it as they fell to the ground.

Mairi jumped as the snap of her father’s bow twanged harshly beside her ear. The heavy, steel-barbed shaft struck the husk between its shoulders, driving it forward, but it did not pause in its relentless assault on the trapped hunter. Eira gasped as the splintered bones in the husk’s fingers tore through her coat and ripped into her skin, and its dull blade pressed inexorably toward her neck.

The sound of the shot broke through the numbing terror that had paralyzed Mairi, shattering it like ice. She darted forward and wrapped her arms around the husk’s arm. She pulled desperately, her boots slipping in the thick mud. The husk’s stench made her gag. She could feel its withered flesh parting, its rigid bones grinding beneath its skin. The knife’s descent slowed as Mairi and Eira fought against the husk’s strength, but the young woman was failing, her blood a glimmering stain across her chest and neck as the husk tore at her.

Mairi’s father slammed into the husk beside Mairi, his strong arm wrapped around its neck, slowly bending it back. Mairi could feel her hands slipping, her rain-slick fingers unable to find purchase. Eira kicked desperately, managed to wedge a boot against the husk’s chest, and shoved. Mairi heard bones crack deep within the husk’s chest.

“Get it off her!” Cara screamed, and she hauled Eira free by her arms. The husk thrashed and tore its arm loose from Mairi’s grasp as it lunged after Eira, dragging Mairi’s father with it, its fingers scrabbling at the hunter’s boots.

Mairi stumbled and pain lanced through her knee as it slammed into a rock hidden in the trail’s muck, but she did not pause as she tore the stone from its muddy bed, raised it above her head, and smashed the stone into the side of the husk’s skull. Its head twisted horribly with the impact and a white slash of bone appeared amongst the brittle tufts of its hair. Mairi slammed her rock into the husk again, driving its face into the ground, and again, pounding the stone into it until she heard bone shatter.

Her father planted one boot on the husk’s back and ripped the axe free from its ribs.

“Careful, now,” he told her, his voice strained and sharp, and she shrank away. The axe bit deep into the husk’s flesh, then again, until the blade sliced through its neck and into its shoulder as it thrashed and gouged the mud. At last, its movements became purposeless flailing, then twitching, and her father stepped away from its ruined corpse with a shuddering breath.

Mairi was suddenly aware of the cold damp seeping through the legs of her trousers as she knelt in the mud, Cara’s helpless sobbing as she cradled Eira against her, and Eira’s gasping breath.

Running footsteps splashed through the mud and a tall man burst through the bushes, a long, narrow sword in his hand. His gaze immediately found the husk’s body and Mairi saw his mouth twist in a grimace of disgust. Then he strode to Eira’s side and knelt.

“There’s so much blood…” Cara whispered.

The man carefully peeled back the ragged edges of Eira’s tunic and examined the deep gouges the husk’s fingers had ripped into her chest and stomach. He quickly tore a strip of cloth from Eira’s cloak and wadded it against the wounds as Eira groaned and struggled weakly against his arm.

“Hold it there,” he told Cara. His gaze flickered across the shadowed spaces between the trees upslope, then he turned to Mairi’s father. “She needs Reverend Geraint’s help, but that will have to wait. Get someone to build her a stretcher and organize people to carry her. Do it quickly.”

“Do you think there’s more?” her father asked, his voice low but steady, and Mairi stepped close to him. His arm encircled her, and his hand rested on her shoulder and pulled her close.

“There’s lots more,” Mairi whispered. Concerned voices were crowding near as more of the long line of refugees hurried up the trail toward the sounds of violence, but Mairi tried to blot them out so she could hear the sounds of the forest. Rain lashed the trees in ceaseless, undulating waves, roaring against their thrashing leaves, then hissing and pattering into the puddles amongst their roots. Limbs creaked and groaned as a blast of wind plunged down the hillside, and rain rattled as if it were pebbles flung by a vicious hand against the sodden leather of Mairi’s pack.

But there was no sound of their relentless, undead pursuers. Not yet. Somewhere, she knew, the forest sighed with the scrape of withered skin against rock and bark as husks swarmed toward them.

The tall man glanced at Mairi and nodded. He shifted his sodden, wool cloak to hang more securely over the breastplate of hard leather and steel rivets he wore, and he rammed his sword into its sheath with a snap.

“Lots more,” he agreed, as he rubbed his jaw wearily, “and they’re catching us.”

An Unfortunate Beginning

Danielle.

The carriage rocked heavily on its springs, and Danielle’s eyes wrenched open as she swayed against the thick cushions of her padded seat. For a moment she stared, bewildered, as she searched for the figure of blazing fire who had called her name, now suddenly absent, yet more real than the polished wood and leather of the carriage’s interior.

Danielle gently examined her hands, cradling them as she looked for any trace of the charred flesh that had cracked and peeled from her fingers just moments before. Her smooth skin was unblemished, rich mahogany in the shadows, bright bronze where the sun’s warmth struck her, but her fingers trembled as they recalled the flame that had consumed her, and she clutched them into fists to stop the shaking.

Then she sagged against her seat and released her breath, a long sigh that whispered between her lips, as the phantoms of her dream evaporated beneath the bright sun that shone through the carriage windows.

The carriage jounced over hard cobbles and Danielle’s companion lolled forward, snorted, then sank into the ragged bundle of worn robes that entombed his boney frame.

Danielle eyed him suspiciously. If the grunts and wheezes emanating from him were to be believed, Karsha Hali was deeply asleep. Can that possibly be genuine? she wondered, as a particularly wet snort reverberated through the carriage. It is as if an actor had been instructed to imitate a pig to delight the children.

As if to confirm his bonafides, Karsha slowly sank into the corner between seat and wall, muttered a few unintelligible words, and unleashed a barrage of rumbling snores that were astonishing in both their volume and the choking irregularity of their rhythm.

If he is indeed faking sleep, he is dedicated to the ruse. A small smile curled the corner of Danielle’s lips, and she turned her gaze to the window.

The carriage rushed between embankments snarled with blackberry bushes heavy with fruit, then burst into golden sun as it crested a rise. Gentle hills rolled to the horizon like verdant waves, their slopes traced in long lines of hedgerows and piled stone walls that divided pastures from fields and orchards from woods. Faraway trees and distant farmhouses faded into a haze that blurred with the sky until there was little distinction between ground and heavens.

Danielle’s gaze turned northward, beyond the faintest of the distant hills on the horizon. For a moment, she thought she could see the grey slopes and white peaks of tall mountains, but the mirage was soon revealed as nothing more solid than sky and clouds. Danielle knew that she could not see across the endless distance separating her from the northern hinterlands, but her heart urged her to try, against all reason.

She swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat, glanced at Karsha Hali to confirm his slumber once more, then quickly untied the strings of her purse and rummaged inside until she retrieved a small, egg-shaped object that nestled in her palm. Danielle examined the Device she had named Pathweaver for a moment, then she carefully assembled the delicate patterns in her thoughts that called to it. The patterns settled into place, held precisely in her mind, and as they did, they formed a great Word.

She whispered the Word and it thrummed within Danielle’s chest and pulsed through the carriage, as gentle as a warm breeze, and it resonated in the intricate assemblage of metalwork that filled Pathweaver’s shell. The tiny symbols that surrounded it flashed and lifted free from the surface, where they spiraled and pulsed brightly as Danielle’s Word caressed them and sculpted them into the exact sequence she desired.

Where is she? Danielle asked, then watched the shining rings settle into a final constellation.

North. Danielle closed her eyes and let her Word drift away, and the dancing lights subsided as relief swirled through her, making her breath catch. She is alive…

The answer had been the same yesterday, and the day before, every day for weeks, ever since the day she had waved farewell as two riders disappeared northward on the Rathad an Thuaidh. And yet, Danielle found herself craving the answer more often than that, and she had to force herself not to ask and ask again at every moment. Already, her fingers resisted putting Pathweaver away, and eager excuses for another quick assurance fluttered in her thoughts. What harm can there be? There is no shame in a lonely heart.

Danielle turned to the window and tried to banish the ache of longing in her chest, seeking contentment in the warm sunlight that caressed her cheek and bathed the landscape in gold.

Why did I come here…

She blinked against the sudden burning of tears and rolled her eyes, dismayed at her maudlin sentiment. She dabbed away the wetness, tucked Pathweaver back into her purse, and resolutely pulled the strings closed.

I should ask, why do I ask questions I know the answer to? This is where I am needed, though my heart longs to follow her no matter the consequences. Wyn and Killock will be fine without me, better off, I suspect, and I have my own duties. Better to ask why the tide rises, or question the sun’s path, than to hope anew every day that my fate will change.

Ahead, the road curved toward the broad sweep of the Abhainn Albyn, and the great river’s surface shimmered as the breeze stirred sunlight into molten fire. A fat merchant ship bellied its way north against the current, its bright sails shivering to contain the wind as it ploughed a broad furrow of white through the water, while flocks of smaller boats darted to and fro, like ducklings around a swan.

As the road struck the river’s edge it rose upon a great span of stone that crossed the water on a dozen mighty arches, each one higher than the tallest ship’s mast, to an island that divided the river into two channels. A great palace covered the island from rocky shore to rocky shore, crowned with a regal hall embraced by sweeping buttresses. Sunlight flashed from a multitude of tall windows, a constellation of fiery blazes too numerous to count, and shone from copper-sheathed spires that crowned elegant towers.

The bridge joined the palace amongst its highest tiers, then continued from the far side of the island to cross the remainder of the river in a span as lengthy, elegant, and tall as the first.

“Ah, Cionaodh’s Crossing,” Karsha Hali murmured. “Where the gods of sky and river and land come together to play and bicker and war.”

Danielle spared her traveling companion a brief glance. The tiny, gnarled man was pressed against the carriage window, squinting into the sunlight so fiercely that the web of wrinkles that surrounded his eyes more resembled the deep valleys of a jagged mountain range than living flesh. Lines of black ink curled and weaved across his ebony skin in spirals and jagged points, a network of runes and symbols beyond interpretation, leaving no area unmarked.

Karsha pulled his robes more firmly around his narrow shoulders, apparently chilled despite the soporific warmth of the carriage. A familiar cascade of metal chimes and wooden clacks accompanied his movement as dozens of small charms and trinkets suspended from chains around Karsha’s neck were stirred against one another.

“Do you see, it forms a great bird?” Karsha asked. His gnarled finger traced a vague shape against the glass, following the silhouette of the palace. “With spread wings and a tall crest…”

“Bradon told me, the first time he brought me here,” Danielle recalled. She could hear his deep, rolling voice even now, could feel the vast presence of his strength at her side as his arm swept across the two bridges and the palace between them. Danielle smiled at the memory. “It is beautiful.”

“The Queen said it reminded her of home, the first time she travelled here.”

Danielle nodded, her thoughts suddenly far away, filled with bright sun that warmed white marble, cool breezes that stirred green gardens, and the eternal roar of turquoise waves against the shore. “Gabrielle is right, it does for me, as well. But I do not know why. Our home has high terraces and wide plazas, and there is sunlight and space.”

“Perhaps it does simply because it is beautiful,” Karsha mused. He glanced at Danielle for a moment and then away. “Did you find some rest while we travelled?”

“I did,” Danielle replied firmly, hoping he would move on to some other topic.

“No dreams to disturb your sleep?” Karsha asked.

“Perhaps,” she said shortly. “Nothing of consequence.”

But Danielle’s shoulders had hunched protectively as she remembered the impenetrable darkness that had loomed in her dream. An endless abyss of Shadow that sucked like a rip tide against her heart, dragging her far from light and heat and life. She had felt that same Shadow in the catacombs beneath the High Fells, and she shuddered now as her dream dragged those memories to the surface.

But in her dream the Shadow could not touch her. Between Danielle and the Shadow stood a figure, her fire untouched by the pressing darkness, and Danielle could still feel the warmth of her touch, the caress of her heat. Danielle, free me, her voice called from Danielle’s dream, and the image of flames that licked between ruby lips filled Danielle’s thoughts again, flickering as they slipped free with each breath to dance amongst hair as fiery as the dawn.

“The gods do not send dreams without reason,” Karsha continued. His lips pursed into a tiny ring that waggled back and forth as he considered her claim. “Always there is a message, although it amuses the gods to hide it.”

Danielle frowned. Karsha’s words had found an echo in her memory, his voice rasping from stone walls above the delicate lap of water, and her thoughts were drawn with them to that cave, where a golden tree glimmered in lanternlight beside an iridescent pool. His story of the goddess Danu. Is the woman in my dream Danu? Danielle wondered. Has my dream conjured her spirit from Karsha’s tale to shield me from the Shadow?

An image cut into Danielle’s thoughts, a long length of shimmering steel with a razor’s edge, and the spread wings of its cross-piece. The Martyr’s Blade was half the realm away, locked behind Wards and Veils, and yet she could feel its weight in her grasp as if she had just drawn it from its sheath. She forced the vision away, but its presence loomed in her mind like an aftertaste, never completely fading.

“I also dreamt as we travelled,” Karsha announced. The tiny wizard closed his eyes and huddled deeper against his cushions, his bare feet swinging idly with the swaying of the carriage. “I was lost in a dark place, and did not dare to strike a flame, for fear of what the light would reveal. But then the sun rose, and she spoke to me in a voice of wind and fire.”

“What did the sun tell you?” Danielle asked.

“I do not know,” Karsha replied sadly. “For the wind deafened me, and the fire blinded me.”

“And what then?”

“And then I awoke,” Karsha said. His fingers played with a small charm as he gazed at the river, his dark eyes lined with red. “Her light was so beautiful, I was content that she would be the last thing I would see.”

“If all dreams are a message from the gods, what does your dream portend?”

Karsha grinned, a flash of white amongst the weathered valleys of his face. “It is a warning.”

Danielle waited for more, but the ancient counsellor seemed satisfied to enjoy the sway of the carriage without further comment.

The carriage accelerated as it left the embankment and rolled onto the smooth paving stones of the bridge. The stone balustrade blurred past the window of the carriage as the shore slowly receded and the palace grew larger. Elegant columns marked the passing of each of the great stone piers that supported the bridge, but otherwise the roadway was as straight and smooth as the boulevards of the New City of Kuray. Danielle watched one pair of columns pass by, shaped into a gentle arch that met high over the roadway, where a cradle of iron embraced a massive lantern of crystal and bronze.

“Ah,” Karsha muttered as he pressed his face against the window once more. “How interesting.”

“What do you see?” Danielle asked, although she dreaded another foray into whatever befuddling topic the wizard might be fascinated in next.

“There’s a ship,” Karsha continued.

“Is there?” Danielle attempted to sound interested, but she was forced to swallow a yawn behind her fingers, and rather suspected it had not been as subtle as she had hoped.

“I believe our guests are here already.”

“What?” Danielle sat forward and joined Karsha at the window, pressing her cheek against the glass to peer forward.

The ship was nestled against the island beneath the palace, lean as a spear, with a long rank of oars jutting from its flank, a menacing shape that promised swift savagery. Two low towers guarded fore and aft, and the river current frothed around its sharp prow, throwing up white curls beneath fierce, red eyes.

Danielle’s heart leapt as she stared at the ship. Its design was as unlike the wide merchant ships that slogged up and down the river as a hungry wolf was to a contented pig, but she had seen its kin before, a half a world away, in the warm waters of the Inner Sea.

“That is a Venaissine warship.” Then her gaze found the long pennant fluttering from the stern pole, bearing a golden glyph upon a crimson field, and her heart sank as quickly as it had soared. “A Guild warship.”

“The grandmaster has arrived,” Karsha mused.

“How could they?” she wondered. “Their message said they were in Sopron five days ago.”

“Very fast,” Karsha agreed unhelpfully.

Have I failed already? Danielle wondered, as she grimly replaced her vision of triumphantly greeting the grandmaster on the steps of the palace with one of her humbly approaching a ring of disapproving, impatient faces in a cold hall.

No, she decided. It is foolish to imagine the worst, simply because of the stakes. The task is the same, and the grandmaster cannot begrudge us a day of waiting.

But Danielle was not so certain that was true. The masters of the Guild of Artificers were not renowned for their patience nor their understanding, and Danielle could not bear the thought that an unfortunate beginning might foul their undertaking before it had even begun.

The bridge passed between two great buttresses shaped into identical figures of the palace’s namesake, Saint Cionaodh, a tall man with a stern visage. His mighty arm extended to support the palace wall, and his broad shield thrust forward as if braced against the spear-thrust of the bridge itself. Danielle gazed upward as the carriage raced between the figures and wondered at the grim purpose the statues showed in the set of their jaws, the strength of their stance. Were you so certain of your path? she asked the stone saints. Or did your stomach roil and your heart labor?

The carriage plunged through a tunnel and then slowed as it emerged into a deep courtyard, before finally rumbling to a halt in front of wide steps that led to the palace’s soaring great hall. A liveried page raced forward to meet the carriage, bowed low as he opened the door, and extended his hand to help the new arrivals. Danielle stepped gracefully to the cobbles and gratefully stretched her back.

The second and third carriages of their entourage followed Danielle’s through the gates, then a squad of knights on horseback, bearing the sigil of three black dogs snarling against a field of white snapping from the pennants atop their spears.

Baron Arledge jumped heavily down from the second carriage, disdaining the white-gloved hand extended to him, and he beamed at the lofty walls and towering statues that surrounded the courtyard.

“I told you!” he crowed. “Fastest teams in the south! Only three days ago, we stood upon the steps of the temple in Bandirma, and yet here we are, half-way across the realm! Fastest teams in the south!”

“They challenge the very moon, herself,” Karsha croaked from the doorway of the carriage behind Danielle. He fussed at the page for daring to offer his hand, then clung to the door rail as his boney feet stretched timidly for the step.

“They do, indeed,” Arledge said proudly, his cheeks flushed red with pride.

“Very dangerous,” Karsha muttered, but Danielle was uncertain whether he was referring to the speed of the carriage or the insult to the moon. Karsha finally hopped down with a crescendo of chimes and popping joints, gave the page a look of triumph, then gathered his ragged robes around his narrow shoulders as he meandered across the courtyard, gazing at the spires that blazed bronze against the blue sky.

One of the knights reined in her horse next to Danielle and leaped easily to the cobblestones despite the layers of polished steel she wore.

“Sir Eilidh,” Danielle called in greeting, and the young knight joined her. “Did you survive the day?”

“Of course, my lady. A carriage may be comfortable, but at least on a horse you can ride where you will.”

“I understand,” Danielle agreed.

A swarm of servants unloaded the carriages, and the swirling rush of activity surged and ebbed like a tide, interrupted only briefly while an extremely drowsy dog was coaxed from the baron’s carriage and plied with treats by its master. As the luggage began to disappear into the guest wing, a figure garbed in a priest’s robes appeared. He struggled against the current as a stream of apologies preceded him into the courtyard.

“Reverend Ail!” Danielle called to him. “I fear you shall be trampled.”

“My lady.” The priest greeted Danielle with a smile, but it quickly faded among the lines that worried his brow and wearied his eyes, and the usually pristine sweep of his pepper-streaked hair was uncharacteristically tugged into stray tufts. “I am glad you are arrived safely.”

Danielle took his offered hand in hers and he bowed over her fingers. “The journey was as easy as could be wished,” she replied.

“Good… good,” Ail replied distractedly. “And is there news from Bandirma? Were decisions made before you left?”

“As expected,” Karsha replied, and his fingers brushed absently through the air, as if any concerns were as gossamer as cobwebs. “Temple and Crown are united. Pigeons fled Bandirma the day before we did, to chase after our combined armies as they march to Newbridge so that all may know we are allied against the traitors in the Silver Keep.”

“Ah, well, that is good news.”

“It is good news that the discussions are finally concluded,” Danielle agreed, her lips tight with a fresh swell of irritation. “Weeks spent ratifying what had already occurred. I cannot tell you how often I screamed at the sight of yet another piece of parchment with lines struck out and fresh scribbles in the margin. But come, Reverend, you have more urgent news, by far. We saw the Guild warship at anchor.”

“They arrived yesterday, and will not be mollified,” Ail murmured to Danielle as he ushered the travelers toward the wide steps that led to the palace. Tall columns rose on all sides of the courtyard, fashioned into stately figures whose arms reached to form arches high above the heads of those who approached the great hall, as if in blessing. “I believe it gives them great satisfaction to take offense.”

“Of course.” Karsha nodded to himself, a wry grin exposing a few of his remaining teeth. “An insulted guest must be appeased. A firm stone upon which to stand.”

“Who is it?” Danielle asked Ail.

“Grandmaster Severine,” the priest replied. “Do you know her?”

“No.” Danielle had hoped for the good fortune of Grandmaster Astor, the man who had crafted her lance, the elegant Weapon she had named Aurêve. Danielle had dreaded Astor’s cold glare and had bristled at his arrogance, but he had crafted her a Weapon of great beauty and power, and she could not entirely dislike anyone who had such a gift of artistry. At least I could have begun by thanking him.

“Master Calixte is here as well,” Ail revealed. “He arrived from Kuray three days ago, to make certain of the preparations for Severine’s arrival.”

“Ah, Calixte,” Karsha mused. “How dreadful.”

“They are in the grand hall,” Ail continued, forging up the steps with the determination of a mountain goat, but the priest’s voice trailed away as he realized Danielle had not followed him. “My lady?”

“Tell the grandmaster that I will be pleased to speak with her at the first evening bell.”

“But she is waiting now,” Ail said helplessly.

“When you arrive too early, you wait,” Karsha pointed out helpfully.

“Exactly,” Danielle agreed. “I am certain Grandmaster Severine will understand.”

“Are you, indeed?” Ail muttered. “Very well, first bell it is.”

Danielle nodded, then swirled away in what she hoped might appear, to any unseen observers, to be a regal manner. Eilidh joined her as she strode toward the guest quarters, and they followed a page through vaulted corridors to a suite of rooms overlooking the eastern flow of the river.

Danielle surveyed the small mountain of trunks and chests, half still unopened and the other half in the midst of having their contents unpacked by a pair of chambermaids.

“Leave that, if you please,” Danielle told the two young women. “I will need the cedar trunk, and the jewels from the silver box, and am I fortunate enough that either of you have done a lady’s hair before? I need to be ready by the evening bell.”

“Evening bell?” Eilidh muttered. “Well, let’s hope it goes a bit quicker than last time.”

Danielle selected a jacket crafted of black silk with shimmering silver brocade, fitted snugly at the waist and across the chest, with a high collar and wide lapels. The rich cloth curved gracefully over her hips and hung to her thighs, and she wore soft, fawn-colored trousers and gleaming black boots to complete an elegantly formal style that she thought appropriate for the Queen’s representative to a conclave.

From the silver box, Danielle selected a pair of silver teardrops for her ears, and a chain of thick silver links with a broad pendant bearing a sigil of a rearing stag that lay heavy against her chest.

One of the chambermaids proved to have a deft hand for weaving hair, and Danielle’s locks now curled into an intricate flower behind her head, black as onyx within a net of silver threads.

She brushed gold into the shadow of her eyes, then sat back to judge the results in a silver mirror.

Thin and anxious, she decided with a dissatisfied sigh. At least I am no longer travel-stained. It will have to do.

A page led them from the long wing of the guest house into the palace, through airy galleries and long hallways, beneath soaring vaults and past ranks of graceful windows that opened onto a vista of the western shore of the river. They passed few people, save for the occasional guard, and the marble edifice brooded in watchful silence. Danielle felt a growing anxiety that hurried her pace, but as they climbed to the main floor of the palace, she glimpsed a familiar shrine beyond an archway and called for the page to halt.

“Just a moment,” Danielle instructed, and she slipped into the shrine as if she were stepping into a calm pool whose cool comfort enveloped and buoyed her.

The chamber was tall and narrow, hardly wide enough to contain the two statues within. At the Martyr’s feet, King Ruric lay in shadow, his marble visage raised to witness the sun’s rays bathing the Martyr in amber glory. The sculptor had crafted her in Venaissine fashion, her hair braided into a crown, her garments a short dress and sandals more appropriate for a stroll along a marble colonnade than for a battle, her elegant features sharper and thinner than those of most statues of her found in the north. In her hand the Martyr wielded a carved imitation of the Blade that Danielle knew so well, held defiantly against an unseen threat.

Danielle’s gaze lingered on the Martyr’s face, carved into serene determination. Will I show such courage, when my turn comes? Danielle wondered. As ever, there was no trace of the Martyr’s foe in the shrine, but Danielle knew the dreadful touch of its presence, and she felt the familiar ache of doubt grip her heart. The magus we faced in the catacombs was overwhelming, and yet it was just a minion of the Shadow. How terrible must its master be? How can I triumph against that?

“M’lady?” Eilidh asked softly.

“I wish it were not me.”

“I’m thankful it is you, m’lady,” Eilidh replied. “I wouldn’t trust another.”

“Thank you, Eilidh.”

Eilidh nodded, and stood silently at her side for a moment, and Danielle took comfort in her steel strength.

“They didn’t get it right, though, did they?” Eilidh said at last. She peered closer at the stone blade in the Martyr’s hand. “The hilt’s all wrong.”

“It is,” Danielle agreed. “And how could she hold it so, with only one hand? Unless she had the strength of an ox, I do not believe it.”

“It isn’t the lightest of swords, I’ll grant you that.”

Danielle inhaled deeply. The cool air soothed the ache in her throat, and with an equally deep exhale, she set her shoulders. “Shall we attend the grandmaster?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

The dining hall was only a short walk further, barely time for Danielle to gather her thoughts before they arrived at a pair of ornate doors, engraved with the vista of the twin bridges and the palace at their center. Karsha Hali and Reverend Ail awaited her there. Although the priest had donned the formal robes of his position, Karsha appeared to still be wearing the assemblage of patched robes he had worn on their journey, his bare feet sticking out of the ragged hem like gnarled roots.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Reverend Ail asked.

“Yes,” Danielle replied. “No.”

“Well, I believe they are ready for you.” The priest stepped to the doors and pulled them open, and Danielle raised her chin and strode into the chamber beyond.

A long table was marooned in the center of the vast hall, lost amid the immensity of soaring pillars and lofty vaults. Noble statues lined the walls, supporting the higher terraces, and tall windows gazed southward, offering a sweeping panorama of the river’s course below the palace. The eastern shore glowed with warmth, and the western cooled into the long shadows of the setting sun. Silver candelabras sparkled in a ring around the table to create an island of light upon the wide sea of the polished marble floor, and a distant fireplace roared and snapped, yet failed to warm the hall.

Faces turned to her as she strode toward the table, dark moons above the somber fabric of solemn robes, but Danielle’s gaze was drawn to the figure at the distant head of the table. Danielle could not doubt that the woman who awaited there was Grandmaster Severine, for she presided over the table with such arrogant grandeur that no lesser title could possibly encompass her. Deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth told the tale of her years, yet her hair was still as black as ink, gathered into thick waves behind her head. Dark eyes met Danielle’s gaze beneath elegant brows that narrowed into slashes of sharp critique, and her lips pursed in silent disdain.

“Grandmaster, august artificers of the Guild,” Karsha greeted the table, his voice a harsh croak that grated against the dignified silence, “welcome.”

The man seated on Severine’s right leaned toward her and whispered, and Severine nodded.

“Counsellor,” Severine replied at last. She spoke in Venaissine, its refined notes the perfect accompaniment for her voice’s rich thrum.

“I present to you Reverend Ail, of the Temple, and Lady Danielle, Marquesa d’Lavandou, Chancellor of the Realm,” Karsha continued, switching to a Venaissine thick with the luscious sounds of the Summer Coast, and he indicated his companions with a sweep of his hand.

Danielle stepped forward at her cue and inclined her head to the grandmaster. Karsha had persuaded her to take up her title for the meeting with Severine, despite her protestations. A Guild Grandmaster was afforded the respect of an Imperial Count when at court, but Danielle’s family name would make her at least a peer of Severine, a distinction that seemed critical to the Queen’s counsellor.

Severine returned her greeting with a brief nod of her own, then spent a moment listening once again to the man at her right, who was elegantly dressed in dark robes that hung in gleaming layers from his broad shoulders. A heavy wedge of a beard, black and ash streaked together, adorned his jaw, but he had shaved away his hair, leaving the dark bronze skin of his head gleaming in the candlelight. He gazed at Danielle from beneath thick, black brows, and his lip curled as he whispered.

“Grandmaster Severine,” Danielle greeted her, her tongue reveling in its release from its years-long immersion in the thick porridge of the common language. “My sister, the Queen, sends her greetings and is saddened that she could not attend. I will speak for her today and will convey our discussion to her.”

Severine waved her companion into silence with an impatient twitch of her hand.

“Marquesa, Reverend. It is a long voyage from Criénne, and the sooner I may order my ship to turn back south, the better.”

“How may we aid the Guild?” Karsha asked.

“We have come to reclaim our property, stolen from us centuries ago.”

“What property do you speak of?”

“One of our greatest works. The Martyr’s Blade.”

Among the Shadows

“And you believe the Blade is here, in Albyn?” Karsha asked. Lady Danielle and Reverend Ail had both frozen into rigid silence at the grandmaster’s words, and Karsha drew the artificers’ gazes to himself with a slow pantomime of pondering, tapping his lip and nodding his head in stern understanding.

“We know it is,” Severine replied brusquely, “and we demand that those who claim our friendship aid in its return.”

“I am certain the Queen is your friend,” Karsha agreed smoothly, though the twisted tenses and absurd vowels of Venaissine tangled his tongue.

“We have heard troubling news since our arrival in Albyn,” Severine announced, “that the Queen no longer rules.”

“Atrocious lies.” Karsha dismissed them with a snarl of contempt. “It is true that Duke Campbell made an attempt to seize the throne, but his coup has failed, and the Queen’s forces will soon have him in chains to face justice.”

“In Kuray, we hear a different story,” the man on Severine’s right replied. Karsha knew each of the man’s nostrils well, having been forced to stare up them on many occasions on his visits to the Silver Keep. Master Calixte, the Guild’s representative to Albyn, had been five years in the north, yet had never shown anything but contempt for its people.

“In Kuray,” Master Calixte continued, “we are told that Duke Campbell is the Queen’s regent, and I have spoken to his grace while he sat on the throne in the Silver Keep.”

“He will not occupy it much longer,” Karsha promised.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Severine replied impatiently. “I could not care less. Whomever rules, they should consider the cost of refusing to aid us. That includes the Temple, Reverend Ail. You are not exempt from the demands of our friendship.”

“The Grandmaster must know that we are always pleased to partner with the Guild,” Ail replied easily. “But what makes you think that we can aid you in this? The Martyr’s Blade was placed in the Martyr’s tomb, in Fellgate Castle, a millennium ago.”

“It was, so we were assured,” Severine agreed, her eyes narrowed to fierce slits. “And yet, the Blade was used, here in Albyn, mere months ago.”

“Ah.” Months ago, is it? An interesting phrase. Is that the limit to their knowledge? “And where is it now?” Karsha asked.

“I am certain you can discover that for yourselves. Master Calixte tells me that you have cultivated a reputation as a cunning man, and the Temple boasts of its many adepts. Bring it to us quickly, and you shall earn my gratitude.”

Severine seeks to conceal herself in mysterious portents and ominous threats, but I wonder what hesitation would keep her from naming Lady Danielle, if Severine truly knew who had wielded the Blade? Politeness? I think not. Diplomacy? I see no hint of tact, nor have I ever, when dealing with any artificer.

“I am puzzled,” Lady Danielle said quietly, and Karsha glanced at his companion. Her face was a mask of regal politeness, but he could see the strain in the rigid lines of her slender neck and the sharp edge of her smile.

Take care, he urged her. They dangle bait, do not bite.

“What is unclear?” Severine asked impatiently.

“Of course, my sister wishes to aid our friends, the Guild. But, before she could do any such thing, she would need to be assured of your claim. And as I recall the tale, it was the Martyr who wielded the Blade, not one of your illustrious predecessors. How then is it your inheritance?”

“You are misinformed. We crafted the Blade and graciously allowed it to be used in the war against the Nameless King. But it was not the Martyr’s to keep, and it was not the property of those who stole it after her death.”

“The Guild’s generosity is well known,” Ail agreed solemnly, which earned him hard glares from the grandmaster and her flock, and a vertiginous rise in Karsha’s esteem.

“Without our generosity, the war against the Crunorix would have been lost,” Severine replied sharply. “The Blade is ours, and we expect that our friend, the monarch of Albyn, would aid us. We would be willing to ensure that such a ruler’s claim to the throne was secure.”

“Her Majesty will no doubt be pleased to hear of your approval of lawful succession,” Karsha mused.

“Perhaps she can show her gratitude in person, when we travel to Kuray,” Master Calixte replied.

“I am happy that you will have time to visit that noble city,” Karsha said, as if he could conceive of nothing more pleasing than the thought of Grandmaster Severine enjoying the hospitality of Duke Campbell.

“Of course,” Calixte continued with a frown of annoyance. “There are others who may be more willing to earn our gratitude.”

“I wish you good fortune,” Karsha replied. “Shall we seek you there, when we have considered your request?”

“If you must,” Severine declared, and she rose abruptly and strode from the chamber without further courtesy, as if insulted that her demands should not be granted immediately, while the Guild masters streamed after her in haughty silence.

Lady Danielle sighed in exasperation and raised her gaze to the distant ceiling, while Reverend Ail stared glumly at his hands for a moment before rising.

“That was unfortunate,” Lady Danielle said quietly.

“Shall we ensure our words do not echo?” Karsha suggested.

Lady Danielle nodded, and a serene calmness washed anxiety from her features as she drew her thoughts inward. Karsha felt the faint stir of Lady Danielle’s Word like a breeze against his skin, the only trace that she had empowered a Veil that the Temple archivists swore was preeminent among all the Devices they possessed.

“There,” she announced. “They cannot hear us.”

“Grandmaster Severine brings us interesting news,” Karsha began, thankfully returning to the bland elocution of the common tongue.

“What atrocious lies she tells,” Lady Danielle responded. “Their property.”

“I recall that Reverend Mór’s account of the First Conclave mentioned a similar claim, espoused by Lord Adlar,” Reverend Ail said thoughtfully.

“And did Mór tell of how the Conclave responded to Lord Adlar?” Karsha asked.

“Hmmm, I believe only that Duibhir spoke against it, and the matter was dismissed. Mór is rather fond of the broad strokes and light on substance, I’m afraid.”

“My lady, did your family retain any stories of how the Blade came into their possession?”

“Only that Marquesa Augustine agreed to hide the Blade and ensure that its Word was passed down to her descendants, so that the Blade would always have a wielder.”

“But no tale of how she was chosen, or by whom, or how that decision might have been hidden from the Guild, or why her family might be suited to wield, or how it came to Lavandou without detection?”

“Maker, no, Mamá never told any such stories, and I am ashamed to admit I never thought to ask any such questions. Though they seem obvious to me now that you put them to me.”

“However it was accomplished, the choice was certainly a wise one,” Ail granted with a bow to Lady Danielle. “They could not have chosen a better wielder, a millennium later.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” Lady Danielle replied. “Though I am uncertain whether to thank Augustine or curse her for her foresight.”

“No, no, Reverend Ail is correct, a most fortuitous decision,” Karsha agreed. “And for you, also, Reverend, a kind word. You spoke well in our meeting with Severine and struck the mark with skill.”

“Oh! Well… thank you very much,” Ail replied, and he smiled widely. “One does one’s best, you know, but it does good to hear one is appreciated.”

“What will you tell Gabrielle?” Lady Danielle asked.

“Everything, of course, but we must also ponder what counsel to give.”

“We cannot give the Blade to the Guild. There is little hope they would simply agree to defend us when the Crunorix return, not without some ruinous cost. And though there has been no sign of the Crunorix since Whitebrooke’s death, I do not doubt their Shadow still stirs within the Black Grave.”

“No, we cannot give the Blade to them.”

“I suspect Duke Campbell will not be so reticent,” Reverend Ail murmured.

“Yes, he will barter for their aid and friendship. A myth, a legend? They may have it,” Karsha agreed, and he snorted with exasperation. “Our quandary has thorns.”

Karsha clasped his hands behind his back and ambled to the great windows, his head bowed in thought. The vista did not provide any insight, but the gentle curve of the river through the dusk-painted hills washed away his frown of concern and brought a contented smile to his lips. His companions joined him in his reverie, and a somber silence engulfed them, comforting in its tranquil dignity.

As the river purpled, Karsha began to study the reflections standing next to his in the glass. Reverend Ail seemed transfixed by the simple joy of the moment, but Karsha could see that Lady Danielle fretted beneath her elegant poise. Her chin was raised, her shoulders back, her hands on her hips, defying Grandmaster Severine even now.

As he watched her, Lady Danielle’s fingers searched at the base of her throat for a moment, grasping at a memory and finding only the embroidered lace of her shirt, before retreating to her hip.

Ah, her fingers regret the loss of the Marquesa’s ring. What of the lady, herself? Karsha chewed absently on his tongue as he considered. Does she now lament her decision to bequeath the ring to her sister, or would she make such a bargain, again? To trade her inheritance for infatuation?

“My lady,” he ventured innocently. “I have never felt such joy to have been proven so misguided.”

She glanced at him, and her brows drew together in suspicion. “What have you done?”

“I doubted, I feared the worst, I counseled caution. And yet, to my wonderment, I found a story I did not expect, and I thank you for it.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” Karsha replied, puzzled, and he shook his head. “I am overjoyed.”

“You are? What part of this evening has brought you any pleasure?”

“No, no. I am pleased that my concerns regarding young Mistress Bronwyn were misplaced.” Karsha watched her eyes darken and the corner of her lips soften into a smile as she glanced quickly away.

“Oh, well, I…”

“Your love bloomed during your hardships, I think? No longer a tender shoot, anxious as it breaks free from its seed, it is now a regal tree that shelters you with its boughs.”

Lady Danielle glanced at him in surprise, then quickly recovered. “Yes, I am very much in love, and she is wonderful, but perhaps now is not the best time to—”

“You do not regret the price you paid for her?”

“Pardon?” Lady Danielle’s voice had turned to ice far quicker than he had imagined possible, but Karsha gazed past her furious glare and swept his arm across the view of the palace and river valley.

“High terraces and wide plazas, and sunlight and space. Lavandou. Your fingers miss the Marquesa’s ring, even if you do not.”

Lady Danielle’s fingers had indeed returned to their fruitless quest for the ring that she had worn against her chest since she was a child, and she snatched them away.

“A habit, hard to cure. No, I have no regrets.”

“I give you joy. And when is the wedding?”

“Pardon?” No anger this time, but Karsha thought he glimpsed a shadow of discontent amid the obvious bafflement of arched brows and parted lips.

“The wedding?” Karsha asked again, and his words goaded that shadow into a twist of sadness that passed over her features like a cloud before vanishing as she sighed and lifted her chin resolutely.

“There is no wedding. It is absurd to think of such things, no?”

Karsha nodded and creased his brow in sympathy. Her accent had thickened, as her sister’s was prone to do when Gabrielle’s emotions were stirred, and Karsha wondered if rejection or hesitation was the cause.

“Ah, a mistake, forgive me. In truth, I would have wagered the deed was already accomplished, as soon as you had given the Marquesa’s duties to your sister, along with the Marquesa’s ring. A clandestine ceremony in a darkened chapel while you fled from Whitebrooke’s agents. Whispered vows of fidelity against a treacherous world. Such stories soften even the hardest hearts.”

“We did not have time to discuss nuptials while they hunted us.” She took in a deep breath and sighed in resignation. “Regardless, I seem to have acquired more duties.”

“As chancellor?”

“Yes, that as well,” she replied.

“I know of no law that precludes the chancellor from marital bliss, nor did your mother deny herself such happiness when she bore the Blade.”

“I am not certain Wyn would associate marriage with bliss,” Lady Danielle said ruefully.

“I am certain that asking is the traditional way to discover that answer.”

“What concern is this of yours?” she asked. “Do you wish to propose? I will give you your answer immediately, never fear.”

“Ha! I am chastened, I retreat, I beg forgiveness.” Karsha bowed as low as his back allowed, then made a show of contriteness to soothe ruffled feathers into compliance.

Yes, there is regret, not for her choice, but rather for missed opportunity. Duty, she says… or is that a salve for some deeper hesitation? A precarious foundation for one who carries our hope in her hands, and who might still follow her heart over our need. Now, my own hard choice looms. Do I tell the Queen of my concern? I would not earn Gabrielle’s thanks for questioning her sister’s resolve, nor for the specter of her sister’s unhappiness.

Below them, a swarm of torches and lanterns had sparked to life on the palace’s docks. Karsha watched the tiny figures of the Guild masters stride through the river gate and board their ship, and he nodded as he saw the cables cast free to release the vessel.

“Severine does not delay,” he mused.

The ship’s fierce prow swung to face the current as its ranks of oars extended in smooth precision, poised to dip into the river. Then the surface of the river ruffled as if a squall had brushed across it, and Karsha felt the deep thrum of a Word reverberate in his chest and rattle the glass panes of the tall windows. The ship’s oars lunged into the water and the ship leapt ahead, and the white curl of water beneath the ship’s red eyes surged.

“She certainly does not,” Ail agreed. “Quite the rush.”

The Guild warship accelerated upriver more quickly than Karsha could believe, as fast as a horse might gallop, and was soon lost from sight as it slid past the edge of the windows, leaving behind a long trail of frothing white water in its wake.

“Should we have told Severine of the Crunorix?” Lady Danielle asked.

“I do not doubt that the masters already know what you found beneath the High Fells last winter, and they wish to control the one Weapon that can defeat the magi.”

“Then what harm in broaching the subject?”

“It would confirm that we know far more about the Blade than we should admit,” Karsha reminded her.

“Perhaps she would understand that we face a common foe.”

“Why would that convince her to drop her claim?”

“It would not, if we never allow her the chance.”

“A reason that circles itself,” Karsha tutted.

“It does not. Well, perhaps a little,” Lady Danielle admitted grudgingly. “But that does not mean we should not tell Severine.”

“Ah, true. We should not tell Severine because she will believe us desperate for her aid, and she will wonder what causes our desperation, when we should have the strength of ancient stone.”

“If the Guild backs Campbell’s claim instead of my sister’s, we shall be desperate.”

“Unfortunate, yes. Desperate?” Karsha chuckled. “The Guild will not conjure Campbell a force to challenge General Boone and the Royal Army. Severine may threaten and demand we bend our knees, but the Guild will always threaten and demand.”

“Their favor is not a trifling thing.”

“No. But their favor also cannot be bought, only leased, and with such terms that I shudder to think of the assurances. No, instead, I think I shall ponder why the Guild is so desperate.”

“Severine did not seem desperate to me.”

“She might be the actor of the ages, and yet the fact that she sat in that chair undoes all her pretense,” Karsha explained. “The Guild sent a grandmaster across the world to retrieve a Weapon that has been gone for a millennium. Why such haste? Why such need? I cannot shrug and say, ‘Ah, such is the greed of the Guild,’ as such extremes defy such an easy explanation.”

“As you said, they may know that the Crunorix have left the Grave, as we do,” Reverend Ail suggested.

“But does that explain their need to hold the Blade in their hand? Do we think that Severine is eager to wield it against the Nameless King?”

“No.”

“No,” Karsha agreed. “So, I wonder.”

“What then, do you counsel we do?” Lady Danielle asked.

“I think I may return to Bandirma,” Ail mused. “The questions you raised, Lord Karsha, of how the Blade was entrusted to Lady Danielle’s family, might be answered in the Bandirma archives. It strikes me that knowing those answers might shed some light on Severine’s motives.”

“An excellent idea.”

“And you?” Lady Danielle asked Karsha.

“Tonight, I shall explore these magnificent halls and listen to what tales the stones might tell me.”

Lady Danielle frowned at that, but did not press, and was the epitome of elegance as she bid Karsha a good night.

Karsha watched her go, then ambled in the opposite direction, deeper into the citadel’s grand chambers, pausing frequently to admire the weave of a carpet or the brushstrokes of a painting. Heedless of his path, he re-examined every nuance of the grandmaster’s face and stance, the tone of her voice, and the rhythm of her breath throughout their conversation.

I am certain Grandmaster Severine is desperate. Desperate enough to act against us? I would believe that. Yet, if we weather the Guild’s ire, they will be desperate enough to return to us as supplicants. Oh, what a marvelous chance.

Karsha quickly quelled a grin that had burst onto his lips uninvited. This is surely no time to tempt the gods. Karsha furrowed his brow, muttered beneath his breath, and even wrung his hands, against the chance that a spiteful spirit was watching, but behind his façade he could not help caressing the thoughts of victory a bit more.

Satisfied that he had presented a reasonable face of woe and worry to the gods, Karsha peered about to determine where his meandering had taken him, only to frown in puzzlement as he gazed at the unfamiliar passageway he stood in.

A high, vaulted ceiling disappeared into the shadows above him, supported by thin columns that marched away like a rank of ashen trees, both before and behind. Ahead, the passage faded into utter darkness, as if it were a tunnel leading to the throne room of the lord of all shadows, but behind him a faint silver sheen gleamed on the walls, a pale echo of the long-hidden moon.

The walls were unbroken by door or window, but the dim light was enough to show the vague shapes of carved images covering the stone. The roar of the river was a constant thunder that deafened him, and water trickled down one wall in probing rivulets to gather among the paving stones, the slight ripples all that distinguished them from pools of ink.

Karsha realized belatedly that he stood in one such puddle up to his ankles, and his toes had already become numb. He sadly raised one foot, then the other, but the damage had been done, and his robes clung to his legs in a sodden embrace. He shook his feet in irritation, causing his charms to dance and jingle in a lonely chorus that was quickly swallowed by the river’s roar.

He stepped closer to the wall and traced the carvings with a gnarled finger. There was enough light to see great ships locked together, with warriors butchering one another on their decks, the dead tumbling over the sides into the water. A dozen steps later the scene changed to a vicious confrontation between two knights, their blades piercing one another in a fatal exchange as blood flowed from their armor.

His fingertip found letters engraved beneath the figures. The Death of Lord Emrick… I should think so, judging from where that sword is being shoved. And the other must be one of the Iron Knights, but which? Karsha could find no other epitaph, and his memory could not find the name, no matter how hard he squinted and frowned.

Karsha patted the wall gently, then glanced regretfully down the passageway. I shall have to return with a lantern, he supposed, assuming I can find my way back. Or, perhaps…

He searched beneath his robes until his fingers found a small disk made of clay. He traced the rough pattern of spirals that graced its surface, and sang briefly in a warbling language, the sounds fluttering on his tongue. The clay grew warm and emitted a gentle glow, and Karsha held the pendant above his head as he gazed at the engraved details that had eluded him in the darkness.

Hmmm… seventeen wounds, he counted, all painstakingly etched in precise detail.

Karsha stepped away to take in the full grandeur of the scene, but then frowned, and glanced quickly toward the darkened end of the passageway. A fleeting touch had brushed against his neck on that side, too cold to be a spider’s thread, and yet it could not have been mist or an errant drip, as his wrinkled skin was dry to the touch. The passageway seemed as dark and empty as ever, its shadows receding reluctantly from the glow of the clay pendant, and the roar of the river drowned any chance of hearing a sound. Again, he felt a cold, ephemeral touch against his skin, this time against his cheek. He recoiled, swiping the air, but his fingers met no resistance.

The tiny wizard’s lips pressed into a thin line and he began the trilling song of the pendant again, but this time his voice grew in strength as the song continued, and ancient words swirled forth to dance with the river’s thunder.

Embers burst into life around the hand that held the pendant, and bright stars dipped and swirled in a growing constellation, each one adding its pulsing glow to brighten the passageway. Dozens spiraled around Karsha, then dozens of dozens, until the light was brighter than any lantern, and the shadows drew back.

His gnarled fingers opened and a burst of stars swarmed free, racing through the passageway in every direction, filling it with a light so bright that it seemed the stones were coated with diamonds and Karsha had to shield his eyes from the glare.

A dark mass was revealed among the pools of water, no more than twenty strides further along the passage. Lumpen shapes, scattered across the stones, that glistened darkly.

“Hurm,” Karsha growled unhappily. He wanted nothing to do with the mysterious shapes. The lumps made his skin crawl, but he could not persuade his legs to carry him in the opposite direction.

He took a step toward the shapes. A fine story it would make, of a wizard afraid of a stone in a puddle, he told himself, hoping that a stone in a puddle would indeed be the case. Another step, and another.

Karsha’s nose wrinkled in dismay as the stench of an abattoir reached him, and with it the realization that the shapes were the gore of a freshly slaughtered body. Its viscera and other ghastly membranes were torn and tossed among chunks that could not be identified. Black threads laced the glistening, red surface of the remains, as if it were infested by a writhing mesh of worms. Blood dyed the puddles for many paces in every direction, and long streaks glimmered on the walls.

But where is the corpse? Karsha wondered, as there was no gaping trunk from which the remains could have spilled.

He squatted next to the gore, oblivious to the chill water that soaked his robes, and at his urging the cloud of bright stars gathered close, bathing the obscene remains in light. Karsha peered closely, his brow furrowed in deep ridges that cast black shadow across his swirling tattoos. He could find no organ, no bone, no identifiable structure that could hint at the flesh’s provenance, but the amount of blood staining the floor could only have come from a sizable body. A pig… perhaps?

Karsha heard the faint echo of a splash, almost indecipherable amongst the roar of water on the other side of the wall, and his head snapped up as he stared down the length of the darkened passageway. Nothing stirred and he slowly returned to his examination while his ears strained to catch any noise beyond the omnipresent river.

He bent lower. No… not a pig, he realized. A small gleam amongst the glistening remains, but enough to draw the eye. The ragged curve of a fingernail, torn at the quick, lodged in the gap between the two paving stones that had ripped it free.

His fingers clenched around the clay pendant, shattering it, and light blazed between his fingers as if he held the sun in his fist. Shadows twisted and writhed as he swung his arm in a great circle around his head, then they fled from him, receding down the tunnel like rain down a gutter spout.

Karsha slowly rose from his crouch, the light held high. His other hand gripped a small twig like a dagger, ready to jab.

But he found no enemy to strike, and the passageway lay empty as far as the light would reach. As his gaze returned to the remains at his feet, the incandescence revealed tendrils of Shadow rising from the torn meat and writhing away as if they sought to avoid the light, and he felt a cruel chill afflict his heart, so that his breath became labored and the darkness pressed against the edge of his vision.

Karsha offered a quick supplication to any god that might be watching, then he followed the passageway deeper, his light a sphere of gold against the dark.

By the time Karsha returned to the main levels of the palace he could barely keep from staggering against the walls, and his feet dragged on every step. His bones ached with the simple cold of splashing through frigid, black water, and his thoughts were numb from the dread of endless darkness. Yet he had found nothing but empty passageways, darkened storerooms, and a long-abandoned row of cells.

Karsha reached the top of a staircase and leaned against the wall, gazing at the moonlit courtyard before him. Lanterns warmly illuminated the tall pillars of the great hall’s entrance, and guards stood at quiet watch around the peaceful expanse of smooth stone, so dislocated from the shrouded tunnels he had just quit that it seemed impossible the two were connected.

He opened his clenched fist, allowing shards of clay to fall to the ground. “Many thanks, for guiding my way,” he whispered. The cloud of swirling lights drifted upward, twinkling gently, until they joined the spread of stars across the night sky and Karsha could no longer distinguish which had come from his hand, and which had welcomed them home.

Then he gathered his strength and hobbled to the nearest soldier.

“Summon an officer, at once,” Karsha croaked. “There is murder within the walls.”

He slumped into an ancient, high-backed chair with little care that it was stiff and uncomfortable, and massaged life into his legs, one trembling sinew at a time. A servant brought him tea with much concern for his state and ordered his fire stoked. Karsha allowed himself to be smothered in blankets without a single complaint, asking only that parchment and ink be brought.

As his shudders subsided, he began to set words on the paper, smudging and blotting the ink as his cramped fingers produced their tiny, illegible scrawl. There were many crossings-out and revisions as he sought for some way to capture the details, but at last he sat back and wafted the page against the heat from the fire to dry it.

“Do you see it?” he asked the flames. “Come, pay attention, now.”

The fire shifted and popped, to his satisfaction.

“Good. Now, take it to her.” He fed the parchment to the flames, making certain it had caught before allowing it to slip from his fingers into the fireplace. It blazed for a moment, the ink turning incandescent, then curled and blackened into ash.

Karsha slumped against his chair and gathered the blankets more securely around his shoulders, until only his face was uncovered, then he closed his eyes and cast his thoughts to the night. He tumbled without anchor for a moment, and then with a rush of cool air against feathers he found himself swooping over the peaked roofs and narrow, twisted streets of a great city, its tall towers stretched toward him as he spread his wings and soared.

Karsha breathed in the scents of smoke and stone and rancid humanity and cast a greeting. Hello, Bran.

The great raven cawed in reply, and his raucous cry echoed from the slate rooftops below him.

I have news for her.

Bran croaked contentedly, dipped his wings, and curved toward a tall spire rising above the nearer rooftops like a spear thrust at the moon, crowning a massive building that sprawled among its smaller companions, its soaring buttresses and tiered vaults shining in the moonlight like a mountaintop.

Exile

The terrace overlooked a garden, pleasantly overfilled with fruit trees, flowering bushes, and wandering paths that never led more than a dozen steps before rejoining the tiny lawn. The moonlight winked on polished bronze and marble monuments hidden among the leaves, discreet markers to memorialize the great who had passed beyond the shroud.

The Queen paced the full width of the terrace as she glared at the silver-lined leaves of the garden’s trees and the bright moon beyond. Her steps were long and graceful, but there was an urgency to her stride and a rigid poise to her shoulders, as if she prowled the terrace searching for prey, ready to pounce.

At last, a shadow skimmed across the top of the garden wall, wings flared as it arced over the treetops, and alighted on the railing an arm’s-length from the Queen. Gabrielle let out a long, slow sigh of relief, then smiled at the great raven in greeting.

“Bran, good. Has Karsha finally sent word? Did Danielle meet with the Guild? What did they say?”

Bran bobbed his head eagerly and croaked at the Queen in response, and Gabrielle gently smoothed the glossy feathers on his breast with one finger as she met his gaze.

“Show me.”

The raven’s ink-black eye seemed to widen until it filled her vision, vast as the night sky. Gabrielle felt the stir of wind through feathers, the rush of the ground passing in a blur beneath her, the effortless beat of great wings against air. A distant voice brushed against her, its sound worn by untold years into a rich thunder of water against stone.

My Queen.

Karsha, finally. What news?

General Boone’s strategy proceeds. The Temple army gathers at Newbridge, where I am told their very presence will cause Duke Campbell’s courage to wither. General Boone leads the Royal Army back from the hinterlands, a maneuver of apparently bewildering complexity, but when at last it emerges from the wilderness upon Campbell’s eastern flank, it will be situated to inflict terrible consequence on the duke.

When? she thought impatiently. Karsha, when?

General Boone believes the campaign could be concluded by the Maker’s Feast, if all goes well. A sweeping vision of forest-cloaked hills was revealed to her, rolling like the swell of a great ocean to the horizon under her spread wings. Silver lace sparkled in the valleys along the wide arcs of broad rivers, and thin streams of chimney smoke rose from countless villages and farms nestled in their patchwork fields.

My realm. She felt its vastness as no ink on parchment could ever convey, knew its endless forests, beheld the thousands upon thousands of souls whose dreams were engraved on its surface.

A fierce pride stirred her heart and lifted her chin. Campbell will not take this from me.

No, my Queen.

If all goes well, Gabrielle repeated, her thoughts returning to ponder Karsha’s words. What chance of that? Campbell would be a fool to march against Boone. I dread that he will remain here, in Kuray, and defy us from its walls as the snow begins to fall. Karsha, I do not wish to lay siege to my own city.

General Boone assures me that he will do all he can to avoid that regrettable fate. He speaks of maneuvers to lure Campbell from safety, a show of weakness where there is strength, threats to lands that are dear to Campbell’s heart, and enigmatic stratagems that defy my understanding. You must trust your general in this.

I do, yet I fear that such tactics will not deceive Campbell. She felt her jaw clench and forced a sharp, frustrated exhalation. What else?

Ah, there is more good news to lighten your heart. Your exile is almost at its end. Bran tells me that Captain Andras has reached Kuray.

Gabrielle tried to find the satisfaction that she knew should greet Karsha’s news, but a twist of displeasure soured her stomach, and she could muster only a weak, That is good news, in response.

Your joy would wither an oak.

The thought of leaving carries a bitter taste, Gabrielle admitted. She paced the length of the terrace and back as she considered the source of her discontent, her arms folded and her head bowed. I am abandoning my city to Campbell.

You are escaping his vile insurrection, Karsha corrected her.

You are right, I know it. Gabrielle forced her shoulders back and took a deep breath of the garden’s fragrant scent. I look forward to Captain Andras’s arrival.

He will be with you before the next bell. Now, I must tell of some news that is not as joyous. Lady Danielle and I were graced with Grandmaster Severine’s presence today.

What did she say?

The Guild claims provenance over the Martyr’s Blade and demands its return, and they promise friendship to the one who fulfills their wishes.

Gabrielle’s lips tightened into a thin line, and her golden eyes flashed with anger. Damn them. We fill their coffers, yet they turn their back on me the moment it suits them, and care only for their own desires. The Blade is not theirs to have, it is ours.

It is, Karsha’s voice soothed across the length of the realm. Yet we must consider what urgency drove them to make such a bold claim, and who they may offer their friendship to, next.

Campbell, she thought bitterly.

Yes. They voyage to Kuray as we speak.

I suppose he will offer them anything if they agree to help find me.

Of a certainty. Yet another reason I am glad you are leaving Kuray as quickly as possible.

Gabrielle considered the news for a moment, her brow creased.

Karsha, how is Danielle?

She chafes at her role, as it is very far from her desire, but all are amazed to witness her passion for your cause. My Queen, there is one more concern… I am uncertain… I have no proof.

Karsha, it is unseemly to mumble and mutter so.

The raven shook his feathers and chuckled, his beak gaping wide, and Gabrielle stroked its breast, paying no heed to its wickedly sharp beak, as she returned its grin.

Ah, I am cut by my own blade. I fear that the respite your sister won for us last winter may be at its end.

The Crunorix? Gabrielle suppressed a shudder. Danielle had not had time to tell her much of what had occurred beneath the High Fell mountains last winter, but she had not needed to. Gabrielle could recall the pain and sorrow in her sister’s voice, even now, and knew that whatever Danielle had confronted in the dark catacombs was to be feared.

I had understood that the north was guarded against their return? That the exit from the catacombs that Danielle found was guarded by a Temple army?

That is so, Karsha agreed. Sir Lochlan and his troops have been there since last winter, watching for the Crunorix’s return. He has seen no sign of their stirring.

Yet you are concerned.

I heard a whisper, that is all, but I felt the cold of the abyss in its touch. I do not know what it portends.

We must hurry, then, Gabrielle thought with determination.

We must. I have entrusted more details to the flame if you wish to read them.

Thank you, Karsha.

May the gods smile upon you, Your Majesty.

Bran cawed a farewell as Karsha’s voice faded, and the wing-born vision of her realm faded, to be replaced by the tidy confines of the garden.

Gabrielle rewarded Bran with a handful of chestnuts, their soft flesh roasted and pried from the shell so that he might gobble them down without effort. The raven made short work of the snack and set to preening.

“All done?” Gabrielle asked, though if a chestnut had survived, there was no sign of it. Bran croaked contentedly as he groomed his feathers, and Gabrielle smiled fondly at the great bird.

“Greedy,” she teased gently, and she scratched the raven’s breast, ruffling the recently-smoothed feathers. Bran grumbled and fussed, and she laughed, a bright tumble of happiness that filled the garden and washed away the crease of concern that marred her brow.

But the reprieve could not last, and with a sigh she turned her back on the garden. A short flight of worn steps led to a deserted cloister, where the moonlight shone through tall windows to paint the passageway in vivid silver and black. From the cloister, a peaked door gave entrance to the immense cathedral of Whitetemple, shrouded in velvet night save for where candles mounted in silver candelabras lit a golden path through the echoing vastness.

Her host awaited her as she crossed the nave, his hands tucked neatly into the sleeves of his elegant robes, the dignified sweep of his grey hair lowered respectfully as he bowed to Gabrielle.

“Your Majesty,” Reverend Cedrych greeted her. The practiced resonance of his voice lifted his words to the peak of the temple’s vaults and filled the shadowy aisles, such an unlikely sound to emanate from so small a man that it still took Gabrielle by surprise every time she conversed with the priest. “May the Maker’s gift shine within you.”

“Your reverence,” Gabrielle answered, and Cedrych straightened to his full height, bringing his gaze to the level of Gabrielle’s chin.

“I hope that Your Majesty is in good health tonight?”

“Yes, your reverence.”

“I give you joy of it,” Cedrych continued. “Your Majesty has been most accommodating, of course, but I cannot help but shudder at the notion of Your Majesty continuing to stay in such mean quarters for overlong.”

“We are very grateful for your hospitality.” Gabrielle’s lips thinned as she forced her reply. I shall not miss this daily reminder that we are not welcome here, she complained to herself.

Since the night that Lord Gwydion had forced Reverend Cedrych to give them shelter in Whitetemple, the priest had never failed to be polite, but neither had Cedrych missed an opportunity to press for the hasty departure of the Queen and her followers. Subsequent messages from the Temple’s High Council confirming the templar’s orders had done nothing to ameliorate the small priest’s unflagging devotion to remind her where the door was located.

“You are kind, Your Majesty, but they are most unsuitable.”

“Thank you, your reverence, your concern is touching, and I shall not forget it once I return to the Silver Keep.”

“Bless you, Your Majesty.”

The Queen extricated herself from the priest’s company as quickly as she could and strode to a series of stairs that took her beneath the temple, to the labyrinth of the crypts. Here, slender pillars shaped into graceful trees rose to support the vaulted ceiling with their branches, and warm light glowed on polished stone in an attempt to make the chamber feel open and airy. But Gabrielle felt the heavy weight of the massive temple pressing down on the crypt. The pillars were too close together, the vaults too low, and the walls too thick to give her any comfort.

Gabrielle passed deeper into the crypt into a realm of narrower passageways and deep alcoves, where the lanterns were fewer. A tall man stood watch here, his ill-fitting priest’s robes poor concealment for the rigid shapes of leather and steel beneath them. He bowed as Gabrielle passed, although his gaze did not leave the empty passage behind her.

Two more guards stood watch at a junction of two passageways, also wearing borrowed robes over armor, broad-bladed swords sheathed at their hips. Beyond the guards a series of doors lined the wall, a section of the temple’s cellars now devoted to a different use. One had been transformed into a barracks for the handful of soldiers who had escaped the Silver Keep with Gabrielle, another into a dining room. A side passage led to an unused wine cellar, now transformed into several smaller rooms that served as the royal apartments in exile.

A young woman clad in steel armor stood rigidly at attention at the outer door to the apartments. She was lean to the point of delicate, but she bore the weight of her armament easily, and she quickly bowed and opened the door for Gabrielle.

“All is secure, Your Majesty,” the knight murmured. “Lady Bryn is inside.”

“Thank you, Sir Geraldine,” Gabrielle replied as she passed through the door. “I am expecting a visitor, tonight. Will you please alert your guard, and bring me word as soon as Captain Andras arrives.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The apartment’s main room was crowded with mismatched chairs, some ancient enough that Gabrielle suspected they had been crafted to honor the founding of the Temple. They were examples of the most severe grandeur imaginable, with intricate flourishes carved into their dark wood, and their fabric worn into pale memories of their original colors.

Lady Bryn perched on one chair, and an array of daggers laid out on a sheet of velvet covered the side table next to her.

“Your Majesty.” Bryn smiled and made to stand, but Gabrielle waved her quickly back to her seat.

“Do you polish their blades for them, now?”

Bryn glanced at the spread of brilliantly gleaming weapons. “It seems a shame to have them so grubby, not when there’s so much polish and even more time down here.” She sighed and laid her rag aside. “I suppose it’s foolish.”

Gabrielle selected one knife, a long blade with a worn grip, whose steel now shone like molten silver, unblemished by even a single fleck of grime.

“A particular favorite?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” Bryn replied off-handedly.

“Oh, yes?”

“Perhaps,” Bryn repeated, and she smiled slyly.

“Not foolish, after all.”

“Oh, very foolish, I fear.”

Gabrielle laid the knife on the velvet and suppressed another sigh. At least Bryn has found some gain from our weeks of exile. I have accomplished far less, unless one counts fretting and brooding.

She left Bryn to her devotions and entered the apartment’s bedroom, a long, low space interrupted by a row of thick pillars that Lady Bryn and Lady Aithne had transformed into a snug retreat, complete with an ancient bed and a palisade of creaky armoires, lovingly arranged to keep the bare stone at bay.

A settee was drawn close to the bedroom’s small fireplace, kept blazing to ward off the room’s quite evident chill, though Gabrielle’s companions insisted on droning on about how warm the summer grew.

The Queen retrieved a sheet of vellum from her writing desk, perched on the settee, and carefully placed the parchment in the flames. Yellow tongues licked at its edges, but it did not crinkle and darken at their touch. Only in the center did the surface smoke and burn to form the shape of cramped, spidery script, slowly covering the page, until line after line of hurried words, corrections, and even a few smeared ink blots were faithfully seared onto the parchment.

Gabrielle waited until she was certain the message was complete, turning the page this way and that with the tongs as if she were ensuring an even brown on a piece of toast, before she pulled the parchment from the fire. She impatiently waved the last stray tendrils of smoke away from its surface as she frowned at the text, trying her best to decipher Karsha’s hand. He had begun the message in Venaissine, for her benefit, but it soon degraded into a perplexing mixture of that language with the common tongue, and it mysteriously included a vivid description of two knights battling one another on a boat that made Gabrielle wonder what terrible event had occurred at the meeting with the Guild.

But his apprehensions regarding the Crunorix were spelled out clearly, each word announced with bold capitalization and small streaks of ink where the pen’s nib must have cracked from the pressure of the stroke.

Gabrielle re-read the message until she had it committed to memory, tossed the crumpled parchment into the fire, where it instantly blazed and turned to ash, as if the flames were eager to make penance for their earlier restraint, then gazed thoughtfully at the fire until a knock sounded against the apartment door.

“Yes?”

“Your Majesty,” Lady Rowenna greeted her and curtsied gracefully, her sable hair a tumble of curls around her face.

“Lady Rowenna,” Gabrielle replied, and she quickly took Rowenna’s hands and raised the slender woman to her feet.

Rowenna’s head tilted slightly and one slim eyebrow arched expectantly. “You have received a message?”

“I have. Karsha tells me that we are rescued.”

“That is daring to say so boldly, Your Majesty.”

“It is, you are right. I find it difficult to celebrate fleeing my own city. No, I know I am being peevish. There is no disappointment so small that I cannot find a petty response. It is because we have been trapped here forever, yes?”

“Confinement is hard to endure, but our concealment has served us well, so far.”

“It has, and I thank the Maker for this sanctuary. But it chafes to know that Campbell lords over the streets outside while we skulk in the cellars.”

“It does, Your Majesty,” Rowenna agreed. “Did Lord Karsha mention if they had met with the Guild?”

“A waste of time.” Gabrielle swatted the Guild away with a swish of her hand. “They barter their friendship for the Martyr’s Blade.”

“We cannot give that away, can we?”

“No. What would we pay them to defend us if the Blade were held in Criénne? No, I prefer that they come begging to me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I imagine the Guild will next come to Kuray?”

Gabrielle nodded agreement. “Yes, you are right. And that shit in the Silver Keep will promise them anything to gain their aid.”

“It is a good thing that we are leaving. The Grey Mantle is a powerful Veil, and Gwydion is deft in its use. But against a Guild grandmaster? I should not like to wager on that outcome.”

A timid knock sounded against the door, so slight that for a moment Gabrielle wondered if she had heard it.

“Yes?” she called out.

Sir Geraldine stepped into the room, rigid and formal, as if on parade. “I am sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty. Captain Andras and his soldiers have arrived. Do you wish to speak with the captain, or…?”

“Yes, of course.” Gabrielle tried to conceal a twist of impatience. She hoped the young knight was more talented with her sword than she was with her social graces, as the Queen had neared the end of her tolerance for awkward hesitations and rigid formality. Still, Gabrielle knew she had little choice in her guard. Sir Geraldine was the sum total of the knights currently sworn to her service.

I miss Sir Ceridwen. Gabrielle sighed and asked, “Where is the captain, now?”

“In the chapter house.”

“Well, shall we go and welcome our savior to Kuray?” Gabrielle asked Rowenna.

Gabrielle slipped her arm through the templar’s, and the two young women strolled together with only the rustle of rich fabric sweeping across bare stone and the following tread of Sir Geraldine’s boots to disturb the silence of the crypts.

“Is there any news from the city?” Gabrielle asked to break the silence. “What rumors have found us?”

“None to lift our spirits,” Rowenna replied. “Apparently the Lords’ Council has just appointed Earl Rosdoire as Marshall of the Keep, and Lord Harlan as Lord Commander of the Royal Army.”

“General Boone will be amused to hear that he has been replaced. What was the vote?”

“I’m afraid both appointments passed by approbation, Your Majesty, so there was no count.”

“But Rosdoire is a cretin.” Gabrielle felt her jaw clench and forced a deep breath to calm her ire. “I shall send word to Karsha, so that Danielle may present my rejection of the appointments to our Lord’s Council, as we did with the others. A ridiculous game, but one we must play, no?”

Gabrielle brooded in silence as they threaded their route through the labyrinth of the crypts, her brow creased as she glared at the floor. This week, Marshall and Lord Commander. Last week, High Justicar and Master of the Purse. His cronies will soon be everywhere, and every day they will undo more of what Karsha and I have worked to accomplish since Arian’s death. General Boone cannot march quickly enough to suit me.

But the anticipation of Boone’s arrival with the Royal Army gave the Queen only a moment’s satisfaction, for her thoughts quickly grew dark with visions of suffering and loss, and she drew in another deep breath to quell the roil of her stomach.

“Your Majesty, what troubles you?” Rowenna asked softly.

“Must I choose only one thing?”

“I am sorry, it was a ridiculous question, given all that has happened.”

“No, I must apologize, I am in a dark mood. I do not mean to hiss and yowl. At this moment, I am troubled that a battle in which thousands will perish is our best hope, that I must pray for death and misery.”

“Is General Boone not convinced of victory?”

“He is confident he will prevail,” Gabrielle replied, “and the realm reunited by the Maker’s Feast.” But her tongue hesitated on the words, and they could not soothe the disquiet in her heart. No, that is facile thinking. Karsha would be disappointed. There are deeper challenges that a battle will not solve.

Gabrielle sighed. “If I am honest, I am troubled because I fear that Campbell’s treachery has revealed a deep wound in the realm, one that has festered for years, and I do not know how it might easily be healed. The pride of one man brought us here, that is true, but his pride did not cause the resentment he and his supporters feel against me and my reign.”

“And you do not suppose that removing him will bridge that rift.”

“No. Are you fortunate enough to have avoided politics?”

“My father is obsessed with his seat on the Council, so I regret I have absorbed more than I would have liked.”

“Campbell’s supporters hold more seats on the Council now than when he staged his coup, and that farce when the Council recognized his Regency passed on approbation as well.”

“To be fair, Your Majesty, the members of the Lords’ Council who support you do not dare voice their dissent. Not in Kuray.”

“True, but the Council that Karsha has gathered in the south represents far fewer seats, and this is the schism that troubles me, that I do not believe can be healed with a battle or the hanging of a single traitor.”

“Your Majesty, the Lords’ Council cannot argue that Campbell is not a traitor. Once he is your prisoner, they will not fear to speak against him.”

“No, but they will say it is the purview of the Council to judge a lord and to determine what punishment shall be levied, and they will argue with all the passion of those who fear their own titles could be next. And those who harbor secret sympathy with his cause will speak of mitigation and defend his allies. And if they are ignored, they will impede my rule in every way they can, and mutter about legitimacy, and the rot will spread.”

“Rot spreads when it is not exorcised,” Rowenna pointed out.

“Yes, and there are many ways to wield a scalpel. I must use them all, careful not to do more injury. We must remove Campbell, as he is the infection at the heart of the corruption. But we must also secure the support of the Lords’ Council. Nobles who either do not dare to speak against Campbell, or who wish to wait to ensure they are supporting the victorious side. We must convince them to join us, but I do not see an easy path.”

“It sounds impossible, when put in such terms, yet I dread to think what might happen if we enter the winter still at each other’s throats,” Rowenna said grimly. “There’s no telling how long before the Crunorix might reappear. If we are not ready to face them by the time the snow arrives, I very much doubt the weather will increase our speed.”

“We will manage,” Gabrielle assured her. She was not certain how, exactly, but she was certain they would. She trusted Lady Rowenna to find a way. She trusted Lord Gwydion to… well, she was not certain what she trusted Lord Gwydion to do, but she knew he would triumph in whatever task was required.

They reached the steps to the temple’s main floor and Gabrielle strode up them to the cathedral, where they passed through the transept to the chapter house, a rotunda of echoing marble and soaring windows, its vaults lost in darkness. Pools of warm candlelight revealed a row of padded benches around the room’s circumference, where, at a less clandestine moment, the temple’s priests and priestesses might gather to discuss the business of the cathedral.

It hosted a more secular gathering now. A dozen men and women dressed in dark wool and leather, with hard expressions to match the weapons that hung in easy reach at their belts. As Gabrielle entered, the waiting figures rose as one and bowed silently, and Gabrielle felt a surge of pride.

“Please,” she urged them, “take your ease. A long journey should not end with the travails of court.”

A few smiles broke through the soldiers’ grim expressions, but none resumed their seat. One of their company stepped forward, a tall man, broad-shouldered beneath his cloak, with dark lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and the shadow of a beard merging with streaks of dirt across his cheeks. The scent of warm leather brushed against her, stirring a sudden memory of riding across open pasture.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, his voice a deep growl, and he bowed, a precise movement of head and neck. “I am Captain Andras.”

“Captain. I trust you encountered no undue difficulties?”

“We had a good guide.” He indicated a sharp shadow that lurked apart from the other soldiers, a lean figure that Gabrielle had not noticed against the wall of the chamber. “She brought us through the hills, and I doubt that I could find that path again, though I’ve just walked it.”

“I am glad to hear we are in good hands,” Gabrielle told her. The woman was thin as a blade, so that her tunic hung loose from her shoulders and her elbows jutted from her sleeves like spear tips, and her face was as sharp as a fox’s, save for a crooked nose that gave her a permanent sneer. She wore stained wool and patched leather, dark with grime, and where her skin was bare she had decorated it with long swirls of black paint in patterns that disguised her shape even further, so that she might easily be mistaken for a korrigan, rather than a person.

She leaned her bow against the wall and stood, her gaze bright against the ink-black shadows painted around her eyes. “You won’t find the path because there is no path to find,” she told the captain. “Paths are where people watch.”

“I see,” Gabrielle replied. “And what shall I call you?”

“Drysi,” the woman replied.

“Excellent. And you may call me Your Majesty.” Gabrielle searched for something further to say to the scout but failed, and instead gratefully returned her attention to Captain Andras. “I am eager to be done with this hiding. I regret to leave the city, as it feels like defeat, but I cannot stand idle any longer.

“The ship is hidden near Dún Caomhnóir Mhór, which is three days travel if you know the land as Drysi does,” Andras informed her. “We’ll have you away from here soon, Your Majesty.”

“How soon?” Gabrielle asked.

“We need to learn the routes of the patrols in the city and determine the safest path to take. A few days, no more.”

“Very good, Captain. Sir Geraldine has prepared quarters for you and your soldiers in the crypts, which is not as dismal as it sounds, I promise.”

“Don’t be concerned for us, Your Majesty. This lot can sleep anywhere.”

“I am certain that is true.” Gabrielle smiled at the weary soldiers, and they straightened with pride. “Thank you all, for your loyalty and your bravery. I shall not forget it.”

The soldiers mumbled their thanks and shuffled from the chamber. Last to depart was the scout, Drysi, who met Gabrielle’s gaze for a moment before she followed the others and disappeared into the shadows.

“Well, they seemed competent,” Rowenna said quietly as the low murmur of the soldiers’ voices receded into the depths of the cathedral.

“They did,” Gabrielle agreed. “I would have been more eager for Captain Andras’s arrival if I had known he was so… competent.”

A grin chased across Rowenna’s lips. “Extremely competent. Especially his eyes.”

Hunters

The ravine cut through a towering ridgeline that thrust south from the High Fells, its steep flanks tangled with ancient growth and its crown encrusted with weathered granite. A cool breeze curled over the jagged crest and whispered among the tufts of grass that sprouted from every crack and crevice in the rock, bringing with it a faint touch of faraway snow and ice that brushed against the sun-warmed stone and faded away.

Scrub trees and gnarled bushes dotted the edge of the ravine as if drawn to the vista of the deep gorge and the chattering stream that tumbled through it. The bushes gazed lazily at the majestic sweep of rolling hills that merged into a blue haze beneath a shimmering sky.

Another gust of wind blustered across the ridgeline sending grass swaying and flowers bobbing as a cloud of butterflies swirled into the air. The breeze then hissed through the gnarled branches of a pair of small bushes crouched in a snug divot of stone with a commanding view of the north.

“I’m bored,” the first bush said.

“Hush,” the other bush replied.

The first bush shook, as if suddenly obsessed with an itch that could not be reached by its stubby branches.

“Bored,” it muttered, but the second bush ignored it. The first bush rustled again, and a pair of thin legs clad in scuffed leather trousers slowly stretched from beneath it, their small, bare feet pointed into the warm sunshine as the bush groaned in relief.

“Wyn, hush,” the second bush said again.

“I can’t help it, my legs are stiff.” The legs squirmed, then amused themselves by crossing and re-crossing and experimentally pressing the big toe of one foot into the sole of the other, while the owner of the legs watched the slow spiral of a hawk turning lazily against the bright sky and listened to the chorus of tiny brown birds laughing happily as they darted among the rocks. The warmth of the smooth stone beneath her formed a comforting cocoon, rich with the scents of rock and earth and sap, and she surrendered to an eye-squinting yawn as the distant treetops stirred in an unfelt breeze.

“Bored,” Wyn reminded the other bush, to no avail. The second bush seemed content to spend eternity growing roots and rustling its branches and ignoring her, despite the astounding tolerance she had shown for Sir Killock’s insistence on quiet and concealment all morning. On an empty bloody hill in the middle of bloody nowhere. Who’s to see us?

She twisted so that she could scratch at an annoying tickle on her arm and discovered a dozen intrepid scouts from an army marching beneath her bush.

“Ugh… there’s ants over here,” Wyn grumbled as she flicked the explorers off her skin.

“Are they the red kind?” the second bush asked softly.

“No, black,” Wyn replied.

“Hmmm.”

The twisted branches of the bushes scraped softly as Wyn eyed the column of insects warily.

“Is black better than red?” Wyn asked.

“Much better. The black ones rarely swarm.”

“Swarm?”

“Rarely. Just make sure not to squish one.”

“What?” Wyn asked, her voice a squeak of concern. “But there’s loads of them!”

“Just hold still,” the second bush advised gravely.

Wyn froze, her skin suddenly ablaze with tiny tickles that begged to be scratched and slapped. I’m sorry about your friends, she pleaded with the ants. Just stay over there and I’ll stay over here, and I’ll not squish you and you don’t swarm, all right?

She held rigidly still for an eternity, resolutely ignoring the itches, her gaze fixed on any slight deviation of an ant from the main column. Another gentle wave of stirring leaves rolled down the flank of a low hill to the north, lazy as honey, and dread slowly morphed into relief, then doubt, then certainty.

“Oh, Martyr’s tears!” Wyn muttered indignantly. Her bush shook violently as she suddenly rolled free and glared at the second bush. “ ‘Just hold still’, is it? I bloody believed you!”

“Very dangerous, black ants,” Killock assured her.

“Ha, ha,” Wyn snorted. She slumped against the wind-smoothed stone of the gully as a grin twisted her lips. “Ants… ha.”

She had not been ordered back beneath her bush, so Wyn tried to enjoy her freedom for as long as possible, but little else had changed about her sentence. The vagrant gusts of breeze had stilled, no doubt stunned by the ripples of heat wavering over the bare stone of the ridgeline. This far north, the night air still remembered the echoes of winter and gifted the morning with crisp coolness, but the land sweltered during the long summer days. Every drop of rain and flake of snow that had fallen during the interminable winter seemed to rise from the muddy ground as soon as the sun’s rays warmed it, with the set purpose of smothering Wyn in their cloying embrace.

As if prompted by her thoughts, trickles of sweat began to chase each other across Wyn’s skin, making her squirm and itch, and she could feel the particular sting of their trails across her cheeks that announced that she had burned her pale skin pink.

I wonder how many freckles I’ve got now? she pondered morosely, examining her arms for clues. The faint hairs on her forearms had turned almost white, bleached by long days of sunlight on the trek northward from Bandirma. But there was no sign of her skin turning any kind of lovely dark shade to rival Danielle’s, just uncountable constellations of faint dots. Wyn sighed. Loads.

A faint grumble made Wyn frown first at her stomach, then at Killock’s bush, but she quickly realized the sound came from a dark pile of clouds in the distant north. I wouldn’t mind a bit of rain, she decided.

“Maker, it’s hot,” Wyn complained. She waved a hand beside her head without conviction, stirring a few wisps of long, golden hair free from the tangled strands clinging to her neck.

“You’re sitting in the sun,” Killock observed.

“It’s not any better under that scrubby little thing, and there’s ants under there.” Wyn dismissed the spindly shrub under which she had recently been lying. “Nothing but stones and twigs up here. It’s an oven.”

“Six months ago, we were up to our knees in snow,” Killock reminded her. He slowly eased from under his concealment, careful not to disturb the twisted branches, and stretched to his full height amid a crackle of joints and creaking of leather. “You said you’d pay a gold talen for a fire and dry boots, you were so cold.”

“If your point is that it’s always miserable out here, I agree,” Wyn replied. “Do your knees always sound like that?”

“On good days.”

“Martyr’s tears.”

“I’ll remind you of that remark in thirty years.”

“Maker, in thirty years I better have a nice carriage to carry me around. I’ll pay someone else to do all the creeping about.”

“An easy life.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Wyn rummaged beneath her bum and flicked an offending pebble into the gorge.

“Nothing. Only someone once told me they would rather slit their throat than ponce around from party to party.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go to parties, did I? You can have a carriage and bags of silver and still do interesting things. You don’t have to be a high-muckity twit.”

“True.”

“Dani owns half a country, or she did until she gave it to her sis, and she doesn’t waste her life nattering away at tea parties, does she?”

“Not at all.”

“We could have used one of her carriages in Dolieb, that’s all I’m saying, and your knees could bloody well use one now.”

“Not up here, they couldn’t,” Killock pointed out.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Is it really just six months? Feels like years and years.”

“Yesterday was High Sun, so six months since Long Night. We were in Nóinín Cnoc, just over there.” He pointed to a ridge of higher hills to the northeast. “Blockley is only a few days travel beyond the Cnoic Cam, that way.”

“Blockley.” Wyn scowled as her thoughts returned to that destroyed village, and the man responsible for its misery. Then a sharp grin bared her teeth. “I liked it when Lord Bradon punched that little high-muckity twat in the face.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“What was his name?”

“Lord… Lucious?”

“Lord fucking Lush-ous, that’s the one. That was a cold day. Hard to imagine this is the same bit of the world.” Another growl of thunder rumbled from the distant storm, dragging Wyn’s gaze back to the northwest. “What’s over that way, then? They’re getting a bit soaked.”

“No towns,” Killock replied. “A few farms, a few camps. Twin Pines is that way, you go far enough.”

“Oh, aye? Be nice to see Mairi and Aileen again. I reckon they’d have a grin for us, as well.”

“I suspect they would, but Twin Pines is three weeks away, maybe more, even if we travel hard, and we’re meant to be scouting, not visiting friends.”

“We could scout that way, instead of wherever we are now.”

“Hmmm.” Killock frowned at the western horizon and pointed into the hazy distance. “Kuray is that way,” he announced in the voice that meant he was about to begin a lecture.

Wyn groaned. “Please, I don’t deserve geography. I’ll be good.”

Killock continued, undeterred by Wyn’s entreaties, and his finger traced a line through the stones at his feet and then swung to point east. “The Seann Rathad is that way. General Boone is marching the Royal Army south along that road as fast as he can.”

“I remember now,” Wyn said quickly.

“Now, if an army were to leave Kuray—”

“I remember why we’re here, honestly.”

“—leave Kuray, and seek to approach the Royal Army undetected, perhaps to ambush it—”

“I know!”

“—they would need to travel through—”

“Here, yes, I remember, I promise.”

“Here, that’s correct. Not Twin Pines.”

“Well, I was just saying.” She puffed out a sigh as she gathered the long, tangled mass of her hair away from her neck and piled it on top of her head in an unruly thicket. “I’m about ready to chuck all this kit down the cliff.”

“Eilidh would be very disappointed.”

“Maker, Eilidh is like an old hen sometimes! Always fussing. In any case, I’m wearing this stupid thing for her, so she should be happy.”

Over her threadbare tunic she wore a sturdy leather vest, thick enough to protect against wayward jabs and scrapes, and hardened leather guards on her arms. But there her concession to armor ended, as she wore only thin trousers to protect her slender legs.

The vest soaked up the heat of the sun like a hearthstone, steaming her like a chestnut about to burst its shell. She squirmed uncomfortably and tugged at the collar of stiff leather, then scowled. “Ugh, how can it be slippery and scratchy at the same time?”

“We will find a stream to wash in tonight,” Killock assured her. “They will be running deep from the storm.”

“How much longer?”

“Let’s have a proper look and then we can go,” Killock suggested. He knelt next to his pack and withdrew a small wallet of supple leather. Within it lay an array of delicate loops crafted from threads of metal, each one a different size, from as small as Wyn’s fingernail to as large as her palm. Cunningly wrought screws served both to hold the loops together and allowed the user to adjust which loops overlapped, and what distance should exist between them.

Wyn sat up, her discomfort forgotten as she watched Killock arrange the hoops to his liking. He paused, closed his eyes, and breathed out gently. Wyn felt her heart beat once, heavily, as the air within the loops shimmered like heat before an oven door, and felt a tingle of excitement surge in her fingers.

“There we go,” Killock murmured as he peered through the loops. “Now we shall see what there is to see.”

Killock swept the Device across the northern horizon and back, gazing intently through the overlaid hoops, then frowned and began to make further adjustments to the tiny screws.

“So… how does it, you know, work?” Wyn asked with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

Killock’s attention barely flickered from the Device. “You would need to ask the artificer who created it.”

“Who’s that, then?”

“Lorcan.” Killock squinted through the hoops and turned a screw another imperceptible hair’s-breadth.

“Is he around?”

Killock finally glanced toward Wyn, his brow creased in irritation. “No, he’s dead. Long ago.”

“A bit hard to ask him, then,” Wyn pointed out reasonably, “so I thought I would ask you.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.” Wyn shrugged. “Now is when I’m asking.”

“I have no idea how it works,” Killock replied, his fingers already twitching to return to their fussing.

“You must have some idea.” Wyn rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You make it… you know. Do its thing.”

“I know its Word,” Killock agreed. “But the Word is simply the bridge between the adept’s will and the Device. The Word gives the adept access to the Device’s purpose. It allows us to manipulate the structures within the Device that control it. But as to how… the Guild makes certain that remains a mystery.”

“Oh.” Wyn’s lips twisted in annoyance. “You can’t figure it out?”

“Of course. Simply join the Guild, study for a lifetime, and become an artificer.”

“Ha. I just meant that someone, somewhere, must have had a peek inside. And no secret is completely safe. What about apostates? They know, right?”

“That is true, and what little we know likely comes from those who flee the Guild, if they survive long enough to pass their knowledge along. I have read that within each Device are designs of bewildering complexity, crafted of rare alloys that often defy identification, let alone replication. These structures somehow serve to channel and shape the Device’s power, according to its Word.”

“So there’s bits that make it go one way, and other bits that change that?”

“Yes, basically. Foci and bindings.”

“Oh, yes, lovely foci.” Wyn blinked her eyes wide and gave Killock her most attentive smile, the one that had the best chance of making him explain to her instead of asking her questions. “And bindings, too? How wonderful.”

“Hmmm,” Killock grunted. “Yes. They hold and channel the power. In any case, that is the extent of my knowledge. I swear.”

“Who taught you the Word, then?”

“The previous owner.” A faint smile softened the crags and valleys of Killock’s face.

“And you could teach it to someone else? Anyone you wanted to?”

“Anyone who had the ability to form and control a Word. Any adept.”

“And that’s what? Something you learn?”

“No. You learn the Word. Being an adept is a gift from the Maker.”

“Oh.” Wyn grimaced in disappointment. “That’s stupid.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen some absolute gits who are adepts. Why would the Maker give that to them?”

“The Maker gives many gifts to us, but that does not define who we are, merely what we are.”

“Now you sound like a priest.”

“I am a priest.”

“I meant a proper priest.”

“To some, the Maker gives the gift of curiosity.” Killock’s gaze returned to his Device. “To others, the gift of patience.”

“I’m patient,” Wyn countered indignantly.

“I am very pleased to hear it. When will you begin using that gift?”

“When I’m not so bored.” Wyn sighed and poked a twig at the line of ants, still busy marching along a tiny trail in the dirt next to her.

“I see. Well, if you want to know about Devices, why haven’t you asked Danielle? She has forgotten more about Devices than I shall ever know.”

“I dunno.” Wyn hugged her knees against her chest.

“You don’t know why you haven’t asked?”

“No, I mean, I have, or rather, I did, once, a long time ago. She showed me all her bits and bobs, you know how she is, not troubled at all to explain them to someone she’d barely met, and all.”

“How terrible. No wonder you haven’t asked her again.”

“I’m just such a numpty, and I’d just rather not, you know, remind her.”

“Is that why you came with me, instead of going with Danielle?” Killock asked. “You are concerned she might think you are a bit coarse?”

Wyn silently cursed herself. Idiot, why on earth would you say something like that to him, of all people? You bloody knew he would figure out the exact bloody thing you didn’t want to bloody talk about, but you opened your gormless mouth anyway. Well done, you.

“No,” she replied sullenly. “I wanted to sweat and see all the lovely hills.”

“As happy as I am to have this time with you, I must admit I was surprised you chose to come. Of course, I had not considered the lure of the hills.”

“Can you imagine me moping about at a fancy conclave?” Wyn jabbed her twig into the dirt, then tossed it aside and turned her attention to her dusty feet. “Dani would be spending all her time apologizing for me, instead of making alliances and treaties and, and, and other, uh, conclave things. I’d have started another war by now.”

“Perhaps she would gladly pay that price for your presence?”

“Ha.” Wyn pried some dirt from beneath her toenail and flicked it away. “Proper splendid, I am.”

“Well, I am happy you came, regardless of the reason,” Killock assured her.

“Me, too,” Wyn admitted. Though she had only agreed to come to escape the certain humiliation of court, and though she moaned about the endless discomfort of the trail, the truth was that she had rarely been happier. A strange serenity surrounded them during days of walking in quiet solitude and nights of languid conversation around a flickering fire, a contentment that Wyn was unwilling to examine, for fear that it should vanish like a hare when it feels the fox’s gaze.

Their journey north was the longest they had spent together since the year she had trained at Bandirma, she realized. Maker, I don’t miss that, do I? Endless tests and questions and being alone, except when he came with more tests and questions, and him frowning at me all the time, ’till I thought I was sure to be chucked out every night. Wyn allowed herself a glance at the stern knight, who was giving his Device the very same frown that had once terrified her.

No, I don’t miss the tests, she decided. “You about done, yet?”

“Oh, very much so.” Killock hefted his pack into place and settled his bow over one shoulder. “I’ve found a few spots for a camp.”

“Good.”

“Of course, we may never leave this hill, at this rate.”

“What do you mean?” Wyn asked. “I’m waiting on you.”

“We can leave as soon as you tell me which way we should travel.”

“Which way?” Wyn’s eyebrows raised in astonishment. She indicated the hazy ranks of hills with a contemptuous flick of her wrist. “What does it matter? There’s nothing but trees as far as you can see in every direction.”

“Then it should be easy to choose the best route,” Killock replied.

“Except…” Her nose wrinkled with suspicion. “Except that it matters to you, doesn’t it? That means that there is a right answer.”

Wyn leapt onto a boulder that teetered on the ragged edge of the gorge and stretched onto her toes as she peered to the north. A shower of pebbles pattered down the sheer cliff beneath her perch as she shifted from one foot to the other, but Wyn barely noticed the wobbling stone beneath her feet. “You saw something, didn’t you?” she muttered as she squinted suspiciously into the distance.

Killock brushed absently at his trousers. “What could I have noticed? Nothing but trees in every direction, as you said.”

All traces of weariness had vanished from Wyn, replaced by a happy eagerness to discover whatever secret the forest concealed. She peered resolutely at each hill, squinting and shading her eyes, then turned on the knight in annoyance. “It’s not fair. You used your Device, and I’ve got nothing but my peepers.”

“Well, we can’t be unfair,” Killock said reasonably. He offered the Diviner to Wyn as simply as if her were offering her a piece of bread. “Here you are.”

“Really?” Wyn gasped. Her fingers darted toward the precious loops of metal, then froze. “I’ll break it, I know I will.”

“Don’t chuck it down the hill, and be gentle, and we should be fine.”

“Maker… well, I warned you.” Wyn gingerly plucked the Device from Killock’s palm and held it as if it were an angry bee. It weighed almost nothing, as light as a quill, and Wyn swallowed heavily as she carefully gazed through it.

The shimmering light within the loops appeared like the surface of a pool of water on a bright day, brilliant and shifting, but utterly opaque, as impervious to vision as a silver mirror. Like water, however, the shifting brightness began to reveal its secrets in the shadows, glimpses into another world, and as Wyn peered closer, the shimmering air suddenly cleared, as if she had plunged her head beneath the surface, and she was granted a view of the distant hills as if she were standing on their peaks. Wherever she looked, her gaze discovered the details of leaves and bark, bramble and grass, stone and dirt. She could discern the shimmer of a gnat’s wings in a bright sunbeam, the gentle glow that traced a leaf’s veins, the dappled coat of a young deer concealed among the shadows.

“Maker’s breath…” she murmured, overwhelmed.

“You may change how it sees, if you like,” Killock said softly.

“No, don’t change it,” Wyn replied. “It’s perfect.”

She turned slowly, exploring each clearing and dell and grove, fascinated by the crystalline visions the Diviner granted her. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Killock agreed. “But which way shall we travel?”

“Oh, right,” Wyn muttered, and her lips skewed to the side in sudden determined concentration. “What did you see?”

“Trees.”

“Quiet, you.” Wyn frowned. “How long will it work?”

“Not long. I crafted the Word for distance, not longevity.”

Ah. Distance is it? Wyn quickly guided her gaze toward the horizon, disdaining the tracts of forest that had so recently captivated her. Let’s see, then. What can we find as far away as we can see?

Farther she looked, until even the Diviner’s gaze dimmed and grew vague, and Wyn frowned in displeasure as she realized she had reached the grey sheets of rain that hung beneath the far away storm clouds. Is it just the storm he saw? No, I could see that all on my own. There must be something hidden out there.

But she could not find it. “Nothing but trees and mud,” she grumbled.

“Huh,” Killock grunted, a soft, noncommittal sound that flared against Wyn’s thoughts like a bonfire.

Nothing but trees and mud… what is so interesting about that? Wyn peered harder, willing the Diviner to penetrate the distant gloom. More trees. Is he pulling my leg? There’s nothing.

She frowned, suddenly wary. Where are all the animals? Wyn pulled back so that she could see once more, and the Diviner’s gaze roamed the outskirts of the storm, where lightning flickered and trees swayed in the swirling wind. She peered beneath sheltering bushes and along branches but found no trace of animals. No birds huddled in their nests, no deer packed beneath a tree, no boars snuffling the damp air.

Closer she searched, leaving the approaching gloom behind, and at last she found movement and life. Flocks of birds streaming south in great clouds, as if pursued by a hawk, herds of deer sprinting past lush grazing, their ears laid against their skulls, even a black bear, lumbering southward with three half-grown cubs trudging wearily in its wake.

“How about that?” Wyn muttered.

“Yes?”

“Everything is running south.” Wyn blinked as the Device suddenly expired and her gaze was once more limited to the hazy vista of rolling hills. She stared at the dark mountain of clouds to the northwest as she chewed on her lip. “Is that normal?”

“No.”

“Even with a storm coming?”

“Especially with a storm coming. They should be finding shelter.”

“That’s a bit odd, then, isn’t it?”

Killock swished a mouthful of water around his mouth as he slowly resealed his flask. “You’d like us to go northwest, then?” he asked.

“Why, was there something else?”

“I thought you were telling me.”

“I was. I am.” Wyn twisted to give the northern horizon one last glare, then she hopped down and began pulling on her boots. “Come on, then, no time to dawdle.”

Hunted

The refugees from Twin Pines struggled through the forest, staggering on hidden rocks and roots that twisted their ankles as they waded through thick mud. They clutched small bundles filled with the few meager belongings they had managed to save in their rush from the settlement, and they carried the youngest and sickest who could not keep up.

They were guided by two scouts, Temple soldiers who appeared and disappeared between the trees unpredictably. Each time they faded silently away, Mairi was convinced they had abandoned the slowly struggling column. Each time they returned, waiting on the next sharp ridgeline to the south, or materializing soundlessly from the nearby shadows as if by magic, Mairi was able to sigh with relief.

Mairi did not know the scouts’ names, but the one that tended to Eira’s wounds was tall, and the other was short, so she could tell them apart despite the fact that they were as similar as brothers, with identical lean builds, shaggy dark hair and unkempt beards, and wore dark leather and wool that might have been crafted from the same beasts. The shorter scout pushed ever farther ahead, searching for a path to safety, while the tall scout rode back and forth on the slope above the column, ever watchful for the pale shapes of their pursuing foe emerging through the curtains of rain. But as the heavy clouds turned black with the coming of night there had been no further sign of the husks.

Mairi’s father strode beside her, silent, his gaze endlessly searching the gaps between the trees. Mairi had hunted with her father before, had seen him searching for prey, confident, certain. Now he watched the forest with the gaze of the hunted, restless, quick, always glancing behind instead of ahead.

He paused to help Morna and her baby up a steep slope made slippery by the dozens of boots ahead of them in the column, then pulled Mairi up, as well. As they slogged onward, he kept her hand wrapped in his, the warmth of his grip slowly infusing her fingers until they started to thaw.

“Please don’t do that, again,” he said quietly to her.

“What?” Mairi asked, her heart lurching as she tried to think of how she might have disappointed him.

“You are so brave…” he continued, and his hand squeezed hers tenderly. “But you have to stay back. Martyr’s tears, Mairi, if it had gone after you… it’d be you, dying on that stretcher instead of Eira.”

“Oh,” Mairi said. She frowned as she walked, clinging to her father’s hand. “Da, it would have killed her if I hadn’t.”

“I know,” her father replied.

“Oh.”

They walked in silence for a time, until her father tried to pull his hand free of hers to hold a branch aside. Mairi held fast and kept his gaze when he turned to her.

“They’ll kill us all, Da, unless we fight them, every time, every one of us, and maybe even then.”

He watched her silently for a moment, then nodded, weary and sad. “Was it like that, in the catacombs?”

Mairi felt her breath catch, so that she could only nod.

“All right.” He tried to smile. “Come on, Sweetheart, let’s make certain they don’t catch us, then.”

The scouts allowed the refugees to rest as one proceeded ahead to blaze a trail through the darkened woods. The exhausted settlers sat where they had come to a halt, and few had the strength to start a fire, although all were suffering from the damp chill that lingered after the storm.

Mairi’s father quickly lit a small fire and passed hunks of dried meat to her and Colin’s family, who joined them around the flames. Mairi sat and stared at the flickering light, too tired to do more than methodically chew on the meat, although she knew she needed the energy for the long night ahead. But after a moment she suddenly rose and moved amongst the settlers until she found Aileen and her family.

The young girl was as exhausted as Mairi, but she gave a tired smile when she saw Mairi.

“How are you doing?” Mairi asked.

“It’s not so bad this time,” Aileen said with a frown. “We’ve got boots and all.”

“That we do,” Mairi agreed.

She passed Aileen some of the dried meat, returned to her father, and tried to dry her stockings as much as possible over the tiny, hissing flames of their fire.

“Ten steps,” Colin muttered under his breath, and gave a small smile when he saw Mairi watching him. “That’s what you said, right? When you’re ready to give up, you take ten more steps, that’s how you live.”

“Ten more,” Mairi agreed. She rubbed her feet vigorously, appalled at their white, wrinkled flesh and the cold, dead touch of their skin against her fingers, so similar to the husk’s arm that she half-expected her own flesh to tear free from her bones.

The tall scout appeared as he moved among the huddled settlers, helping to coax life into sullen fires and passing out pieces of bark to chew on for those with the worst aches and pains.

“How much farther?” a tired voice moaned from a huddle of figures nearby. “Where are you taking us?”

“East tomorrow,” the tall scout replied, “until we reach the Tapa Beck. You can follow it south, all the way to Blockley.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Mairi asked.

“You’ll be safe once we get there,” he replied. He kneeled next to Mairi and did his best to smile reassuringly, though the attempt did little to lift the anxiety that lined his face. “When we’ve sent you on your way, we’ve got to get back to work. It’s our job to find the enemy, not run from them.”

“What makes you think east is any safer?” Mairi’s father asked, his voice low.

“Sir Lochlan is encamped at the Tapa’s head, dug in nice and deep. Five hundred soldiers there, near enough. With any luck, the valley should be protected. We’ve come a long way south, but there’s still weeks of wilderness between us and any help, if we keep going that way. It’s time to try something different.”

Mairi tried to recall the army camp she had visited outside of Dolieb, and to picture the man who commanded it, but the vision quickly succumbed to the fear of the shadows between the trees and the endless ache of her shoulders and feet. All she could remember of Sir Lochlan was how bright his armor had been on that long-ago morning, how loud and crowded the encampment had seemed, and how safe she had felt.

Wyn gave me my knife there. Mairi’s fingers stroked the pommel and she smiled.

“Long way to Blockley,” someone muttered in the shadows.

“That it is,” the tall scout agreed. He clambered back to his feet and rubbed wearily at his tangled beard. “If you want to go someplace else, that’s up to you.”

“I was just sayin’,” the voice replied sullenly.

Mairi twisted suddenly, her head cocked to the side, as a whisper of sound scraped across the back of her neck like a finger of ice. Her breath caught in her throat as desperate fire surged into her arms and legs, and she scrambled to her feet.

“Mairi, what?” her father asked, then he whirled to face north, and Mairi felt dark despair close around her heart, because she knew he had heard the sound as well.

The cry was faint at first, a distant moan of wind against ice that crept from the shadows and slowly washed over the huddled refugees. The low mutters and grumbles stilled as if a tide had drowned them, and the tiny flames of their meager fires flickered and guttered as if about to fail.

The sound twisted into a piercing shriek, grating like steel against stone, writhing against Mairi’s skull so that she helplessly clutched her hands against her ears. The refugees lurched to their feet, sobbing with fear and dismay as they stared wildly into the dark shadows between the trees.

Slowly the scream died away, though its echoes lingered in the deep folds of the valley for long heartbeats, as if a dozen voices returned its call.

“What was that?” a voice asked, shrill with terror.

“A wight…” Mairi whispered. She could not find her breath, could not speak further, but her father heard and pulled her close to his side.

The shorter scout came plunging through the trees, his face pale behind his dark beard as he staggered to a stop beside his taller companion.

“They’ve found us, they’re here,” he panted. “We’ve got to go!”

“How many?” the taller scout asked, and he grasped the smaller man and shook him. “Haye! Fuck’s sake, man, how many? How far?”

“Dozens of husks,” Haye replied, frantic. “I don’t know, too many, and something else, you heard it.”

“Damn…” The taller scout glared in the direction of the faded shriek, his jaw working as he chewed savagely on his lip. Then he turned to the refugees. “We’re going, now. Pass the word, everyone up and moving, as fast as they can, and keep quiet.”

Figures blundered in the darkness, struggling to don packs and gather precious supplies with frantic haste. Mairi dropped to the ground, tugging frantically on her stockings which writhed and fought against her like snakes. Someone knocked into her, sending her sprawling, and for a desperate moment she thought she would be trampled.

Then her father was there, her boots in his hand, and he pulled her upright. “Here, get your boots on, forget the rest.”

Mairi yanked on the boots and somehow fumbled the ties as scared murmurs grew into panicked sobs among the refugees stumbling around her.

“Too slow, too slow,” Haye, the shorter scout, muttered in a strangled groan.

“Come on then,” the taller scout said grimly, and he drew his sword. The blade scraped from its sheath with a dull hiss, and its point wavered as the scout twisted and adjusted his grip.

“No,” Haye said flatly. “Paden, it’s no use. There’s too many to stop.”

“We have to try something,” Paden replied desperately.

Haye nodded, and Mairi thought she had never seen someone so weary. He walked quickly to his horse and mounted with practiced ease. “You get these people to safety,” he told Paden. “I’ll lead the husks away.”

Paden nodded, his face pale and drawn. “Good luck,” he said quietly.

Haye bent to whisper to his horse, patted its neck, and then urged it between two trees and up the slope, and they disappeared into the gloom.

The refugees pushed on to the east, moving more and more slowly. As the night wore on, the refugees faltered and the line began to straggle, and Paden had to halt more and more frequently to allow those at the rear to catch up.

Dawn’s light found them making their way along a twisting valley, having finally crawled over a ridgeline and down the other side sometime in the endless black hours of the night. Since Haye had ridden back along their path, Paden had not allowed them to rest, and the settlers shuffled slowly after him, their heads bowed. There were fewer of them that morning, although Mairi could not have said when the others had been left behind.

Low clouds and mist had rolled into the valley from the north during the night, and the refugees trudged through a world of thick fog and swirling drizzle that drifted between the black silhouettes of the trees. The dark shadows had slowly turned grey and white, but the light revealed little of the world around them as they emerged from the shelter of the trees and into the valley, silently following the tracks of the person in front of them.

Mairi was thankful that she had been dressed for hunting when they fled Twin Pines, but her boots and mittens had long-since become so wet that they may as well have been made of ice for all the warmth they provided, and she shivered constantly, even with her thick cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. Many of the refugees were much worse off, having had only moments to snatch whatever clothing was close to hand when the settlement had been abandoned.

Mairi pulled her hood over her face to keep more of the swirling rain from stinging her cheeks. Her father’s boots moved in and out of the small circle of glistening mud revealed by the horizon of her hood. Slowly, steadily he strode ahead of her. Ten steps, ten more steps. She knew Colin walked behind her from the wet shlurp of mud under his boots, but she did not turn to see as she tried to keep her back to the wind.

The column slowly sagged to a halt, and Mairi peered around her father into the mist, searching for any sign of what had interrupted their march. Soft curtains of rain wavered and dragged across the huddled shapes in front of her, a gust of wind swirled under her cloak and made the tall fir trees on either side of the valley sigh and hiss as drops cascaded from their branches, and a hacking cough sounded from somewhere behind Mairi, but otherwise the long line of settlers was still.

“Do you think it’s fighting?” Colin whispered behind her.

Mairi stamped her feet and rubbed her hands vigorously against her arms, trying to get some feeling to return to them. Cloaks flapped heavily in the wind along the column, but no other sign of movement disturbed her view.

“No, we’d hear something, I think, calls and such,” Mairi replied. “Everyone’s just standing.”

“We should stand under the trees, then.”

Mairi nodded absently but did not bother to reply.

The column began to move again, the first few steps stretching along the line like a caterpillar as each person lurched forward. Mairi took ten more steps, then another ten. She stumbled and fell, and wasn’t sure if she could rise, but her father’s strong hands were there and hauled her to her feet. Ten more.

She had reached number eight when the column stopped again, and she glanced around in confusion.

“Why aren’t we going?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” her father replied. “You and Colin stay here, I’ll go and find out.”

Colin tugged on her cloak until she joined him beneath the branches of an ancient pine, whose gnarled roots offered a place to rest out of the mud. Mairi sagged against the trunk and closed her eyes, just for a moment, only to startle awake as her head lolled forward.

“Do you think there’ll be proper knights when we get to the army?” Colin asked. “I like Paden, and all, but he don’t look like a proper soldier.”

“What does a proper knight look like?” Mairi wondered. Sir Lochlan appeared more like a knight from a story than anyone she had ever seen, with his shining armor and handsome, kindly face. But it was Sir Killock that Mairi’s mind turned to. He looks like any old soldier, I reckon, but he’s a proper knight, more than any other. He could be from the stories if you didn’t know what he looked like, so I suppose that’s what a proper knight must look like.

“Like that Lord Bradon, that came with the Temple last winter. He looked a proper knight.”

“He wasn’t a knight,” Mairi scoffed at Colin’s mistake. “He was a lord.”

“Well, a lord then, but Paden and Haye don’t look like him.”

“No,” Mairi agreed softly. She had not admitted to anyone that she searched for Sir Killock whenever she let her gaze wander from the trail, hoping to see his grey shape materialize in the mist behind a tree or boulder. She felt guilty at the thought, although she did not know why. Likely because here we are, needing to be rescued again, even after everything he did. But she could not help wishing to hear his voice again. ‘I’m here to help you, don’t worry,’ he’d say, just like that.

“Do you think Sir Harrigan will have us back?” Colin asked.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mairi asked. She shook her head to clear away the webs of exhaustion as she tried to picture the old knight’s round face, but his red cheeks and the long, drooping pennants of his grey eyebrows were difficult to recall. “He’ll need his fields done, won’t he?”

“We weren’t there for planting… maybe he took on other tenants. We don’t have any furs to sell, anyway, so there’s no silver to pay the rent.”

Mairi pondered that sobering thought. The small farmstead her father leased from Sir Harrigan with Colin’s family was hardly a grand expanse, but its walls were sturdy and its roof snug, and Mairi knew each member of the small herd of cows, and every hillock and divot of the fields. She had not thought of the farm for months, but now the vision of another family seated at its kitchen table made her throat tighten and her eyes sting.

“I dunno,” she replied at last. “Maybe we could help with harvest.”

“Yeah,” Colin agreed morosely.

Mairi was spared further torment by the return of her father, though his worried frown did little to offer relief.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

“Paden hasn’t returned,” he replied as he knelt at her feet and began to rummage through his pack. “He rode ahead at dawn.”

“That was forever ago,” Colin said grimly.

“It was,” her father agreed. He removed the small bundle of hard bread that comprised their last supplies and handed it to Mairi. “Here, take this.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to look for him. I won’t be long, just to the end of the valley and back, but just in case, you should hold on to this.”

“Da, no,” Mairi pleaded. “I’ll come with you.”

“Mairi, I need you to stay here, where it’s safe.” He stood and shouldered his pack again, and Mairi hopped quickly down from her root to join him, her chin raised defiantly.

“How am I safer here than with you?”

“We don’t know what happened to Paden,” her father explained.

“I’ll be careful, and quiet,” Mairi promised. “Please, Da, you know I can.”

He hesitated, his lips a thin line, his brow creased with concern, but Mairi knew she had won. When he argued with her, his voice was gentle and his smile consoling. When he was about to give in, he became gruff and stern.

“Mairi, I know you can, but this isn’t deer or rabbits.”

“Yes, Da,” she said, as obediently as she could.

“Fine, but please, we need to be as careful as we possibly can.”

“Yes, Da,” she repeated quickly, and strapped on her pack before he could change his mind. Colin stared glumly as she prepared to leave, and she could not help but feel a twinge of guilt at her eagerness to be away.

Her father spoke for a moment with Reverend Geraint, the itinerant priest who had joined them in Twin Pines only a few weeks before they were forced to flee. Geraint had a soft voice and willing hands when help was needed, and was nimble with a chisel and adze, so was soon welcomed to their small community. But Mairi avoided him whenever possible, and scowled suspiciously at him when she could not, the stain of his predecessor, Reverend Crassus, too dark a blight for Geraint to avoid.

Geraint laid a hand on her father’s shoulder when he said they were ready to leave and blessed him. The priest’s eyes were dark with fatigue, and his long, grey hair a twisted, sodden mass, but he managed a reassuring smile to send them on their way. Mairi glared back at the old man and saw a wince of pain cross his lined face, and she almost reached out to him before she remembered the endless dark of the catacombs and the groan of the cell door closing on her, and her gaze hardened.

Her father unlaced his quiver and strapped it on top of his cloak, and his bow was freshly strung and ready in his hand. He held out his other hand to her, and she took it as they left the muddy trail and headed through the dripping trees.

They soon left behind the murmur of voices and the occasional sharp sound of metal against stone that marked the refugees, and the deep ache across Mairi’s shoulders loosened as she breathed in the solitude of the forest.

Her father led them east, following the trail of Paden’s horse with ease. Mairi felt the long days and nights of terror and strain melt away as she walked beside him and listened to the gentle tread of his boots and the soft grunt of his breath as he pointed out a hoofprint in the mud or a scuff against a mossy rock.

“Thank you for letting me come,” she told him.

“I’m happy you are here,” he assured her.

“Me, too.”

The trail crossed a ridgeline and plunged into a narrow valley cut by a tumbling stream. They stopped to refill their canteens from the chill water and were following the muddy tracks of Paden’s horse up the embankment when Mairi’s father hesitated, frowning upstream.

Mairi held her breath as he squinted north and strained to hear what had caught his attention. Soon Mairi could hear the clink of metal, and the wet slop of heavy boots tramping through mud, and Mairi spotted movement through the trees.

“Come on,” her father urged, and they trotted forward, hunched low, and crouched amid tangled shrubs at the stream’s edge. From there, they had a clear view of a narrow meadow that bordered the stream, filled with long grass and muddy hollows. As the two hunters crept to the edge of the bushes, a small column of soldiers trudged into the clearing, a dozen warriors and two horsemen, laden with gear and weapons. Many wore the sigil of three red swords, crossed on a field of white, a crest that was unfamiliar to Mairi.

“It’s the army,” Mairi breathed in relief. “Maybe Paden sent them?”

“Whose army, though,” her father whispered in return. “Those aren’t Temple soldiers.”

“That’s all right, isn’t it?” Mairi asked. She frowned as she peered harder at the approaching figures. They were making heavy work of negotiating the deep mud, but even forgiving the fresh muck splattered on them, the soldiers looked ragged. Some still wore bits of armor, but most did not, and many were wrapped in an assortment of sodden cloaks and jackets, stained by travel, instead. Their beards were long and snarled, and they cursed as they teetered and waved their arms or barked with laughter as their companions became mired. Several wore torn strips of cloth wrapped around limbs or head as makeshift bandages, though none seemed too hurt to walk.

The lead horseman was a thickset man who wore a heavy steel breastplate and a thick cloak. He rocked in his saddle without a glance at his companions as his horse picked its way across the meadow, his gaze buried beneath heavy lids.

Her father grunted with displeasure, then shook his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “We need help, there’s no avoiding that.”

He slung his bow and stepped from concealment, and Mairi joined him, pressed against his side. Her father’s arm curled around her shoulder and pulled her close as they waited for the soldiers to draw near.

“Hello, friends!” he called when the nearest soldier was within a stone’s-throw of them.

The soldier started in shock, then scowled at them.

“Who’re you?” he asked, “and where’d you come from?”

“My name’s Ewan,” her father replied. “Listen, there’s a dozen families who need help, just in the next valley. We’ve been attacked, and we have wounded.”

“Attacked? By who?”

Her father hesitated, then replied, “By terrible men, come down from the High Fells, I reckon. They overran our camp, chased us south.”

“Terrible men, eh? You should keep running, then,” the soldier muttered.

“We are, but we need help. There’s few of us who can fight, and we’re cruelly short on food and care for the wounded.”

“Well, we ain’t got either of those things, neither,” the soldier said with a snort. “So, fuck off, Ewan.”

Mairi felt her father’s hand grip her shoulder as she gaped at the soldier in shock. The man’s lips were twisted into a scowl beneath his shaggy beard, and his eyes were wide and wild, and Mairi shrank against her father’s side.

“Da, let’s go,” she whispered.

“We wouldn’t be a hardship to you,” her father said reasonably. “If you ain’t got food to share, we could help with the hunting, and such.”

“You deaf?” the soldier snarled, and his hand went to the hilt of the sword at his side.

Several more soldiers were approaching now, and Mairi searched their faces for any sign that they might show more compassion than their companion but found none. Some appeared sullen and disinterested, while others were amused to see their comrade berating her father, but none seemed willing to contradict their companion.

The second horseman rode closer, a heavy-set man with a craggy brow and a flattened nose who glared silently at her father from his perch. Mairi’s eyes went wide with shock, and she tugged frantically at her father’s arm.

“Look, Da! That’s Paden’s horse!”

“Mairi, quiet,” her father said quickly, his voice harsh.

“Why? Da, he’s got Paden’s horse!” She pointed, though she could not believe her father had not noticed already.

Her father pressed her arm against her side and held it there, but the gathered soldiers had already taken notice, and were glancing between her and the rider, who was now staring at Mairi, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What’s all this, then?” The voice belonged to the first rider, the armored man who had led the soldiers into the meadow. He was awake now, and his cheeks were flushed pink with anger. At this distance, Mairi realized that he was far older than she had guessed, even older than her father, and though he had wide shoulders and thick arms, his strength was now smothered by soft flesh that squeezed around his neck and strained at his belt.

“They say there’s a bunch of refugees in the next valley, Sir William. They want food and medicine,” the first soldier reported.

“Well, we don’t have any of those to spare,” the armored man snorted. He tilted his head back so that he could stare down his crooked nose at Mairi’s father. “Be on your way.”

“Yes, m’lord,” her father murmured.

“The lass says that horse belongs to a friend of hers,” the soldier added grimly.

“Is that right?” Sir William replied. He turned to the second horseman. “What do you say to that, Leod?”

“I found this horse this morning,” the scowling soldier replied. “Don’t know about any friend.”

“There you go,” the knight announced. “Sounds like your friend got himself lost somehow.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Mairi’s father replied.

“Now, get out of the way.” Sir William yanked on the reins and thumped with his heels, and his horse resumed its plodding journey south.

His soldiers trudged after him, departing with a few sullen glares. Leod, the second horseman, was the last to leave. He lingered for a while, his arms crossed on the crest of his saddle, his eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at Mairi, before he finally turned Paden’s horse to follow his comrades.

“Let’s go,” her father murmured. His hand pulled her away from the meadow, and she hurried to match his stride, stumbling as she huddled in the embrace of his arm.

Once they were well away from the clearing they halted for a moment, and her father gently wiped away unfelt tears from her cheeks as he watched her eyes, his brows creased in concern.

“What’s happened to Paden?” she asked, her throat so tight she could barely force the words free.

“I don’t know,” he replied softly. “But there’s no sense in asking that lot. We’ll just go and find him, ourselves.”

“Why wouldn’t they help us?”

“I don’t think we want their kind of help,” he muttered. “Come on, let’s be away, as quick as can be.”

They headed north, following the soldiers’ tracks as the sky darkened toward evening, and soon found the place where they had camped the night before, in a stand of aspen near the stream. The remains of several small fires were surrounded by matted grass and crushed leaves, and the nearby embankment was churned to mud. But it was clear that only one horse had been picketed near the camp, and it took little time to find the extra set of hoofprints that joined the camp that morning from the west.

They followed that trail for no more than the distance of two or three bowshots before they found Paden. He lay in a small hollow of trampled grass, and dark blood stained the ground beneath the body in a wide pool, his eyes now lifeless as they stared at the mud against his cheek. His bow was gone, as was his sword belt, and his feet were bare.

“Why…?” Mairi whispered, aghast. “Just to steal his horse and his boots?”

“I don’t know,” her father replied. “It doesn’t matter. We should get back to the others.”

He squeezed her shoulder and they turned away, but as they did Mairi heard the crackle of a twig breaking and felt her father freeze.

Another rustle of leaves, this time from the west, and her father pushed her behind him and quickly unslung his bow.

She could see figures between the trees now, three soldiers, closing in from south, east, and west, their weapons in their hands. The first of the soldiers was the one named Leod, and his eyes glittered menacingly from a face marked with streaks of dirt. The second was not much older than Mairi, but tall, and he appeared feverish, his eyes darting to and fro without lingering.

“Get back!” her father shouted at the soldiers, and suddenly a long, steel-tipped arrow was poised on his bowstring. Mairi had seen a single shot from her father’s bow bring down a buck, and his sure stance caused Leod to scowl and spit on the ground at his feet.

“There’s no need for that.” The voice came from the third soldier, whose grey hair marked him as the senior of the three. He stepped between the other two, his hands empty and raised, his sword once again in its sheath. “We didn’t mean to frighten you, and these two will not harm you. Will you?” The last was spoken sharply, and the heavy soldier spat again, and reluctantly took a step back. The youth muttered a reply too faint to hear, but he too stepped away.

“Then be on your way,” Mairi’s father said.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” the grey-haired soldier continued apologetically. He had a long face and a sad smile, and Mairi decided he was much younger than the color of his hair had first suggested. “There’s some who could be concerned what tales might be told, should you leave now, having seen this. Some who might do you harm, while their blood is up. I think you should come with us.”

The grey-haired soldier took another step forward, slow and cautious, his eyes never leaving the arrow’s tip. Mairi’s father leaned into his draw and the point never wavered.

“Be on your way!” he shouted.

“If you shoot me,” the grey-haired soldier said thoughtfully, “I think you know what these two will do to you before you have a chance to shoot again. And to your daughter.” He stopped with less than an arm’s-length between the arrow and his breastplate. “But if you don’t shoot, I can protect you.”

“Be fucked,” her father spat.

“Ewan, right?” the soldier asked. “Ewan, you know we can’t let you go, not now. All that’s left is whether you stay with your friend, there.” His gaze slid away from the tip of the arrow and found Mairi’s. “And your daughter.”

Mairi’s father cursed and lowered the bow. The soldier held out his hand and collected it, then repeated the process with Mairi’s knife.

Leod spat again. “You’ve got stones,” he congratulated the grey-haired soldier, and he stepped forward, but was stopped by a quick gesture.

“You heard what I said.”

“You think Sir William’ll be happy with prisoners?”

“I suppose we’ll find out when we tell him we have some.”

“You really do have stones. Where’ve they been, then?” The heavy soldier laughed, and the youth echoed him, and both left the clearing without glancing back, apparently unconcerned with their comrade’s fate.

The grey-haired soldier watched them go, then faced his charges. “We’d best be going, then.” He indicated the way, south, following Leod’s path.

“Let us go, please,” Mairi’s father pleaded. “Now that they’ve gone, those two, we can hide.”

“I’m sure you can, but then I would have to explain how you escaped.”

“You’re no soldier,” Mairi suddenly blurted. “Pretending to help people, but you’re nothing like a real soldier. They fight for people, not take them prisoner, they help them…” Her anger stung her eyes with hot tears. He thinks he’s brave and noble, but if Sir Killock or Cormac were here, he’d be done.

“You have a fierce daughter,” the soldier told her father. “I am glad I have her knife.”

“She can see you clear,” Mairi’s father wrapped his arm around Mairi’s shoulders. “As can I, and we’ve both seen better, no matter how much you tell us different.”

The soldier regarded them quietly, then nodded his head. “Pray you don’t see worse.”

Time to Go

The Whitetemple bell tolled once to announce midnight, its somber tone rolling across the dark rooftops of Kuray, where it awakened its sister bells, each one sounding a single note in the chorus. Gwydion’s ear picked out the bright peal of the brass bell atop the bank in Tinkers’ Square, the dull report of the Southgate tower, and even the distant, dignified reply of the Silver Keep. As the bells stilled, the deep quiet of the temple cloister returned, settling into the cool dark beneath the stone arches, until the musical ripple of a fountain emerged from hiding and spread across the precise squares of garden.

Gwydion rested one boot on the fountain’s edge and glanced upward, where the Whitetemple tower rose toward the sky. Thin clouds wreathed the moon in gossamer threads, but the moon’s light was bright enough to paint the tower in silver trim that outshone the stars. He regarded the view for a moment, his lips pursed thoughtfully, then adjusted his coat and continued his journey across the cloister, his footsteps loud against the stone path.

A walkway led from the cloister past the scriptorium and the temple’s lodgings, where a short passageway took Gwydion to the Warden’s Lodge and the gateway to the temple’s carriage yard. The cheery fire that usually blazed in the lodge had been extinguished, and dark figures now lurked in the passage, revealed only by the creak of hard leather and the soft brush of wool against stone.

The carriage yard seemed empty at first glance, a wide square of cobblestones bordered by the temple’s storehouses and workshops, but as Gwydion paused by the gate his gaze found furtive movement in the shadows. The carriage house doors were open, and within, figures hurried to prepare a trio of black carriages, while tightly-bound bundles were secured to the roofs.

Gwydion watched the muffled activity as his fingers retrieved a string of beads from his pocket and worried at them, passing the orbs through their grasp accompanied by the tiny clicks of crystal against precious metal. Within his mind, a pattern of stars formed to accompany the passage of the beads, linked by a gossamer veil that shimmered and twisted as if caressed by a breeze. He guided the intricate assembly with a gentle thought, and within the beads, delicate strands of metal glowed in response, and their surface warmed against his fingertips.

Back and forth the beads passed as he crafted subtle shifts in his Word, and the stars formed new constellations connected by shining threads, like dew caught on a spider’s web. Gwydion examined the pattern, searching for perturbations in its serenity, pausing over every whorl and kink until they resolved to his satisfaction.

Beyond his Word, the activity around the carriages reached a crescendo as a pair of horses were harnessed to each carriage. Now figures emerged from the nearby buildings and assembled in the carriage house, Captain Andras’s grim soldiers in their somber garb, dark wool and leather no disguise for their lethal readiness.

Gwydion felt a presence step silently to his side. He carefully guided his Word to the depths of his mind where it could shimmer with only the most instinctual of guidance, and as it receded, the clandestine anticipation of the courtyard crystalized around him until its energy fairly crackled against him.

He drew in a long breath, relishing the crisp scents of deep night, and a smile twisted the corner of his lips.

“Good morning, Ro,” he murmured.

“Good morning,” the figure at his side replied.

The two siblings watched in silent contemplation as Andras’s soldiers divided among the carriages and a half-dozen horses as escort. He heard the low rumble of the captain’s commands, an answering chuckle from the riders, and then the outer gate opened to allow the first pair to clop into the street.

“Ready?” he asked his sister.

“Very.” Rowenna shifted her cloak and revealed that her hand rested on the hilt of the Weapon named Fury, resting at her hip. “Are we Veiled?”

“Very.”

“You’re certain?”

“Extremely.” Gwydion gave the string of beads one last worry and tucked them back into his pocket, settling them in its depths with a gentle pat. “The Grey Mantle is a sublime piece. I may have to keep it after all this is over. Anyway, there’s no one even looking for us, hasn’t been since yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Who was it, could you tell?”

“Rossiter, I think. It had his stink.”

“Well, don’t pry.”

“I’ll be good, I promise. Still, it’s a shame not to have a go.”

“It is not.” Rowenna’s shoulders hunched under her cloak. “I’ll be glad when we’re away from here.”

“Well, that will be soon, I’d say. The good captain seems to be almost finished with his preparations.”

Even as he spoke, Captain Andras gave the last instructions to his remaining soldiers, who hurried to their posts on the carriages. The captain seemed satisfied, as he nodded grimly before marching purposefully to join Gwydion and Rowenna.

“We’re ready,” Andras reported. “Please tell Her Majesty we can depart whenever she wishes.”

“I will tell her,” Rowenna replied, and disappeared into the temple with a swish of her cloak, leaving Gwydion to admire the captain’s profile, the moonlight crafting a sharp silver line against the pale marble of his skin. Then Gwydion frowned, as his contemplation was interrupted by a previous thought.

“Is there concern for the brightness of the moon?” Gwydion asked. “One reads that such activity prefers utter darkness.”

Andras chuckled deep in his chest. “No, she is our friend, tonight. Once we’re free of the city walls, she’ll light our trail for us, and we need as much speed as possible. We should be beyond the hills come sunrise, and they’ll not catch us then, no matter how fast they ride.”

“And before we pass beyond the walls?”

“Well, I’ve never seen a night so dark that it could conceal two dozen people, let alone horses and carriages. No, we’re better off spotting Campbell’s patrols before they get close enough to spot us, and simply avoid them.”

“Ah, and that is where your riders have gone, to find the enemy before they can stumble upon us?”

“That’s right. Them and that Temple scout, Drysi. I’m not usually keen to give the care of my soldiers to someone outside the army, but I’d trust her eyes to find coal in a well.”

“And if the patrols cannot be avoided?”

“There’re plenty of carriages and people about in the city, even at this time of night. A few more won’t attract attention, unless we act suspiciously. But if trouble cannot be avoided, we’ll deal with it, quickly and quietly.”

“I am utterly convinced.”

The Warden’s Gate opened, and the Queen led Rowenna, Lady Aithne, and Lady Bryn into the courtyard, still gathering her hair into a simple knot.  The ladies were garbed for battle, comfort set aside for steel and leather. The two ladies-in-waiting wore blades at their hips, while Gabrielle bore King Arian’s absurdly huge sword behind her back, as the blade would certainly scrape along the ground if it were sheathed at her side.

Her gaze swept across Gwydion in an instant, but his attention lingered on the Queen much longer as she strode toward him, elegant and graceful, yet proud and rigid, as if the smooth stone of a sculpture had been granted breath and life. Like her sister, Gabrielle possessed an unearthly beauty, with the same golden eyes, fierce as a hawk’s, the same sable hair, skin like burnished bronze, and lips as dark as cherries. But Gabrielle’s features were sharper, with a tapered chin and high, elegant cheekbones.

“Captain,” the Queen greeted Andras. “You are ready to depart?”

“At your convenience, Your Majesty.”

The Queen nodded sternly, a thin crease appearing between her brows, and Gwydion heard the whisper of her breath as she inhaled deeply. “Good,” she replied. “Then let us begin.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Andras bowed, a precise nod of his head, then led the Queen across the courtyard to the waiting carriages. Sir Geraldine and her soldiers were packed into the first and last, while the center carriage was reserved for the Queen and her party. Andras handed the ladies into the carriage with the decorum of a footman at a noble house, then Gwydion followed, and found himself squeezed onto the bench against Lady Aithne.

“Your pardon, my lady,” Gwydion murmured as he settled. “I regret your discomfort.”

“Never worry, my lord. Just don’t sit on my sword, and we’ll survive, I expect.”

“I shall endeavor to avoid it,” he assured her. “Though I have heard tell that task is easier to speak of than to accomplish.”

That earned him a wicked smile from Lady Aithne and a slight curve to the corner of the Queen’s lips, though her gaze was turned outward, through the carriage’s window, and the press of concern did not lift from her brow.

The carriage eased into movement, creaking softly as it navigated the cobbles of the courtyard, then accelerating with a muted rumble onto the dark street. They passed beneath the lanterns of Whitetemple Market and turned west, toward the distant valley wall, its steep sides crowned with sheer cliffs that gleamed like frost in the moonlight.

Gwydion examined his companions’ faces as the golden glow of passing streetlamps arced through the carriage. All four sat mute as stone in a pensive silence that grew more strained as it lengthened. Opposite him, the Queen and his sister stared from their windows as if fascinated by the glimpses of brick and plaster the view provided. Lady Bryn shifted uneasily against the tension, and nudged Lady Aithne hard enough that Gwydion felt it against his shoulder.

“Your Majesty,” Aithne said gently, a tone that Gwydion had never heard her use.

Gabrielle glanced at Aithne and away. “I am fine,” she told the window.

Aithne shrugged to Bryn, and the blonde noblewoman took her turn.

“All will be well, Your Majesty, I promise.”

“Do not coddle me,” the Queen responded.

“I am sad to be leaving, as well,” Bryn told her.

“I am not sad,” Gabrielle said sharply, and Gwydion saw the muscles of her jaw clench. “I am angry. I have abandoned Kuray to him.”

“What choice do you have?” Bryn asked.

“Stay, fight,” Gabrielle replied, then she grimaced and waved her own words away with a flick of her hand. “No, I have no choice. I know this.”

“There will be plenty of chances to fight in the future, I dare say,” Gwydion interjected.

“That is easy for you to say, my lord. You have fought harder for my throne than I have, and struck the enemy most triumphantly, while I still await my chance to reply for the blow that I received.”

“Keep your anger sharp, Your Majesty. It will fuel your passion.”

“Rage burns reason,” Gabrielle murmured softly, but then she turned from the window and offered a wry smile that washed years from her face. “I am sorry if my pique has discomforted you.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” Gwydion assured her. “We are all eager for the moment when you return Campbell’s blow.”

Gwydion felt very satisfied with that bit of gallantry, and the Queen rewarded him with a proper smile and a gaze that lingered for a moment before she turned away.

The carriages slowed as they entered the district of Blackheath, where the lanes narrowed as they followed ancient paths up the first wrinkled knuckles of the valley’s hillside. Then they stopped altogether, and Gwydion heard muffled voices from ahead before Captain Andras appeared outside the carriage window.

“We’ve spotted a patrol ahead, Your Majesty,” he explained. “We’ll go around them. It will take a bit longer, but there’s no need for concern.”

“Very good, Captain.”

The carriage turned down a cramped alleyway, where the carriage’s lanterns scraped on the brick walls and the driver muttered and cursed as he ducked under low arches.

A burst of harsh laughter and greasy smoke swirled around the carriage as it edged further along the alley, followed by the distant yelp of a dog. The carriage creaked and bumped around a corner, then another, and the stench of the sewer crept through the closed windows.

“I daresay you have not had the pleasure of touring this part of the realm, before?” Gwydion asked.

Torchlight flickered across the Queen’s face as they passed an open window in the rough wall of the alleyway, and she pressed eagerly against the carriage’s glass.

“It is like a story— ah! A tavern, yes?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide as she gazed in astonishment at the brief glimpse of crowded tables and full mugs as it passed by.

“Yes, indeed,” Gwydion agreed. “Perhaps not the finest establishment, but I have endured worse when required.”

A small snort of laughter emerged from the shadows on Rowenna’s side of the carriage.

The Queen sat back at last when the view was reduced once again to endless stained brick. She sighed with satisfaction, then wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“But the smell is very foul. What is that stench?”

“Oh, I daresay it’s mostly spoiled food and vomit and piss, though there may well be worse,” Gwydion mused.

“It is disgusting. Why is it not cleaned away?”

“They don’t have money to pay for street cleaners, Your Majesty,” Rowenna said softly. “I imagine they do the best they can.”

Queen Gabrielle frowned as she considered that, then asked, “How much does one pay a street cleaner?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Rowenna replied.

“There must be funds for something so simple,” the Queen decided.

“I daresay there might be,” Gwydion agreed.

The carriage groaned miserably as it traversed a series of deep potholes, while the passengers clutched at straps to save themselves from ignoble tumbling.

“I hope Andras knows where he’s going,” Gwydion muttered.

The carriage rocked and creaked its way further west and south, winding higher with every turn, until they entered the district known as Carraig Dhubh, where buildings clung to steep slopes or huddled at the bottom of deep ravines. At last, the carriages stopped in a narrow lane close to the Gate of Heroes, and Andras summoned the passengers forth with a tap on the door.

“The plaza is just ahead. You can see the gate,” Andras reported in a low murmur. “We wait here for the all clear, then we move through quickly. Once through, it’s a quick journey to where we leave the carriages and continue on horseback. The drivers will abandon the carriages near the docks.”

“And if the gate is guarded?” Lady Aithne asked.

“It will be guarded, that is certain,” Andras replied. “But the garrison is just a single squad of the City Watch, not Campbell’s soldiers. I don’t anticipate much resistance, and my soldiers will open the gate. That is our signal.”

“Captain Andras, one moment,” the Queen interrupted.

“Your Majesty?”

“Tell your soldiers to wait,” she commanded, then she turned away and walked to the far end of the alley, a slim figure almost lost in the shadows.

“Is something wrong?” Andras murmured to Gwydion, but he had no answer for the captain.

Long moments passed in silence, save for the creak of a harness and the muffled thump of a hoof, but Gwydion could feel the disquiet like the brush of an insect’s wing against his neck, could see it in the tense set of the captain’s shoulders. Twice, Andras turned as if he intended to march down the alleyway to the Queen, and twice Lady Aithne forestalled him with a glare and slight shake of her head.

“I think I shall just find out what is so interesting about that end of the alleyway,” Gwydion announced.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Lady Aithne informed him as he passed, but he ignored the warning. His footsteps filled the alley, slow and measured as he strolled, his hands clasped behind his back. The Queen’s silhouette shifted slightly as he neared, but she did not turn, and as he stepped to join her, the wall of the alley ended and revealed a vast panorama, the wavering lights of the city receding across the valley like an amber reflection of the night sky. A gentle breeze fluttered against his collar and brought with it the scent of wood smoke, hot and rich, and he breathed deep.

“You are the courageous one,” the Queen said softly. “No one else would dare?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty,” Gwydion replied. “I thought I might just stretch my legs. Marvelous view, isn’t it?”

“I love to see it,” she said. “From my balcony, I can see from Highgate to Southgate, all the lights. They look like the, ah, like streams, but…”

Her fingers stroked the inside of her wrist, and Gwydion guessed, “Veins, Your Majesty?”

“Yes. They are life, coursing through her. At home, I would watch the sea, that is the life. Here, it is the people, and all their many lights.”

“It is a marvelous place,” Gwydion agreed.

“I would like to give them clean streets,” the Queen murmured. “So many things I have planned, not just for Kuray, for the entire realm. Instead, I run and hide and war against my own people.” Her breath streamed from her in a savage exhale. “I cannot leave this for Campbell. I cannot. I must fight for my city. Now is the chance, not for escape, but to take back Kuray.”

“Ah.” Gwydion nodded. “Well then, we had best get cracking.”

The Queen’s gaze lingered on him, and slowly the defiant line of her lips softened into a satisfied smile. “Yes, my lord. Shall we tell the others?”

A Word With Sir William

“Iknow that sigil,” Wyn hissed under her breath. She crept forward and gently eased the prickles of a tangled holly bush to the side, clearing their view into the small campsite at the foot of the slope. “That’s the fucker we caught murdering all those folks in Blockley, Lord Lush-ous.” Wyn’s nose wrinkled as she scowled. “I thought he was hanged. How’d he get here?”

“A good question.” Killock carefully collected a pinch of wet soil from the forest floor and rolled it between finger and thumb as he considered the campsite. Only one tent, and just a few bedrolls… most of the soldiers are sleeping on the ground. Where’s the rest of their gear? He frowned as a soldier passed the small campfire, revealing a stained bandage wrapped around his arm. Recently wounded, as well.

“There’s only a few of them,” Wyn whispered eagerly.

“Nine I can see.”

“All right, nine, then, but just them two on watch. Why don’t we go and ask Lord Lush-ous how he’s not hanged? Might be there was a misunderstanding we can help set right.”

“They’ve been in a fight. I’d like to know against who.”

“You want to buy them a drink?”

Killock suppressed a snort of laughter. “No. But I’d like to know who else is out here with us.”

“Don’t need more than one to tell us that,” Wyn muttered.

Killock turned his gaze on the young woman beside him and held it there as she resolutely ignored him. “Is that right?” he asked softly.

Wyn glanced involuntarily to meet his gaze, then quickly looked away, her jaw set defiantly. “You didn’t see what they did in Blockley, murdering folk and burning the town.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“They deserve hanging, all of them, or worse.”

“The probably do, from what I heard.”

“Then why are you giving me the eye?” Wyn asked.

“I’m just watching to see what you deserve.”

“Me?” Wyn hissed indignantly. “I deserve a bloody statue, is what I deserve, but that doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“You think killing these lads will get that statue built?”

“Might do,” Wyn insisted sullenly.

Killock let her stew in silence for a moment, a familiar ritual honed by years of repetition. Not so many years, Killock thought. Only three, and they have passed faster than a blink of the eye. Yet it was hard to balance the undeniable count of days against the absolute certainty that he had known Wyn for far longer, as if her presence somehow touched a lifetime of memories before she was born. Ancient events, dredged up from the muck to be considered anew, their worth now decided by how Wyn might have acted in them, or might judge them, a bright coat of paint to refresh faded reminiscence.

Killock smiled to himself, then returned his attention to the campsite. There were three small fires, each separated from the others by a stone’s-throw of trees and shrubs, as if they craved some solitude. The largest of the fires was set near the single tent, and that was where the bulk of the bedrolls were spread.

The grove of trees and the steep-sloped valley served to conceal the campsite from a distance but left the inhabitants blind. Killock had searched for any watchers along the ridgeline or at the edge of the trees, but had seen none, as if the soldiers were more intent on hiding than preparing for adversity.

What are they hiding from? And why out here, days from any village or farm?

Killock paused as his gaze caught a subtle shift in the darkness beyond the camp, and he watched, unblinking, until the movement came again. Two more, he realized. Far enough away that the feeble firelight did not touch them. Why are they away from the others?

Wyn shifted at his side as she gently eased a long knife free from its sheath. Her lips pursed with concentration as she squinted into the camp, and her gaze darted from shadow to shadow as she measured distances.

“A statue, eh?” he murmured.

“Is there any chance you’ll forget I said that?”

“Of course, there’s a chance. Would your statue be lifting a purse?”

“Hiding in a bush seems more likely, at this point.”

“Are you ready?”

Wyn nodded eagerly, her grin a flash of white in the darkness. “What’s the plan? You go and ask them for a cup of tea, I’ll sneak around the back and have a word with Lush-ous?”

“Nearly. There’s another pair of guards by that big oak, on the far side. I’ll get those two, you take care of the guards by the smaller fire, we meet up by the stump near the main camp.”

Wyn paused to stare into the gloom at the base of the distant oak, then shook her head in admiration. “You’ve got some eyes, you have. Right, see you by the stump.”

She slipped into the darkness like a gentle breath and vanished before he could wonder if he had truly heard a noise. Then he moved in the opposite direction, crouching low, fingers searching the ground ahead of him for leaves or twigs that would betray him as he circled the campsite in the darkness.

A feeble breeze stirred the trees, showering the forest floor with a pattering of raindrops, the remnants of the storm that had passed over them. Killock and Wyn had sheltered in a shallow cave as the storm’s violence ripped through the forest, soaked by wind-tossed spray and chilled by the bitter air that streamed south with the storm. The storm had washed away the summer heat, leaving behind grey clouds and drizzle, as if autumn had returned months early.

The oak tree crowned a small rise, and its thick canopy created a swathe of dead leaves and twisted roots beneath it. Killock eased to the ground at the edge of the tree’s domain, peering at the two shadowy figures at the base of the trunk. They were still and silent, with the trunk between them and the campsite. It was a good spot for watching, but neither figure took advantage, remaining huddled together at its base.

Killock waited for another stir of wind through the forest, then crept forward, silently closing the distance to the two figures.

“We’ll be fine, Da,” whispered the smaller of the two figures, and Killock froze. Though the voice was almost inaudible, it echoed in his thoughts, a memory of ancient cells buried under a mountain, and a whispered reassurance passed from one frightened girl to another in the endless darkness.

“Mairi?” Killock whispered.

The young girl startled and scrambled into a crouch, her back against the tree trunk, while her father leapt to his feet, peering into the darkness.

“Shhh,” Killock said quietly. “Mairi, shhh, it’s all right. It’s me, it’s Sir Killock.”

He heard a small gasp from the girl, then silence.

“Mairi?”

“Are you real?” she asked in a whisper.

Killock felt a smile pull at the corner of his lips. “Yes, Mairi, I promise. I’m really here.”

“Thank the Maker,” the girl’s father sighed, and he sank onto his knees. “I don’t know how you found us, sir, but I owe you everything, once again.”

The pair’s hands were bound by coarse rope, and they were secured to the tree by a short line that ran no more than two paces away

“How many soldiers are in the camp?” Killock asked as he sliced through their bonds with his knife.

“Nine,” the trapper replied in a murmur. “Sir William’s in the tent.”

“They killed Paden,” Mairi hissed. “Murdered him, after he saved us. And they left everyone else behind, just ran away and left everyone to be killed by the husks.”

“Husks? What husks?”

“You don’t know?” her father asked. “Maker, there’s hundreds of them.”

“Where?”

“Can’t be more than a day’s journey north of here,” the trapper replied. “They chased us all the way from Twin Pines. Would have caught us, too, if not for Paden and the other lad, Haye, who helped us.”

“Paden… and Haye?” Killock asked, his breath suddenly short as dread swelled in his stomach. “One a tall lad, and the other short? Temple scouts?”

“Aye, that’s them. They were good lads. Brave as you like. Did you know them?”

“I did. Are they both dead?”

“Paden was killed by a man called Leod, who’s here in the camp, a big, nasty brute. Haye rode back, when the husks were on us, to lead them away. We’ve not seen him since.”

“There was a wight, too,” Mairi whispered. “I heard it.”

“Sir Killock,” her father said, his voice tight. “There’s more of our folk, left back where the husks are coming. All the families who ran from Twin Pines. We’ve no right to ask, you’ve already done more than—”

“We’ll get them,” Killock promised. “But I’ll have a word with Sir William, first. Stay here. Stay quiet. I’ll be back soon.”

He prowled toward the campfires, a stir of shadow in the darkness, his heartbeat a slow surge against his jaw. A dozen steps from the smallest fire, he halted as one of the soldiers groaned and stumbled to his feet. The man shuffled into the bushes and relieved himself, swaying slightly. Satisfied, he yawned and blew out a weary sigh as he tied his breeches. Killock’s arm curled around the soldier’s neck before he could draw breath, and the knight pulled hard, tipping him backward. Killock pressed down on the soldier’s head with his other hand, hooked his arm for leverage, and forced the soldier’s chin down with steel strength.

The soldier strained and kicked and his fingers clutched at Killock’s arm. Killock guided the soldier onto the ground, his gaze never leaving the circle of soldiers around the fire. None stirred, and the soldier subsided with only a muffled snort to signal his last desperate attempt to draw breath.

Killock held the motionless body while he counted ten heartbeats, then slowly released his grasp and lowered the soldier’s head gently to the ground. A quick glance confirmed that the two soldiers on watch had disappeared, and Killock crept silently toward the stump, bent low.

He found Wyn sitting on the unconscious figure of one of the missing guards, and she spread her arms wide in mute query as he approached, rolling her eyes in exasperation to express her impatience.

Killock numbered the remaining soldiers for her on his fingers, then traced an arc with his hand and pointed down, and Wyn nodded and disappeared into the shadows toward the second of the smaller fires. He counted one hundred heartbeats, then rose and walked into the center of the encampment.

Grunts and snores greeted him, and he quickly set about collecting any sword or axe that caught his glance, then he kicked one of the blanket-wrapped lumps and stood back to watch the results.

The soldier grunted and rolled over, blinking blearily at Killock’s silhouette. Then his eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet, shouting to raise his fellows. They struggled awake, confused and startled, until Killock was faced by a small crescent of gawping soldiers.

“Wake up,” he growled at them.

One of the soldiers, a hulking man with thick shoulders and arms, sneered back, “Who the fuck are you?”

Killock ignored the question. “I hear you’ve been murdering Temple scouts.”

Two of the soldiers blanched at the accusation, but a third simply laughed shrilly, and the big man scowled.

“That’s a fucking lie. Who told you that?” He turned toward the oak tree and spat. “I’ll wager it were those two.”

“The man you killed was a friend of mine,” Killock told them. His fingers slipped around the top of his sword’s sheath, twisting it slightly, so that the hilt was clear of his cloak. He felt no rage, just a grim purpose to see through whatever happened next, to find some justice for the young man whose quick grin Killock could see even now. “Those who did it are going to face justice. The rest of you, you try to help them, you’ll face it, too.”

“Is that so? Well, we don’t know your friend, do we, Dag?” the big soldier asked the man next to him, a tall, pale youth with an eager, wild cast to his leering features, who gave a high giggle as response. Dag’s hand was concealed rigidly behind his back, and he wore a pair of sturdy boots at odds with the ragged breeches and tunic that comprised the rest of his gear.

“Which one of you is Leod?” Killock asked. The two soldiers in back glanced quickly at the large soldier, and Killock held the man’s gaze.

“Sir William!” Leod called. “Get out here and bring your sword.”

Silence greeted his shout, and he glanced at the nearby tent in exasperation. “Sir William! There’s a mad fucker out here, bring your fucking sword!”

“I think Sir William is busy,” Killock told them.

“Where’s the rest of those bitches?” Leod asked, glaring at the two other campfires.

“What did you do to them?” one of the other soldiers asked Killock, a lean man with hair as grey as steel, though his face was just starting to show the lines of age.

“They’re not coming, either,” Killock replied.

“Fuck them, then, and fuck Sir William,” Leod declared. “There’s still four of us, and only one of him.”

Killock settled his weight onto his toes as he considered Leod’s count. Leod was a powerful man, and seemed used to killing, but he moved heavily, better suited for a shield wall or a brawl. The grey-haired soldier and the other one hanging back looked like they would prefer to have nothing to do with a fight and flinched away from Leod when he barked at them. That left the fourth, Dag, who seemed eager to be let off his leash.

Not four, Killock decided. Two, unless I start to lose, then those other two will jump in to prove their loyalty.

“I don’t know,” the grey-haired soldier muttered. “He looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

“Shut up, Dwyer,” Leod snarled. “Martyr’s tears, where’re those big balls of yours gone, now?”

“He knows you’re finished, Leod,” Killock told the hulking soldier, and he took a step forward, almost within reach of the brute.

Leod’s face twisted with rage, but it was Dag who launched toward Killock, shrieking with glee as he leapt forward, a long knife in his hand.

Killock slapped the blade away and twisted to meet him, crouching low so that his shoulder met Dag in the stomach. The impact tore the soldier’s feet from the ground in a spray of dirt and sent him sprawling, gasping for breath.

Leod stooped and snatched a log from the firepit and whirled it savagely at Killock, but the knight was faster, and ducked away from the smoking club. Leod roared in pursuit and swung again, but this time Killock stood his ground. His sword whispered as it cleared its sheath, and its steel met the crude weapon as it started its downward arc.

Embers and splinters showered onto Leod’s head as the log disintegrated, and he cursed as he grabbed blindly for Killock, who side-stepped the larger man with ease and clubbed the soldier in the back of his skull with the pommel of his sword.

Killock heard a hiss of rage at his back, and the sigh of steel through the air. He whirled low, his blade a silver flash in the firelight. Its tip caught Dag beneath his jaw and sliced cleanly through pale flesh with barely a snag.

Dag choked as he clutched at his neck, then staggered to his knees as bright blood pulsed between his fingers.

“You bastard!” Leod roared as he came to his feet. He took one lumbering step toward Killock, but before he could take another, the grey-haired soldier darted behind Leod and there was a dry clonk like a carpenter’s mallet against a peg as he struck the bigger man with a stone from the firepit.

Leod lurched to the side, his hand clutched to his skull, his eyes rolling.

“You bastard,” Leod mumbled, then he crashed to the ground, senseless.

“You got the two that did it, sir,” the grey-haired soldier, Dwyer, said quickly. He dropped his rock and held his hands out, fingers spread, and the fourth soldier imitated him immediately. “Them two killed your friend, I saw them, and I’ll tell the same to anyone you’d like.”

“Is that right?” Killock asked. “You saw them?”

“That’s the truth, sir.” Dwyer glanced about the clearing, searching for some proof of his claim, and his eyes grew wide as he looked beyond the fire toward the oak tree.

“You can ask those two prisoners. I stopped Leod and Dag from killing them.”

“We’ll see,” Killock replied. “For now, tie everyone up, quick as you can.”

The two soldiers set to work with a will, dragging their unconscious comrades to the clearing and binding them securely. Killock checked the knots, then tied Dwyer and the remaining soldier together, and surveyed his work with satisfaction.

“All right, then, you wait here, and I’m going to have a talk with Sir William.”

The small tent was no field pavilion, but it was large enough to stand in, and contained a cot and camp chair for the comfort of its owner, though Sir William did not appear very comfortable when Killock stooped through the tent flap.

The burly knight was kneeling on the ground in his breeches, his hands clasped on top of his head. A trickle of blood ran down his neck and across his pale chest, the result of a small cut just beneath his jaw, almost lost among the bristles of his beard.

Wyn stood behind him, her knife against his neck, the glow of the fire through the tent’s canvas shifting across the fierce spiral of the tattoo that graced her left brow and cheek.

“Hello, Sir William,” Killock greeted the knight.

“Damn you, what is the meaning of this?” the knight blustered. “Who are you? How dare you lay hands on me?”

Killock ignored the rant and turned to Wyn. “Did he give you any trouble?”

“Nah.” Wyn shrugged, and her mouth twisted in annoyance. “I didn’t even get to stab him more than just a tiny poke, more’s the pity.”

“You two will pay for this!” William insisted. “Threatening me, attacking my men!”

“I am surprised to find you here, Sir William.” Killock’s voice was as cold as the wind that swirled through the trees. “I understood that the parole Lord Bradon granted you in Blockley bound you to serve in Sir Lochlan’s army, and I know that Sir Lochlan defends the hinterlands. Did Sir Lochlan order your men south?”

“Sir Lochlan?” the knight replied, taken aback, and a scowl deepened the frown across his face. “No, and that’s got nothing to do with it. We’re Lucious’s men, not that prick’s.”

“Mind your filthy tongue,” Wyn scolded Sir William, and her knife pressed against the squirming skin of his throat, cutting off his tirade. “You’re speaking to a priest, luv, so let’s be sweet.”

“Wyn,” Killock said gently.

“Yes?” she replied, but her knife remained lodged against Sir William’s jaw, her gaze locked on the knight’s bulging eye.

“Let him speak.”

“Does he need a tongue to speak, or can he just grunt a bit when we ask him questions?”

“Wyn.”

“Fine,” Wyn said truculently, and she eased her knife back, allowing a fresh trickle of blood to run down Sir William’s neck.

“I remember you, now,” Sir William gasped at her. “You were with Lord Bradon, at Blockley.”

“That’s right,” Wyn congratulated the knight brightly. “Sweet of you to remember.”

“You weren’t there, though,” he continued, glancing at Killock.

“No, but I know what crimes you committed there,” Killock reminded the knight. “You may not go as you please, unless you wish to accept punishment. So, one more time, why are you here?”

“Now then, I’ve done everything that Lord Bradon asked,” Sir William replied, his placating words marred by the twist of an aggrieved snarl. “Me and my men have been good lads, marching back and forth across the hinterlands for weeks and weeks now, when we should be heading back home.”

“Where are the rest of your soldiers, Sir William? You had over a hundred in Blockley, now you have seven, and two are wounded. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Sir William insisted, his voice rising sharply. “We’re scouting, you don’t need a hundred soldiers when you’re scouting.”

“Scouting.” Killock repeated flatly. “Why did you murder a Temple soldier who had the bad luck to find you?”

“That’s a lie, I had nothing to do with any murder.”

“Why did you abandon refugees, families and children, instead of helping them reach safety?”

“That’s a lie!”

“You’ve got two of them tied to a tree outside.”

Wyn’s eyebrows arched in astonishment, then knifed together in rage as her lips pressed into a thin line, and Killock watched her knuckles turn white as she gripped her dagger.

“Those two?” Sir William scoffed, unaware of the danger behind him. “It’s their lies you’re repeating, that’s why we took ’em, to stop them spewing that shit to everyone they met.”

“I’d understand if there were bad blood between your soldiers and the Temple’s, in Lochlan’s camp,” Killock continued. “They’d know, wouldn’t they, why you were there. What you’d done. There’d be hard words, I’d guess. But you can’t return to the army riding a dead man’s horse, wearing his boots, and not expect to hang for it. You weren’t scouting, you were running.”

“Damn you!” Sir William cursed. Bright red splotches crowned his cheeks, vivid against his pale skin. “I’ll have your name, damn you.”

“And you can’t have witnesses, can you? Dozens of refugees to tell the tale of Sir William running south. That’s why you left them.”

“You lying bastard!” Specks of spittle decorated Sir William’s beard, but for all his rage and bluster, his gaze was desperate, darting to every corner of the small tent.

“We’ll find out,” Killock stated. “Tracks don’t lie, and we’ll follow yours all the way back to the truth.”

“No!” Sir William gasped. “We need to go south, not north.”

“Why is that? What happened in the north? What happened to the rest of your soldiers, Sir William?”

“I’m not dying on some fucking hill in the middle of nowhere, for no reason!” Sir William snarled. “I did what had to be done.”

“You fucking coward.” Wyn spat in disgust. “You ran.”

“He ran,” Killock agreed. “And he abandoned or murdered anyone who might have seen him running.”

“You can’t imagine, you stupid bastard!” Sir William cried out.

“Perhaps I can, but we’ll know for certain soon enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow we’re going north, to find those poor folk you abandoned.”

“You do that and be damned.”

“Oh, you’re coming, too,” Killock informed him grimly. “Or we’ll hang you from a tree, tonight.”

Sir William sagged away from Killock as the color drained from his face. Killock saw the knight’s eyes go dark and his shoulders tense in the instant before Sir William moved, an explosion of desperate fury as he leapt to his feet, his heavy fist a blur as it arced toward Killock’s face.

Killock jerked away, his heel caught the camp stool, and he stumbled slightly, all the vulnerability that Sir William needed.

But the knight lurched heavily to the side, and his blow went astray as he sagged like a puppet, barely brushing against Killock’s shoulder as it flopped past. Sir William gasped as he collapsed, a wet, choking sound that sprayed bright blood across the dirt.

His feet thrashed for a moment, straining helplessly, then he was still, and a wide pool of blood spread beneath him as the long gash in his throat drained into the mud.

“Fuck you,” Wyn said flatly as she wiped her blade on the fallen knight’s back.

Killock had barely seen her move. A flash of light against her blade, a thrust of her arm, quick as lightning, and it was over.

Killock reset the stool on its feet, then stepped through the tent’s flap, tilting his face to the cool stir of the breeze through the clearing.

Wyn followed him an instant later, and granted him the time for a single, deep breath before beginning her interrogation.

“What is going on?” she asked. “There was a battle? Who was murdered? What refugees?”

“I think we’ve run out of time,” Killock replied.

“The Crunorix?”

“Yes. Husks, for certain, and wights, swarming south in numbers. I’d guess that Sir Lochlan engaged them, and these men deserted. It is difficult to know how bad it was. A battle can seem lost amid the violence and confusion, especially to cowards like these, when there is still hope for victory.”

“And the refugees?”

“A day’s travel north, perhaps two. It sounds like they’ve been chased by husks all the way south.”

“And this lot just left them behind?”

“Yes. They took two prisoners, refugees that saw them murder the scout that was guiding them. You should make sure they are all right. I told them to wait by the big oak.”

“They’ve probably done a runner,” Wyn muttered. “I would.”

But she had taken no more than two steps toward the tree when a small figure burst from the darkness and hurled herself onto Wyn, shrieking in happiness.

“Mairi!” Wyn squealed, and she whirled the young girl off her feet and spun gleefully, until both were gasping with laughter.

“Now that’s a good sound,” Mairi’s father said quietly at Killock’s side.

“It is,” Killock agreed. He regretfully tore his gaze away from the giggling pair and extended his hand. “Ewan, if I remember correctly.”

“You do, sir,” he replied, and he grasped Killock’s hand firmly.

“Do you suppose you can describe how to find the rest of your folk?”

“It would be easier to show you, I reckon.”

Killock nodded toward Mairi. “Are you certain your path is north? It may not lead you back.”

“Aye.” The lean hunter sighed and then set his shoulders. “But I’ve let her down so badly, before. Maybe this way, I earn a bit back.”

“That leaves us a bit of a problem. We’ve got a half-dozen prisoners, and we can’t leave them tied up out here. That’s a death sentence.”

“Could your lass stay here with Mairi?” Ewan said hopefully.

Killock snorted. “I could ask. Do you think Mairi will stay if you go?”

“I could ask,” Ewan replied, and a smile made a fleeting appearance across his lips.

They watched Mairi happily pantomime a rabbit caught in a snare for Wyn, complete with bulging eyes and protruding tongue, much to Wyn’s delight. Then Ewan cleared his throat, and said, “If you follow the beck, you’ll find a grove of aspen next to a boggy meadow, where there’s an old beaver dam. West from there, no more than a day, through a low saddle, and look for a bald hilltop with a ravine to the south. They were camped just beneath the hilltop.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“Aye. Mairi and I will watch these bastards until you return.”

“Good. One of them said that you would vouch for him.”

“I’ll wager it was the grey-haired one.”

“That’s him. Dwyer, he said his name was.”

“He’s a cunning one, sly as a fox. But he did talk Leod out of killing us, and fetched us water and such, so I suppose he’s not the worst of them.”

“He turned on Leod during the fight, but I’d say that had more to do with joining the winning side than doing what’s right. Another desertion. Seems a habit with this lot. Well, keep him tied up, but separate him from the others. I dare say they won’t thank him for his latest betrayal.”

“No, I reckon not.”

“All right, then.” Killock glanced at the moon for a moment as he calculated distances. “If we’re not back in four days, I’d head east, as fast as you can, and not wait for us.”

“And the prisoners?”

“Set them free and leave them. They’re not worth dying for.”

They reached the boggy meadow before dusk the next day, after a grueling race north, following the stream. There, Killock insisted they rest until dark, as Wyn’s gaze was dull with exhaustion, and his legs ached with weariness, and he did not relish the thought of encountering a pack of husks in that state.

But a quick nap was all they could afford, and they began the trek westward as soon as the moon had risen to show them the way.

As they reached the crest of the low saddle, they heard the deep bark of a troll, faint with distance, but clear enough that it was certain the beast was in their path.

“Maker, that’s all we need,” Wyn muttered.

Killock listened for a moment longer, slowing his breath and calming his heart as the troll continued to roar.

“He’s a big one,” he murmured softly.

“What’s he doing?” Wyn wondered. “Just shouting and shouting.”

“It’s a challenge,” Killock explained. “He’s showing how fierce he is. But they do that when another male tries to usurp the king, and I don’t hear the challenger. It’s just the one.”

“What do we do? Go around? I don’t want to get between two trolls arguing over who gets the missus.”

“No, we don’t want that.” Killock frowned. “He’s moving south, I think.”

Slowly, the echoes of the troll’s roars faded, until Killock was certain it was headed away.

“Come on, before he comes back,” Killock whispered, and they loped forward, crouched low, furtive shadows amongst the trees as they headed west.

“Where are all the husks, then?” Wyn muttered as they crossed a gully thick with tangled nettles. “Mairi said there were loads, so where’ve they gone?”

“I’m not certain,” Killock admitted. He could picture the landscape all the way from the High Fells in his thoughts, each twisted valley winding south like crooked fingers as they followed the thousands of streams that gradually merged to form the Abhainn Albyn. The further north his thoughts took him, the deeper the valleys and the sharper the ridges became, until snow-capped peaks formed barriers that only the sun might cross with ease.

Can they have come so far south merely to catch a few hapless villagers, or simply because the terrain favored that direction? The husks seem mindless, could they even maintain such a pursuit once they had lost sight of their prey?

The legends of the Black Tower War were filled with tales of towns overwhelmed and armies routed by relentless hordes, attacks that were terrifying in their ferocity, yet were part of a larger campaign, guided by the magi, that the greatest generals and tacticians of that age had strained to counter.

They have a purpose, though we cannot discern it, he realized. They were released by some agency, for some goal, and I doubt it was to terrorize a small camp on the edge of the hinterlands, nor to wander where the slope takes them. But, in that case, why south? Why not east, where there are towns and settlements? Do they somehow sense that Boone has gathered his strength there and seek to avoid him, or is their true goal somewhere south and they attempt to seize it with all speed?

Killock tried to extend the line of Twin Pines and their current location as best as he could, searching for some target that might make sense, but he could not find one. The forest reached south from him for countless days of travel, pristine wilderness untouched by humans, save for the rarest of wanderers. By the time his thought encountered civilization it had reached the townships that nestled along the Albainn Albyn, wealthy and bloated from feeding on the great artery of the realm, and as far from ancient horrors as one could imagine.

I might as well name Kuray as their destination, Killock scoffed. No, we know too little to guess usefully, though we may know enough to help the refugees.

Killock thrust away his musings for another time and cleared his mind for the task at hand. A game trail led them over the next ridge and brought them a glimpse of naked stone in the distance, the bald hill that was their next landmark, when a curl of wind brought the scent of heavy musk to his nose, and he froze.

Wyn almost stepped on his heel, and her mouth opened in surprise, but he stilled her with a quick finger to his lips.

The breeze was from the north, but it was weak and fitful, and could not have carried the smell far. Killock crouched at the base of a tree and sank into its roots, merging with their deep shadows and twisted shapes. Not far at all, he decided, as another errant gust stirred the leaves above him.

Slowly, the jumbled shapes of the forest floor revealed themselves, moss-covered boulders, shaggy ferns, and hulking logs. And in a deep thicket of twisted brambles, a dozen heavy shapes, huddled together, still as stone. A flicker of moonlight pierced the dense cover and was caught in a thick pelt of wiry hair, and the gleam of a dozen pairs of eyes stared back at him.

“Oh, shit…” Wyn beathed next to him.

They were caught, Killock knew. The trolls could outrun them through the tangled forest and could easily uproot the tree they had sheltered behind, if they should try to climb to safety. He had never heard of a pack of trolls performing such an ambush, waiting in complete silence for their prey. Trolls were hunters. They drove and harried and surrounded. But it had proven effective.

Slow, he motioned to Wyn. Then, away.

He felt Wyn ease away from his side, silent as a shadow. The trolls did not move, and he thanked the Maker that they seemed more interested in him.

He gave Wyn another twenty heartbeats to get away, then slowly moved his weight onto his hands and feet and crept backward. One of the trolls shifted slightly, then stilled, and Killock felt fire rush through his limbs as he fought the urge to flee.

Another careful step, and another, and still the trolls did not move.

Killock frowned. This is wrong. They aren’t hunting.

His gaze probed the huddled shapes once more. Three of the figures were large, twice his bulk and as tall as his shoulder when standing. Likely females or young males, he knew. But the others were no larger than a sheep and were smushed together in the center of the group. Young… born this spring. They aren’t hunting, they’re hiding.

He slowly backed further away, more focused on showing no threat than concern for flight. A dozen steps and he straightened from his crouch. Another dozen, and he added cautious length to his stride. Another dozen, and a hand grabbed his cloak and yanked him to the side.

Wyn’s fingers quieted his grunt of surprise. She squinted and aimed along her arm into the thickets of young trees that choked the bottom of the slope. Dark figures moved between the slender trunks, their empty gazes swinging mindlessly back and forth.

“Husks,” she whispered.

Killock counted five, but there was no telling how many lurked beyond sight.

Then, to the south, the troll began to bark again, closer than before, so that its deep chuffs filled the night. Immediately, the husks turned to the sound, and they began to thrash toward it, ripping and tearing their way through the thick shrubs. A dozen more appeared and chased after, loping south with determined speed.

The troll roared its challenge, then barked again, further away, retreating southward.

“He’s looking after his wee ones,” Wyn whispered, and she sniffed surreptitiously.

“He is,” Killock agreed. “Come on, let’s not waste his effort. Every husk in earshot will be after him.”

They scrambled across the stream and continued west, toward the bald hilltop that Killock had spied. Beneath it was the gorge that Ewan had described, and tracks of dozens of people fleeing south.

But they had not gone far. As the sky in the east began to lighten, Killock spotted the huddled shapes of the refugees, clustered together in unintentional mimicry of the family of trolls. Two large lads stood watch, axes in hand, their curly hair frosted with dew.

“Hold up,” Wyn murmured as they approached.

“What is it?” Killock wondered, as his hand crept toward his sword.

“I just need to fix my hair,” Wyn replied.

Killock blinked at her in surprise, too shocked to speak.

“Don’t even,” Wyn muttered as she lowered her hood and pulled her hair free from her cloak. “I’ve never met the lad who didn’t give a blonde braid the benefit of the doubt. These ones have had a rough go of it, and it would be a shame to start out poorly.”

“Shall I shave, do you think?” Killock asked.

“Shut up, you,” Wyn groused. “Right, come on.”

She swung her hair fetchingly and smiled sweetly when the two lads spotted them, and neither reached for their axe as they called out a challenge.

“Friends,” Killock replied. “Are you the folks from Twin Pines?”

“Might be,” the taller of the two young men replied cautiously.

“I reckon you are,” Wyn said brightly. “Mairi said there’d be two giants with curly red hair guarding them, and here you are.”

Both the lads straightened to their tallest, and red blotches appeared on their cheeks and throats.

“You know Mairi?”

“Ewan sent us. They’re waiting for us.”

“Thank the Maker, we’re proper fu—ah, we’re in proper trouble, that is.”

The refugees stared with dull eyes as they entered the gloomy camp. No fires had been lit, and the people shivered in the morning chill under torn cloaks caked with mud. The taller lad called out, and a small man with a wild halo of white hair came hurrying over. He was dressed in a simple brown robe, reminiscent of the robes a Temple priest might wear.

“Reverend Geraint, these folk say Ewan sent them to find us.”

“Praise the Maker,” the old man said wearily. “Might I know your names, so that I can thank you properly.”

“My name is Killock, this is Wyn,” Killock introduced them. “Reverend, can your people walk? There are husks just up the valley, and they’ll find us soon enough.”

“We’ll do our best, but we’re at the end of our rope, and there’s not a one of us without a hurt from the trail. And we’ve got some proper wounded. A husk got into the camp yesterday and caused great harm before Art and Deri here hacked it to pieces.”

“I’m sorry, Reverend, we don’t have a choice. You don’t want to be here when the husks arrive. Get your people moving.”

“All right, son, all right. You show us the way, we’ll follow,” Geraint replied, and he hurried off to cajole and prod the refugees back onto their feet.

“He’s not a bad sort,” the taller brother mumbled. “Just a bit wheezy.”

“You Art, or Deri?” Wyn asked.

“I’m Deri, my brother is Art. And you’re Wyn, right?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“I remember you,” Art added, his accent as broad as his chest. “You came to the camp last winter, yeah? Yelled at everyone when you freed poor Meghan.”

“You were there? I was a bit shouty, wasn’t I.”

“A bit,” Art agreed, and then he continued in a mumble, “I mean, it were special, what you said.”

“Oh, I like special,” Wyn replied. She grimaced and wiped strands of her escaped hair from her face. “Better than dirty and stinky, which is what you get now, I’m afraid.”

“You lads killed that husk?” Killock asked.

“Yes, sir,” Deri answered. “Though it were a right mess.”

“We got another two nights ago,” Art said gleefully. “Smashed its head with a rock.”

“There’ll be more,” Killock warned. “We saw a dozen this morning, just east of here. Can either of you track?”

“Yessir, no worries on that score.”

“Then one of you will follow the path I’ll set, lead the group. The other will stay with Wyn, be ready to protect the group if any husks arrive.”

“Yessir,” the two lads replied in unison.

“I can stay to help Wyn,” Art volunteered.

“Good.” Killock surveyed the ragged mob forming in the gorge. The refugees were frightened and weary, but these were hard folk, used to danger and toil, and they shouldered their belongings without complaint. A few were watching him, sizing him up, wondering if he was worthy of a spark of hope.

“Which way are we going?” Deri asked. “Only, we’ve been going for days and days, and they never stop chasing us.”

“I don’t think they are chasing you. You’re just in their way,” Killock replied. “The ones close behind may come after us, but if we can get out of their path, the rest of them could pass on by.”

“Which way is best?”

“East.” East to Ewan and Mairi, and then east to the Seann Rathad and, if we’re lucky, General Boone.

“Right you are,” Deri agreed. “South were getting old, anyways.”

Killock set his shoulders beneath the weight of his pack and faced the rising sun.

“Then let’s be off.”

The Edge of War

The track wound north through rolling meadows and shady woods, with the sparkle of water forever dancing between the fronds of snoozing willows to the west. The track had no name, yet it was well-travelled, its packed dirt worn smooth by boots and hooves and wagon wheels, and there were often simple bridges where the track crossed the innumerable streams that meandered across its journey.

It followed the easiest route among the gentle hills and frequently branched to visit a nearby farmstead or village, perhaps lured by the promise of fresh fish or ripe fruits, or simply to visit the tidy collections of thatched roofs and ancient hedgerows in their rustic splendor.

A warm breeze stirred the long grass that bordered the track with a rustling whisper and disturbed a cloud of bees from their chores among the nodding flowers. A faint rumble throbbed in the earth, the distant sound of muffled hoofbeats that grew as two dozen riders appeared, heading north with cloaks billowing over flashing steel.

At their head rode a mismatched pair, an ancient root of a man atop a mottled mule, next to a graceful young woman borne by a proud stallion. As the riders streamed along the trail, a joyful smile parted the woman’s lips as she felt the long distance of the trail melt away beneath the easy gait of her mount.

No more dozing in carriages, Danielle thought triumphantly, that soft, creaking luxury replaced by the surge of muscle beneath her and the exhilarating rush of wind past her cheeks.

No more gowns, she exulted, their heavy layers and lace exchanged for supple leather leggings, a soft tunic, and a trim leather jacket, all mercifully free from corsets and hooks and petticoats.

A passing comment from a scout, that the track might prove to be awkward for a carriage if it should rain, had been seized upon as cause to abandon the baggage of her embassy and race north, unencumbered by either looming conclaves or chests packed with dresses. There were no Guild grandmasters to curry favor with between Cionaodh’s Crossing and Newbridge, simply days of sun and wind, and Danielle had spurred her horse north with as much eagerness to flee as urgency to arrive.

Some of the members of her retinue were not as sanguine about the change. Sir Eilidh reveled in her release, of course, and Baron Arledge seemed recovered from his parting from his ancient hound. But Karsha Hali clung grimly to his mule with a desperate grip, his lips a thin line of determination, and he jangled and clashed with every bounce as if he were a tinker’s workshop.

Danielle suppressed any pity she might have felt for the tiny wizard, as she had not altogether forgiven him for prying into matters of her heart and judged their new mode of travel as fair recompense.

Yet her happiness could not dislodge the disquiet that dwelled in her stomach, a leaden weight that stirred whenever she proved unwary for even a moment. For with each stride they grew nearer to Newbridge, and what messengers they had encountered bore disheartening news. Sir Alroy had refused entrance to the Temple army and had likewise refused any discussion with the Temple’s representatives, showing them only the most grudging courtesies.

As the sun reached its zenith the track led to a wide valley rippling with lush fields and pastures. Dark hedgerows curved along gentle hillsides, dividing gold from green, while a winding band of trees traced the path of a stream along the valley floor. The riders urged their horses down the slope to where the track merged with a wider road and turned west beneath a green vault of oak and elm.

The road curled around a final hill and the city of Newbridge was revealed, seated upon its tall hill beside the river. Three ringed walls of grey stone marked the concentric ridges of an ancient earth fort that had been built by the first people to settle the north as they fled the southern kingdoms. Each wall was a massive edifice, thick and tall, that loomed over the lower level of the town like stacked cliffs.

The road curved around a slight rise and ran straight as an arrow to the base of the first wall, where it entered a massive gatehouse that protected the Road Gate. The tents and pavilions of the Temple army spread across the pastures on either side of the road, and Danielle could see ranks of soldiers at drill in the neighboring fields, engaged in swordplay and maneuvering, and the clash of steel and the shouts of the sergeants drifted to her in a swelling chorus.

Two figures awaited them to the east of the encampment, and Danielle reined her horse to a halt as the last vestiges of freedom drifted away like the cloud of dust that eddied around her.

Before she could dismount, she heard a glad cry of greeting, and Sir Eilidh leapt from her horse and strode to greet one of the waiting figures, a lean soldier clad in leather and mail who grinned in reply.

“Cormac!” Eilidh halted a pace away, suddenly awkward. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Just got here yesterday,” he admitted. He smiled again, and took her hand, though the gesture caused her to blush. “I didn’t expect to see you, either. Thought you were off south.”

Danielle left the two to their reunion and approached the second figure, a heavyset man with flowing hair the color of ink, dressed in mail as grey as slate.

“Lord Faron,” she greeted him. The templar lord’s dark gaze held hers uncomfortably long, and it was an effort not to turn away, though it was not cruel nor cold. Empathy throbbed in his brown eyes like heat from a coal, but it was wreathed in contemplation, not compassion, and Danielle could not help but squirm under his scrutiny.

“Lady Danielle,” Faron replied at last, his deep voice rumbling like water over a fall. “Your arrival is fortuitous.”

“Sir Alroy is proving to be unreasonable?”

“Hmmm,” Faron pondered. “Unreasonable is a charitable description. He is truculent, steadfast in his refusal. The gates of the city have remained closed, despite our earnest negotiations.”

A groan and a cascade of chimes announced Karsha Hali’s dismount, and the small man hobbled to join Danielle and Faron.

“I am shattered,” he complained, and he jabbed a finger in the direction of his mule. “Broken by that vicious animal.”

“Pain brings reflection,” Faron murmured unhelpfully, though Karsha nodded thoughtfully in response, as if he had been offered both wisdom and a soothing balm.

“You said our arrival was fortuitous?” Danielle asked.

“Sir Alroy has at last conceded to an embassy, and though Sir Roland was resigned to bear that responsibility, I believe he will be much relieved to let the Chancellor of the Realm take his place.”

“Very well.” Danielle sighed in resignation. “When will Sir Alroy receive us?”

“He awaits you even now, my lady.”

“Now?” Danielle blinked in astonishment, as the dust from their arrival had not yet settled.

“As I said, fortuitous,” Faron replied.

Danielle wiped stray locks of her hair from her face as she glared at the distant city walls. Let him wait, she grumbled. When one arrives early, one waits. Yet she could not find the same confidence she had felt when she had tried Grandmaster Severine’s patience at Cionaodh’s Crossing. The moment is not the same, she realized. There we attended a conclave, requested by both parties. Here, we have…

Danielle studied the fields between her and the city, and her gaze revealed details that she had previously missed. Soldiers in heavy mail, clustered in ranks that faced the city gates. Distant pickets surrounding the encampment, guarding its flanks and rear. A battalion of cavalry in full armor, ready to move. Dense forests of spears lining the city walls. And though the gates opened to allow a steady stream of workers to and from the nearby farms, they were secured after each group, despite the effort it took each time.

Here, it appears we are on the edge of war, Danielle realized. She felt the stir of anger in her chest, and her jaw clenched. She had not entered Newbridge in the spring, when she and Wyn had been pursued by the assassin, Calder, but Cormac and Eilidh had told her of the Temple ranger imprisoned in a cage in retaliation for burning the city’s stores, and of soldiers hanged from trees in the nearby forest. A cascade of violence that stemmed from Sir Alroy’s brutal attack on the Newbridge temples, in which soldiers and clergy alike had been massacred.

Damn Alroy. He raced to violence against the Temple last winter, and now he marches arrogantly toward it again.

“I am ready,” she announced, determined not to let the inconvenience of poor timing jeopardize a chance to avoid the suffering that must surely be inflicted on the men and women she could see in the fields around her, should they be required to assault the town.

“Excellent,” Faron responded, and he led the way to a wide pavilion on the small rise that overlooked the final approach to the gates.

Here Sir Roland awaited them, resplendent in black mail with the seal of the Knight Commander of the Temple emblazoned on his chest, his hair bleached almost white by the summer sun. The blade named Mourne was sheathed at his side, its steel pommel gleaming. The templar greeted Danielle with a nod, his gaze a slit of ice blue within his scowl.

“Lady Danielle, it is good to see you,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “How fared your embassy to the Guild?”

“A failure, I would judge.”

“No, no, no, far from failure,” Karsha disagreed, wagging a finger at her. “Desires were revealed and dire warnings were given.”

“And they left with the threat of aid given to Campbell,” Danielle reminded him.

“Grandmaster Severine demanded that we lay the Martyr’s Blade across her palms then threatened to offer support to Campbell if we declined,” Karsha explained to Roland. “We declined,” he added with a wink at Danielle.

“Good.” Roland rubbed his jaw, freshly shaved as always. “I would not fancy meeting a magus without that Weapon.”

“I heard you were to meet with Alroy?” Danielle asked.

“An unenviable fate. Are you here to free me from it?”

“I shall, if that is your wish. It is your army that must bear the consequences, and therefore your right to decide who shall speak.”

“Then I gladly step aside. None have ever accused me of being an ambassador.” The knight frowned even more deeply, and Danielle wondered if Sir Roland had attempted a jest. “In any case, it is more fitting for the Queen’s Chancellor to speak on her behalf.”

“I shall do my best. Tell me what outcome we must achieve. I know we must persuade Alroy to allow us passage through the city, yes? Is there more?”

“Unfortunately, much more, although Alroy balks at even that. Newbridge is the key to the strategy we devised with General Boone, to confound Duke Campbell by threatening him on two flanks, us in the south and the Royal Army in the east. Boone is convinced that Campbell lacks the strength to defend against both.”

“And what is the role we require Newbridge to play, other than as gateway for our army?”

“We must occupy it fully. Newbridge is to be the foundation of our defense in the south, the wall that Campbell cannot pass, no matter what other setbacks we endure in the field. And the gateway cannot be allowed to close behind us, trapping us between two foes without relief.”

“We must garrison the city with our soldiers,” Danielle realized.

“At the minimum. Preferably, we would secure Alroy’s pledge to join us against Campbell. He commands a significant force. We would need to leave a very large garrison if he does not concede willingly, large enough that we would feel their absence as we advance against Campbell.”

“I must convince Alroy to give us control of his city, and to pledge his soldiers to our cause?” Danielle asked glumly.

“In a broad stroke, yes. There is some urgency for us to cross the river, as well,” Roland continued mercilessly. “If Campbell were to occupy Newbridge, instead of us, he could hold us at bay with a much smaller force.”

“Grant us control of the city, commit his soldiers to our cause, and do so quickly.”

“Yes. If we are successful, Boone believes we may bring Campbell to heel before the Maker’s Feast.”

Three months, Danielle mused. “And if Alroy pledges to Campbell?”

“We will have a long winter.”

“Can we not simply march around Newbridge? I know the river is unfordable for many days travel, but it is not endless, and we could build barges if marching were not acceptable.”

“Of course, but I would advise against such a strategy,” Roland replied. “Our forces would be between Campbell and Alroy with no easy path of retreat, and Alroy would be free to harry our supply. A precarious position.”

“I see. And are there other options, perhaps not so precarious?” Danielle asked hopefully.

“None that suit. Without Newbridge, our position is much weakened.”

“Alroy shouldn’t even be there, for what he did last winter,” Eilidh spoke up, a snarl of anger twisting her words. “He should be in a cell somewhere, awaiting his day at the end of a rope.”

“That is likely the reason he mistrusts the request to open his gates,” Roland replied. “He fears for his own skin.”

“Perhaps that is a tactic to consider, for the negotiations?” Karsha suggested.

“Do you mean we should forgive the murders his soldiers committed last winter?” Danielle asked, and Eilidh snorted her contempt.

“Considered against what is to gain?” Karsha asked. “It does not seem impossible that such a path could be followed.”

“It makes me ill to think of it,” Danielle said. “If he will not concede, what options remain to us?”

“A siege could be established,” Roland replied. “We could break the bridge, and we know that they have little grain in their stores after last winter’s fires. They are counting on the first harvest, which is still in the fields.”

“These poor souls,” Danielle murmured as she gazed at the city. Beyond the walls she could see the roofs of packed buildings, home to tens of thousands. “They starved last winter, and now they are mere weeks away from hope. Surely there is a better way.”

“If you are concerned for the welfare of the townsfolk, you will not like the other option. We have siege engines and could bring the walls down and break the gates, though they would surely be contested hotly. Newbridge has its own engines, a fearsome array guarding both entrances, as well as the Dragon’s Breath.”

“What is the Dragon’s Breath?” Danielle asked.

“A legend of the north,” Faron replied. The templar lord flung his arms wide, as if to embrace the grey city on its hill. “A mighty Weapon that resides in Newbridge Castle, installed to guard the river crossing in the time of the Black Tower War.”

“Do Alroy’s adepts know its Word?”

“I would wager on it,” Roland said grimly. “I have read that its reach extends far across the river and to the very edges of this valley. We would need to endure its attacks until we are within the city walls, and I fear it would take a dreadful toll during any assault.”

“No, let us not consider that course, not until we must,” Danielle pleaded, and Roland nodded curtly.

“Very well, I shall assemble an escort.”

“M’lady, will you be taking your Blade?” Eilidh asked.

“Will I need it?” Danielle asked Roland. “Is this not a time for words?”

“Alroy is an unscrupulous creature, and intemperate.”

“You think he would dare to take us hostage?”

“I think he’s a fool. And only the Maker knows what a fool will do.”

“Perhaps we should parlay at the walls,” Danielle suggested, her stomach suddenly sour.

“A cock will crow until he sees the gleam of the fox’s fangs,” Karsha mused. “Then he will flee to huddle with his hens.”

“You advise that I should take the Blade? That we should enter the city?”

“Of course. Alroy must be reminded who is the fox, and who is the cock. Otherwise, we shall have to listen to him crow from his walls until we knock them down.”

“I understand,” Danielle replied, suddenly ashamed of her reticence. This is why I am here, is it not? There will be worse than vicious little lordlings in the days to come. I must not falter now, if I am to persist when times are truly dire. “Sir Roland, where is my Blade?”

“It is guarded in your tent, my lady, along with the luggage you sent with us from Bandirma.”

A knight led Danielle and Eilidh to a large tent pitched in a field overlooking the encampment. A squad of soldiers stood sentry around it, and two pages rushed to open the flaps and usher Danielle within.

The inside of the tent was as comfortable as a patch of pasture could be made. Carpets covered the ground and tapestries hung against the walls, and behind a curtain was a raised platform with a proper mattress and soft blankets. Traveling wardrobes stood ready to be opened, but Danielle ignored them and strode instead to an ancient chest of xexak wood polished to a burnished glow, inlaid with intricate designs of bright metal.

She carefully assembled the chest’s Word in her mind, shining like stars on a summer night, and felt the chest’s Ward stir at the touch of her thought. Yes, there it is, she thought with satisfaction, and she whispered the Word and felt the bindings release. A faint click of oiled steel sounded from beneath the lid.

Eilidh knelt beside the chest and withdrew a long shape wrapped in soft cloth, reverently cradling it in her arms. The knight gently peeled away the cloth, revealing the long hilt and wide cross guard of the Weapon that lay within, resplendent with dazzling metal that seemed to shine brighter than the light of the candles that reflected from it.

The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, soft and welcoming as a favorite glove, the perfect length for both hands to clasp, as if it were forged just for her. At its base, the heavy pommel was sculpted into long, tapering curves, like the tail of a bird, and the hilt matched it, two great wings fashioned of steel and gold, the long feathers layered into beautiful arcs.

Danielle hesitated with her hand raised to lift the Weapon as a memory flared, a vision of the Blade laying on the stone floor of the hidden cave beneath the Mountain, at the foot of the golden tree. She had reached for the sword, and as her fingers had brushed against the metal, a surge had coursed through her, so quickly that it had gone before she could snatch her hand away. But she could still remember the sensation, as if joy and longing had burst from the Blade and filled her in an instant.

And she could still hear Karsha Hali’s voice, a moment after she had pulled her hand away. ‘You felt her presence?’

Danielle had avoided pondering that question. The sensation had not occurred a second time, though she had often handled the Blade since, enough times that she had begun to doubt her memory, but now her apprehension had returned.

Why? Danielle wondered, but a moment later she knew the answer. The dream I had as we journeyed to Cionaodh’s Crossing. In the Mountain, Karsha told us that a goddess had returned to the Blade, and now my dream has given her form and voice. That is all.

Yet she could not help but hold her breath as she forced her fingers to touch the pommel, and she suppressed a gasp of relief as she felt nothing but steel.

Danielle ran her fingers across the pommel and along the hilt, tracing the gentle curve of metal and leather with her fingertips, then curled her fingers around it, taking the weight of the blade in both hands. It settled in her grasp comfortably, though she had to strain with arms and shoulders and back just to keep the tip from plunging to the floor. The cloth slid free, revealing a long, wide blade, bright as silver along its edges, dark with whorls of grey and blue through its center, as if the metal were a deep pool, awaiting her plunge into its depths.

The shining structure of the Blade’s Word appeared in her vision without thought, pulsing with such eager beauty that Danielle instinctively caressed it with her will, exploring each intricate pattern just to feel the stir of the Blade’s fire against its bindings. Its heat simmered and swirled, impatient for release, and for a moment, Danielle heard her name in its whisper of welcome.

Danielle, free me…

Danielle started, shock prickling across her skin as the voice from her dream sounded as clearly as if it had been spoken next to her. The Blade’s Word flared as her attention wavered, straining against her will for a moment before she could banish it, and fear sent cold fire coursing through her limbs as she realized how close she had come to speaking the Word in her distraction.

Danielle breathed deep to slow her heart. I heard her, there is no doubt. The same voice, the same words, that she uttered in my dream. How is that possible?

“M’lady? Are you all right?” Eilidh asked.

“I am fine,” she assured Eilidh, though her voice sounded hesitant and bewildered even to her. Already the memory of the voice had merged with her recollection of her dream, faded from absolute certainty that she had heard it to doubt that it was more than an echo of that dream.

She gathered her wits and continued, “I am merely anxious to be finished with Alroy.”

“I’ll be happy when he’s facing justice for what he did last winter, and not before,” Eilidh said grimly. She removed a long sheath and belt from the Blade’s chest and helped secure it behind Danielle’s shoulder, as the Blade was far too long to rest at her hip. “Alroy did worse than Sir Cathan, who murdered folk in the temple at Littleford, and yet he’s suffered less. It gnaws at me.”

“It does at me, as well,” Danielle replied, as the Blade settled into its sheath. She straightened against its weight and could not help but glance into the tall mirror that had been placed next to the wardrobes.

She was shocked by the fierce wildness of her glare and the flush of heat across her cheeks, a fervent hunger that she hardly recognized. It is merely that I am disheveled from travel, she ventured, but the thought was unconvincing. The figure in her mirror had a lean, predatory look that had nothing to do with her dusty riding gear or unbound hair and would have given pause even if she were enveloped in silk and jewels.

“Let us be done with it,” she muttered as she turned away, unwilling to look at her reflection any longer.

Danielle swung into her saddle against the protests of her thighs and waited while Arledge deftly mounted his horse and Karsha struggled onto his mule. Roland and Faron would stay behind, as it had been decided that the presence of the two templars might goad Alroy, although Danielle doubted the Lord of Newbridge would make much distinction between them and her.

At last, Karsha was perched on his mule, and they rode from the encampment up the slope to the gatehouse, where long pennants tugged from spears as if desperately seeking to flee in the breeze. The gates of Newbridge groaned and shuddered on their massive hinges, and a bright gap appeared between the slabs of weathered wood and revealed a crowded square beyond the tunnel that passed through the thick gatehouse.

Danielle’s horse shifted and stamped impatiently as the gates swung ponderously aside. A horn sounded from the thick tower that hunched over the gatehouse, and in the distant square beyond the gates a line of soldiers thumped spears against the cobblestones in unison.

Danielle shivered as she passed into the damp gloom of the tunnel, its chill air untouched by the warmth of the midday sun. The horses’ hoofbeats clattered and echoed hollowly against the stone slabs, and Danielle felt the skin between her shoulders crawl as she passed beneath the leering gaps of murder holes and the long spikes of the portcullis.

A knight met them as they entered the plaza, rigidly solemn as he regarded the arrivals.

“Sir Alroy awaits you in the castle,” he informed them, then wheeled his horse and led the way between two ranks of soldiers wearing the grey and blue sigil of Newbridge on the breast of their uniforms.

The streets of Newbridge were a twisting snarl of narrow alleys and dead ends, squeezed between dour buildings whose dank shadows smelled as if they never saw even a glimpse of the sun. The lanes were so crowded that Danielle feared some hapless onlooker would be injured every time her horse slipped on the uneven cobbles, but there was no bustle to the gathering. The denizens of Newbridge scurried. They shrank back. They glared suspiciously or turned away with fearful glances over their shoulders.

Danielle’s gaze returned to the armored helms of the knights who rode ahead of her, where there was some shelter from the brooding hostility that hemmed the riders on either side. That will never do, she chided herself, and forced a smile onto her lips as she sought among the crowd for a friendly face. It will hardly help if we act as if we were wary of their hospitality.

A small, frightened face caught Danielle’s glance, wide eyes above pale, pinched lips, a young girl who clutched at an older woman’s dress. The child gasped and retreated further, and the woman glared accusingly at Danielle.

Danielle looked guiltily away, as if entranced by the long plume of dyed horsehair swaying against the armored back of the knight directly ahead of her.

If I cannot sway the heart of a child, what chance do I have of convincing Sir Alroy of opening his gates? she wondered. Is everyone within these walls as certain that we are the villains?

“Martyr’s tears,” Eilidh hissed, and Danielle followed her gaze across the heads of the crowd to the far end of the marketplace. A row of empty cages hung there, black iron bars mottled with rust, trailing dark stains against the wall behind them. Danielle’s smile faltered as she stared at the cages, then vanished and her skin paled with anger.

“Those were the ones?” Danielle asked quietly.

“Yes, though there was only the one when we were here last. Alroy must have been a busy bastard between then and when the fighting stopped.”

Danielle could not wrench her gaze away from the gruesome cages, each one with a painted board that proclaimed, “TRAITOR.”

“Decent of Sir Alroy to take the bodies out before we got here.” Eilidh spat her disgust onto the cobbles beneath her horse.

Danielle felt the looming oppression of the grim buildings and the sullen, defiant crowd close around her, as if a cold grip were choking her breath from her chest. Such a vile, cruel, vindictive man. And he has twisted his city into a vicious mimicry of himself, hateful and mean.

The procession passed through the second wall and the streets became steeper as they wound between taller, imposing buildings as if the riders were at the bottom of a narrow gorge. Another twist of the road brought them to the gates of the third and final wall, the battlements that protected Newbridge Castle.

Sir Alroy’s home was the most suitable crown for the city that Danielle could have imagined. The castle was a grim edifice that squatted on the peak of the innermost of the city’s three ringed hills, constructed, Danielle decided, from what must have been the thickest, greyest, drabbest slabs of stone the masons could find. There were no soaring towers, no lofty halls, no plazas or gardens, just rank after rank of heavy walls and narrow embrasures staring at the town huddled beneath it.

The party dismounted in a bailey so narrow that Danielle could easily have thrown a stone to strike the opposite side, while grey and blue garbed soldiers glared down at them from the walls.

Within the keep, no corridor, no chamber, no hall had been deemed complete without its own share of unadorned stone, heavy, brooding beams, and gloomy corners. Danielle followed their escort through identical dim passageways branching from staircases only remarkable in their lack of any windows, with no way of knowing which might lead her to the main hall and which might lead her to the privy.

At last, they reached a doorway set into an arch of stone thick enough to grace the city gates. The great doors were as dark and foreboding as storm clouds, crafted of ancient wood lacquered black and inlaid with rivets and sheets of iron. The crest of Newbridge crowned the lintel, grey stone over blue water faded to shades of smoke.

Beyond lay a long, low chamber that appeared to be Newbridge Castle’s main hall, as a high table lorded over the room with an ancient, high-backed chair at its center, a throne for the young man who glared arrogantly at his guests as they entered the room.

He is hardly more than a boy, Danielle realized. She had expected the Lord of Newbridge to be her senior, but she now wondered if he was even her peer. How can someone so young have learned to hate so deeply?

Sir Alroy was slender as a spear, lost in the immensity of his chair despite the steel cuirass and heavy cape he wore. Sparse bristles spotted the pale skin across his lip and jaw, and a mane of mahogany hair swept back from his high forehead.

He was flanked by two grim knights, and soldiers in full armor lined the walls of the chamber, their expressions as unforgiving as the stone they stood on. Yet it was the final two members of the knight’s retinue that caught her attention, a pair dressed in blue and grey robes who lurked against the far wall. One was a plump woman whose round face defied any hope of placing her age. Her companion was an elderly man with a distinguished fringe of grey hair surrounding his mottled scalp, his narrow face creased in rigid concentration.

They did not earn Danielle’s attention for their appearance or garb, although both were at odds with the martial demeanor that marked the rest of Sir Alroy’s coterie. Rather, it was the steady throb of the Ward that thrummed in the air between her and the Lord of Newbridge, fed by the two robed figures.

Alroy’s adepts, Danielle realized. She examined the Ward more closely, feeling the pulse of the woman’s Word against her chest. Proof against arrows and blades, she decided, but perhaps Aurêve could pierce it?

Yet, she could not be certain. The man’s Veil disguised the woman’s Ward, and Danielle would need Pathweaver’s aid to discern more. She turned her gaze to the adepts’ faces, watched their lips move silently as they adjusted their Words, noted the strain that glazed the woman’s eyes.

She must have a second Device empowered, concealed by the Veil. Their Words are in concert, a difficult art to master. How did Alroy manage to find such skilled adepts? Were they bequeathed to him along with his city?

“Who have they sent?” Sir Alroy wondered, and a deep crease appeared between his brows and his lips curled into a sneer as he stared at Karsha, then turned his attention to Danielle. His gaze clung to the swell of her breasts before eventually sliding upward to meet her eye. She knew that Wyn would urge her to use every advantage, to distract her prey with temptation and promise while twisting him to her own purpose, but Danielle could not stomach such a strategy with this man, and she regretted that she had given this leering wretch even a moment of pleasure.

“You requested an embassy, and I have come,” Danielle answered. “Yet your welcome is offensive.”

“I give offense?” he asked, astonished. “I have not brought an army to your walls, threatened your people, then dared to appear in your hall with no introduction and insult you.”

“You know very well who I am,” Baron Arledge informed the Lord of Newbridge. “And if one glance does not identify Lord Karsha or Lady Danielle, I do not believe it.”

“Perhaps I guessed, yet I could not believe it from their garb,” Alroy scoffed, and he turned to his knights as he shook his head. “I thought them to be vagabonds.”

“You would not be the first to think so,” Karsha allowed easily. “My feet have wandered far across this world and have tracked dust into great halls from Wunrabe to Hyoth. Now, my lord, you have refused passage to the loyal soldiers of the Queen. Perhaps you shall explain why you obstruct their way?”

“I see a Temple army, not the Queen’s soldiers,” Alroy replied, “and I wonder if they might not wish to continue the assault their cowardly agents began last winter.”

“You can see my banners from your walls,” Arledge pointed out gruffly. “They should tell you that Her Majesty and the Temple are allied in our cause.”

“I see banners, yes,” Alroy said, and he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Last winter, the Temple used many deceptions to strike behind our guard, I would not doubt another such attempt.”

“You call me a liar?” Arledge demanded.

“I think you are a fool if you believe what the Temple tells you, and she speaks with the Temple’s voice.” Alroy jabbed an accusing finger at Danielle.

“Ah, I must disagree, so very sorry,” Karsha announced. He searched through his robes, producing a cascade of chimes and clunks from the jumble of charms dangling around his shoulders, and, finally, a small scroll of parchment tied with a string. “There you are… how did you get there?” he asked the scroll.

“What is that?” Alroy asked impatiently.

Karsha chuckled. “It is the Queen. She wishes for all to know that Lady Danielle is appointed Chancellor of the Realm, to speak with her voice. So, my lord, as you see, it is the Queen’s voice you are hearing.”

Alroy extended a hand for the small scroll, slipped the knot, and examined the half-dozen scribbled lines of ink it bore, while Danielle glared down her nose at him in silence. Alroy’s cheeks paled with anger, save for two ugly blotches of pink.

He searches for a way to defy us, even now, Danielle realized. You foolish, arrogant boy.

For a moment, she thought Alroy might crumple the parchment or throw it into the fire, but at the last moment he cast it on the table with disdain.

“This changes nothing,” he declared sulkily. “I will not endanger my people for the sake of a piece of parchment.”

“Your people are in no danger, unless you persist in defying your queen,” Danielle said sharply.

“I will not endanger my people!” Alroy shouted, and his mailed fist crashed onto the tabletop. “All winter they endured attacks from the Temple. All winter they went hungry and trembled in their own homes from fear. I will defy any command that puts them in harm’s way!”

“Harm’s way?” a voice at Danielle’s side asked, seething with condemnation. She turned in surprise as Eilidh stepped forward, her face a pale mask. “You murdered Temple rangers. You hung them in cages, and your people suffered for it! And now your pride will make them suffer again!”

“Villains and rogues,” Alroy countered. “It was they who burned the granaries.”

“You mean the ones who survived the slaughter your soldiers inflicted on the Temple?” Eilidh spat back.

“The Temple soldiers chose to fight, rather than obey the Queen’s order.”

“My sister never ordered you to massacre Temple soldiers,” Danielle snapped. “That crime is yours.”

“How dare you?” Alroy’s voice squeaked and broke with outrage. “You beg me to open my gates, then snarl at me like a dog. I should have you arrested.”

“We are envoys,” Danielle reminded him.

“That will not protect you if you threaten my city,” Alroy said smugly.

“You misunderstand,” Danielle said coldly. “It is you who are protected by the codes of embassy. Break them at your peril.”

There was sudden silence in the room, and Alroy shrank against the rigid back of his chair.

“Well, I think that is all that needs be said,” Karsha Hali spoke into the quiet. “We will leave you to consider with your counsellors.”

“Consider what?” Alroy asked.

“Consider whether your gates will open for us,” Karsha said reasonably. “Or whether we will open them for you.”

“Never!” Alroy proclaimed, though his eyes were wide with fear and injured pride. “I will never open the gates of Newbridge to a Temple army. I would rather watch the city burn.”

“Ponder well,” Karsha told the Lord of Newbridge, and though his voice was quiet it seemed to cut deeper than Alroy’s ranting. “But do not ponder long. We shall return soon.”

The ride down the hill passed more quickly than the ride up, though Danielle expected every gate to be barred against them. But there was no crash of a portcullis dropping, no harsh commands to halt them, no hiss of arrows, and they were soon passed into the brightness of the fields beyond the wall.

“What a disaster,” she muttered.

“Your temper was not your friend,” Karsha reprimanded her.

“My temper? He did nothing save insult me from the moment we entered the room. He is fortunate I held my temper.”

“Insults? Pfft,” Karsha replied, and he waved his scrawny hand in the air as if batting at flies. “What care do I have for what a louse thinks of me?”

“What would you have me do?” Danielle demanded. “Thank him for spitting on Gabrielle’s command?”

“There are many ways to pull a snake’s fangs,” Karsha replied. “Exchanging bites is not one of them.”

“He deserves to be hanged,” Eilidh said stubbornly.

“Deserves?” Karsha laughed, a horrible, creaking sound. “Deserves is a myth, told by devils to torment the unfortunate. Deserves does not win battles, nor deliver justice. It ensnares reason, it blinds vision. Deserves is a fool’s cry.”

“Are you calling me a fool?” Eilidh demanded.

“Examine yourself and decide,” Karsha replied, and there was no trace of the good-natured chiding that usually accompanied his corrections. “Judge what you have accomplished and think on what paths remain to us.”

Danielle spent the remaining ride back to the encampment angrily attempting to avoid any such contemplation, but she knew her spite should rightfully be directed at herself. Damn Karsha, he is right. My failure was not to want justice, it was to leap into the pit with Alroy, and match curse for curse. He is an embittered child, what is my excuse?

Roland and Faron awaited them at the pavilion, but their early return dampened any hopes, and Faron was nodding his head in slow acceptance before they had dismounted.

“It did not go well?” Roland guessed.

“No,” Karsha replied bluntly. “Alroy has built a righteous pyre, and his pride will not allow him to climb down.”

Danielle felt a rush of gratitude for the gnarled old wizard for diminishing her own role in the failed negotiations, and vowed to attend his counsel more earnestly in the future.

“A shame,” Faron rumbled.

“It is shame that keeps him there,” Karsha said. “Shame that he is weak when he needs to be strong. Bah… did his mother never tell him the tale of the spider and the ant?”

Blank looks met this pronouncement, but he did not seem to notice, and continued to mutter to himself in a language that Danielle did not recognize.

“Then it is siege or attempt a breach,” Arledge declared. “Or abandon the crossing entirely and seek some other strategy.”

“The same options we rejected before,” Roland pointed out. “They have not grown more palatable in the interim.”

“Perhaps not, perhaps, not, yet there does not appear to be an alternative, anymore,” Arledge replied. “It is best we decide on the least of our evils. An assault would spare the long starvation of the people of Newbridge.”

“An assault will not be easy,” Roland cautioned. The Knight Commander turned to Danielle. “Does Alroy have adepts in his service?”

“He does, at least two.”

“Then there is that to consider, as well.”

“Did none of your mothers tell you of the spider and the ant, either?” Karsha wondered.

“I do not know that story,” Danielle replied. “Does it tell how a city might be captured?”

“It does.” Karsha chuckled. “It does, if you listen to what the gods whisper.”

“And?” Roland asked.

“And?” Karsha repeated, astonished. “What more can you want, than the gods’ own words?”

“I believe he means, what does the story tell us?” Danielle explained.

“Ah! It tells us that there is more than one way inside the turtle’s shell.” Karsha grinned horribly. “For those who dare.”

Quick Violence

Killock paused at a stream to cool his skin and refill his canteen. Tall pines soared around him, spear-straight, their gnarled bark a patchwork of frosted greens and rubbed reds, and soft hummocks of moss covered in tiny purple flowers carpeted the ground. The trees’ canopy stirred languidly and vibrant color burst forth wherever dappled sunlight struck, golden greens and royal purples, warm and welcoming.

Refreshed, he continued upstream toward the crest of the low ridge of hills to the east. The slope steepened as it rose and cracked stone bluffs appeared, but the stream had found the easiest path between them.

He clambered to the top of one weathered escarpment and was treated to a vista of eastern valleys shimmering beneath an azure sky. He squinted into the haze that lined the horizon and found the markers he sought, twists and wrinkles of land as familiar as the creases in his own skin.

Almost there. Killock lifted his face to the sun as a curl of wind reached his perch and flapped his cloak against his legs. Another two days, perhaps three, and we’ll reach the Inn at the Ford.

He found a lumpen stone to sit upon and dangled his feet over the short drop beneath his outcropping. Three days. Too long.

The husks were close, clawing at the heels of the refugees like a rising tide. Single husks were a constant menace, and larger groups were now appearing, five or six at a time, loping between the trees as the defenders raced to confront them. Killock had spent the previous night ranging through the forest along the refugees’ trail, and had found the path swarming with husks, flooding eastward.

We may have escaped their path, but enough followed us east to cause real trouble, and they’ll reach us tonight, long before we reach the Inn. And what shelter would the Inn be? he wondered. It had a simple palisade, proof against wolves and the idle interest of bears and trolls, but it would not stand against an implacable attack. No, the hope of the Inn lay in the road that ran beside it, the Seann Rathad. That ancient path was the artery that connected the hinterlands to the heart of the realm and was the route that General Boone would use to return to the south.

Killock hoped to find scouts or a messenger resting at the Inn, or, with luck, a company of soldiers, breaking their long march south.

A slim hope, and it’s vanishing quickly, he realized. He could race ahead, risking everything on finding aid that could come to their rescue. A day to the Inn, for me. A day for any help to reach the refugees. Perhaps that is soon enough, perhaps not. He shook his head grimly. If there is help to be had.

His gaze wandered over the eastern valley, then was drawn northward, along the broad crest of the ridgeline. A frown furrowed his brow as he considered the ranks of trees, and he closed his eyes. For a moment, he sensed only the ancient stone beneath him and the vast strength of the forest surrounding him. But within that strength there was a subtle tug, as of a thread being pulled from cloth, that drew him north.

Killock scrambled from his perch and followed. He passed through glades as hushed as a temple to a small meadow, filled with swaying, golden tufts of grass. Fat bees droned in the sunshine, flying heavily from perch to perch among the thistles and heather that dotted the meadow.

He paused on the outskirts, suddenly loathe to enter. The hard steel of his sword at his side, the stiff creak of his leather vest, and the heavy tread of his boots were in all ways alien to the meadow, harsh intruders that had no place there.

His gaze was drawn to the center of the meadow, where a small mound covered in bright pink flowers broke through the surface of the grass. He picked his way toward it, careful to push aside the tall stems without harm, until he stood at its base.

Stones lay beneath the flower-bedecked shrub, most tumbled with time into random patterns. But some few remained stacked upon one another in a rough wall, waist-high, almost completely hidden. Killock crouched and ran his fingertips across the weather-smooth surface of the stones. Subtle patterns still endured, ancient glyphs and runes, dedications of long-forgotten devotion.

No, not forgotten, he realized, as the gossamer touch that had led him to the meadow returned to brush against his thoughts. He stood and peered about the glade, chasing the fleeting touch as if it were a dandelion puff on the breeze. It faded and returned and then faded again, until he despaired of finding it.

And then a flash of movement caught his gaze. A tiny figure darted between the trees, lithe as a slender sapling and clothed in whisps of cloud and sunlight, her glossy feathers dappled with leafy shade and a hawk’s dark bands.

Killock watched as she approached the edge of the meadow, her step suddenly sly as she peered around the trunk of a tall ash. The small figure giggled with the sound of a breeze stirring summer leaves, then pranced happily into the meadow, until she leapt and spun upon the ancient stones of the shrine at its center.

She came to a halt an arm’s-length away from Killock, her eyes wide as she tilted her head, first one way and then the next. The sylph’s head barely reached Killock’s hip, and he suddenly felt large and clumsy as he loomed over her. She bowed to him, and Killock returned the courtesy with a smile, only to have a gust of wind curl through his legs and whip his cloak over his head.

The sylph burst into laughter while Killock disentangled himself, then chattered to him in a tongue that trilled and bubbled like birdsong.

“My lady…” Killock tried, but the spirit hardly paused, hopping from one foot to the next and spinning on her toes as she chirped happily to him.

Killock kneeled to bring his face closer to her height and tried again. “My lady, you are in danger.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed in wonder. “Atiri toutonaru kara akta kai!” She stood on her toes and reached to touch Killock’s cheeks, and he held his breath as her tiny fingers traced the wiry tangle of his beard and the sharp ridge of his nose. “Atiri akta kai…” she whispered reverently.

“My lady, there is not much time. The dead have risen, and they will soon be here.”

The sylph prodded Killock’s cheek with a sharp finger. “A tchai antami, Atiri?” she asked. She pinched his cheek and wiggled the skin stretched between her finger and thumb. “Ooh, alonde das!” she giggled.

“My lady, you must leave,” Killock urged her.

The spirit released his cheek and gently stroked his hair and patted his head consolingly. “Menachai rondo kabat, Atiri akta kai,” she assured him, her voice a gentle whisper of leaves stirring in the breeze. “Rondo rondo, khami ruhi harahara.”

Killock blinked as the wind rustled the tall grass, and the spirit vanished.

He sat on his heels and listened to the gentle rasp of the tall grass swaying, the creak of tree limbs, the long sigh of the forest’s breath as the wind stirred it, uncaring of the cool dampness of the earth beneath his knees as the sun warmed his brow.

The sound of the wind spirit’s voice had stirred an ache of longing in his chest. Though the words themselves were meaningless to him, they resonated with the quiet comfort he felt at the shrine. They urged him to set aside temples and kingdoms and steel and walk beneath the shade of the trees unburdened.

He could feel the forest’s vast canopy baking in the sun’s warmth, an ocean of rippling green that blanketed rolling hills and filled valleys into the hazy distance, until its white-dusted fringes burst upon the jagged stones and ice of distant mountains. He could sense the cool shade that spread beneath the trees, rich with the scent of soft earth and ancient growth, a vast domain of tranquil shadows and vibrant life that throbbed with the same heartbeat that pounded in his chest.

Killock closed his eyes and breathed in the scents of fecund earth and warm grass, and it seemed that the forest held its breath as well. Then he exhaled and climbed wearily to his feet, and the forest stirred once more, the gentle buzz of bees blending with the sigh of leaves.

He lingered in the meadow until he heard the distant sounds of the refugees approaching, the call of voices and the faint clank of metal drifting to him through the trees. With a last deep breath he left the meadow and strode down the slope toward the sounds, until he spotted them as they struggled through a bramble-infested defile.

Killock’s gaze roamed across the group until he found a small figure ascending a rocky path to the side of the ragged procession, accompanied by three children, though Killock snorted incredulously as he realized the meagre span of years that separated the leader from the three youngsters. Mairi was almost as tall as Wyn, and Colin, the lad who was Mairi’s shadow, was taller. Aileen, the youngest of the trio, was still small enough to be lifted over roots and stones in their path, though Wyn made a great show of puffing and groaning with effort every time she did.

The group paused at the summit of the small prominence they had just conquered and spent a moment waving at the refugees as they trudged past. Happy laughter drifted through the trees to Killock, and he saw downcast faces lift and brighten as they turned upward to greet the quartet. Wyn turned suddenly, her gaze darting among the trees until it met Killock’s, and she strode toward him, blonde hair plastered to her neck and dirt smudged on her cheek, as her charges followed after her like ducklings.

“Where have you been?” Wyn demanded as she drew near. “We’ve been mucking about all morning, and if there’s a root in this place that someone hasn’t tripped over, I haven’t seen it. I thought you were going to find us a trail?”

“You are on it,” Killock replied. “Near enough.”

“What trail? All I see is trees and dirt.” Wyn waved irritably at the air in front of her face. “And horrible midges.”

Killock knelt to greet Aileen, who clung to Wyn’s hand as she stammered a few words in reply, then stood to be introduced to the boy, who adopted such a stern countenance that Wyn was forced to ruffle his hair, which turned his cheeks pink.

“Will we reach safety soon?” Mairi asked in a somber voice that matched her gaze. “Only, Da told Reverend Geraint we couldn’t stop to rest no more.”

“Not for several days,” Killock replied. The young faces blanched, and Aileen’s breath caught, and Wyn glared at him and twitched her head toward the children until he continued quickly, “though you have crossed more than half the distance, which is very well done.”

“These ones aren’t fussed by a bit of walking, are they,” Wyn agreed. “They’ve come through worse.”

“You certainly have,” Killock said gravely. “And with great courage. I have rarely seen the like.”

“Walking isn’t too bad, it’s being scared all of the time that’s hard,” Mairi said glumly. “I don’t feel very brave.”

“And yet you persist, despite your fear,” Killock said gently. “That is what courage is.”

“You never seem scared.” Mairi glanced from Killock to Wyn. “Neither of you.”

“Don’t be daft,” Wyn admonished her. “My tummy gets all squirmy, every time.”

“It does?” Mairi asked.

“Yeah, it’s horrible.” Wyn grimaced and patted the offending abdomen in question, while Mairi gazed at her with such worship in her eyes that Killock turned away to conceal a smile of pride that would certainly have caused great chagrin to its target.

They walked toward the rest of the refugees, and Killock pointed out a stream that had cut an easy path to follow.

“A stream, brilliant,” Wyn replied. She tugged on Killock’s sleeve and led him aside a few paces before continuing in a low, carefully reasonable voice. “Look, it’s useless me stuck back here with this lot. I don’t know where we’re going, that’s certain as sunshine. Them two Murtry lads knew best at each turn. I should be out here with you.”

“They need you more than you know,” Killock told her gently. “One can be lost, even when the trail is clear.”

“That makes no sense,” Wyn grumped sulkily, but she did not argue further, and followed him as they rejoined the refugees.

“Sir Killock,” Geraint gasped in welcome. “Thank the Maker. I feared we had gone astray.”

“You have done well,” the templar assured the old priest. “On the far side of this ridge there is a valley that will lead you east. It has found the gentlest path for you and will take you to the road where it fords a stream next to an inn. If you press on, you should reach the ford in three days.”

“Three more days.” The old man sighed. “The heart is willing, but the body less so. I fear that some of us do not have the strength to keep on as we are for three more days.”

Killock nodded, his gaze considering the slow-moving column of refugees entangled in the thicket. Many tottered in a weary daze, eyes dull as they followed the heels of the person before them. The younger and heartier coaxed their companions onward, but they, too, were exhausted from carrying extra packs and traversing the same earth multiple times as they helped those less able.

Geraint is correct, the knight realized. They will need to rest more often if they are to make it to the road. Four days are more likely than three.

“Rest when you reach the next valley,” Killock decided. “There is a wide stream there to follow until you reach a place where it falls into a deep pool with a stony beach on the north bank. Make camp there for the night. You will find ample driftwood for fires and fish to catch for dinner.”

“An idyllic haven,” Geraint said wistfully. He frowned, his leathery skin wrinkling like old parchment. “Do you think we truly have time for rest? Are the… are they still following us?”

“They are,” Killock told the old priest. He could sense the husks like a stone hurled into a still pool, ripples of disquiet passing through the forest, emanating from the west, leaving behind a stillness that presaged the storm of their arrival. “They will be here before midnight.”

“Midnight? Martyr’s tears, so soon?” the old man groaned. “Will they not find us if we stop?”

“No,” Killock said grimly. “Not tonight.”

“Lad, what are you going to do?” Geraint asked softly. “There are some amongst us who can fight, you do not have to do something foolish.”

“No, nothing foolish, but I am needed here, tonight.”

Geraint nodded, concern and confusion warring for dominance on his kindly face, but he turned without another word and rejoined the straggling line of refugees to cajole them over the ridge with promises of rest on the other side.

“We’re fighting here, then?” Wyn asked. She glanced across the forested slope, her brow creased and her hands planted firmly on her hips as she surveyed the terrain. “Not bad, I suppose. Plenty of places to hide, and that little cliff at the top should make for a lovely quick getaway when it’s time to go.”

Killock felt himself smile, pride momentarily overwhelming the weary acknowledgement that he had known this argument was coming.

“No,” Killock told her. “Just me.”

“What?” Wyn asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re having a laugh.”

“No joke. Look where we are, Wyn. This is no city street. This is the realm of the hunter. The hawk, the wolf. To strike and slip away, deeper into the forest, to hunt and strike again. I will fight better alone.”

“What stuff,” Wyn disagreed, her voice rising. “Who cares whether it’s trees or walls? Sneaking in the shadows is sneaking in the shadows, and you’ll not find someone better at that than me. Anyway, I’ve seen hawks in Kuray, and they do very nicely, thank you very much, so they don’t care about trees or walls, either. There’re hundreds of those husks coming. I can help, and you know it.”

“I do. I know you can help these people get to safety, no matter what happens here, tonight.”

Wyn’s eyes closed to fierce slits and her chin jutted forward, and Killock knew he had made a mistake.

“I’m not running away,” she hissed. “If you think that I’m going to hide, nice and safe, you’re mad. I’ve killed more of those bastards than I can count, and I don’t mind adding a hundred more to that tally tonight.”

Killock drew in a deep breath against a sudden tightness in his chest. He could sense the coming battle as if it were a storm lurking beyond the horizon, a leaden weight that stilled the air and crushed the spirit. He could see the husks boiling up the slope in an unending rush as clearly as if the vision were memory, could feel the desperate lunge of steel against tearing blade and rending grasp, the knife’s edge of chance between the leap to safety and the rip of the unseen thrust through flesh.

“I’m not asking you to hide,” Killock tried. “I’m asking you to protect these people.”

“Fighting here is protecting them.”

“Wyn, go.” Killock held her gaze, willing her to relent. “Go, guide those people, protect them. That’s your mission, not staying here.”

“Oh, orders, is it?” Wyn snorted. “I’m staying.”

“No, not orders,” Killock said flatly. He forced his voice to be cold, harsh. “Just reason. They need you, I do not.”

The hurt that twisted Wyn’s face nearly drove him to relent, to gather her close to keep her safe inside the arc of his blade, or to beg her to flee to soothe the fear that clutched at his heart. But he did neither.

Wyn shook her head defiantly and turned away before she could be betrayed by the quiver of her chin and the red rim of her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll see you whenever you need me, then,” she muttered and strode after the refugees without looking back.

Killock watched them go. Geraint was the last to disappear over the ridge. He paused at the top, looked back for a moment, and raised one hand hesitantly in farewell before hurrying after his flock.

A trek along the ridgeline revealed an outcropping of stone that jutted from the earth, its craggy face as sheer as a city wall and almost as high. He clambered up by way of a narrow chimney and found a shelf wide enough to rest on.

Killock considered the plunge beneath the lip and the high stone wall behind it and nodded, satisfied. Then he dropped back to the forest floor and prepared to hunt.

A low, heavy moon sent shafts of silver light lancing between the trees and drew long shadows as black as ink across the forest floor.

A husk loped toward the ridge, jerking with each step as if dragged by a string, but quick despite its awkward gait. Rotting cloth clung to it like ragged weeds, torn and fluttering, and it grasped an ancient blade eaten by rust. Great fissures had torn its withered flesh across cheeks and neck, and empty sockets leered as it lunged up the slope.

A soft sigh split the air and the husk’s skull shattered as a long shaft with a shining steel point drove through it. The husk was flung off its feet and slid down the embankment into a narrow gully, its arms and legs flailing and clawing uselessly in the thick dirt as it tumbled. Brambles shook as the husk thrashed and tore at them in a spasm of ferocity, but its movements were unguided and slowly lost their strength as the husk settled deeper in the thicket.

Killock nocked another arrow and drew the flights to his cheek. A flicker of movement, a shape shifting between two trees, caught his gaze. He twisted slightly, exhaled, and released the arrow with his breath. Bone shattered with a thick crunch and another figure tumbled down the slope.

His bow creaked as another shaft was drawn back, then thrummed as he freed the shot, and a long rip of steel through air ended with the hollow impact of punctured metal.

Another arrow slid slowly across the polished wood of his bow as his gaze swept the shadows. A gust of wind sighed through the trees as if the forest drew breath, and the stillness that followed slowly filled with the creak and snap of wood and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot, a stir of sound that crept from the darkness like the first infiltration of the tide onto the shore.

The bars of silver moonlight stirred with movement, dark figures appearing and disappearing like phantoms as they passed through the light and into shadow.

Killock counted a dozen before he stopped. The number no longer mattered.

His arrow hissed into the face of the first husk to reach the fallen tree that marked Killock’s prepared range, shattering its skull and flinging it down the slope. Killock stepped into the moonlight and a stir passed through the withered figures massed on the slope below him, their gaunt features turned toward him, their gaping mouths black holes.

The horde surged toward him and Killock ran, his long strides carrying him smoothly over jagged rock and twisted root across the steep slope toward the gully, as the husks poured after him, voiceless. Killock reached the ragged edge of the gully and loped across a log wedged from lip to lip, pausing on the far side to let the husks close even further before kicking the impromptu bridge free.

The husks surged to the edge and lurched to a stop, staggering against one another. Several toppled into the gully and several more followed them, slithering down the steep embankment and thrashing among the brambles, where they discovered the sharp stakes Killock had planted along the sides. The husks clawed at the crumbling walls and wedged themselves more firmly on the stakes, but they could not climb free.

More husks plunged into the gully, mindless in their quest to reach the knight as he waited for them on the opposite rim. Dozens writhed in the shredded brambles, enough that some were able to climb higher on the bodies of the ones crushed to the bottom.

Killock knelt and retrieved the torch he had concealed beneath a nearby shrub and struck sparks to it. The oil-soaked cloth took the flame eagerly and blazed into life, hissing and snapping. Killock watched the husks struggle in the orange glare for a moment, then dropped the torch into a tangle of dead bracken at the bottom of the cleft.

Fire streaked through the withered twists of wood and found purchase in the dry flesh of the husks. Skin hissed as it blackened and burst with the heat, and black smoke poured from the gaping fissures. Killock watched the fire spread, until the glare of the flames sent a thousand dancing shadows through the trees and bathed the writhing mass of husks in amber and orange.

Slowly the horde spread along the opposite lip of the gully as they searched for a way around the flames. Killock led them down the slope, until he was certain the bulk of his foes were moving downhill with him, then he faded into the gloom and began to lope in the opposite direction, upward, toward the ridge. Some few dozen husks had been pushed along the gully in that direction, and Killock paused to watch them scramble and claw their way upward, until they had passed him by.

His blade whispered into his hand, and then he rose from his concealment and sped after his prey. Steel hissed as it cut through withered flesh and he was gone into the darkness before the husk’s body could topple after its severed head. Another fell, and then another, as Killock moved among them, never slowing, a flicker of steel and a brush of movement caught in the moonlight before he slipped away again.

Two quick blows to a husk’s back sent it tumbling into a snarl of holly bushes, where it thrashed and tore against the entangling stems, its struggles summoning every husk within earshot. Killock moved silently between them, his blade a whisper from the shadows that left corpses sprawled in the dirt.

A dozen husks fell, but more took their place, surging between the trees. Killock could no longer prey on them in ones and twos, so he turned his blade to brutal work. Its edge sliced skin and shattered bone as he struck, and it scraped against rusted metal and rotted wood as he turned their clumsy thrusts aside.

Killock measured his strikes as best as he could, a precious few in the moments before he had to scramble away, lest the horde engulf him. His breath tore at his throat and his arms blazed with fire as he struck again and again, his fingers numb from the shock of steel against bone, against blade, against jerkin and helm.

Killock’s boots slipped as he danced backward, and a hooked axe snatched at his blade instead of being turned cleanly aside. Killock wrenched his sword free and stumbled back as outstretched hands clutched at his tunic with long, torn fingers. A twisted dagger scraped across his shoulder guard and ripped a jagged path down his arm, and a rune-engraved axe, black and pitted with rust, hissed past his face so closely that he felt its passage stir the air against his cheek.

Killock’s sword arced through a tight spiral that sliced cleanly through an outstretched wrist and smashed a leering face into a shower of flesh and bone, and he lurched away before his foe could fill the space he had carved. He scrambled over twisted roots and past jagged stone. The husks pursued him in a rush, pouring through every gap in the trees. He could hear their footfalls, the grate of metal against stone, the rasp of flesh against bark, grinding behind him like a gale surging through the forest.

He dashed through a narrow gap between two boulders, twisted suddenly and drove his sword beneath the jaw of his closest pursuer, then kicked its corpse onto the husks behind, plugging the narrow path for a moment with a temporary cork made of tangled limbs. Then he turned and raced up the slope, his legs churning as he strove against the leaden weight of his boots for every scrap of speed left to him.

The slope grew steeper, and Killock sheathed his blade so that he could haul himself upward with both hands, clinging and shoving against the tree trunks that burst through the cracked stone of the escarpment. A jagged tower of stone loomed above him, the rearing outcrop upon which he had surveyed his battlefield in the distant past of the afternoon sun.

He swerved to the side and stumbled into the deep shadow of the ragged chimney that led to the summit, his fingers scrambling for purchase. He heaved upward, straining for distance as the husks surged into the cleft behind him. Metal struck against stone a hand’s-breadth beneath his boot, and Killock yanked himself higher, as his limbs shrieked with weary fire.

He groaned with relief as his fingers curled over the lip of the wide ledge at the chimney’s top, and he hauled himself over and rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. A half-dozen quick gulps of air and then a long, steadying inhale and exhale, and he rolled onto his knees and pushed himself upright.

Well, it worked, he decided as he gazed down from his perch. Dozens of husks pressed against the base of the outcrop, with more arriving every moment. And further away, a long bowshot through the trees, the bars of moonlight seethed with movement as the hundreds more who had been fooled into taking the longer route around the bottom of the gully now returned to the fray. They’re all coming here instead of following the refugees.

Killock quickly checked the supplies he had stashed against the back of the ledge earlier that day. His pack and spare arrows, dry wood for fire, and, most importantly, a great pile of the heaviest stones he had managed to hoist to his lofty redoubt.

There was also food and water to last for days, if he was careful. Probably for much longer than would be required, he decided morosely. He could hear the husks scrambling up the stone even now, and a quick glance revealed a nightmare of gaping mouths and straining limbs boiling up the narrow chimney toward him.

What the husks lacked in mountaineering skills they made up for in inexhaustible perseverance, their bodies wedged so tightly into the space that husks were crawling over each other to reach the top.

Killock grimaced. Dropping a stone into that will do no good. He had hoped to dislodge the climbers one at a time, carefully selecting the moment to send a cascade of bodies plunging down, but he doubted the mass jammed into the chimney would feel the effect of anything smaller than a proper boulder.

He had precisely one of those, a jagged chunk that he had pried loose from the back of the ledge, so large he could barely lift it, and he had hoped to save that for when his situation had turned truly desperate.

Perhaps that’s now? he wondered as he frowned at the rapidly approaching husks.

The first of the husks to reach the top of the chimney met the edge of his sword. The long steel sliced easily through skin and bone and sent the husk plummeting into the cleft with its arms tumbling after it. The templar hewed as if he were hacking at brush with a scythe, and his sword rose and fell methodically as each husk reached the top. The falling husks occasionally tore gaps in the ascending horde, and Killock used those brief respites to stretch his shoulders and peer over the edge at the growing crowd at the base of the outcrop.

The horde pressed relentlessly forward, but the teeming mass had already overflowed the rocky approaches and spilled onto the slopes on the outcrop’s flanks.

Killock grunted in displeasure. He cut savagely at the next husk to reach the top, dropped several stones after it for good measure, and snatched up his bow. Three quick shots ripped toward the husks skirting his fortress to the south and sent flailing bodies tumbling down the hillside, then Killock pivoted smoothly and took aim at the lurching figures that scrambled toward the summit on the north flank.

Arrows flickered through the gloom as he fired methodically, the steel-tipped shafts tearing flesh and shattering bone until a half-dozen figures sprawled amongst the boulders.

A scrape of metal on stone from the chimney announced that Killock’s attention was needed at its lip. Husks clambered onto the ledge in a nightmare wave, clawing their way over the lip and staggering to their feet. Killock strode to meet them, and his blade bit deep into flesh and bone as he hewed at the husks.

Hands clutched at him, and withered fingers scraped across leather and tore at cloth as they twisted him toward the ground. Killock wrenched his sword arm free and hacked at the swarm of husks, his blade grinding against the rusted links of an ancient hauberk before hissing through desiccated flesh. He staggered under the press of bodies, his boot sliding across broken stone to the very lip of the ledge before it found purchase.

A twist of moonlight caught a fluttering silhouette as it plunged from the cliff above him. The small figure landed on the husk nearest him, boots first into the husk’s back, legs locked to drive the creature mercilessly into the stone. Then the figure tumbled between two more husks, and steel flashed as twin curved blades sliced through withered skin and flesh.

The figure paused for a moment to gaze at Killock over her shoulder.

“Knew you needed me,” Wyn taunted. He caught a gleam of white teeth in the darkness beneath her hood before she whirled away, and her blades hissed beneath the outstretched arms of the husks to tear through their flesh.

Killock shoved his fingers beneath the boulder and heaved, his legs quivering with the strain. The stone slab shifted, rock ground and splintered, and then it was rolling, plunging into the narrow cleft with astounding violence. Stone cracked against stone with enough force to shake the ground, and flesh tore apart in a spray of gore and shattered bone.

He forced himself to rise and turn to fight, but there was no need. With a determined grunt, Wyn kicked the last of the husks off the edge, snorted, and spat after it. Her fierce glare melted into a satisfied grin as she traced the path of the spittle to the ground.

“Got ’im,” she crowed. She turned to greet Killock, smug as a kitten in an empty milk pail. “Hot work up here, eh?”

“Warm enough,” he agreed. He sloshed a gulp of tepid water down his throat, then offered the canteen to Wyn.

“Well… shouldn’t be too hard with two of us, right?” she asked, her chin lifted so that she could peer down her nose in satisfaction.

“We’ll see,” he allowed. He recovered his bow and moved to the edge. The forest beneath him still thronged with husks, pressed against the cliff wall. The boulder had turned the chimney into an abattoir, but already more husks were wading into its base, stamping the thick remains of their comrades into slush in their haste. More husks clambered up the slopes on either side of the escarpment, and Killock knew it was just a matter of time before they flung themselves onto the ledge from above.

“Watch the edge,” he instructed, and he began to shoot methodically, reach and pull and release, peppering the distant husks as they searched for a way around the sheer face of stone. Bodies slumped over or tumbled into the cracks between boulders as the hail of arrows swept over them, and none reached the top of the slope.

Wyn cursed steadily as she dropped rocks down the chimney, calling out hits and misses with equal vehemence, and Killock entrusted their defense to her resolute assault as he drew another arrow and slowly surveyed the slope beneath him, searching for an end to their foe.

The sweep of his gaze slowed and came to rest on a tall, pale figure that watched him from the murk at the base of a twisted pine. The arrow tip wavered for a moment, then steadied as Killock drew back and let fly.

The shaft hissed across the distance in an instant and shattered against the figure’s pale skin, then a grinding shriek twisted into the air, louder with each heartbeat, as the figure sprang forward, bounding from boulder to boulder in great leaps as its cry reverberated from the cliff face.

“A wight!” Killock cried out in warning as he dropped his bow and ripped his sword from its sheath.

In the next instant the pale figure appeared over the edge of the precipice as if hurled from a siege engine. It wielded a long blade as white as frost, and its black gaze was locked on Killock. He heard the hiss of air through its bared fangs and the long sigh of its blade as it plunged toward him, and he twisted desperately and whipped his sword upward.

Its rune-engraved steel caught the wight’s pale blade a hand’s-breadth from his neck, and the metal shrieked as it guided the wight’s thrust to the side. Killock staggered as the force of the attack sent sparks of pain lancing through his wrist, and the wight pressed forward in a rush, slamming its shoulder into the knight.

Killock’s breath exploded from his chest as he was flung backward. One boot caught and then he was tumbling, arms and legs smacking against stone until he sprawled to a stop. He fought his way to his hands and knees as the ledge swayed around him, wrenched his sword free from a tangle of quiver and cloak and raised it to ward against the onslaught that was surely hissing through the air toward him.

Wyn’s knives flashed as she slid beneath the wight’s sword, and their razor edges carved long slashes in the wight’s skin, a latticework that crossed neck and torso. But her steel rasped against skin as hard as stone and left only the faintest of lines to score the wight’s alabaster flesh.

The wight hissed as it lunged after Wyn’s twisting form, its blade a lethal blur. Wyn danced away but the wight pursued her relentlessly. She leapt back and collided with the cliff, then curled beneath the wight’s sword as it carved through the stone face, sending slivers of rock across the ledge in an angry spray. Wyn rolled quickly to her feet, her knives scoring the wight across the back of its knee as she passed, and the tip of its pale sword tore only cloth as it sighed in pursuit of her twisting form.

Killock lurched to his feet. A husk lunged at him with a twisted dagger, but he swept it aside with his steel, then split a second husk from neck to chest with a savage blow as it hurled itself between Killock and the wight. More husks surged onto the ledge, and the knight growled in frustration as he strained against the press to reach Wyn’s side. His gaze flickered to the pale figure of the wight as it pursued Wyn’s shifting shadow, gone an instant before its cold blade reached her time and again, but only by the narrowest of margins.

A wild, scything blow cleared the husks away for an instant, and Killock hurled himself forward, his blade high as he closed with the wight. It lashed at him, hissing eagerly as he neared. Killock twisted away from the blow and guided it aside, his sword quivering from the force of the impact. Then Killock lunged, and his blade extended in a lethal thrust that took the wight beneath its jaw and lifted it from its feet. The Gravewarden’s runes along the sword’s blade smoked as it sliced through the wight’s flesh and burst into the moonlight behind its skull, and the pale creature shrieked as it clawed uselessly at the blade’s steel.

Killock let the wight slide free from his sword and stepped away as its death throes scarred the stone beneath it, but he had no time to enjoy his triumph. Husks boiled out of the chimney and onto the narrow ledge. A dozen scurried towards him as more pressed in behind.

“Let’s go!” Wyn screamed, and she pulled Killock toward the end of the ledge, leading him onto a narrow shelf barely wide enough to place his boots. “Killock! Come on!”

Killock risked a glance at the plunge down the jagged cliffside to the steep slope at its base, strewn with cast-off boulders and staked with twisted trees. Husks crawled through the gloom beneath them, too many to count in the moment he had to spare.

Wyn leaped across the cliff face, hands and feet barely touching the rocks as she found a path toward the ground. She sprang from a small outthrust of rock and arced over a husk scrambling among the boulders beneath her. She twisted gracefully, like a raptor curving towards its prey, and her blades sang as they sliced through its neck. Wyn landed and rolled to her feet in a rush of movement and was among the remaining husks before Killock could blink.

The knight gathered himself and launched from the lip of stone before he could think about the plunge. His boots sought the same creases he had seen Wyn use as if they were the broad steps of a sweeping staircase, but they found no purchase, and he clawed desperately at the stone as he slammed into the cliff.

His hand smacked against stone then pulled free in a shower of dirt and he tumbled. Stone and sky twisted around him for an eternity before he struck. Branches snapped and ripped, then he landed with a thud that jarred the breath from his chest.

He managed to draw in a single, wheezing breath, enough to groan as he dragged his feet underneath him and pushed himself upright.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered, and he spat to clear the hot tang of blood from his mouth.

By some miracle his sword was still in its sheath, and the first husks to find him fell beneath a flurry of brutal strikes from the long steel. Killock hacked the last of them aside and then leaped down the slope after Wyn, trusting his feet to find purchase amongst the jumbled shapes of rock and root that covered the hillside.

Wyn waited for him at the base of the slope, long stripes of grime marking her pale skin like paint.

“Which way?” Wyn gasped. She peered into the gloom between the tall trees for any sign of a path to safety.

“West.” Killock pointed toward a jagged ridgeline rearing above the trees. “Lead them away from the trail of the refugees.”

Wyn nodded. “Find us a way up. I’ll make sure no one catches us.”

“All right, but I—”

Killock caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, a rush of pale skin and black talons that exploded from the darkness between the nearby trees. It was on them in an instant, and he only had time to push Wyn aside and raise his sword.

The wight’s blow wrenched Killock’s blade from stinging fingers and sent it spiraling into the bushes. He staggered and hurled himself aside as the wight struck again.

The wight shrieked and pursued him, and Killock rolled desperately away as the soft earth was ripped apart where he had lain an instant before. He spotted the bare steel of his sword lodged amid the gnarled roots of a tree, and he scrambled on hands and feet toward it, but the wight was faster, and its talons tore the earth as it hurled itself after him.

Wyn darted at the wight, knives flashing. One blade sliced across its throat while the other jabbed into its ribs, but neither cut deep enough to cause harm. The wight twisted after her and she ducked, whirled, and launched into a flying kick as all her lithe strength and speed exploded beneath the wight’s chin.

Its head snapped back with a sharp crack, but the creature was not stunned, and it swatted Wyn away as if she were no more than a fly. Its fist caught her beneath her arm with the flat, wet thud of a mallet against a stake, and she was hurled aside, arms and legs splayed like a doll’s as she tumbled.

Killock’s fingers found the hilt of his sword and he rose with a feral growl. The wight answered with a shriek, the moonlight gleaming on a forest of fangs jutting from black gums, and hurled itself toward the knight.

Its first cut flashed toward Killock’s head, but he bent like a stalk of grass in the wind, and his own sword flickered out and carved a trail across the wight’s chest. The creature’s pale skin split open and black Shadow boiled from the wound, as thick as oil in water.

The wight shrieked again and chased Killock with its sword. He twisted aside, guided the thrust past, then jabbed in return as he leapt away, leaving another smoking wound gouged into the wight’s chest.

But the wight was far from finished. It twisted and struck with the speed of a snake, its sword scything toward Killock’s head. Killock dove beneath the blow and the wight’s sword ripped through the trunk of a tree, spraying splinters like shards of blood.

Killock gathered himself and leapt, and his lunge took the wight beneath its upraised arm. The rune-carved steel slid through the wight’s skin with barely a sigh and plunged deep into its chest before slamming to a stop with an impact that lifted the wight from its feet. The creature shrieked as it twisted against the blade lodged in its chest. Talons raked Killock’s arm as he ripped his blade free and cut again. Steel flashed in a long arc that scythed between head and shoulder, and the wight’s body tumbled heavily to the ground as its head spiraled free in a spray of thick, oily Shadow.

Killock was at Wyn’s side before the wight’s body had slumped to the ground. She had tumbled a short way down the slope, and Killock sank onto his knees next to her.

“Wyn! Wyn, are you hurt?” he asked. He carefully raised her head and wiped a tangle of hair and twigs from her face.

“Yes…” she groaned. Her face was as pale as ivory, her eyes dark pools. “Yes, I’m bloody hurt.”

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.” Wyn clung to his arm as he helped her stand. She winced and pressed her arm against her side, but she did not sway.

“Yeah, legs work. That was exciting…” she muttered as she retrieved her knives.

“Good. Because that thing’s screaming will call every husk in earshot. I only hope that there aren’t any…”

Killock’s voice trailed away. A dreadful echo of the wight’s shriek rose from the forest to the west and was joined by another to the north. The sound grated against Killock’s jaw and made his teeth ache, and when a third voice joined, he cried out, just so that he might hear another sound.

As the calls of the wights finally twisted away, a new sound filled the forest, the shuffling of hundreds of feet, branches snapping, and dry skin against bark.

“I’d like to go and help the refugees fish for supper, now,” Wyn muttered.

“You may have left it a bit late for that,” Killock replied. He gripped his sword more firmly as his aching fingers sought reassurance from the weight of the steel, but there was little strength left to wield it. Pain boiled from the long wounds the wight’s talons had torn in his arm, and every movement found some new hurt from his plummet down the rock face. “As much as you can, lead the wights to me, keep the husks off me.”

Wyn nodded grimly. The husks were close enough to be seen, now, lurching figures that filled the space between the trees to the east and south. The tall, pale figure of a wight led them, and at its cries the husks accelerated.

Killock glanced behind, seeking a path of escape. He could not yet see the other two wights, but he knew they were there, closer with every heartbeat. Is it better to run headlong into them, or fight here against all of them? His jaw set defiantly as he considered his options. I don’t care to be driven like a deer into the trap.

“We make our stand here until the other wights reveal themselves. That will show us our best way out, and we take it,” he told Wyn.

“Easy as wishing,” Wyn replied softly.

The wight reached the edge of their small clearing, and it hissed sharply, directing the horde of husks into a throng at its back. At its feet was the oily black stain that had been its brother, and it crouched low and extended its hand, as if in sympathy. But there was no reverence to its touch. Instead, its talons scraped at the remains of the Shadow and brought it to the wight’s gaping mouth, and the creature licked greedily.

“Fucking shit…” Wyn whispered in disgust.

Killock agreed. The wight’s degradations had bought them a few moments, but their reprieve could not last much longer. The husks waited patiently, now so packed together that they would form an unstoppable wave when released, and Killock felt the urge to flee course through his limbs like fire.

The trees sighed as wind curled through their leaves, and their branches creaked and groaned as if in pain. Somewhere beyond fear and weariness, Killock felt the touch of sun against the vast spread of forest-covered hills, the endless vault of wind and cloud and sky, and his eyes widened as he breathed in the scent of earth and stone.

The wight rose to its full height, black stains marking its jaw and throat, and it spread its arms wide. Corded shapes writhed beneath its white skin, hard as stone, and it opened its mouth.

The air was torn by a rush of movement as a shape plunged onto the pale figure. Killock glimpsed the curve of a vicious beak and long talons sinking into pale flesh, then with a shriek of triumph it was gone, leaving behind a ruin of ripped skin and gaping eye sockets that streamed black Shadow. The wight screamed and lashed out, but its blows were wild, and Killock stepped forward and impaled the wight with a long thrust as it staggered wildly.

More shapes darted amongst the husks now, flickers of movement that were gone almost as soon as they were seen. Killock glimpsed a flash of red fur and white fangs that ripped ankles, a massive, shaggy figure that lashed out with paws the size of dinner plates and sent broken husks tumbling, and swarms of dark wings and flashing beaks that tore at the husks’ withered flesh.

A small shape leapt past Killock, her feathers gleaming as she danced among the lurching figures, flashes of lighting sparking from the tips of her slender fingers. Killock heard bright laughter like a stream bubbling over stones as the sylph wove and spun and vanished once more, leaving behind a trail of smoldering flesh and writhing bodies.

A snorting roar announced the arrival of a boar the size of a boulder, larger than any beast Killock had ever seen. It plunged into the packed mass of husks, tearing and crushing, as its long tusks scythed the withered shapes as if they were wheat in a field. A pack of lean, grey shapes flashed through the fray, fangs ripping, savage howls rising above the tumult.

Wyn was shouting with glee, a wordless exultation that Killock could hardly hear above the bellowing chaos. But he could hear the cries of the wights, rising inexorably above the din. Their pale figures leapt from the shadows, fangs bared as they slashed and hewed at the shapes that darted around them, and the husks responded, surging forward in a relentless wave. Husks clung to the great boar, hacking and tearing at its wiry fur as it reared and bellowed.

“Come on!” Killock barked, his weariness and pain forgotten as he hewed at the husks as if he were clearing a trail of brush. Great sweeping blows cleaved skulls and smashed ribs, with little thought for counter. He caught a glimpse of Wyn, dancing untouched amid clutching hands, a whirlwind of scything death matched by the swirl of darting crows that accompanied her, tearing and gouging and cawing as they dove and struck and then soared away.

He heard a bear roar as a wight darted beneath its raking paws and cut a gaping wound through its shaggy fur, and Killock snarled with rage as he caught the wight between its shoulder blades with a savage thrust.

The bear lumbered away as dark blood soaked its fur, but Killock did not have a moment to ascertain its fate. He searched for the remaining wight, and found it at the heart of the scrum, carving ruin as it leaped and twisted among the clawing figures that surrounded it. Its white skin seemed proof against all but the sharpest fang, and its speed and strength were unmatched.

Killock carved a path through lurching and flailing husks, but his progress was agonizingly slow, and beast after beast fell to the wight’s sword as he struggled nearer.

A tiny figure skipped forward to confront the wight, her scowl fierce as she met the creature’s black gaze. The wight shrieked and leaped at the sylph without hesitation, its sword a pale blur in the shadows.

She screamed, her voice the cry of a hawk, and the air boiled into incandescence. A brilliant spear of jagged lightning caught the wight and forked into the sky, faster than thought. A deafening crack of sound slapped Killock aside and he stumbled to the ground. He could feel moss beneath his fingers, but he could only see the red echo of the shaft of light, could only hear the high wail of silence. He struggled to his knees, slow as frozen mud, his every move clumsy as he blinked to clear his vision.

Wyn’s face swam into view, her eyes wide. She shouted soundlessly, but her meaning was clear enough, and Killock staggered to his feet with her help.

Dim figures lurched at the edges of his vision, quick violence that was gone before his stunned thoughts could comprehend what he had seen. The colossal shape of the boar as it charged and trampled and gored. The flash of sleek fur and sharp fangs as they tore ancient flesh. The silvery streak of a serpent forged from moonlight as it reared and struck.

Wyn had recovered his sword from somewhere, and she pressed it into his hand. The weight of its steel anchored him, and he shook his head violently to clear away the fog that clung to his thoughts.

A quick nod of reassurance to Wyn released her to rejoin the carnage, and he followed her, his blows becoming more certain with each passing instant. But there was not much need for his steel, which was perhaps fortunate.

The last of the husks were brought down or trampled into the mud without him. The great boar gave a satisfied snort and trotted away, somehow passing between trees far too close together for its bulk to possibly fit, as it led their allies back into the forest.

A breeze stirred against Killock’s sweat-streaked skin and the sylph twirled to the ground in front of him, her eyes wide with the joy of the hunt. He bowed to her and she giggled.

“Rondo, Atiri akta kai,” she told him, and then she was gone in a whirl of leaves, and only a pack of gray wolves remained, silently watching from the shadows, their eyes flashing in the darkness. One by one they passed by, each one touching their nose to his hand or licking his fingers, before loping away.

Then they, too, were gone, and he and Wyn stood alone in the center of a vast swath of devastation, with only their panting breath to disturb the gentle silence of the forest.

Careless Friendship

Master Calixte remained in his cabin long after he heard the calls that announced the sighting of the Kuray docks, long after the soothing rush of water along the Vengeance’s hull had dwindled to a gentle trickle as the Guild warship nestled into its berth, long after the dull thumps of the lowering landing bridge reverberated through the ship.

He could picture the view from the deck well enough. Five years of exile in the north had etched the jumbled sprawl of the city into his thoughts like a scar, and he treasured every moment that he did not have to see it.

Calixte turned a page in the book opened across his small desk, his long fingers gentle as they guided the soft vellum. The scent of the Guild archives brushed against his nose, and for a moment he was transported home, back to the sunbaked edifices that soared over the city of Criénne, and the satisfaction of the Great Work that occupied every thought.

The entire ship resonated with the same summons. The sandalwood scent of the furnishings. The melodic song of Venaissine spoken in the passageways and across the deck. The thrum of Words in the ship’s timbers. The rich spice of the food prepared in the galley.

He knew that soon enough some functionary from the Silver Keep would arrive to greet the Vengeance, and he would need to leave his sanctuary and plunge once more into the stench of the northerners’ repulsive city. Why hasten that unhappy moment?

Calixte turned another page with elegant precision as his dark gaze consumed the refined script that flowed across the sheets. Between page turns, his hand sometimes wandered to the crystal glass that stood beside the book, sometimes to his mouth, where his finger would tap gently against the small scar that notched his upper lip, another unwanted mark of his stay in the north.

When his reverie was broken by a knock against the cabin door, he scowled, slipped a ribbon into the book to mark his place, and called, “Enter!”

The man who entered was clothed in the burnished steel armor and crimson cape of the Garde, with his helm tucked under his arm to preserve its feathered plume from the low ceiling.

“Moussa,” Calixte greeted him.

“Master,” the soldier replied deferentially. “She says to come to the deck.”

There was no need to explain who “she” was, and Calixte spent a moment ensuring his master’s robes hung perfectly from his wide shoulders. Silver thread embroidered in the cuffs and hem announced that he had attained the fourth rank, a lofty tier, but there had been a time when he had assumed he would be clothed in a grandmaster’s robe by now. He shifted the heavy cloth minutely as he examined it in the mirror, searching for any fold that might dare to not lay perfectly in place, but even his critical gaze could find no flaw.

Calixte climbed to the deck, where the illusion of Criénne ended and the reality of Kuray began. Harsh cries in the guttural common tongue the northerners used echoed across the quay, a hubbub of squeals and grunts that would not sound amiss issuing from a herd of swine, and his nostrils curled as the sour stench that pervaded all northern cities assaulted them.

Moussa led the way across the deck to where two more of the Garde flanked a pair of Albainn. One of the northerners wore the robes of a minor functionary of the Albainn court, while the other sweated beneath a polished steel breastplate and fur-lined black cape, absurdly unsuited to even the mild summers that eked into the north. Calixte did not recognize the official, but the noble’s red-blotched face he knew.

“Earl Rosdoire,” Calixte intoned, and he received the man’s bow with the smallest of nods in return.

“In the name of Duke Campbell, Regent of Albyn, welcome to Kuray, Revered Master,” the official announced in thickly-accented Venaissine.

“You will address me as August Master,” Calixte corrected him impatiently. “You may tell the duke that he will have the honor of receiving Grandmaster Severine in the Silver Keep.”

“So your message said,” Rosdoire replied in northern common, and for a moment it seemed the nobleman might actually meet Calixte’s gaze. But the earl’s watery-pale glance slid away in an instant, and he quickly turned to indicate the quayside behind him with a sweep of his arm. “We have assembled an escort for the grandmaster, according to your instructions.”

One hundred soldiers stood in rigid formation at the base of the landing bridge, black cloth and silver steel in crisp lines. Pennants fluttered from their spear tips in the gentle breeze, and their shields bore the black-and-silver crossed swords and crowned stag of the duke’s insignia. Rosdoire’s jowls quivered with pride as he beamed over his assembled troops.

“Adequate,” Calixte granted, and the earl let out a sound like a choking squawk. The soldiers look like children, Calixte mused as he ignored Rosdoire and the squirming courtier, especially in contrast to the two Garde soldiers facing them at the bottom of the ramp. “I shall inform the grandmaster.”

Calixte strode along the companionway to the great cabin at the Vengeance’s stern and knocked.

“Come!” Severine’s voice replied, and Calixte stepped through and waited on the grandmaster’s pleasure, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin raised.

Severine was seated at a wide desk in the center of her cabin, its polished surface blazing like burnished copper in the light from the great sweep of windows across the stern of the cabin. Her pen scratched across a sheet of vellum, loud in the refined stillness that pervaded the elegant room.

Severine finished her line, then sat back and at last acknowledged Calixte, her grey gaze cold as it inspected him.

“Did you meet with their envoys?” she asked.

“I did, Grandmaster.” Calixte’s lips drew into a thin line. “Their preparations are… acceptable. The duke greets you in the style of Regent, and bids you welcome to his squalid little city.”

“Not in those words, I imagine.” Severine’s finger tapped against the desktop. “Did he send anyone interesting? Mathis said the noble looked like a drunkard.”

“Our Captain of the Garde is correct in his assessment. Earl Rosdoire is a drunkard and a buffoon.”

“So, not as interesting as the people the Queen sent.”

“Perhaps the duke will not be as truculent as the Queen’s counsellors, and we may be done with our business quickly,” Calixte replied.

“That would suit you, would it not?” A small smile flickered at the corner of Severine’s thin lips, but it did not touch the cold depths of her gaze.

“I seek only success for the Guild’s endeavors,” Calixte replied. “Whether it be the Great Work, or… this.” He allowed one hand to describe a small circle that encompassed the cabin before returning behind his back.

“Yes, I heard that about you. But success in your own endeavors has been elusive of late. Let us hope that does not poison this mission.” Severine nodded slightly to herself, then rose majestically and strode from the cabin, leaving Calixte to follow, his jaw clenched against a retort.

On deck, Captain Mathis awaited with a dozen of his Garde dressed in gleaming steel breastplates and flowing robes, with tall plumes on their helms that stirred gently in the air. Each carried a spear with a wide, leaf-shaped blade at the tip and wore a heavy, curved blade sheathed at their hip, and their long cloaks were bright crimson.

Next to the soldiers, five of the masters waited in a small group, their robes of rank gleaming in the sun. They greeted Calixte with quiet reserve, the unvaried response he had received from them during the length of their voyage up the Abhainn Albyn. Calixte ignored them. Only Severine’s patronage matters, he reminded himself.

Each of the masters was attended by a chosen soldier of the Garde, a guardian dedicated to that master’s protection, and as Moussa stepped into position behind Calixte, their escort numbered nineteen, enough to humble the hundred soldiers of the duke’s force, should it come to that. Moussa could likely dispatch half of them on his own, Calixte decided with a small snort of disdain as he descended the landing bridge to the dock. His companion was not the tallest of the guardians, but he might have been forged from umber iron. His skin stretched tightly over the sliding shapes of chiseled muscles, and his powerful jaw and high, flared cheekbones granted him the visage of a great cat that searched for prey.

Earl Rosdoire bowed as Severine reached the dock, but the grandmaster strode past him without pause and stepped into the first of the four carriages that awaited them. For a moment the earl dithered, then cowardice convinced him to hurry to the second carriage.

“Calixte, ride with me,” Severine commanded, and Calixte stepped easily up the carriage’s ladder and sat facing the grandmaster. But Severine ignored him as completely as she had Rosdoire. She gazed out the carriage window as commands were given to start the soldiers marching, and soon the carriages lurched into motion behind the steady tramp of the soldiers’ boots. Slowly the city crawled past the window as the carriage rocked over uneven paving stones. Severine seemed absorbed in the cluttered buildings that could been seen, and she gazed at rough brick and plaster as if she saw the elegant columns and soaring marble facades of Criénne.

Then Severine turned her gaze to Calixte.

“Tell me about this Duke Campbell, and about his…” Severine shook her head as she searched for a word, before settling on, “… city.”

“He is a prideful, stubborn man,” Calixte replied. “Cunning enough, in a brutal way. Like a dog. And, like a dog, he does not know what he has bitten, only that he must not let go.”

“Does he have the power to give us what we want?”

“No,” Calixte said scornfully. “He does not have the power to keep his throne, let alone command the Temple to his will.”

“Is the Queen truly his captive?”

“I doubt it. The night of the insurrection, she was in the Silver Keep. I Divined her presence myself. A day later, she was not, and I found no trace of her, though I scried the entire city.”

“Dead, perhaps?” Severine seemed not to care what the answer might be.

“I would wager fled. The cretins that Campbell employs as adepts have not been subtle in their attempts to search the city, although recently there has been a surer mind engaged in the search. He is well-Veiled, but I believe him to be Lord Rossiter, a skillful adept, for an Albainn.”

“What does he wield?”

“The Light of Truth, by Master Benedeit.”

“Ah, Benedeit. A fine Diviner, and well-suited for a subtle mind. And you believe this Rossiter is a subtle mind?”

“Competent, Grandmaster.”

“High praise. And so you believe the Queen is alive, and hidden?”

“Why else would the duke’s adept continue to search? And he could quell the disquiet in the streets in an instant if he could produce the Queen at his side. No, I am forced to believe Karsha Hali speaks the truth, and the loyalists still have their figurehead.”

“An ill-conceived coup. I thought you said the duke was cunning.”

“For a dog,” Calixte reminded her. “He thought the sound of his name would unite the Albainn nobility behind him. That and their hatred of everything civilized, especially their Queen. Yet, somehow, he managed only to split the realm, and the Royal Army declared against him.”

“Perhaps he needs better friends.”

“Friends, Grandmaster? Is that what we are to offer him? Our friendship?” Calixte could not prevent the disapproval that hissed past his teeth.

“You sound as if you would prefer a different tactic.”

Calixte forced a calming breath. “I would prefer they remember that we are the ones who hold the Great Work in our hands, and they are the supplicants, Grandmaster.”

“Well said, and perhaps this duke will earn our beneficence.”

He will beg for it, if we leave him no choice, Calixte mused. Is that what we are here to do? I heard too much talk of “requests” and “friendship” when Severine spoke with the Queen’s counsellors.

“We do not need anything he has to offer,” Calixte stated coldly.

“A harsh assessment.”

“There is no depth to which these people do not plunge,” Calixte replied. “They live like animals and take pride in the fact, as if savagery were an ideal to aspire to.”

“And for that you despise them?”

“They are beneath my contempt. I would not spare them a thought, save that they interfere with the Work.”

“How marvelous to be so certain.” Severine said dryly. “The time may come when you bless their savagery.”

“I cannot conceive of it.”

“A heavy blade has its uses. One must simply wield it correctly.”

Calixte pondered that statement for a moment, turning the grandmaster’s words back and forth as if holding a gemstone to the light as he searched for the lesson she intended him to take.

“And we have use of a heavy blade now? Do you intend to turn it on the Temple?”

“No. At least, not yet.” Severine watched Calixte, her gaze narrowed like a raptor’s. “They used the Martyr’s Blade for a reason. One that should interest you.”

“More internecine squabbling?” Calixte guessed.

“Maker, no.” Severine’s lips pursed in disapproval and she glanced away, and Calixte wondered what test he had failed. “Think on it more. And consider that we are interested in the Blade for the same reason, and that it serves us to have a realm of savages to do our bidding here.”

Riddles, Calixte thought contemptuously. Why conceal things from one who could help you?

“In any case, they have much more that we need than their savage hordes and a single Blade,” Severine mused, as if she were speaking to someone beyond the carriage window. “Aldric’s Gaze has discovered something beyond price here, though they must never suspect it.”

“What was discovered, Grandmaster?”

“Hmmm?” Severine glanced at Calixte, as if surprised to find him there. “Tell me, are you kept very busy with your, ah, duties?” she asked.

“A master of the first rank could perform my tasks,” Calixte said stiffly. “My skills are wasted here.”

“Perhaps so,” Severine murmured, as her gaze turned once more to the carriage window.

“Of a certainty,” Calixte replied. He forced calm composure into his voice, a recitation of fact, rather than boast. “Grandmaster, you know the works I have created. You know what I could give to the Great Work. This assignment is a waste.”

“Then one must ask, wasted by whom?”

Calixte inhaled sharply. Does she imply that the punishment fits? “Grandmaster, surely—”

“Ah!” Severine interrupted, her attention still directed through the window. “Now there is a pearl among swine.”

Calixte swallowed his anger and followed her gaze. Their route had taken them through the wide plaza of Indrithel’s Square. In the center of the square, a grand fountain stood majestically above the mob that crowded the square. Marble waves twisted around the central pillar, carrying exquisitely carved sea creatures toward the top, where the regal figure of a beautiful woman stretched toward the sky, holding a golden ball on her fingertips above her head, as if it were on the verge of flight. Water flowed from the seamless metal of the globe and was captured by the graceful lines of the woman’s eyes, so that she appeared to weep. The flow subtly increased as it journeyed downward, until it cascaded among the creatures in torrents that sprayed water in dazzling curtains. Calixte could feel the gentle thrum of the fountain’s Word as it guided the flow of the water, shifting it to reveal different figures around the pillar in a rhythm as subtle as a great symphony.

“Sublime work,” Severine said approvingly. “Grandmaster Ysabeau always did have the touch for working stone.”

“Their children use it to wash their feet,” Calixte pointed out.

“What does that matter, when their king paid us a thousand talens of gold for it? When Ysabeau’s labor of a single year has announced the glory of our Great Work for three and a half centuries to anyone who might pass this spot?”

“It diminishes the Great Work to have it treated so mundanely,” Calixte disagreed. “Our Devices were icons to be revered for generations. Now they are trifles to be traded for gold. For five years I have handed our work to the most unworthy of recipients, save that they have a handful of gold that they believe makes them worthy. Did you know that merchants are buying Devices, now? As playthings for their galas? And there are some in the Guild who seem to value their gold as highly, as if it were the only metal of worth.”

Calixte sat back, fuming equally at the grubby tasks that had been his burden and at his temper. It will not help to lecture Severine, not when she has just praised the price paid for Indrithel’s Fountain, not when I do not know her thoughts regarding my fate.

“They said you were a firebrand,” Severine responded, her brow arched appraisingly. “I had wondered if your years in the north had cooled your spirit, but I think not.”

“My passion for the Great Work will never cool, Grandmaster.”

“It is a pity your achievements do not match your fervor. The Great Work is more than the creation of Devices, Calixte,” Severine admonished him. “They are also a tool that must be wielded. A tool that can bend even the greatest realm to our whim. In any case, what harm is there in reminding these peasants that they live in the presence of gods?”

As the grandmaster spoke, the procession moved onto the broad boulevard of the King’s Road, straight as a ruled line and wide enough for a dozen carriages to pass side-by-side. Heroic statues rose from islands of marble along the centerline of the road, and it was bordered by expansive gardens and majestic mansions. In the distance, the road speared into the base of the high cliff that capped the northern end of Kuray Valley, where the shining towers of the Silver Keep soared against the velvet blue of the summer sky.

Calixte indicated the Keep with a raised hand.

“They squat in the shadow of our Work and think they are our equal,” he said. “That is the harm.”

The grandmaster did not reply, and they rode in silence as the procession climbed the switchback turns that ascended the cliff to the Silver Keep. Higher and higher the road led them, until the city was transformed into a sea of rooftops that lapped at the base of the slope, and only the most monolithic of buildings could be distinguished from the mass. At last, they reached the top of the valley wall, where sheer cliff became high plateau, and the road passed between tall towers and through a long tunnel to emerge into the wide forecourt that graced the southern edifice of the Silver Keep.

Rosdoire led them through Ruric’s Gate into the Keep, through vast public galleries to the throne room. The hall was grand enough and in the Venaissine style, with slender pillars ascending in a wide circle to support a soaring dome that was inlaid with tall windows to catch the sun’s golden light and adorned with sweeping paintings of sun and moon. But Calixte found it felt hollow, a rigid approximation of elegance.

A high throne rose from the marble floor on the opposite side of the rotunda, placed so that those approaching the monarch’s seat would stand in the center of the circle atop an image of a rearing stag laid in black stone. Duke Campbell sat rigidly on the throne, garbed in resplendent black and silver. Pride raised the duke’s chin as he surveyed his guests with a hawk’s gaze, but Calixte could see that the duke’s knuckles were white with strain as he gripped the arms of his throne.

The duke was attended by a dozen nobles, most wearing armor and bearing weapons, as if poised to inflict violence at a moment’s notice, as was the barbaric custom in Albyn. Soldiers in heavy steel lined the outer wall, and two knights stood guard on either side of the throne, their eyes barely visible behind their lowered visors.

The chamberlain hurried forward and announced Grandmaster Severine with due honors. She halted a mere spear’s-length from the throne, and the assembled nobles stirred with discomfort as Calixte and the other masters flanked her, with their guardians a rigid line a step behind, their capes and plumes a splash of bright color in the pale room. When the guardians came to a halt, they struck their spears against the ground in unison and the sharp crack of metal against stone echoed through the space. Several of the duke’s nobles flinched, but Campbell himself did not, Calixte noted.

“Welcome, Grandmaster.” The duke’s voice rolled effortlessly through the vast room in a distinguished rumble marred by the atrocious accent with which he mauled his Venaissine. “And welcome to the Masters of the Guild of Artificers.”

“Lord Regent,” Severine replied. She glanced sharply at the assembled nobles and frowned. “Why does the Queen not greet us?”

“Since my appointment, Her Majesty no longer takes an interest in affairs of state,” the duke replied without any hesitation, and though he sat slightly forward he betrayed no other sign of the depths of the lie Calixte suspected Campbell had just told. 

“Does she not?” Severine asked. “We have heard otherwise.”

“I can assure you it is true,” Campbell replied smoothly. “Though I imagine she will be disappointed she was not here today, to greet her countrymen.”

Calixte saw the effect the duke’s words had on the Albainn nobles. Gazes turned colder, lips thinned, and backs straightened. Venaissine, and therefore to be hated as the Queen is hated. How chauvinist their patriotism is.

“Yes, I imagine she will.” Severine’s gaze did not leave the duke’s. “I have travelled here to retrieve property stolen from the Guild. Those who aid me will sit favorably in my thoughts.”

“How may Albyn help the Guild of Artificers?”

“The Device we seek was stolen from us centuries ago and hidden, but it was wielded here as recently as last winter.”

“What Device?”

“The Martyr’s Blade.”

“I…” The duke’s voice faltered for the first time. He glanced toward one of his nobles, a withered strip of a man dried by age into cracked leather. Lord Rossiter. The duke’s adept nodded slightly to the duke, betraying no sign of surprise or scorn as some of his companions did.

“A mythic name,” the duke continued cautiously after a moment’s pause.

Severine’s lips pursed in annoyance. “Send the rabble away,” she commanded brusquely.

The duke’s brow lowered thunderously, but he waved away his attending courtiers. “All of you, out. Neilan, Harlan, Rossiter, Muire… you stay.”

The other nobles shuffled out, sullen and slow, leaving the four the duke had named. Two were cast from the same unyielding and arrogant mold as the duke, and Calixte guessed they were Neilan and Harlan. Lady Muire was an adept as familiar to Calixte as Lord Rossiter. The ancient countess had carved a long list of victims across decades of duels, although no adept had dared challenge her in the years that Calixte had lived in Kuray.

When the doors to the throne room had closed behind the dismissed nobles, Campbell sat forward, his arms on his knees. “We may speak freely of such matters now.”

“Speak, then,” Severine commanded. Calixte expected another scowl from the duke, but Campbell pondered the grandmaster without response for a moment, before straightening on the throne.

“The Temple has a Weapon that they believe is the Martyr’s Blade,” Campbell related. “My agents have heard this rumor more than once, but we cannot confirm it.”

At this, Campbell glanced at Rossiter, who nodded slightly in response. He has tried.

“That is a start,” Severine allowed.

“That may be the finish, as well,” the duke grumbled. “If what you desire is in the Temple’s hands, there is little I can do, however I might wish otherwise.”

“I thought we spoke with the Regent of Albyn,” Calixte said contemptuously.

“You do, Master Calixte,” Campbell replied shortly. “Yet the Temple keeps its own council. Fionn’s Law—”

“How quaint,” Severine interrupted. “A law eight hundred years old prevents you from acting? Against those who support your enemies? On our journey to Kuray, we met with those who claim to support he Queen against you.”

“Who?”

“The Queen’s counsellor,” Calixte replied. “Joined by the Queen’s sister, a Paragon of the Temple, now made Chancellor, and a member of the Temple’s Council, Reverend Ail. The Temple does not bother to conceal their control.”

“They lied if they told you they spoke for the Queen.”

“Did they?” Severine asked coldly. “Let us not waste breath on that.”

The duke returned the grandmaster’s glare in silence, then rose from his throne and stepped toward her. Campbell’s height rivalled Calixte’s and he had a soldier’s strength in his arms and shoulders, and as he loomed over Severine, Calixte felt the threat of the sudden wariness of the guardians at his back. So did Campbell’s adepts, for their gazes darkened as they looked inward to their Words.

“Have a care how you speak to me in my hall,” Campbell ground out between clenched teeth.

But Severine was not impressed, and merely regarded the duke with a mocking smile twisting the corner of her lips.

“We want the same thing, Lord Regent,” she told him. “Or would you prefer your enemy to wield that Weapon at the head of their army?”

The duke regarded Severine for a moment, then clasped his hands behind his back and nodded.

“I would not prefer that,” he agreed.

“Then help us retrieve it and earn our gratitude.”

Calixte felt his jaw clench as the duke’s gaze narrowed. He dares not risk alienating the Guild. Why offer him anything?

But there was a hunger in the duke’s gaze that told Calixte that Campbell had already grasped the offer like a horse’s reins.

“Of course, I wish for the Guild and the crown of Albyn to remain friends, as we have always been,” Campbell intoned grandly. “Yet I am uncertain how Albyn may be of help. The Temple has raised a significant army, as you mentioned, bolstered by the forces of those nobles who defy my commands, and they already besiege Newbridge on my southern flank. On my eastern flank, my scouts report an even greater force marching toward us, the Royal Army, led by General Boone.”

“If the Blade is with the Temple, that is the army we are concerned with, not the Royal Army,” Severine stated.

“Yet I am concerned with both,” the duke replied. “I cannot defeat both forces, and I would be a fool to try. I will confront them here, from the walls of Kuray, from the Silver Keep, if needs be, and watch them fail at the base of its walls.”

“You will wait for them to strike?”

“I have little choice,” the duke said, and he spread his arms. “Much as I would like to attack, I have not the forces to wage war on both enemies. This is where I am strongest, and with any luck, Newbridge will stick in their craw long enough for the snows to begin before they arrive.”

“You will not be strong enough, not if they bring the Martyr’s Blade against your walls,” Calixte pointed out.

“Perhaps not,” the duke allowed. “Perhaps it would be better if I could lead my forces against the Temple army without fear of the Royal Army falling on my rear, without fear that I should find myself facing a Weapon from legend across the battlefield. But, unfortunately, those are the fears I face.”

“What if we could free you from those fears,” Severine offered, to Calixte’s shock. “Should not friends aid one another?”

“They should,” Campbell agreed. “If I were free to act, I would immediately march against the Temple, rout them in the field, and ensure that my friends retrieved their property. I would not rest until they had, even if it meant besieging Bandirma.”

“And if you forced the Temple to reveal the Blade,” Severine continued, “we would be there to ensure the Blade was taken safely back to Criénne, where it could not be used against any of our friends. But you said you also feared this General Boone and his army. What would allay that fear?”

“Oh, that.” Campbell laughed, a short bark of noise. “That is simple. Find the Queen for me, and I shall make certain the good general receives an order to turn his forces against those who dared to stand against me.”

“Easily done,” Severine promised. “Master Hubert?”

Calixte held himself rigidly motionless as Hubert stepped forward. We agree to win this duke a kingdom, and in return he wages a war he clearly longs to fight and grants us a Weapon he barely knew existed and does not possess. I do not understand the worth of this bargain to us, nor the eagerness with which Severine agreed to it. He would have begged us for aid, given time.

Master Hubert had reached Severine’s side while Calixte had fumed. The tiny master looked like a scarecrow within his voluminous robes, the aged skin of his bare head spotted and discolored with just a few tufts of grey hair left to waft above it. But his gaze was still weasel-sharp, and he revealed a glimpse of ivory-capped teeth as he smiled.

“Yes, Grandmaster?”

“Find the Queen for Duke Campbell.”

“Yes, Grandmaster.”

“We have tried to find her with Diviners,” Campbell said. “She is Veiled.”

“Not from me,” Hubert replied, and he laughed dryly.

Calixte did not hear Hubert’s Word, nor did he expect to. Hubert’s Veils were almost unmatched by any living artificer, and his skill as an adept was sublime. But both paled in comparison to his Diviners.

“She is in Kuray, Grandmaster,” Hubert reported almost immediately. “Veiled, indeed. It is the Grey Mantle, skillfully empowered.”

“Where?” Campbell asked eagerly.

“A great building in the center of the city. I see a wide rotunda, white as clouds, many towers, and many gardens. Ah! It is a temple. I see the altar.”

“Does it have a bell tower, taller than the rest?”

“It does.” Hubert cackled. “A prodigious bell.”

“Whitetemple,” Campbell breathed in satisfaction.

“She is in the crypts,” Hubert announced. “They were unaware of my gaze.”

“Thank you, Master Hubert,” Severine said. “You see, Lord Regent? It is good to have the Guild as friends.”

“It is,” Campbell agreed. “Very well, I shall marshal my forces and march against the Temple army, and we shall make certain your property is returned to you.”

“All of our stolen property,” Severine added. “Not just the Blade. There are other items.”

“All of your property,” the duke replied easily.

“Good.” Severine nodded. “Then we will return to our ship while you make your preparations. Do not delay. I am anxious to see your friendship proved.”

“You shall, and soon. First, I must act on the information you have given me, but do not worry. It will not take long.”

“Very well.” Severine nodded briefly to the duke and then strode from the throne room, the masters and guardians in tow, but Calixte did not think the duke noticed their departure. He was already in conference with his nobles and adepts, giving orders in urgent tones, the Guild apparently forgotten.

Thus the reward for careless friendship too easily given.

He was not invited into the grandmaster’s carriage for the ride back to the docks, but once aboard the Vengeance, all twenty of the masters were summoned to Severine’s cabin, crowding into its airy space until the room felt as packed as a market stall. Still, every master managed to preserve a stoic dignity, and there was a grandeur to the gathering that lifted Calixte’s shoulders with pride. Every robe in the cabin was trimmed with metal, many of a hue more precious than Calixte’s, a collection of wisdom and accomplishment he had not seen since he was last in the Hall of Demonstration, five years ago.

Severine stood before the aft windows, a silhouette against the sparkling water beyond.

“It has begun,” Severine intoned. “The duke has confirmed what we suspected, that the Temple conceals the Blade, and has agreed to send his army against the Temple’s. We must begin our preparations to retrieve the Blade.”

A murmur of approbation rumbled through the cabin, which Calixte did not join. His silence was noticed, and Severine’s gaze lingered on him.

“You disagree, Master Calixte?” she asked, and the cabin hushed.

“No, Grandmaster. I am pleased we are to proceed.”

“But, perhaps not as pleased with the bargain we struck with Duke Campbell?” Severine asked with cold insight.

Calixte raised his chin defiantly. “Grandmaster, I am puzzled. He would have given us half his kingdom for our aid, had we but asked. Instead, we bargained as equals.”

“Really, Calixte, you surprise me. I expected a less parochial view from you.”

“How so, Grandmaster?”

“We were always going to have to retrieve the Blade ourselves. Can you imagine the duke and his little coterie of adepts wresting it from the Marquesa d’Lavandou? And make no mistake, it will be her wielding it. Recall Grandmaster Astor’s report on her potential, when he tailored her Weapon to her, and imagine the result. No, that was always our task, but now the duke considers that it will fulfill our side of the bargain. And what cost for a few moments of Master Hubert’s time to pay the rest? No, I consider that a small price to obtain an army.”

“Do we need an army?”

“Have you pondered the question I asked you in the carriage?”

“I have, Grandmaster, but I can conceive of no enemy that might threaten us that we would need an Albainn army to defeat.”

Severine held his gaze, but her next words were not addressed to Calixte.

“Master Hubert, what did you find?”

“Lord Rossiter’s Veil was a simple challenge,” the old master related. “He did not notice that my Diviner was turned against him.”

“You did not search for the Queen, during the audience?” Calixte asked.

“Oh, no.” Hubert chuckled dryly. “I found her this morning.”

“And what did you find in the Silver Keep?”

“The duke has a problem,” Hubert replied, his mouth curling with glee. “There is a shadowcloak in his retinue.”

Calixte blinked in surprise. He knew the word, but could not reconcile its use outside of ancient history or myth. A shadowcloak? A skin thief? What does he mean?

“Ah.” Severine sighed with satisfaction. “Does he know?”

“I doubt it. He let it stand next to him.”

“Well, let us hope it takes its time. Now, Calixte, can you answer my question?”

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Calixte forced the words past a constricted throat. “The Crunorix are here. Somehow, they have escaped the Black Grave. That is why we need the Blade. The Temple must know, which is why they used the Blade last winter. They would have had no choice.”

“Now you see,” Severine granted. “That Blade will soon be one of the most valuable Devices in the world, and we must be the ones deciding when and where it is wielded. And we have just bought an army to throw at the Crunorix to buy us time. What do you think of the bargain, now?”

Think? Calixte’s mind was beginning to slip free from the paralysis of shock that had numbed him. A quick glance showed him that his companions watched him with interest, and none showed any sign of surprise. They all knew, he realized. Every one of them. Only Calixte is untrusted. Only Calixte must prove himself worthy.

His finger traced the small scar across his lip as he pondered. Does this mean that Severine has decided I am to be reinstated? That I am finally forgiven a failure that has outweighed all my accomplishments? I cannot risk wasting the chance.

“I think the bargain is in our favor,” Calixte replied, and he kept the grandmaster’s gaze without hesitation, and swallowed his misgivings. But he could not stop the swirl of disquiet that disturbed his thoughts. The Temple already knows the Crunorix are here, has already drawn the Blade against them, has already raised an army, and has already bequeathed the Blade to an adept that even Severine acknowledges will be a fearsome wielder. Yet we bargain with the side that has none of that so that we might dictate who holds the Blade? I think we have chosen very poorly, in favor of quick gain over reason.

But Calixte kept his own counsel, though the irony of him choosing his self-interest over the rational course was not lost to him. And what difference would it make if I spoke against Severine’s plan? Clearly, she has the blessing of Grandmaster Dorian and the other grandmasters, or she would not have been chosen to lead this mission. And I cannot return to Criénne without Severine’s patronage. No other Grandmaster would support me if she spoke against me, and I would be condemned to return to the shit pile of the Kuray Guildhall, to await another Device to deliver to another Albainn noble. To teach another Word to another halfwit adept who cannot comprehend the elegance of what they hold. I cannot endure that.

“Grandmaster,” he asked, once the flurry of conversation had paused. “What of the other Devices, the ones that were also stolen, that the duke agreed would also be returned. Are they also essential for the fight against the Crunorix?”

“Oh, no.” Severine smiled as she shook her head. “No, Master Calixte, those are far more important, and the reason we must act with all haste.”

A quick glance around the cabin showed Calixte vague and shifting glances that told him that none of the other masters knew what Severine meant. Here is a deeper secret than the return of the Crunorix, one that she has shared with no one.

“We shall deal with that once we have secured the Blade,” Severine continued. “To that end, we have work to do. Come.”

Severine led the way from her cabin into the hold of the Vengeance, past the towering mountains of casks and crates to a thick bulkhead that divided the lower deck in half. A wide doorway through the bulkhead was the only passage forward, and Calixte had never seen it opened. Four of the Garde protected it, though their presence seemed superfluous, as the door itself was crafted as a Ward whose potency made Calixte’s skin crawl as he approached, despite the Veil that concealed it.

Severine made a small gesture, a flick of her fingers, and Calixte felt the Ward respond. Bindings shifted and timbers groaned as the rigid clasp of the Ward withdrew. A series of heavy thuds reverberated through the floor, then the center of the door spiraled open, revealing layers of physical locks retreating in a smooth dance. A second series of shuddering impacts shook the deck as the motion ceased, and Severine stepped forward and swung the door open with the slightest of touches.

The chamber beyond encompassed the remainder of the deck, from the bulkhead to the very prow of the Vengeance in one long, shadowy space. Small Diviners mounted on the walls glowed to life as Severine led the way inside and the masters followed, revealing a row of a dozen wooden crates, each as tall as a man and twice that distance in length, like massive sarcophagi. They were fashioned of xexak wood, and the black surface seemed to drink the light and hold it. Bands of delicate metal wrapped them, further Wards to prevent them from opening.

Severine approached the nearest and ran her fingers along its side, tracing the carvings that decorated the wood.

“Here lies the work of Grandmaster Aldric, he who created the Martyr’s Blade, he who crafted the Forge, he who founded the Guild,” she said reverently. She paused at the head of the sarcophagus and closed her eyes, and Calixte felt the Wards that surrounded it release. The massive top slid soundlessly aside, revealing burnished metal sculpted into curves and plates. Lightning flickered across the metal, faint threads of blue that danced and swayed, and Calixte felt the air thrum against his chest.

Severine’s voice raised to reverberate from the chamber’s walls.

“Here lies the Colosus.”

A Nasty Trail

Gwydion glared at his opponent, seeking some small twitch of the eyes or lips to reveal his weakness. Shadows from the candles on the table danced across the young man’s face, but his gaze never wavered, calm and inviting, as if he had no concern for what Gwydion’s next move might be.

Gwydion exhaled slowly and let pipe smoke stream from his nostrils as he moved a small stack of silver coins away from his cards to match the soldier’s wager.

“Ten crowns it is,” Gwydion agreed.

“Aye, m’lord,” the soldier replied, his face still unreadable.

“Very brave,” Lady Bryn murmured. Her fingers flickered and cards spun onto the table in front of Gwydion and the soldier, the last two players competing for the small mound of crowns in the center.

“Brave or foolish,” Gwydion allowed expansively. The young soldier had arrived with Andras’s squad, and had the easy confidence that those soldiers exuded at all times. Likely comes from knowing they can kill everyone else in the room, Gwydion decided. The soldier, whose name was likely Bard, or perhaps Bart, Gwydion could not recall, eyed his new card and then left it on the table next to his first two, as if it were of less concern than a handkerchief.

Gwydion’s own card might as well have been a handkerchief. It hardly mattered. He had made twins in silver on his second card, and the single black spear showing on the soldier’s face-up card told Gwydion he would be a fool not to bet.

Gwydion drew thoughtfully on his pipe as he watched the soldier’s fingers dance over his own stacks of silver. Do I see a small hesitation? he wondered. But perhaps too precise. A manufactured tell, to conceal the strength of his hand?

“I believe that’s worth twenty crowns, m’lord,” the soldier announced as his silver slid onto the table, the stack coming to rest barely beyond his cards. And now he tells me how weak his hand is, the coins grudgingly advanced, Gwydion mused. Yet the bet is a baited hook, good odds against the chance he drew his wall.

Gwydion paused to sip appreciatively from his glass and rolled the smokey liquid across his tongue before swallowing with relish. “You’ve left me in a quandary, my friend. I suppose I shall have to pay to satisfy my curiosity.”

He pushed his own silver onto the table with a bravado that he hoped would convince the soldier that he had no idea how good his hand was.

“A good call, your lordship, if you’ve got that tower,” the soldier declared. He flipped his two down cards and revealed he did indeed have his wall of spears to the black.

“Blast, no, just these damn twins,” Gwydion replied with as much bluster as he could summon.

“Hard luck, m’lord,” the solder consoled him as he raked the pot to his side of the table.

It was bad luck, but the soldier had played the hand well, and Gwydion had learned nothing that could help him in future hands, save that the soldier knew what he was doing. Gwydion hoped he had revealed less.

“Right, I’d like some reasonable cards, this time,” Gwydion declared. His first card was a skeleton, then the moon face up, and he abandoned them as Lady Bryn pushed the betting and drove out the weak hands. She’s as vicious with her bets as she is with her smiles, Gwydion decided with grudging admiration. He watched her for a moment, delighting in the golden shine of her curls and the sharp points of her incisors that showed when she grinned, as if she were a fox greeting a hen.

An amazing creature, Gwydion thought with satisfaction. But he found only passing interest stirred, despite the lady’s subtle wit and willowy, elegant grace, and was content to watch her and young Bart parry and riposte with sly charm that grew more comfortable with every hand.

Bryn took the next two hands, then gave way to Bart, or perhaps it was Art, before Gwydion had a chance to steal a pot away.

“I knew you’d find your feet, my lord,” Bryn said with another predatory grin.

“You can’t win if you don’t bet,” Gwydion declared enthusiastically. He took another sip and breathed in contentedly. The air was thick with the aromas of pipe smoke and liquor, and the scent of Bryn’s bright perfume flirted against his nose. Gwydion could feel the marvelous weight of the passing night stretching every moment beyond the rigid conventions of daylight, allowing him to savor each phrase, each thought, each movement in a way that was not possible under the harsh light of the sun.

“This is rather delightful,” he announced, and a murmur of agreement rose from the other players.

Silver ebbed and flowed slowly across the table, and Gwydion managed to dip into the tide frequently enough to satisfy his pride. But as another bottle from Cedrych’s excellent cellar was breached, Sir Geraldine entered the room and quickly approached Gwydion.

“Might you have a moment, my lord?” the young knight asked. “Captain Andras’s scout has returned with news, and I shouldn’t like to wake the Queen.”

“Where’s old Andras, then?” Gwydion asked.

“I’m not certain.”

“Right, well I suppose I’d best come along,” Gwydion declared nobly. “Keep my cards warm, will you?”

He followed Geraldine into the gloomy passageways of the crypts, the knight’s lantern the only light against the deep shadows that lurked behind every turn. They ascended to the temple’s main level and entered the echoing expanse of the cathedral. A small group of figures awaited them beneath the vaults, a nervous acolyte, one of Geraldine’s soldiers, and the lean figure of the Temple scout who had led Captain Andras’s squad to Kuray.

“Drysi, isn’t it?” Gwydion greeted the scout, very pleased with himself that he had remembered the woman’s name.

“That’s right, well done.” The scout’s face shone with sweat, and there was a ferocity in the set of her jaw that wiped away the lazy contentment that had clung to Gwydion. “We’ve got trouble. There’re watchers on the nearby buildings.”

“Are you certain?”

“I checked very closely,” she said with an acerbic twist of her lips, then shrugged. “Come and see for yourself, but Andras said to get everyone ready to leave.”

“Damn,” Gwydion muttered. He turned first to Sir Geraldine. “Go and wake the Queen. Get your people into armor and tell my sister we’re leaving.”

Geraldine nodded and hurried away, taking her soldier with her. Gwydion next spoke to the acolyte, whose face had paled to the color of parchment. “Go and tell Cedrych that the temple might be attacked.”

She fled, and Gwydion turned to Drysi. “At your pleasure.”

The scout led Gwydion through the temple’s storehouses to a narrow, dark street, lined with tall buildings that faced the blank wall of the temple. Drysi strode along the street, then slipped into an alleyway that led to a realm of coal bins and service entrances. Two twists of the alleyway brought them to a nondescript door that opened into a cramped hall.

“Right this way, m’lord, if you don’t mind a bit of a climb,” Drysi announced, and she indicated a cramped flight of stairs that led to the upper floors with a mocking bow. They mounted the steps amid a chorus of creaking boards and the clump of Gwydion’s boots on bare wood. The building was a narrow shaft of rooms stacked between its neighbors, the lower floors home to rooms for let at absurd prices, a fortune wasted on a cramped space of drafts and splinters, justified by the building’s vague proximity to the Whitetemple main street. The upper floors were empty, the victim of a rotted roof only half-repaired, and the stairs turned from dusty to damp in just a single twist of the shaft.

“In here,” Drysi grunted as they reached the gloom of the building’s attic. She entered the cramped space, ducking low beneath bowed beams and pointing out the worst of the rot, and led the way to a tiny window set under the eave, its grimy panes open a hand’s-breadth.

As Gwydion crouched forward, he realized with a start that another figure waited in the darkness of the attic. He recognized Captain Andras by the soldier’s broad shoulders and granite jawline as he glanced at the two newcomers, and he indicated that they should join him at the window.

“Have a look,” Andras murmured, and he made room for Gwydion to kneel at Drysi’s side.

The window overlooked a different street than the one they had just left, with the tall shaft of the Whitetemple tower, shining like a beacon against the night sky behind it, soaring above them, and Gwydion was startled to see the Warden’s Gate directly beneath them, with the cloisters just beyond.

“That’s quite a view,” Gwydion said softly. “One can look straight into Reverend Cedrych’s privy.”

“Too good, as it turned out, for them,” Drysi replied, which puzzled Gwydion until he realized the scout was pointing to a huddled mound in the corner of the attic. Gwydion stared for a moment, as the jumbled contours of the mound slowly resolved into upturned boots and sprawled legs, two bodies with their arms stretched above their heads as if still pleading to surrender. The corpses were dressed in black wool and cloaks and lay in a dark puddle that looked like ink in the attic’s gloom.

“I take it they weren’t friends of yours?” Gwydion asked.

“Hardly,” Drysi replied. “Blackberries, and they aren’t alone. There, do you see?” Drysi asked, her thin finger extended in the direction of a twisted stretch of narrow alleyway.

Gwydion peered intently, attempting to pierce the gloom. A streetlamp created a bright nimbus of light that did little to reveal the huddled shapes beyond it, but Gwydion could discern two smaller shadows that shifted occasionally.

“That’s one lot, and there…” Drysi shifted her aim and pointed her finger at another window, several buildings farther along the street. “There’s another.”

“You’ve got some eyes,” Gwydion congratulated her. He could not make out any watchers behind the window that Drysi had indicated, but he did not doubt they were there. “How many do you think?”

“Two in each nest, looks like, and there’s six nests I’ve spotted.”

“And I’d wager the same on the other side of Whitetemple,” Andras murmured.

“Aye. There’s plenty more out there, count on it,” Drysi agreed. “All come in since evening bells, sly as you like.”

“How did they find us?” Gwydion asked.

Drysi snorted softly to herself, but it was Andras who replied. “We were rather hoping you might know, my lord. I thought we were Veiled?”

“We are,” Gwydion assured him. “Perhaps one of Campbell’s patrols spotted us somehow?”

Drysi snorted again, this time with a growl of anger mixed in.

“However it happened, we need to leave,” Andras answered. “But we’ll need that answer, eventually, to make certain they don’t find us again.”

“And do we just stroll out the Warden’s Gate?” Gwydion asked. “It no longer appears to be watched.”

Andras shook his head and crept across the attic to the opposite side, where an even smaller, filthier window gave a glimpse into a cramped courtyard, packed with soldiers wearing the uniforms of Duke Campbell’s house, all waiting silently behind a gate that led through the wall toward Whitetemple.

“Bloody hell,” Gwydion muttered as he examined the enemy soldiers. “That’s unfortunate.”

“They arrived just after Drysi left to warn you,” Andras explained.

“How long do you suppose we have?” Gwydion asked.

“Not long,” Drysi replied as she peered at the assembled soldiers. “They don’t have packs, just weapons and armor. They’re ready to have a go at us.”

“Well, that seems to be that, doesn’t it,” Gwydion said quietly. “Shall we get a wiggle on? I don’t fancy explaining myself to that lot.”

Andras and Gwydion returned to the temple via the same route that Drysi had taken, while the scout stayed behind to observe their foes. Once within the temple walls, Gwydion found the chambers that had been their home for the last weeks to be alive with light and sound. The soldiers were already dressed in their armor, instantly ready despite the depth of night, and hurried away at Andras’s orders to secure the path to the cloisters.

The Queen and her ladies were also dressed for battle, in leather and mail and with weapons at hand, while his sister had donned her fencing leathers and bore Fury at her hip.

“Lady Bryn tells me we are discovered?” Queen Gabrielle asked. “That we are in danger?”

“I believe we shall have to bid farewell to our hideaway, but I hope that the only danger is to those who dare to come searching for us,” Gwydion replied, and he relished the small smile that his words had crafted on the Queen’s lips.

“Where shall we go?” Lady Aithne asked.

“Right now, our concern is to escape Whitetemple,” Captain Andras replied. “The path through the cloisters is not watched, so that will be our route. Once we are free, Your Majesty, I urge you to reconsider leaving the city.”

“Thank you for your concern, Captain,” the Queen replied. “But I did not flee the last time Duke Campbell sent his soldiers into my home while I slept, and I shall not flee this time.”

The Queen’s reply clearly did not sit well with the captain, but he did not waste time pleading his case, and instead ordered Sir Geraldine and her soldiers to lead the way out of the crypts.

But they had hardly gained the main floor of the temple when there were cries of alarm from the soldiers stationed at the main entrance to the cathedral. They had piled benches against the massive doors as a precaution which proved crucial, as a tremendous crash echoed among the cathedral’s vaults a moment later as the doors shuddered in their hinges.

“Leave it!” Andras commanded them. “Go and help secure the Warden’s Gate!”

The soldiers raced ahead and disappeared into the maze of passageways that connected the cathedral to the cloisters, with the Queen’s party in pursuit. The cacophony of bootsteps and jostling metal in the narrow passageways was deafening, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of steel clashing against steel that echoed from crossways, nor from the shouts of rage and cries of pain that followed.

“They’re in the scriptorium!” Sir Geraldine called from the front of the group. Gwydion could hear the fury of sword against sword from beyond the knight, and see the frantic shadows of torches waving madly at the end of the corridor.

“We can cross through the chapter house,” Lady Aithne replied, and she pointed down a dark side passageway.

“Sir Geraldine, clear a path to the chapter house,” Andras commanded. “Go! We will be right behind you.”

Andras drew his blade and stepped protectively in front of the Queen as Sir Geraldine took her five soldiers and raced down the hallway, then led the way after her a moment later. They crossed a small courtyard and passed the colonnade that led to Reverend Cedrych’s residence. The stately dome of the chapter house loomed serenely ahead, and Captain Andras urged the group to greater speed as they raced up the steps and into the rotunda.

Inside, the dignified chamber, accustomed to the solemn discussions of the assembled reverends of the temple, was now a place of chaos. Gwydion caught a glimpse of Sir Geraldine’s soldiers engaged with a force of soldiers garbed in the same blackened mail that he had seen from the attic window, then he staggered as a figure crashed into him from the side.

From his knees, he saw Lady Aithne drive forward in an elegant lunge that took one of the black-garbed soldiers in the ribs, but the thin blade twisted away from the heavy steel rings of the soldier’s jerkin and could not penetrate. The soldier lashed out in reply, forcing Aithne to duck and twist away, but the young woman darted forward again in an instant, and her blade sank into a gap between the soldier’s armored plates over his thigh and twisted free in a shower of bright blood.

With a roar, Andras joined Aithne, his broad blade a scything blur that smashed a soldier’s sword aside and struck heavily into his ribs, shearing through armor, muscle, and bone with brutal destruction.

More of Campbell’s soldiers surged forward, led by a towering knight in ebony armor, and Rowenna strode to meet him. Her Word shook the room, an impact that rippled through the air as Rowenna released the bindings in her sword. The slender blade named Fury pulsed and whipped forward, a silver blur of shining steel that sliced across the knight’s raised arm without slowing. Six times Fury’s Word throbbed through the room, faster than thought, and with each hammer blow the blade drew another shining arc through the knight’s flesh, carving steel and bone.

The knight fell, eyes wild with shock as he crashed to the floor. His fall stunned the room for a moment, and every gaze was drawn to the ruin that Fury had inflicted. The knight’s legs thrashed helplessly and a bench splintered, and then he was mercifully still.

The remaining attackers retreated to the back of the chamber, their shields raised warily. “Let them go!” Andras called out, and he pointed toward an unguarded exit from the room. “Hurry, that way!”

But before they could take a single step, another Word shook the chamber, this one a sharp crack of shattering ice, and another, the blare of a thousand horns, and a third, the flat impact of waves upon an ancient escarpment. Power flared from both sides of the chamber, and garish light blazed, revealing three figures as they stepped past the line of Campbell’s soldiers into the rotunda.

Gwydion breathed in sharply as he recognized the gaunt face that loomed on the left, the pale, feverish gaze that appeared in the center, and the knotted ropes of a withered neck on the right. Rossiter, Tyree, and Muire as well. Quite the collection. However did Campbell convince them all to play nicely with each other? He glanced to Rowenna and held her gaze as he gave the slightest nod of his head toward a window that looked out onto the night-shrouded shapes of the temple’s outer buildings, and saw her draw the Queen and her two ladies closer to her in response.

“Your Majesty,” Muire croaked, her lips a withered line of disdain. “Duke Campbell invites you to return to the Silver Keep as his guest.

“I will not,” the Queen retorted hotly. “You may tell him that when I return, it will be to see his standards broken and pulled down, his titles revoked, and his head placed in a noose.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Muire sneered.

Words flared bright behind Rossiter’s Veil like twin suns. Muire’s hand slashed in a tight arc and deadly steel flashed from her skeletal fingertips in a stream, moaning with the voice of a thousand wasps as they streaked across the chamber. Tyree’s gaze was wide with hunger as the young lord blazed with long tendrils of lightning that danced across the marble floor like a demented spider. Gwydion saw one of Geraldine’s soldiers torn to shreds, another vaporized as he was caught in searing light.

Gwydion’s mind twisted into a new Word, patterns marshalled into familiar constellations in an instant, and the small amulet named Shadowdancer stirred against his chest in response. His Word flared as he widened it to encompass those closest to him and Shadowdancer bore them through the shadows, away from the harsh stench of seared stone and into the cool quiet of a wide, empty yard.

Gwydion’s companions stumbled and gasped from the abruptness of the passage, and Gwydion helped the ladies regain their balance.

“Never fear, Your Majesty, you’ll find your feet in a moment,” Gwydion told her gently.

“What… what has happened?” the Queen gasped in shocked Venaissine. She tried to regain her balance but swayed again, her fingers gripping Gwydion’s arm with steel strength.

“We haven’t gone far, I’m afraid,” he said as he steadied Lady Aithne, who glared at Gwydion as reward for his daring. “We’ll need to hurry, or they’ll be on us in a moment.”

“Where are we?” Captain Andras asked as he peered around. The soldier was not even winded from his exertions, though the blood of his foes still dripped from his blade.

“The carriage yard,” Rowenna replied, and she pointed to the far side of the open space, where the wide doors of the carriage house stood closed. Several figures hurried toward them from the surrounding shadows, but Andras quickly identified them as the five soldiers he had sent to guard this entrance to the temple.

“Bard, thank the Maker,” Lady Bryn whispered, and Gwydion saw that her gaze was fixed on one of the approaching soldiers, the young man who had so recently taken his silver at cards.

“The carriages.” Captain Andras began to stride toward the carriage house. “Quickly, get the doors open.”

But the Queen hesitated, her gaze turned back to the temple, fixed on the distant dome of the chapter house. “Sir Geraldine, the others… we must go back for them,” she insisted.

“We can’t,” Lady Aithne told her sharply, though her voice was not unkind.

The Queen blanched, but she shrugged off Aithne’s hand and strode with no further hesitation to the carriage house doors.

Andras’s soldiers swarmed over two of the same carriages that had borne the Queen on her first, abandoned escape and quickly harnessed a pair of horses to each with a speed that would have shamed many a practiced stable hand. Andras assigned one of the soldiers to drive the first carriage while he claimed that duty for the second. Then the main doors to the carriage house were thrown wide and the carriages lurched forward as reins were flicked and the horses lunged into a gallop. Steel-rimmed wheels shrieked across the cobbles as the carriages slid through the outer gates and into the lane beyond.

Gwydion saw torches waving and heard the rattle of arrows striking the side of the carriage as they passed a road teeming with soldiers, then they plunged into darkness as the horses found their speed and the carriages shot down a wide avenue.

“Where is he taking us?” the Queen demanded, as she peered from the window.

The rush of dark buildings past the window offered few landmarks, but Gwydion could clearly see the massive towers of the Armory in the distance to the left and the tall spire of Southgate ahead. “I believe we are leaving the city, after all,” Gwydion replied.

“No, he cannot!” the Queen exclaimed, and she beat on the carriage’s ceiling with no answer.

“It seems we are now under martial command,” Gwydion mused, and the Queen sank back onto her seat in disgust.

The carriage raced into the deserted plaza that faced the Southgate gatehouse, a massive fortress that guarded a long tunnel through the city walls. Ahead, the tunnel loomed open, dark as a well as it plunged away from the moon’s gaze. Andras snapped his whip and the horses surged forward, finding extra speed as their path straightened.

Then torches flared across their path, revealing a barricade of heavy logs that blocked the tunnel, and soldiers swarmed out of the gatehouse. The lead carriage swerved to the side as the driver hauled on the reins. The horses strained against the twisting weight for a moment, then the carriage’s trace tore free and the shaft ripped into the street like a spear. The entire carriage shuddered as the shaft shattered, the front wheels slewed sideways, and the carriage was hurled onto its side as if it had been struck by a flung boulder.

Gwydion barely had time to shout a warning before their carriage hit the wreckage of the first. He heard Andras curse and then the carriage lurched sickeningly. Wood splintered and glass shattered as the front reared high in the air, and the carriage groaned in pain as it rolled and slid. Inside, its passengers tumbled wildly as splinters of wood and metal tore free and were flung viciously about. Gwydion fell for an endless heartbeat, then crashed shoulders-first into something twisted and sharp, and pain lanced through his back and hip. A crushing weight landed on his ribs and pinned him as the carriage screeched and shuddered for an eternity, before coming to a rest with a cascade of falling debris.

Gwydion struggled to his hands and knees, surprised to find cobblestones beneath his trembling fingers. The weight against him shifted and crashed to the side, the remains of the carriage door, torn from its hinges.

“Ro?” he managed to gasp, his voice dull and distant. He was slowly making sense of the mangled shapes around him, the carriage interior on its side, benches torn free, roof hanging loose, windows and paneling shattered, passengers heaped in a tangled, battered pile on what had been the wall.

Lady Aithne was on her feet, heaving a mass of wood and fabric that had been a bench to the side, and Gwydion lifted the other end and helped shove it through the gap in the roof, freeing the other three passengers. All were battered by the crash, blood smeared from gashes, hair matted, and clothing torn and twisted. Rowenna clutched Gwydion’s hand as he helped her struggle to her feet, and her face twisted in a grimace of pain.

“Are you in one piece?” he asked.

“I think so,” Rowenna replied. “Everything hurts, though.”

“Well, you’ve had a bit of a crash,” Gwydion consoled her.

“Are you all right?” Rowenna asked. “You look terrible.”

“I seem to have survived,” Gwydion answered as he took stock of his injuries, surprised by the results. “I have all my crucial parts, I believe.”

Aithne helped the Queen to her feet, then Lady Bryn. Gabrielle’s armor was dull with grime and blood flowed from her lips and nose, but her gaze was sharp.

“We need to go,” she said in a flurry of quick Venaissine. “They will be coming.”

With a rending tear, the remainder of the roof was torn away to reveal Captain Andras. The soldier shoved aside the splintered mass with a grunt, then extended one hand to the occupants as if he were about to escort them to a reception. But Gwydion saw that his other hand gripped a drawn sword with an ease that spoke of a lifetime of familiarity.

“Your Majesty, are you hurt?” Andras asked.

“No, no, I am well, we are all well,” Gabrielle replied. She took Andras’s hand, and he guided her over the debris of the carriage.

“I’m fine, too,” Gwydion told Andras as he followed. The wreckage of the first carriage sprawled a dozen steps away, torn apart by the violence of the crash. A soldier lurched from the carriage’s remains, dragging another figure free. But even as the first bent to aid another soldier, arrows began to skip and shatter off the cobbles around them, and he cried out as he was struck.

Gwydion winced and ducked as an arrow thrummed into the wood of the carriage next to him. The parapet of the gatehouse now swarmed with the silhouettes of enemy soldiers, and Gwydion could hear the sharp twang of bowstrings releasing. Shouts echoed up the gate tunnel as more soldiers charged toward them, and Gwydion could hear the thunderous approach of horses growing with every heartbeat, pursuing them from the direction of Whitetemple.

“Damn,” Andras muttered as he surveyed the courtyard and the high walls of the gatehouse. “Your Majesty, we’ll have to run for it. Stay next to me, and I’ll shield you. We’ll head for the buildings on the north side, they’re closest. The rest of you, I’d advise you to stay here, stay down, and surrender as quick as you can.”

“No,” Aithne replied sharply. “We are coming. I can stop an arrow as easily as you.”

Andras nodded his approval. “Your Majesty, are you ready?”

“Maker, hold on,” Gwydion interjected. “There’s no need for all this gallant foolishness. Just give me a moment…”

His gaze darted across the courtyard, seeking the darkest of shadows, shielded from the moonlight and from the fast-approaching torches. The northern side of the courtyard was formed by a series of buildings two and three stories tall, close enough together that only the narrowest of twisted alleys separated them. Not too far.

Soldiers in the wreckage of the first carriage were calling out for Andras to go, to run, as they began to shoot at the archers on the wall. But though their shafts were guided with deadly aim, their enemies numbered in the scores and had the thick stone of the parapet to shelter them, and one of the soldiers slumped back, pierced twice in a heartbeat.

“Bard!” Lady Bryn screamed, her gaze locked to the remaining soldier, but he did not turn as he continued to shoot methodically, as if unaware of the shafts whistling about his head.

“Lord Gwydion, we must—” Andras said urgently, but Gwydion ignored him as he refined Shadowdancer’s Word, the blazing lines of its elegant pattern shifting and flowing into shape in an instant. He took the Queen’s hand and released the Word with a whisper that pulsed through the air around him, and the shadows beneath the wrecked carriage rippled as he stepped through them to emerge in the dim recesses of an alley on the north side of the courtyard.

The Queen stumbled as she stepped free from the shadows with him and would have fallen save that she clung to him as he steadied her.

“A moment, and you will be right as rain. Here.” Gwydion regretfully pried the Queen’s hand away from his arm and guided it to the wall of the alley. Much as he would relish a moment to enjoy the warmth of her fingers in his hand, his attention was needed elsewhere. “Wait here, I’ll just go and get the others.”

It took Gwydion two trips to retrieve Andras and the three ladies, the distance short enough that he could convey two at a time without danger. But by the time he completed the second trip, there was no sign of movement in the other carriage, and Gwydion regretfully returned alone.

“Now, let’s be off before they start to look around for us,” he announced.

“Which way?” Rowenna asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Andras replied. “Whichever path is open.”

“There,” Aithne decided, her narrow blade pointing north and east. “There are no torches that way.”

“That’s because I cleared that path on my way in,” a low voice announced from the darkness behind a nearby stack of crates. Blades snapped to greet the voice as a lean shadow detached itself and eased forward a step.

“Drysi,” Andras breathed, and his sword lowered. “Wherever you’ve come from, I thank the Maker.”

“The Maker’s got nothing to do with it,” the Temple ranger replied sharply, and a feral snarl twisted in the darkness beneath her hood. “You’ve led me a nasty trail, riding straight into the thick of the bloody swarm. But we can still get away, if we hurry.”

“We’re waiting on you,” Gwydion informed Drysi blandly, but his goad provoked nothing more than a soft snort of breath as the scout turned and led them away.

Their path wound through alleys and past darkened buildings. The bodies of dead soldiers appeared like landmarks, sprawled on the cobbles, each one with a single arrow driven deep into their flesh. Gwydion could hear the shouts of their pursuers, but Drysi kept ahead of that tide, and they crossed into a maze of narrow streets and low buildings that crowded out the night sky.

“Where are you taking us?” Andras murmured as Drysi hurried them along. “We can’t be on the streets when the sun rises.”

“I have a place where you’ll be safe,” Drysi whispered back. “But it’s a fair hike across the city. As soon as we’ve put some distance between us and Campbell’s soldiers, we’ll find some transport, a wagon, anything you can hide in while we travel.”

“Thank you, Drysi,” the Queen said softly. “You have saved us, I am certain of it.”

Drysi glanced at the Queen for a moment, then she nodded briefly. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The scout guided them onward, turning confidently at every intersection, though Gwydion was soon hopelessly lost save for the brief moments when he caught a glimpse of a distant tower between the buildings. And yet, though the sound of their pursuit waxed and waned, it never faded completely, and Drysi’s muffled curse as she spotted the spark of lanterns and torches in their path became a familiar refrain.

“Persistent bastards,” Gwydion ventured as they watched another group of soldiers hurry along a nearby street.

“Very,” Drysi agreed. “Lucky bastards, as well. Always choosing the right path to get ahead of us.” She scowled at Gwydion, her eyes narrow slits. “At least, it must be luck, right, your lordship?”

“Gwydion,” Rowenna said softly, and Gwydion heard the twist of accusation in her voice. “You haven’t let the Mantle drop, have you?”

“I have not,” he replied shortly. “I’ve managed splendidly, despite being in a crash and having to rescue everyone several times.”

“Don’t be so thin-skinned,” Rowenna said unfairly. “It’s very odd, you must admit.”

“What is?”

“All of this. The attack, Tyree, Rossiter, and Muire. How could they possibly know where we were? And now, how could they possibly know which way to chase us? No one can be that lucky.”

“They must have scouts and such.” Gwydion waved his hand vaguely at the surrounding rooftops, as if they might conceal a host of observers.

“We would have seen them,” Andras assured him, and Gwydion knew the captain was correct. Drysi could spot a hidden observer long before she was seen, Gwydion was certain.

“Well, I don’t know, then. But the Mantle is in place. Ro, it’s in place,” Gwydion continued as his sister drew in a sharp breath to speak. “I promise.”

Rowenna swallowed whatever she had been about to say. “All right. Then I suppose they are just lucky.”

“I suppose,” Gwydion agreed. “And it doesn’t matter whether we had the Mantle or not, because they haven’t used a single Diviner all evening.”

“They haven’t?” Rowenna asked, and her brow furrowed in thought. “Not even after we knew they were here? Why?”

“I’m not sure.” Gwydion frowned, his expression unconsciously mirroring his sister’s. What purpose could it serve to withhold their Diviners once we knew they were here? Perhaps to conceal another attack? But they would need to know where we are going, and I don’t even know that. And Rossiter might have the cunning to think of using that trick twice, but I don’t credit Muire or Tyree with such patience. They should be hounding after us.

Gwydion’s thoughts slipped fully into the Grey Mantle’s Word as he re-examined the intricate arrays of patterns. He had only used the Device for a handful of weeks, and a Veil of its complexity took years to master, so the functions of many of the arcane structures in its Word were a mystery to him. He examined those now, searching past their outer shells into the depths of their mechanisms. Did I miss some critical focus? But, how? Ro and I both tested its concealment, and it was flawless.

Irritated, Gwydion pulled his thoughts back and gazed at the entirety of the Mantle’s Word once more. It hung shimmering in his mind, a cascade of brilliant color that was unblemished by any intruding presence. They simply are not searching for us.

But even as he began to draw his attention away from the Word, he hesitated, his thought captured by a subtle flicker of light among the Word’s thousands of stars. A small structure, a redundant amplification that should be completely stable, wavered for a moment like a reflection on the surface of a disturbed pool.

Now then, why are you active? Gwydion wondered. He watched it patiently, waiting to see if it changed again, though he could hear the dull sound of voices urging him not to delay any further. The tiny structure trembled, then stilled, then trembled again, following no pattern that Gwydion could discern. He altered the Word carefully to remove that pattern and sucked in his breath sharply when the flickering structure refused his command.

“Gwydion, what is it?” he heard his sister ask from beyond the Word’s light.

“There’s something wrong with the Word,” he muttered as his mind encircled the wayward structure in a steel grip. Again, he sought to exorcise the defiant pattern, and again it blithely ignored his command.

“Is someone else challenging to control the Word?”

“No, there’s no one…” Gwydion searched again for the presence of another adept in the Word, a counter command that strove to alter the Word against his wishes but could find none. The Word simply refused to change. And the truculent pattern touched so many of the Word’s other structures, its tendrils like ghostly threads, too numerous to trace.

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast,” Drysi muttered. “They’re getting close.”

What am I going to do? Gwydion wondered. He had never heard of such a situation, much less how to deal with it. In a duel, an adept might well use a Diviner to reveal an opponent’s Word, or simply listen to it, if the wielder was sloppy enough to shout the Word for all to hear. Armed with that knowledge, the two dueling adepts would wrestle for control of the Device, and the stronger, more honed Word would win. But the Grey Mantle’s Word was well-Veiled, and Gwydion had made certain to craft its Word with great subtlety. He doubted if Rowenna could hear its whisper, even standing next to him. Let alone a clod like Rossiter, wherever he is. Which leaves, what? A Device whose Word responds to two different wielders? How can that be possible? And how could Rossiter have discovered such a thing? The Mantle has been secure in the Temple for generations.

Gwydion heard the sharp twang of Drysi’s bow, and a distant cry of pain.

The how doesn’t matter. What matters is what to do.

“Lord Gwydion, we cannot wait here,” Andras growled.

“Quiet,” Gwydion muttered.

Drysi’s bow thrummed again. This time there was no cry, but the thud of something heavy falling against stone was very near.

“Lord Gwydion—” Andras began.

“Captain, give him a moment,” the Queen interrupted.

Gwydion allowed himself a moment of gratification before he heard Gabrielle whisper to his sister, “He does know what he is doing?”

Gwydion ignored whatever the reply might be and focused once again on the Mantle’s Word. There was no indication that the rogue pattern would heed his command this time any more than the last, so he did not bother with the attempt. Instead, his mind slipped along the pattern’s threads, crafting new shapes that were free from the pattern’s touch, isolating it instead of trying to control it. Slowly, more and more of the Word was carved free from its influence, carefully and subtly, so that the pattern was never disturbed.

His mind ached with the strain, but his changes swept swiftly across the Word, devious false currents and hidden loops, and never a touch on the traitorous pattern. When his new patterns were complete, the Word still shone in all its brilliance, but a small section glowed in isolation, separated from the rest by a chasm of uncrossed darkness.

Gwydion sighed in satisfaction and let the Word retreat into the depths of his mind once more. As he did, he became aware of shouts of warning, and the sharp crack of steel against stone, and he realized that he had been shoved to the ground behind an old water barrel. Arrows snapped off the wall behind him, then the thrum of a bow replying as Drysi rose and fired in an instant.

“I did it,” Gwydion announced triumphantly to the other figures huddled behind the barrels. “We’re safe.”

“Amazing, and just in time,” Lady Aithne declared with fatal scorn, and she ducked as another barrage of arrows hissed through the air and struck wall and barrel in a hail.

“Well, we will be in a moment,” Gwydion allowed. “Once we’re away, they shan’t be able to find us again.”

“Get the Queen to safety,” Andras said grimly. “I shall remain behind and keep them busy until you are well away.”

“I think we might need a little more of a head start than you can provide,” Gwydion told the captain. “Though I certainly don’t doubt your bravery. It is absurdly becoming.”

“Lord Gwydion, I do not offer it lightly. We must protect the Queen, and this is the best way.”

“Nonsense. The Queen is perfectly safe, no arrow can pierce her armor’s Wards. Rowenna and I will stop Campbell’s soldiers from following us, you just need to clear a path for us to slip away. No need for any more sacrifices, tonight.”

The captain set his splendid jaw defiantly, but Gwydion turned away and sent his thoughts into the Wards of the Queen’s armor, where rings of ancient glyphs were fashioned into intricate, overlapping shells. His sister’s mind joined his thoughts among the Word’s patterns, coaxing the last shining stars into alignment. Gwydion released his bindings in the same instant as Rowenna, and deep within the steel of Queen Gabrielle’s armor, threads of exotic metal blazed into brilliant light.

“There, safe as houses,” Gwydion assured her.

“And the rest of us?” Aithne muttered.

“Give me half a moment to deal with the archers, and then off you pop,” Gwydion replied grandly.

Gwydion’s Word whispered into the night, and Shadowdancer whirred into life. He peered along the alley, and as arrows hissed toward him, light flared in the archers’ faces, blinding them. Several fired wildly, their shafts flickering through light and shadow in harmless trajectories.

“Go,” he urged, and he heard Andras hurry the Queen away.

More archers revealed themselves to fire at the exposed backs of the retreating party, but Gwydion’s Word was faster, and light burst in staccato rhythm, sending the archers reeling.

“Well done,” Rowenna congratulated him. “Come on, before they recover.”

“Very heroic,” Gwydion agreed. “I will have to—”

Gwydion staggered as he was struck from the side, a blow that felt as if a hammer had slammed into his shoulder. Gwydion gasped in surprise, then agony, as pain erupted from his shoulder like molten metal pouring through his bones.

What…? Gwydion wondered. He sagged to a knee, staring at the dark stain spreading among the patterns of his coat around a long shaft crowned with sleek white feathers. He almost laughed, delighted at the delicious mockery of his recent crowing, but the pain turned it into a choking cough.

“Gwydion!” Rowenna’s voice reached him through the pain, and he felt hands beneath his arms, lifting him. He gasped as the movement ground against the steel point of the arrowhead in his shoulder.

“Maker, you bloody idiot,” Rowenna muttered. “You’ve been shot.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Gwydion protested. He felt a stone wall behind his back and slumped gratefully against it.

She knelt at his side, a small crease of concern between her narrowed brows as she examined his shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

“Decidedly,” Gwydion mumbled. “What an absurd question.”

“What does one do?” Rowenna asked. “They are barbed, I believe?”

“I did not have a chance to examine it on the way in.”

“I think one pushes it through,” Rowenna decided. “I’m certain I have read that.”

“No! No, no, let’s not,” Gwydion said quickly. He struggled back onto his knees. “I’m fine.”

“Gwydion, you can’t just leave an arrow sticking out of you,” Rowenna complained.

“I believe I shall attempt it,” Gwydion decided.

His sister opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a word, Drysi appeared, gripped the shaft, and snapped it off close to his shoulder in one quick movement.

“We’ll cut it out later,” the scout muttered. “Now get moving.”

She was gone before Gwydion could sob with pain, which, he decided, was likely for the best. He swallowed the sour bile that had rushed up his throat and spat to clear the taste from his mouth.

“Yes,” he moaned. “That’s much better, thank you.”

“Can you walk?” Rowenna asked.

“Yes, I can bloody walk, it’s my shoulder,” Gwydion snapped. He lurched upright, blinked what he would claim was sweat from his eyes, and staggered after the disappearing form of Drysi, his shoulder throbbing nauseatingly.

“My lord, your shoulder,” the Queen exclaimed, as Gwydion staggered into view.

“A most inopportune wound,” he agreed. “But I find I still have one useful arm, and it is my favorite, as chance has it.”

The Queen blinked in surprise, then looked away as she fought against a smile, but Lady Aithne only rolled her eyes.

“And our pursuers?” Captain Andras asked.

“No longer pursuing,” Gwydion replied.

“Then we should hurry,” Drysi muttered from her post in a nearby doorway, where she watched the alleyway with an arrow nocked.

Into the street they fled. Gwydion clenched his teeth and forced his legs to stagger onward. They reached a market square, weaved between the empty stalls and around the gushing fountain in the center of the square, and plunged into the darkness of an alleyway beyond.

“How much farther?” Gwydion gasped.

“Tinkers’ Square, then we find transport,” Drysi replied.

The Temple scout kept them moving, though Gwydion feared every step would be the one on which his strength gave out and he pitched onto the ground. But an eternity later, he stumbled to a halt at Drysi’s whispered command without having fainted, and stood panting as she disappeared for a moment, only to return an instant later.

“There’s a wagon on the street ahead, one of the ones the Blackberries use to get around the city. The back is enclosed, so get in there, close the door, and don’t make a sound.”

They followed the scout around the corner, where the promised wagon waited, two men slumped on the ground next to it beneath their black cloaks. Gwydion was pushed up the steps and thrust into the wagon’s dark interior, then the door banged closed, and the wagon lurched into motion.

He could hear the deep, ragged breaths of the others in the close confines of the wagon, and he groaned and sank to the floor. Every time he thought the pain in his shoulder had reached a crescendo, the agony stabbed deeper, and its white ache throbbed into his teeth and through his skull.

He twisted to peer through one of the tiny windows in the side of the wagon as Drysi drove them eastward through a maze of streets toward the decrepit district of Goldenfields. The buildings became filthier, and stained brick gave way to rotten wood as the street narrowed with each turn until it was little more than a mud-slick track between hovels. The ragged denizens hurried from the wagon’s path or glared sullenly from the darkened doorways of the buildings, but none dared approach.

The wagon drove up a slope, where the horses slipped and snorted as they dragged it higher. Gwydion hung on grimly as the wagon slid and lurched, its frame creaking and groaning. As they ascended, the street widened into the remains of a broad boulevard long since reduced to a nightmare of deep ruts and thick mud that clung to the wheels.

Ruined mansions leered over the tumbled remains of the ancient, vine-encrusted walls that lined the street. The crumbling buildings sprawled silently in the darkness, their stained edifices weeping. Ragged blankets flapped across windows, sullen wisps of smoke curled from the stubs of chimneys, and the broken detritus of a thousand lives littered the ground, ample proof that life teemed like maggots within the rotten corpses of Goldenfields.

Drysi eased the wagon into a drive choked with brambles, reined in the horses and set the brake.

Gwydion listened to the sudden hush, the heavy shift of branches in the light breeze, the muffled thud of a horse’s hoof against the muddy track. The wagon leaned as Drysi jumped down, and she held back the brambles as she opened the door.

Gwydion stumbled awkwardly to the ground with a squelch.

“It’s a short scramble from here, but we need to be quiet as mice from here on,” Drysi murmured, then led them through the remains of a small gate hanging forlornly from a rusted hinge. The track beyond led through a thicket of stinging creepers and bristling shrubs. Gwydion caught glimpses of the ruined hulk of an ancient mansion ahead, fire-gnawed beams thrusting above the remains of tumbled walls like broken ribs.

“Lovely,” Gwydion mumbled, but he was not certain if the word had made it past his tongue. The ground rocked and he slid onto his side, the cold mud a distant discomfort against his cheek. Someone called his name, but he could not tell who it was, and it was far too much trouble to answer. Far easier to close his eyes and gather his thoughts for a moment as he slipped gratefully into darkness.

Intuition

Reverend Meara hurried along the broad passageways of Bandirma’s Inner Temple. Her arms strained as she clutched several heavy books against her chest while scroll cases twisted in her hands and threatened to squirm free with every step.

The few priests and priestesses travelling the hallways stepped aside to let her pass, but Meara could feel their gazes following her. None greeted her, save for mumbled excuses, and their glances shied away. Meara kept her gaze firmly on the floor and took solace from the fact that she did not to have to speak to anyone.

Fortunately for her precarious load, her journey was a short one, no more than a hundred paces from the Archives to the apartment of the Temple Archivist. But Meara was breathless by the time she arrived at the archivist’s door and took a moment to compose herself before knocking.

The door was answered by a steward who sniffed at Meara as if he were offended by her presence, and Meara realized that she had forgotten to bathe or change into a clean robe for her appointment. She had worked in the Archives since dawn bells until she feared she might be late for her meeting. Her mouth tasted stale, her fingers were black with ink, and more blotches of ink decorated her wrinkled robes.

“This way, your reverence,” the steward said haughtily, and guided her along a short hallway to the archivist’s reading room.

Since Reverend Whitebrooke’s departure, the walls of the apartment had been scrubbed white, and delicate furniture had appeared which seemed to prance on legs that were far too slender to support their weight. Candles flickered in silver holders, and flowers brought color and fragrance in bright splashes. Gauzy curtains swayed in the open windows where heavy drapes had once hung, and a fresh breeze rustled paper and stirred hangings around the room.

“Hello, Reverend Meara,” the archivist greeted her. Reverend Anariel perched on the end of a divan, a porcelain cup in her hand. A second figure occupied a small, high-backed chair next to her, a thin, round-faced man who wore the robes of a High Priest.

“Reverend Anariel, Reverend Ail,” Meara replied. Meara tried to bow, but the scroll cases chose that moment to make their escape and clattered to the ground in a rush.

“Whoops! Here, let me help you,” Reverend Ail said kindly, and suddenly the two members of the High Council were on their knees, trying to gather up the mess.

“I’m sorry, your reverences,” Meara mumbled as she searched for a place to put her books so that she might help. “I was doing some research this morning, and I came straight here.”

“So I see,” Reverend Anariel said as she gathered up the last of the wayward scroll cases. “Here, put it all on my desk.”

Meara gingerly lowered her books on the archivist’s desk, not at all convinced the willowy structure would survive the weight. Reverend Anariel stacked the scroll cases next to the books, then returned to her seat and recovered her tea. Ail abandoned his chair for Meara and stood beside the open window, silhouetted against the dazzling surface of Loughliath and blue sky behind him.

“Meara, Reverend Ail has come to us with some questions,” Anariel told her. “And I thought you might be able to help him answer them.”

Meara glanced at the stack of books on Anariel’s desk. She was fairly certain that she was expected to agree, rather than point out that she was already working on a dozen projects. “Are the questions very urgent?” she asked, at last, which she had found annoyed people less than asking if something was important.

“I believe it is fair to say that they may become so,” Reverend Ail said with a smile.

“Then of course, Reverend Ail,” Meara replied. “What are the questions?”

The high priest rummaged in the pockets of his robes for a moment and then produced a thin book bound in soft leather. He untied the ribbon holding the book closed, read briefly, then closed the book on his finger to mark the page.

“Are you aware of the history of the Martyr’s Blade?” Ail asked.

“Yes, your reverence.” Meara nodded. “At least, I am aware that the Martyr used it to defend King Ruric against the Nameless King during the battle of the Fellgate in year zero of the New Calendar, and that Lady Danielle recently used it to destroy a magus in the High Fells.”

“Yes, exactly,” Ail agreed. “Now then, the questions all relate to how the Blade got from the Martyr to Lady Danielle, from the one to the other, if you see. Lady Danielle has related to us that the Blade was guarded by her family since the Martyr’s death, when it was given to her ancestor, Marquesa Augustine. The Blade was passed down, generation to generation, but she did not know how her family was chosen to conceal the Blade after the Martyr’s death, or by whom, or how that decision was hidden from the Guild, or why her family was suited to wield the Martyr’s Blade, nor how it came to Lavandou without detection.”

Meara parsed the questions in silence for a moment. Questions whose answers were hidden a thousand years ago. And why is now the time to know those answers?

“Reverend Meara?” Anariel asked.

Meara blinked and refocused on the other people in the room. “Yes, your reverence?”

“Can you help Reverend Ail with those questions?”

“Yes, your reverence. It might take a few days, is that all right?”

“A few days?” Ail glanced at Anariel, and Meara saw the corner of his mouth was twitching as if he could not decide whether to smile or not. “I, ah, that will be fine. Do you need me to write down the questions for you?”

“No, I heard them.” Meara glanced between Reverend Ail and Reverend Anariel, waiting.

“Good, I am glad to hear it,” Ail replied. “And I am certain you will be glad to hear that Sister Aine was released from the Healers this morning. They tell me that she is quite recovered.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Meara said.

“And you, Meara, I was so anxious to hear your thoughts, I failed to ask after your health.”

“I am quite recovered, your reverence,” Meara replied.

“In body and spirit?” Ail asked.

“Yes, I am fine,” Meara said quietly, and she clutched her journal closer to her chest.

“That makes me very happy to hear,” Ail replied.

She waited for Ail to say more, but after a moment he merely patted her shoulder and said, “Thank you, again, and good luck.”

The door to Reverend Anariel’s apartment closed behind Meara with a muted clunk of its latch, and she hurried back to the Archives.

The grand library, the open, vaulted room that served as home for much of the Archive’s trove of books, was filled with the gentle rustle of cloth and parchment that was its heartbeat, as dozens of priests and acolytes studied tomes at the library’s reading tables and searched on its shelves. Meara hurried through without pause. The archivists inhabited a warren of private studies and scriptoriums beyond the library where they could work on their own research undisturbed, and Meara twisted through the maze of shelf-lined halls to the cramped room that she had shared with five other junior archivists.

The room was hers alone, now. The five other desks crowded the center of the room, some with books open on their tops, pens resting in holders, ink pots filled with dry, cracked ink, as their former occupants would never return from the gristly site where they had been sacrificed to feed Reverend Whitebrooke’s foul rituals. No one had come to claim any of the research left behind, and Meara had not wanted to disturb any of it. Her desk crouched against the wall, somewhat apart from the cluster of other desks. The light from the tiny window barely reached it, but there was room for a candelabra.

She carefully tucked her current armful of books and scrolls into a nearby cubbyhole, and then she stood for a moment, staring at the open surface of her desk. Where to begin? Meara pondered the question for only a moment, as it was one that she had answered for herself countless times. Begin with those who were there.

Most of the records of the First Conclave, the gathering of nobles and sages that had formed to decide what was to be done after Ruric’s death, had been stored in Fellgate Castle, the enormous fortress that had been built to watch the Black Grave and to guard the tombs of Ruric and the Martyr. That trove had been lost in the Cataclysm, but the scholar Beledain had spent years in the castle archives before the Fellgate had been destroyed and the castle sealed away, and his Annals of the Black Tower War were a comprehensive and treasured accounting of that time.

Meara had read Beledain many times, often enough that she could recite some sections without reference to the page, so she did not mind too much when she discovered that the only copy left unspoken for in the library was the horrible version by Reverend Derog, which was twice as long as any other due to the pages of self-congratulatory commentary the priest had added to his transcription.

She lugged the final three volumes, the ones in which Beledain discussed the final years of the War and the details of the First Conclave, back to her desk and laid the first onto the desk’s raised reading stand. Next to it she opened her latest journal, turned to a blank page, and smoothed it open. She tapped her pen against the rim of her ink pot, then scratched a brief line of ink on the open page of her journal, etching the words Marquesa Augustine onto the fresh parchment.

“Who were you?” Meara asked softly. She breathed in the scent of the parchment, rich and clean, and felt anticipation stir eagerly in her chest as she opened the book.

She turned the pages slowly as she read, the room’s silence undisturbed, her hand holding her pen motionless above the waiting page of her journal. More pages were turned, and with them, years of desperate warfare against the Crunorix passed. Towns were razed and realms shattered, their denizens sacrificed to the magi’s Nameless King, while the defending armies suffered horrific defeats, or worse, arrived too late to even offer battle. Then the pages revealed a last hope, the discovery of the lair of the Crunorix, the Black Grave, by Duibhir, the Hooded Knight, and the raising of a great army to march on the Grave, led by High King Ruric, a myth made real.

And here, at last, Meara began to write, the tip of her pen scratching hurriedly across the page of her journal in brief flurries of activity as Beledain recounted the final campaign, with the victories at Highward Tor and the Fellgate, and finally the fateful ambush that left King Ruric and his knights to stand alone against the Nameless King and the assembled magi.

Meara dashed off one last line and then her pen went still as the final volume of the Annals was read, recounting the First Conclave and the sealing of the Black Grave, until she turned the last page and sat back with a sigh of regret. She slowly stretched her fingers to relieve the cramps as she examined what she had written in her journal.

Marquesa Augustine, the woman entrusted with the Martyr’s Blade, had been mentioned only three times in the Annals. Once to praise her soldiers’ readiness at the battle of Kuray in Jaquin fifty-three. Once to mention that her army had encamped outside the fishing village of Bandirma for the summer of Jaquin fifty-four. And finally, her name was mentioned when her troops, along with the vast majority of Ruric’s army, were trapped in the Fellgate Pass and did not reach the field of battle until weeks after the fateful confrontation between Ruric and the Nameless King, in Jaquin fifty-five.

“No one would choose her to guard the Blade,” Meara muttered, her brow furrowed. The marquesa had been a capable commander and was one of the first to join her troops to Ruric’s army, but there were scores of more decorated, more commemorated, more venerated heroes of that war. And yet, someone did choose her. Why? Perhaps it wasn’t Augustine, but her family?

Meara considered that for a moment, then left her study and wormed into the deepest stacks where rooms were so entirely dedicated to shelves and chests that barely a consideration was spared for space for a person to squeeze between them. Here she located a beautifully crafted chest with an elegant engraving of the royal arms on its lid. Inside, nestled on silk pillows, were a massive tome bound in polished wood and filigreed silver and a thick scroll in a leather case, a copy of the ancestral registry compiled for King Arian for his wedding to Queen Gabrielle.

The registry was filled with details of the Queen’s ancestors, lovingly rendered in beautiful calligraphy, accented with paintings and gilded with precious metal. The scroll was far too wide for her desk, so after a moment’s hesitation Meara cleared off the remaining desks and used their combined surfaces as a reading table.

The parchment seemed to unroll forever, slowly revealing generation after generation of names recorded in precise, tiny calligraphy, embellished with color and gilded with precious leaf. The genealogy had been trimmed to include only the most direct line of ancestors, yet still the tree spread to encompass thousands of names, and when Meara at last reached the end of the scroll, Queen Gabrielle’s name perched at the crown of a tree that spread the length of the reading table.

Meara anchored the scroll with the final volume of the Annals and hurried around the table to the roots of the Queen’s family, where the line began with an elaborate rendering of the words “King Constance the Great” and a date that referenced no calendar that Meara had ever heard of.

Meara’s fingers traced the great trunk of the tree upwards, following each whorl and reluctantly avoiding each side branch as the generations announced themselves to her like guests at a ball. Kings and queens gave way to baronets and countesses as the family was absorbed, along with Vordoux, by the sprawling realm of Venaissin. Then marquesas and marquises as Vordoux was reborn as a mighty province, and Meara’s finger began to slow, then settled on a single name, “Augustine”.

Meara tapped the parchment softly as she considered the loops of ink. The name was written with no more emphasis than its neighbors, and, in fact, was among the smaller and less revered, with no color and hardly a flourish adorning it. Augustine received little more attention in the registry, as her entry contained only the details of her marriage and a brief summary of her “courage and loyalty during the War.”

Pages turned quickly as Meara searched for the names immediately below Augustine’s on the scroll until, after searching through three fruitless generations, Meara finally scrawled, Had no reputation as an adept, nor did either of her parents or grandparents.

Meara frowned at the ink. Why would they give one of the pre-eminent Weapons of the War to someone who couldn’t possibly use it? Lady Danielle’s family is now known for its adepts, she thought. I wonder… since when?

She returned to the pinnacle of the tree and gazed at the name in the Queen’s shadow. “Danielle, Marquesa d’Lavandou, born in the year nine sixty-two of the New Calendar,” Meara whispered. She found Lady Danielle’s entry in the registry and read among her accomplishments, “Premier Adept.”

Her finger slid down the line that led to the Queen’s and Lady Danielle’s names. “Michelle, Marquesa d’Lavandou,” she read, then, “Master Adept.”

Her finger slid further into the past and the heavy pages of the registry sighed as they turned to keep pace.

“Adele, Marquesa d’Lavandou… Dominique, Marquesa d’Lavandou,” she read, and, “Master Adept… Premier Adept…” The names continued, along with the recitation of the family’s mastery of Devices, as Meara slowly descended the tree. At last, she reached a name gilded in gold leaf and rendered in ink in a multitude of rich colors, its letters thrice the size of its neighbors, “Rachelle of Croyez, Marquesa d’Lavandou, born in the year twenty, N.C.” Meara dipped her pen into the ink pot and scrawled in her journal, Rachelle of Croyez! as she whispered, “Premier Adept” before she had even glanced at the registry.

There was only one name between Rachelle’s and Augustine’s. “Daniel, Marquis d’Lavandou,” Meara intoned, but then she frowned as she found his entry in the registry. It was as unremarkable as his mother’s, with no mention of any ability as an adept. The only detail listed aside from his birth in Jaquin forty-nine was his marriage twenty-four years later to a Lady Aibhlinn, and a note that reiterated that he was the father of Rachelle of Croyez, whose name was again gilded and granted four colors of ink.

Meara chewed on her lip as she gazed at Marquis Daniel’s name on the tree. There was something very special about the marquis, although the royal scribes had not thought that it warranted colored ink or gild. Meara traced the names upward to make certain, whispering, “Marquesa… Marquesa… Marquesa…,” dozens of times until she reached Lady Danielle, then back again, checking the names of siblings as well, until she returned to Lord Daniel. He’s the last son. Hundreds of daughters across the generations, and not a single son, not in the direct line, Meara realized. The last son, and the last to be born before Augustine was given the Blade. And the last generation that didn’t feature at least one master adept. Can that possibly be a coincidence?

Meara groaned and rubbed her palms into her eyes. Her mind was ready to return to the title page of the Annals and begin again, searching for connections that had not surfaced on the first reading, but she could feel her body failing her, leaving her dizzy with hunger and her eyes burning with weariness. So, she forced herself to leave the study and trudge back to the library, where she was surprised to discover that the sunlight lancing into the library’s reading room came from low in the west. Another cramp from her stomach lent credence to the theory that she had spent the entire day hunched over her desk, oblivious to the passage of time.

As she hesitated, the majestic tones of the library’s bells announced the first evening bell, and Meara quickly left the library and strode purposefully through the passageways of the Inner Temple, past the dignified quiet of the senior reverends’ quarters and the hushed scratching of the scriptoriums to the great doors that marked the border of the Outer Temple. There, she passed into a realm of hallways crammed with movement and throbbing with voices, where robed acolytes and reverends shared space with stewards, soldiers, and tradesmen in a bustling chaos that would be recognizable on the main street of any sizable township.

For a moment, she glimpsed a distant view of Taliesin’s Sanctuary and the Atrium beyond it, but her path took her into the heart of the hill. Soon she could hear the clatter of plates and utensils and could smell the rich aroma of bread and meat and vegetables that announced her arrival at the refectory, the grand dining hall that served the humbler ranks of the temple’s occupants.

Meara passed through the refectory’s doors and stood for a moment to survey the rows of long tables that filled the hall beneath shining candelabras. Groups of acolytes, soldiers, and stewards created a mosaic of colors, splotches of grey, green, and black defining each population as clearly as if they had painted boards swaying above their heads.

Among the grey-robed acolytes, Meara spotted a blaze of copper curls and hurried in that direction. She squeezed and twisted between the tables and dodged stewards carrying plates of food, suddenly anxious. She could see that Aine was alone, the seats around her unoccupied, and though Aine had a plate loaded with food, she was simply staring at it, her hands in her lap, as if she did not realize it was there.

“Aine,” Meara called out as she neared, and the acolyte glanced up quickly to meet Meara’s gaze.

“Meara!” Aine smiled and pushed herself carefully to her feet. “How did you guess I’d be here?”

“It’s first bell,” Meara explained. “You like to eat at first bell.”

“I suppose I do,” Aine replied.

Meara hesitated, suddenly awkward, then hugged the older girl until they both teetered.

“I’m glad you are feeling better,” Meara told Aine.

“Hello, Meara,” Aine replied. “I am, mostly. I’m glad to see you, too.”

“Reverend Ail told me the healers had let you out this morning.”

“They did.” Aine pulled back slightly and Meara at last released her. “Yes, and I can’t tell you how sick I was of that place.”

The healers had removed the bandages that had covered the stitches on Aine’s scalp, and her curly hair covered any remaining traces of the wound. But Aine moved stiffly, as if cautious of any jarring step, and her answering smile cringed gingerly across her lips.

“But, before you were hurt, you worked there every day,” Meara said, puzzled.

“It’s more fun being the healer than the patient, I can tell you that,” Aine said, and another ghost of a smile wisped across her face. “Anyway, it’s done now, and they’ve told me I’ve no duties for two more weeks, so at last a bit of good has come of it.”

Meara’s brows came together in a crease. “We also caught Sir Cathan and helped stop Reverend Whitebrooke from escaping, so there was quite a lot of good done,” Meara reminded her.

“You did,” Aine said quietly, and her fingers brushed absently across the side of her skull before she winced and yanked them back to her lap. “I mostly just got knocked on the head.”

“We helped each other,” Meara said firmly.

“I suppose so.”

Meara nodded, then carefully reached into her belt pouch and withdrew a thin scalpel wrapped in a strip of cloth, which she held toward Aine. “Here, this is yours.”

Aine recoiled from the proffered blade. “Is that the one you…?”

“Yes.”

“Maker, Meara, I don’t want that.” Aine grimaced and turned her gaze back to the plate of untouched food on the table in front of her.

Meara pondered that for a moment, then tucked the scalpel back into her pouch. I’ve been insensitive, she decided, though she was uncertain how.

The group of four acolytes who occupied the end of their table suddenly rose and moved to another table, glancing quickly away when Meara gazed after them. The refectory was crowded, but no one sat in the empty chairs, and instead hurried by without meeting Meara’s gaze. A small moat of empty chairs surrounded her and Aine, while more distant tables had acolytes crammed against one another.

Meara frowned. “No one talks to me anymore,” she told Aine. “I mean, no one really ever talked to me, but now it’s worse, and I don’t know why.”

“Do you mean besides the fact you’re waving a knife around?” Aine asked, and a hint of a giggle mixed with her sigh.

“Yes,” Meara replied. “They do it all the time, even when I’m not holding a knife.”

“Meara, you are an odd duck sometimes, you do know that?”

“I just think differently from most people, why is that so strange?”

“It’s not that, it’s just you are so brilliant, and then sometimes you can miss the most obvious things.”

“I don’t have time to research why each person acts the way they do,” Meara complained.

“Maybe not, but a wee bit of intuition might work. Do you really not know?”

“No.” Meara sighed. “And I can’t figure it out.”

“Meara, Martyr’s tears.” Aine’s voice dropped to a whisper that Meara had to bend close to hear. “You were accused of being a Crunorix priestess.”

“Oh.” Meara gazed blankly at the robed figures around her, her brow creased as her thoughts raced. “That was a mistake. Reverend Nesta said so, to everyone.”

Aine shook her head gingerly. “People don’t just forget that kind of thing. And it’s true that you are studying those bloody rituals. They’re worried you will… you know.”

They think I’m going to be corrupted, just like Reverend Whitebrooke was.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Meara complained.

“I know, but Meara, it scares people.”

Meara pondered that statement silently, then glanced at Aine and noted the white strain across her knuckles, the thin line of her lips.

“Aine, are you scared of me?” Meara asked.

Aine drew in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly before answering.

“I’m not scared of you, but I’m scared for you. You don’t seem to care about how dangerous it is to mess with those rituals.”

“I don’t mess with them,” Meara replied, stung. “I research, I discover how they work. That’s how we’ll find a way to defeat the Crunorix.”

“Fine, then maybe you don’t seem to care about how dangerous it is to research those rituals,” Aine snapped. “Honestly, Meara, they’ve killed dozens of people, what’s so hard to see about that?”

Meara blinked, surprised by the sharpness of Aine’s voice.

“I’m sorry, Aine. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Aine’s lips opened to reply but her breath caught, and she hesitated long enough that Meara knew she had reconsidered whatever she had first thought to say.

“No, I’m sorry, Meara, I didn’t mean to be such a shrew. It’s just these bloody headaches.”

“I understand,” Meara told her. “I hope it will make you feel better to know that I am not doing research on the fuil crunor rituals.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Aine replied, and she met Meara’s gaze. “What are you working on, then?”

“Some research for Reverend Ail,” Meara explained.

“Is it interesting?” Aine asked.

“It’s starting to be.” Meara drew in a deep breath and frowned. “But so far, all I’ve really done is find more questions that need to be answered.”

“Well then, you must be very happy,” Aine teased gently.

“Yes,” Meara replied thoughtfully. “I think I am.”

Quite the Tale

The stream splashed and burbled as it tumbled over a clutch of boulders, adding curls of mist to the wool-thick fog that lingered beneath the trees. An occasional shaft of brilliant gold lanced between the trunks as the morning sun found cracks in the dense foliage, but the night’s chill was proof to these probing touches, and Kincaid’s breath steamed past his shaggy beard as he surveyed the stream.

The current had carved a pool beneath the boulders, deep and clear, and Kincaid grinned as he peeled away sword, axe, and knives, cloak, boots, mail, tunic, and trousers, and plunged into the water. The cold was sharp enough that he puffed and bellowed when he surfaced, and it carried away the clinging traces of sleep and the thick grime of the road.

He thrashed his way beneath the boulders and let the stream pound his wide shoulders, then drifted on his back in the still waters of the pool as he watched the trees spiral against a fresh blue sky.

“Captain?”

Kincaid glared at the source of the voice. A barrel of a man stood next to Kincaid’s discarded gear, hair and beard as long and tangled as Kincaid’s, but as red as the sun’s last rays.

“Bearnard, join me?”

“Not me.” The big man shivered and wrapped his cloak more securely around his chest. “I heard tell there was a terrible ugly bear frolicking in the beck.”

“If I see it, I’ll let it know you were asking after it. You certain you don’t want a swim? It’ll sort your mind right quick.”

Bearnard snorted in amusement and crouched at the water’s edge. “I like my mind where it’s at. My spuds, too.”

“Now then, we both know Taffy has your balls.”

“Aye, and that’s where I like ’em. Not small and shriveled at the bottom of the beck.”

“Coward,” Kincaid declared. He swam to the shallows and shook himself like a dog, sending streams of water spraying from his shaggy hair. “You come just to tell me how you like your balls?”

“Oh, mostly that. That, and Tóki sent word he’s spotted a bunch of folks camped up the beck a ways.”

“Folks?” Kincaid yanked his tunic and trousers on but decided against boots or mail until he had dried. “What sort of folks?”

“Farmers or woodsmen or the like, he reckons.”

“Not soldiers, then.”

“No, he was clear on that. Regular folk, with hardly a tent or blanket between them. They looked right hard done by, Tóki said.”

“How many’s a bunch?”

“Sixty or seventy. Men, women, and children.”

Kincaid frowned. “I reckon they must have a story.”

“I’d say so.” Bearnard grinned somewhere deep inside his beard, revealed only by the crinkles that appeared around his eyes. “They’ve got themselves some prisoners, apparently.”

“Do they, now?” Kincaid mused. “I think I’d like to meet these folk. Tell Tóki to bring them in.”

Kincaid waited impatiently on the muddy track that led from the forest, frowning at the fog that lingered between dark trunks.

“Tóki’s taking his time,” he muttered.

“He’s got a bunch of old farmers to herd,” Bearnard reminded him.

“Still,” Kincaid grumbled. He could hear the bustle of the camp rousing behind him, the calls to assemble the soldiers, the distant thonk of axes at work in the woods, and the thick scent of dozens of cookfires frying bread and stewing porridge. His stomach growled in response, and his frown deepened.

A rambling inn had been built alongside the Seann Rathad where it forded the stream, a waystation for travelers to break their journey in comfort. The inn boasted a dozen rooms, stables and a wagon yard, a sturdy palisade, and a kitchen that produced a fine assortment of stews and roasts. Fields and a fenced pasture had been carved from the clearing around the inn, with a prosperous farmstead overseeing them that supplied the fresh eggs his stomach was groaning for.

The farm and inn were now overrun by Kincaid’s soldiers. Tents filled the pasture, and soldiers had occupied the bunkhouse, barn, and stables. The banks of the creek upstream of the ford were busy with soldiers visiting with buckets, and downstream with soldiers visiting the newly dug latrines. Ten wagons lined the road leading north, too many to fit inside the palisade, and another forest of tents filled the meadow on the eastern side of the road.

Bearnard pointed along the trail. “Here they come.”

Two horsemen in sodden cloaks loomed from the fog. The riders wore long swords at their sides and steel armor on their legs and arms over the dark wool of their coats and leggings. Both had thick, bushy beards, frosted with mist, one dark, one blonde, and their faces were as craggy and hard as stone as they nodded to the duo awaiting them. Both the riders wore a small insignia on the clasp of their cloaks, a silver badge bearing a sigil of a stag rising from a crown, the same symbol that was stamped onto every silver penny across the realm.

“Tóki,” Kincaid greeted the blonde rider. “I hear you’ve found some lost lambs.”

“We did,” Tóki replied. He guided his horse to the side of the trail and frowned behind him, a spiderweb of cracks appearing at the corner of each eye. “They’ve a story to tell, that’s certain.”

Kincaid waited expectantly, but the tall scout seemed to have said his full, and he watched the approaching figures slog towards them in silence.

The procession was not an uplifting sight. No one in the ragged column looked to have had an easy life, even before whatever tragedy had forced them to leave their homes. Clothes were patched and patched again, until there was no telling what the original cloth might have been. Leather was worn away to scraps, and several of the shambling figures had wrapped themselves in torn blankets to ward off the chill, as they had no cloaks or coats.

Some were injured and hobbled along painfully, and there were two makeshift stretchers, although whether they bore wounded or corpses was hard to tell, so pale and still were the occupants.

The refugees shambled to a halt as they neared the horses, their eyes wide with hope, their lips tight with fear.

“Who’s the leader of this magnificent fighting force, then?” Kincaid boomed. He swung down from his horse and stepped forward, hands on his hips, and gave them a grin.

“We don’t have a knight or a lord, m’lord,” a stick of a man wearing the mud-spattered tatters of a priest’s robe replied. He hurried forward awkwardly, and Kincaid thought with dismay that he was about to kneel in the muddy trail. Instead, he attempted an ungainly bow and concluded, “We’re just trappers and miners, or we were, from a camp on the Gylden Beck.”

“Is that right?” Kincaid asked. “You’ve had a long walk.”

“We have, m’lord,” he replied.

“I’m no knight, so save your m’lords,” Kincaid said with a laugh. He gripped the priest by the shoulder, then regretted it as the thin man lurched from the impact. “My name is Kincaid, and I’m the one in charge of this little lark. So, tell me why you’re so far from home.”

“We’ve been afflicted by terrible misfortune,” the priest replied, his voice climbing into the sonorous tones that seemed tailored to send Kincaid into the stupor inspired by every sermon he was forced to listen to.

But Tóki interrupted the priest before he could gather much momentum. “They say their camp was attacked by dead men.”

Kincaid nodded slowly as he strove to keep his expression calm, as if Tóki had simply commented on the weather. Dead men, is that a fact? Kincaid looked away from the priest and found his glance caught by a girl standing in the pack of refugees. As their gaze met, her eyes narrowed, as if she had spotted the first sign of tracks in the snow.

Kincaid grinned at her, but she did not return the smile. Instead, she turned to a boy standing next to her and whispered something to him, and he nodded grimly in return. A dour lot, Kincaid decided, though they’re due if what they say is true.

“The dead, is it?” he asked.

“It’s true, sir.” The old priest shook his head sadly. “Terrible creatures. They overran the camp, chased us for days. We’d surely be beyond the shroud now if it weren’t for lucky chance.”

“Sounds like a tale best told by a fire,” Kincaid decided, and a sigh of relief swept through the refugees crowded on the trail.

“Don’t you listen to these bastards!” a voice called out, thick with rage. A commotion stirred in the midst of the refugees, figures shoving and stumbling, and the refugees’ expressions turned hard and defiant.

“They have some prisoners, soldiers,” Tóki murmured. “Say they were deserters who murdered some folks on the trail.”

“Whose soldiers?”

“Some fella named Sir William. They’re not well-pleased to be trussed up, and it looks like they’ve had a thump or two.”

“Well, let’s have a chat and hear their story, then.”

“Captain, these soldiers are murderers and—”

Kincaid silenced the priest with a raised hand and a frown.

“You’ll have your say, Reverend, but I’ll hear their story from their mouths, same way I’ll hear yours.”

The crowd parted and two strong lads led eight prisoners forth. They still wore mail and their ragged uniforms, but it seemed that their cloaks had been appropriated along the trail. Their hands were bound, and several had bruises swelling across their faces.

Their leader seemed to be a thick-set man with heavy arms and a jaw far too wide for his head. He drew himself up and glowered at his captors.

“What’s your name, soldier, and whom do you serve?”

“I’m called Leod, sir, and we serve Sir William, a knight in Lord Lucious’s service.” The man waited expectantly.

“Aye, I’ve heard of Lucious.” Kincaid snorted and spat heavily into the mud beside his boot. “Saw your work in Blockley.”

“Lord Lucious commanded us to take the village, so we did,” Leod replied sullenly. “He said there were rebels in the stronghold.”

“And I suppose all is forgiven, what with Lucious dangling from a noose, and all?” Kincaid chuckled. Leod paled at the mention of a noose, though his cheeks burned bright red.

“These bastards attacked us while we were asleep,” he spluttered, turning hastily to more recent events. “Killed Sir William in his tent, killed Dag as well. They’re the ones that should be swinging from a branch.”

“Is that right?” Kincaid asked.

“Sir, if I may.” One of the prisoners, a grey-haired soldier with a long face and the sad remains of a beard sprouting from the tip of his chin stepped forward hesitantly.

“You shut your mouth, Dwyer, I’m doing the talking,” Leod snarled.

“And I’m doing the asking, so I’ll ask whomever I please, won’t I,” Kincaid replied.

“He hit me in the back of the head when they attacked our camp,” Leod accused Dwyer.

“This is worse than listening to me sprats,” Kincaid grumbled to Bearnard. “All right then, Leod, your story is you were set upon by these folk here, and betrayed by this fellow, here, to boot, and Sir William murdered in his tent.”

“That’s right.”

“And you say different?” Kincaid asked Dwyer.

“I do.”

“Let’s hear it, before my sword rusts away.”

“Well, sir, these folk have the right of it, I’d say.”

“You’re a fucking traitor, you bastard,” Leod snarled.

“Go on, then,” Kincaid urged Dwyer. “What’s he so keen to have you not say?”

“Yes, sir. We are deserters, sir, though we didn’t know it. Sir William told us he had orders, sir, and how were we to know we didn’t? But there’s no doubt we ran from the battle, though Sir William called it a retreat.”

“A battle?” Kincaid’s shaggy brows rose. “Well, now, that’s interesting, as well. All sorts of surprises popping up like rats out of a latrine. We’ll hear more about that when we’ve got this sorted, then. These folk say you’re murderers, as well. Did you not know about that, neither?”

“That’s true, sir, sadly true. I saw it with my own eyes. One of the Temple lads was with them, and he came to us for help. One of the men set on him and cut him down before he could draw his blade, and a sorry end it was for a brave lad that had rescued these folks.” Dwyer’s voice was filled with sadness and he gestured helplessly at the refugees waiting on the trail.

“He helped them!” a high voice called out. Kincaid glanced at the crowd in surprise as the girl he had noted earlier stepped forward, her hands on her hips, her chin thrust forward. A tall man next to her tried to hush her, and herd her behind him, but she twisted free. “He helped them kill Paden, he was there.”

“Maker help me, another one,” Kincaid muttered. He tucked his thumbs into his belt and carefully widened his stance, as if to brace against a gale. “Best to tell it all, Dwyer.”

“She’s right, sir, I did see Dag murder the scout, that’s how I know it’s true. But I didn’t murder no one, and I tried my best to help keep her and her father safe, when them that did the murder was set on killing them, too. Just ask her, she’ll tell the truth, I know she will. Ask her if I helped them, ask her if I helped when they came to our camp. I knocked Leod on his face when he wanted to fight, just ask her.”

The girl glared at the grey-haired soldier, her jaw clenched and her lips a thin line as she fought against the words that she so clearly did not want to utter.

“Well, lass, is what he says true?” Kincaid asked.

She opened her mouth, but hesitated again, and it was the tall man next to her who replied for her.

“He’s telling it true,” the tall man said. There was no doubting the girl was his daughter. They shared the same lean build, the same tangle of short, chestnut curls about their faces, and the same dark eyes. “I was there. When we found Paden dead, Dwyer was the one who stopped them from killing us, though he took us prisoner instead of letting us go. And he did hit that one on the head.”

“A tangle, no mistake.” Kincaid blew out his cheeks in a long sigh, then scratched absently at his jaw.

“How is that?” Leod demanded. “You’ve heard it from their own mouths. We just followed orders. Dwyer took those two prisoner, not me, and they killed Sir William. They should be hanged.”

“What, this lass here killed Sir William?”

“No, it were that other bastard, come at us in the night, but they helped him.”

“Sir Killock is a proper knight and a hero, not like you!” the girl hissed back angrily.

“Who is Sir Killock?” Kincaid asked, thoroughly confused.

“He’s a templar,” the girl said proudly.

“He’s no templar,” Leod spat. “He’s the murderer who snuck into our camp and killed Sir William, him and his bitch assassin.”

Templars? Assassins? Maker’s breath, I’m just a fucking soldier. “Murder and murder and more murder, but none of the murderers are here? Leaves us with desertion and unjust imprisonment, don’t it.”

“We didn’t desert,” Leod complained. “Dwyer told that part true, traitor though he is. Sir William told us we was ordered south.”

“Aye, maybe so,” Kincaid replied, though his mouth twisted at the taste of his words. “Maybe so, though you should be ashamed to call yourself a soldier for what you’ve done. But I can’t hang you for being a disgrace, and though I’m sick of the sight of you, I can’t let you loose, now can I? You’d be carving a bit of revenge out of these fine folks, soon as you’d done waving farewell to us. So you’ll be coming with us, see if we can’t make you into proper soldiers.”

“What?” Leod’s face paled.

“Welcome to the Royal Army.” Kincaid slapped Leod on his shoulder hard enough that the soldier staggered. “Now, you lot go with Tóki here, and he’ll show you where the latrines are so you can get busy cleaning.”

“You can’t do that!” Leod protested

“You think not? You to try to desert me and I’ll fucking hang you, that’s a promise. So best run off and find your shovels before I change my mind.”

Leod’s hands twitched, but he kept his mouth closed and stalked away without another word, and the rest of Sir William’s soldiers slunk after him.

“That’s it?” the girl asked. “That’s all they get?”

“What of us?” the priest asked Kincaid.

“Go on, get your people some food and we’ll see about shelter and a healer,” Kincaid told him. “Then we’ll have another word or two when you’re rested.”

“May the Maker bless you,” the priest replied, and he motioned the refugees into the inn’s yard.

Kincaid turned away from the straggling procession and ambled slowly back to the stables, his horse in tow. Bearnard paced him silently, giving Kincaid a chance to think.

What have we found? he wondered. He pushed down the swell of excitement that demanded he give orders to break camp immediately, and he forced himself to carefully polish each nugget of the twisted tales he had just heard. A battle, somewhere north, that’s the first thing. Only one army north of here that I know of, and that’s Sir Lochlan’s Temple army. And they say the one that killed Sir William and took his soldiers prisoner was a Temple knight. Who were they fighting?

Kincaid halted and turned to Bearnard. “What did you make of all that?”

Bearnard scratched at the back of his neck as he chose his words. “Could be Sir Lochlan.”

“Could be,” Kincaid agreed. The dead, he repeated to himself. The General weren’t wrong.

“Do we go?” Bearnard asked.

“Let’s have another word or two with that rat-faced one with the grey hair. And we’ll need to have a chat with someone about them that attacked the camp, see if we think they really were…” The dead. He could not actually say the words, it felt absurd. “But I’m thinking we get started breaking the camp, just in case.”

“Aye,” Bearnard agreed. “I’ll tell—”

“No!” A girl’s scream interrupted Bearnard, pain and fear ringing so clear that Kincaid had reached for his sword before he turned to the source.

Two figures struggled toward him across the inn’s yard, the grey-haired soldier from Sir William’s troop and the skinny girl who had accosted them so fiercely. The soldier had the girl by the arm and dragged her forward so that she tripped and stumbled and fell to her knees in the mud. He yanked her back to her feet and pulled her onwards as she struggled against his grip.

“Da!” she cried out as the grey-haired soldier thrust her into the clear space in front of Kincaid and Bearnard. More figures rushed toward them, refugees led by the girl’s father and the two lads who had watched over the prisoners, and they had axes in their hands. Soldiers stepped to meet them and halted their rush before they could reach their prey.

“Captain!” the grey-haired soldier called out.

“Let me go!” the girl shouted, and she kicked the soldier savagely in his shin, and squirmed and thrashed against his grip.

“What’s this, then?” Kincaid growled. He stepped toward the soldier, and his fingers curled around the heavy weight of his sword’s hilt. “Did you not hear me, soldier? Shit duty for you, and leave these people be. Let go of her, before she does real damage to you.”

“Yes, Captain, but you’ll want to talk to this one.”

“Will I? Why’s that, then?”

“She knows more about what’s been going on out here than anyone.”

“Does she now?” Kincaid wiped at his nose with the back of his gauntlet as he considered the news.

“He’s lying!” She glared defiantly back at Kincaid. “I don’t know anything.”

“Is he?” Kincaid asked. “And why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, I never did anything to him,” she pleaded desperately. “I don’t know about fighting. I never seen any battle or soldiers, only Haye and Paden, who Sir William murdered, and they were only trying to keep us safe.”

“That’s not much to tell, is it?” Kincaid asked the grey-haired soldier.

“Tell him where you’ve been,” the grey-haired soldier said quietly, and the girl’s face paled and her lips tightened. “Go on, I’ve heard you talking to the others, every night.”

“Nothing, I’ve not said anything.”

“She’s not telling,” Kincaid said. He shook his head, ready to be done with the interruption. “Out with it, man, what did you hear her say that has you so worked up?”

“She said she knows where the dead are coming from. She said she’s been there.”

Kincaid’s gaze snapped to hers, and his lips curled into a smile.

“Bring her to the inn,” he decided. “We’ll have a chat.”

“No!” the girl screamed, and she tore an arm free from the grey-haired soldier’s grasp.

“Leave her be!” her father shouted, but the soldiers held him back.

“Enough!” Kincaid bellowed, and the yard fell silent. “She’ll no be harmed, and I’ll talk to whom I choose, if you don’t mind. Now, off with you, and those that fuss will have a wee visit to the stockade, clear?”

There were ugly looks, and the girl’s father made to fight, but to Kincaid’s relief the two red-haired lads took his arms and dragged him away before Kincaid had to make good on his threat.

“Right,” Kincaid muttered, and he strode into the inn, a frown pressing down on his brow like a thunderhead, followed by Bearnard and the girl, with the grey-haired soldier bringing up the rear.

Inside the inn, he led the small group into a wide room with a broad table on one side and a cooking hearth in the center. Heat throbbed from a stacked fire in the hearth, and Kincaid strode to its lip, removed his gauntlets and gratefully extended his fingers to the blaze.

“Now then, lass, let’s hear about these dead. And let’s not have any more lies about not knowing.”

“My da—”

“The longer you wait to tell your tale, the longer it will be before you’ll see him. He’ll not come to harm from me or mine, and nor will you, unless I think you’re trying to deceive me.”

She glanced desperately around the room, searching for any help, but found none. Bearnard watched her with an amused smile lurking in his beard, while the grey-haired soldier offered her an encouraging smile and nodded his head. But the girl glared at him with such loathing that Kincaid thought for a moment that she was going to strike him, and the soldier’s smile withered.

“I don’t know how to tell it,” she said.

“Tell us your name, lass, there’s a fine start,” Bearnard ventured.

She nodded. “I’m Mairi. My da is Ewan.”

“How do, Miss Mairi. I’m called Bearnard, and that one over there we mostly just call Captain, though there’s rumor he does have a proper name.”

A twitch of a smile appeared on Mairi’s lips for an instant at Bearnard’s attempt, but it soon vanished into the solemn frown that Kincaid was beginning to recognize as her natural state. She surveyed the three soldiers carefully, and her dark gaze met Kincaid’s without flinching.

Then she turned her attention to her own hands as she pondered the results of her inspection.

She’s a deep one, Kincaid thought approvingly. Not fussed at all, though she’s angry enough to choke a troll, I reckon.

Kincaid raised his estimate of her age by a year or two. She was as skinny as a twig, but her poise was not that of a child. Plus, I’ll wager her da cropped her tresses for her, and it did her no favors, though she don’t seem to mind.

Mairi’s wrists and ankles stuck out from her dress by at least a year’s growth, her boots seemed oversized, though sturdy, and she had lost one of her mittens. Kincaid watched her pluck absently at the remaining mitten, and he noticed the girl’s fingers were trembling.

She raised her gaze and met Kincaid’s.

“It started when Reverend Crassus came back to Twin Pines,” Mairi began quietly. “Before the first snows.”

It was near sunset when Mairi finished her story, and Kincaid had not said a word, merely nodding his head slowly as he pondered her tale.

“… and that’s why Paden and Haye were watching the mountains, and the husks have come, hundreds of them. I saw them, all in the hills. If it weren’t for Paden and Haye we’d be dead, all of us, and they were just trying to get us away, someplace where we’d be safe.” Mairi glared at Dwyer. “And now Paden’s dead, murdered by Sir William’s men, just because Sir William was too much a coward to stay and fight.”

“That’s a story, and no doubt,” Kincaid mused.

“And now you don’t even believe me,” Mairi said in disgust. “So just let me go.”

“Oh, I believe all sorts of things, lass. Comes from my low breeding.” The captain leaned back in his chair and watched her, his eyes shadowed by his bushy eyebrows. “You said Paden told you Sir Lochlan was at the head of the Tapa Beck?”

“Yes, he was there to fight the husks,” Mairi agreed, “and that’s all I know, I promise, so please can I go now?”

“No, lass, I’m sorry, but you’re coming with us.”

“What? But you said—”

“I said I’d not harm you, nor your da, and you’re both safe and sound.”

“But I told you what you wanted.”

“I know, lass, and thank you kindly for that. But it strikes me that, if even a scrap of what you said is true, you might be the most important person in camp.”

“What? Why?”

“The last thing General Boone said to me before we marched was to listen out for any tales of blood rituals or death magic, and I’ve not known the general to have much of a jesting nature, so I took it serious. You tell me these husks are swarming south, with naught but this Killock fellow and his daughter to stop them, and then this one here,” he indicated the grey-haired soldier with a jab of his thumb, “tells me they were running from a battle. It don’t take a Diviner to see we’re late to the dance.”

“I can’t help fight,” Mairi pleaded.

“You can help more than by waving a bit of steel about. You say you know where these husks are coming from. Well, my lass, you’re going to show me where that is.”

“You want to go to the catacombs?” Mairi asked, aghast.

“That’s right,” Kincaid growled. “Now then, no tears, and we’ll have you back in two shakes, and a purse of silver for your trouble.”

Mairi glared at Kincaid and wiped angrily at her eyes with her mitten. “I don’t want your silver, nor to help you in any way. You’re as bad as him.” She turned her contempt on the grey-haired soldier.

Kincaid nodded. “Aye, that’s likely true. What’s your name, soldier?”

“Dwyer, sir.”

“You’ve done well, Dwyer. Take young Mairi and her da to the barn and find them a space, and blankets and such, and then make sure they don’t go walking.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mairi did not wait for the grey-haired soldier and stomped out of the farmhouse before he could speak, and Dwyer hurried after her.

“You’ve made a friend,” Bearnard observed.

“We’re not here to make friends,” Kincaid reminded him gruffly. Her scorn had stung, that was certain, and it did not soothe to have Bearnard point it out. “We’re here to protect the realm and to keep our people alive, and naught else matters.”

Bearnard snorted but knew better than to respond further.

“The fucking dead.” Kincaid shook his head. “You remember any of the stories?”

“Just the bit about the Martyr. My girls love that one. The rest, no.”

“Me, neither,” Kincaid admitted. He paced to the fireplace and stabbed the smoldering logs with an iron. “They fought those fuckers for years, you’d think they’d have written down something about how to win a battle against them.”

“I reckon you just need an elvhen king, with one big bastard of a Weapon,” Bearnard mused. “That’s what it took last time.”

“Aye, and one brave lass to die defending him.”

“That, too.”

“We got any of that?”

“We’re a bit short on elvhes, but I’ll send a wee note to the general and see if there are any to spare. For Weapons, we’ve got Basher, though we’re not likely to have a happy ending if we tell Tórden to use him in a duel. But fierce lasses, aye, we’ve plenty of those.”

“One of three.” Kincaid gave the fire one last jab, then set the iron aside. “Tell Tóki to head west, right away. With any luck, that Killock fellow’s bought us a day or two, but I’d like to know for sure. I’ll have an extra set of pickets beyond the beck tonight, as well, and pass the word I want blades and shields to hand for everyone.”

“Fires, or dark?”

“Fires. We’ll not hide this lot from anyone, and a hot meal will sit well. We’re on the move come sunup, and there’ll be no more comfy inns where we’re off to.”

“You’re the one with the comfy inn,” Bearnard pointed out.

“Oh, yes? And where’s your tent? Somewhere packed away in that snug little room at the end of the corridor that I hear all them snores coming from, I’ll warrant.”

“Lies,” Bearnard replied, unchastened. “So, we’re off to fight the dead?”

“Looks that way.” Kincaid agreed.

“You tellin’ the general we’re taking his army?”

“Aye, I suppose I should.”

Kincaid guided his horse carefully along the verge, cursing under his breath as he navigated between sprawled lumps of sleeping soldiers, lumbering wagons, and the lurching figures who loomed unexpectedly from the darkness, intent on what mission he could not tell, but seemingly committed to dying under his horse’s hoofs for their cause.

“Mind out, you bastards,” Kincaid snarled as two soldiers staggered past bearing barrels of salted meat. A wagon had wandered to the edge of the road and its wheels had mired in soft earth, and a swarm of teamsters and soldiers were attempting to lighten it before an audience of an entire company of infantry lounging beneath the trees.

It had taken Kincaid half the night to travel a distance he could have ridden a dozen times on a clear road, and his patience was near an end.

Ahead, Kincaid spotted a rider in the uniform of the Royal Heralds and he called out, “Where is the general?”

“Farmhouse, next village,” the herald replied as he trotted past, and Kincaid urged his horse onward, soothing his temper with promises that he was almost there.

The village turned out to be less than a dozen farmsteads, now lost in a sea of tents. Kincaid found the general’s quarters by following the steady stream of messengers and knights, and he had to bellow quite loudly before an aide agreed to escort him to the barn, which the general had claimed as his sanctuary.

The aide knocked and announced him before beating a retreat, and Kincaid stepped inside.

Immediately, the endless bustle of the camp was reduced to a distant chaos that could not intrude into the orderly repose within. A cow blinked at Kincaid from its stall, but the center of the barn had been cleared of its usual residents, and now featured a table made from a board laid across two trestles, covered in maps, lit by a small lantern.

A single figure waited for Kincaid beside the table, tall in a steel breastplate and simple cloak. The lanternlight gave a touch of warmth to the figure’s iron-grey hair and a constellation of gleams from his armor, but the color slid quickly into the shadows of dark wool and leather and did not dare to touch the sharp angles of his face nor the long ridge of his aquiline nose.

Kincaid slapped the dust from his gauntlets and approached, one of Sergeant Bearnard’s many maxims echoing in his thoughts. The sergeant liked to claim that the general was the embodiment of Albyn. Cold as ice, stern as granite, immovable as a mountain, and yet as comforting as high walls, a thick roof, and a sturdy fireplace. Kincaid could not deny Bearnard’s words.

The general turned at the sound of Kincaid’s approach, and a fierce scowl drove creases between his brows.

“What are you doing here, Captain? You should be well away from this mess by now.”

“We’re all the way down by the Inn,” Kincaid assured him. “I just thought I’d have a quick look to see how you’re getting along.”

“Slowly,” General Boone replied. “The road is backed up to Dolieb. There’s a wagon stuck in every puddle, and there’s more puddles than road since that storm.”

“Oh, aye, it looks a mess,” Kincaid agreed. He nodded sympathetically.

“Thank you for that opinion,” the general growled. “Have you come to help, or just waste my time?”

“We took in some refugees this morning, a ragged bunch from a camp on the Gylden Beck.”

“Gylden Beck? Let me see…” Boone maneuvered his maps until he found one that marked the notion of the furthest hinterlands with a few vague lines. “I see it. They’ve come a long way.”

“Aye, that they have. Brought some wounded with them, and quite the tale.”

“Did they?” The general traced the squiggle of ink that marked the small stream south to its join with the Tapa Beck, then back north to the High Fells.

“Said their camp was overrun by dead men, come from a black tower in the mountains above their camp.”

Boone glanced quickly at Kincaid, then slowly straightened. The lanternlight cast shadows from the ridges of his cheekbones that concealed all but the sharp gleam of his dark eyes.

“When was this?”

“A month past, likely more. Some soldiers with them said they were with a Temple army, and that their position was overrun, and there’s enemy in force moving south.”

“The enemy being dead men?”

“Aye, they were clear on that, and there were mention of worse, though there weren’t much detail on that account.”

Boone leaned one fist on the table and bent over the map again. “Show me.”

“The refugees turned east five day’s march west of my position, here,” Kincaid reported, placing his finger on the more detailed swathe of map that showed the progression of the Seann Rathad. His finger slid westward into the wilderness, then circled an area of long valleys. “That puts them about here. Five days ago.”

“Hmmm,” the general mused.

“If they’re loose along the Gylden Beck, and broke Sir Lochlan’s lines on the Tapa Beck, they could be moving all along here…” Kincaid’s finger traced the long distance north to the heads of the two streams in question, a path that paralleled the twisted line of the Seann Rathad along its length.

“Hmmm.”

“And somewhere in here…” His finger circled the sharp contours of the High Fells north of the Gylden Beck. “Somewhere in here is where they’re coming from.”

“The black tower.”

“Aye. A black tower with a maze of tunnels beneath it, full of horrible shit. They call it the catacombs”

“Who does?”

“Oh, them.” Kincaid shrugged and added casually, “Those who have been inside.”

“Inside?”

“Aye. Oh, do you not have one of them?” Kincaid raised his brows in mock concern. “That’s a shame. I do.”

“Of course you do. One of your refugees? Do you believe them?”

“I think I do,” Kincaid replied, somewhat surprised. “I believe they saw the dead men, and I believe they were inside that tower. She said a priest took them inside, murdered a bunch of her kin, and that they were rescued by some folks from the Temple, Lord Bradon among them. How does that tale strike you?”

“I’d say your refugee was telling the truth. Lord Bradon died in the High Fells last winter, searching for those priests, and I can’t see how they’d know he was there if they hadn’t seen him.”

“Aye, it sounded like the truth.”

“Damn,” Boone muttered. “Campbell’s bloody revolt stopped us from joining Lochlan, and now we’re caught strung out along this bloody road with our entire flank exposed. If they push east anywhere along the Seann Rathad, they can divide us up as they like.”

“It seemed a bit worrisome to me.”

“Captain, you shall proceed west at dawn, engage whatever enemy you find, and clear our flank. Leave your train on the road and deploy with all speed. I shall try to find support for you, but it may take some time.”

“West and engage, aye, sir.” Kincaid nodded thoughtfully and attempted to keep the smug smile from spreading too far across his face.

“At dawn, Captain.”

“At dawn, yes, sir.”

Boone eyed him for a moment, his lips a thin line.

“You’ve already given that order, haven’t you?”

“It seemed the thing to do.”

“What if I had ordered you differently?”

“Oh, I’d say, yessir, and be off like a fucking hare to stop them, and you’d never know, sir.”

“Splendid.” Boone contemplated the map for a moment in silence, his gaze growing ever narrower, until at last he broke the silence. “South.”

“Sir?”

“Your refugees told you the enemy was moving south.”

“Aye, sir, save for a group that chased them when they turned east.”

“Why south?”

“It’s bloody cold up there in those mountains.”

“They could have turned east at any time and surprised us. I wonder if perhaps they are as ignorant of our forces as we were of them.”

“Or they don’t care.”

“Either way.” The general leaned one fist onto the table while his other hand traced lines of attack across the map, westward from the Seann Rathad, in a few heartbeats outlining a vicious strike into the heart of the enemy advance. Inked ridges became fortified flanks, long valleys became lines of support, and the narrow valley where the Gylden Beck joined the Tapa Beck became a battlefield, the tip of a spear thrust into the enemy’s flank.

Boone’s fingers curled into a fist and retreated to join its companion. “If we deploy in force we’ll be here through the winter, and we have Duke Campbell to deal with.”

“It don’t seem likely we’ll be free to campaign against Campbell, not with that lot popping out of the hills behind us,” Kincaid pointed out.

“No, and nor could we ignore Campbell if we moved west. What did your refugee tell you of the tower, itself?”

“It sounds a cheery place,” Kincaid replied. “Says there’s tunnels for days, some carved, some natural, filled with those husks. Down at the bottom there was a creature she called a magus, says that’s what the Temple folk who rescued her named it. It was a proper nightmare, though it sounds like they killed it. It all sounded a bit fanciful to me, but I’m a simple soldier.”

“Fanciful… yes, I agree. I have been told that the Temple is convinced that the tunnels you mentioned are connected to the Black Grave through a portal, a Crunorix ritual of some kind that allows them to step across vast distances in a single stride.”

“Black Grave, is it? I thought that was where Ruric buried the Nameless King and all his priests?”

“The very same.”

“I’ll be fucked.”

“Too fanciful for your taste?” Boone asked.

“That’s the truth.”

“What matters is not which parts of the legends are true and which are not. What matters is that, if this portal exists, that single tower could contain thousands upon thousands of enemies, for it is in essence a gateway into the heart of their realm. That’s what made them such bastards to fight during the Black Tower War. Their armies could appear anywhere, at any time.”

“That’s a neat trick,” Kincaid said morosely.

“Mmmm,” the general replied, one finger tapping thoughtfully on the map’s soft vellum.

What’s he seeing? Kincaid wondered. He stared at the map, trying to envision the slow movement of forces over the distances the way the general did, searching for opportunity, finding weakness. Slowly an idea took shape in his thoughts, a chance to turn his enemy’s strength into a weakness.

“I was just thinking, begging your pardon…” Kincaid began.

“Yes?”

“If you had a company deployed, oh, say, here…” Kincaid pointed at the map to the west of the road. “Clearing your flanks, for example.”

“Go on.”

“That force could strike north, hit them here.” Kincaid’s finger slid across the surface to the head of the Gylden Beck, where the High Fells crowded the map’s edge. “Where their tower is.”

“Yes,” Boone agreed. “That tower is the key. We close that portal, we cut them off from their source, and we need only deal with whatever forces have already come through.”

“It’s a thought.”

“It is, indeed.” Boone stared at the map a moment longer. “How would you assault it?”

“The refugees say that valley is steep and narrow. The enemy won’t be able to come at us from the flanks, not easily. We seal the end, then drive for the tower, hard, and break that gate before they know what we’re about.”

“You’ll be trapped up there. Once you break their line, they’re sure to come after you with everything they have.”

“Trapped is one way to put it.”

“What’s another?” Boone asked.

“Bait. Once we have that gate closed, we’ll pull back, see if we can’t find whatever’s left of Lochlan’s army,” Kincaid pressed on. “With any luck, we’ll draw them after us, and somewhere here…” His finger circled the range of rugged hills to the northwest of the town of Dolieb, “Somewhere here, you’ll be waiting with the rest of the lads to give them a proper thumping.”

“Assuming we are not committed to battle against Duke Campbell.”

“There’s that.”

“This plan is becoming less a plan and more a desperate gamble.”

“Aye, well, you don’t pay us to march about, you pay us to fight.”

“Don’t be absurd.” For the first time, the general looked truly annoyed. “We are here to lead our troops to victory over Her Majesty’s enemies and wasting a thousand veteran soldiers and a mostly mediocre captain in the middle of the hinterlands on a foolish mission does not appeal.”

“No, sir. Still, if what those refugees say is true, and there’s thousands of those dead fuckers out there, we’ll not be able to ignore them, regardless of what we’d like. I’m no great general, mind, but it seems better to attack them, where and when suits us.”

“That is true.” The general’s gaze returned to the map, once again tracing the lines of ink separating the Seann Rathad from the valleys leading toward the Tapa Back. “And we are not likely to have such an opportunity again. If we move quickly.”

“I’ve heard that they’re right bastards to fight, popping up all over. Seems a shame not to take advantage when we know where they are.”

“That it does,” Boone agreed. “If we did not already have a rebellion to put down.”

“Ah, well, that’s the thorn.”

“Very well, Captain, you have your mission.”

“Aye, sir, clear the western flank. And after?”

“We will see. Good hunting, Captain.”

A Splendid Idea

Gwydion winced as the ancient door shuddered open amid a shower of plaster that pattered across the warped floorboards of the foyer. The grand entrance of the mansion that Drysi had led them to had lofty vaults and a sweeping staircase, but there the glory of its past ended and the harsh disfigurement of its present intruded. Marble floors and facings had disappeared decades, perhaps centuries prior, and wooden panels had long-since rotted into pulp or been stolen. The remaining plaster had melted into discolored lumps and ragged holes, revealing ancient timbers black with soot and mold.

But beneath the ruined manor lay a suite of rooms in what had once been the wine cellar, utilitarian but clean, hidden behind a reinforced wall that had been carefully constructed to look as dilapidated as the rest of the building. The rooms contained enough cots to sleep a dozen people, dried foodstuffs to last them a month, a cistern to provide drinking water, and even a fireplace and stove to keep them warm. Drysi had not mentioned why such a hideaway had been built and maintained by the Temple in Kuray, and the Queen had not asked.

He stepped through the narrow gap of the door and into the corpse of the dining hall, its bare rafters festooned with cobwebs and bird nests. Clouds of dust stirred around his boots and the floorboards groaned with his weight. Gwydion took the servants’ stairs to the second floor, as the grand staircase was not safe to climb, and searched the derelict rooms until he found Rowenna in what once must have been a music room. The windows were empty iron frames, and honeysuckle had crept into the room and covered the sun-warmed walls.

They stood in silence for a moment, and if Gwydion gazed out the window, he could almost imagine he stood in a conservatory. The breeze ruffled the ivy’s leaves in a gentle, rustling wave and carried the drone of a bee into the room. It was only when he turned away from the window that the weight of the ruined manor pressed against him.

“It’s not so bad, really,” Rowenna murmured.

“Somewhat rustic for my taste,” Gwydion declared. “There’s a tree in the library. A horrible twisted old thing. Looks rather like Uncle Errol.”

“Poor thing.”

“Errol?”

“No, the tree.” Rowenna watched a brilliantly colored hummingbird dart among the flowers, sampling each bloom until another of its kin appeared and drove it away, and the two birds disappeared through the window with an angry buzz. Her smile faded. “Are they still searching for us?”

“Yes. At least three Diviners that I can tell. Damn persistent.”

“The Guild?”

“Must be. Whoever they are, they’ve given up on using that rather underhanded cheat they built into the Mantle’s Word, so I suppose they know that I’m wise to their trick.”

“I imagine the Guild would not be pleased if that little piece of information were to spread.”

“No, I would think not.”

“So, you’re certain we’re hidden? No other secret bits of the Word?”

“Completely safe. Well, from a Diviner. There’s nothing to stop a Blackberry from wandering by.”

“No one will see us up here. Did you see the gardens? No one is tramping through that on a lark.”

“No one’s coming here unless they’re fucking desperate,” Gwydion muttered.

“Well, that’s us, isn’t it?”

“Very droll.”

“No, I’m quite serious. In the crypts, we deceived ourselves. We spoke of grand strategies, and seats on the Lords’ Council, and forgot that there was a sword poised above our heads. Now there is no hiding the precariousness of our situation. It is thrust in our face. I hope the Queen can see that, too.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“You disagree?”

“No. But I can’t help hoping… no, don’t laugh, Ro, I have hidden wells of optimism.”

“They must be very deep, indeed.”

“Abyssal. But I have tapped them now and am the very font of hope.”

“You shock me. I assume this change is fleeting?”

“Difficult to say. Yet I do hope. I hope that these rather uninspiring surrounds do not, in fact, herald a change. Yes, we have received a blow, and I can vouch that it stings, but I find it hardens my resolve to answer, and I hope it hardens the Queen’s resolve, as well. As you said, it is all very well to play at kings and castles. I am intrigued to see the true temper of our mettle, Her Majesty’s most of all.”

“There are moments when I am almost fond of you.”

“I love you, too, sis.”

“And then I remember that you were likely speaking euphemistically when you said you wished to see the Queen’s mettle.”

“I am devastated to find your opinion of me to be so low.”

Rowenna snorted back a laugh. “I believe you have forgotten that I know you very well.”

“How unjust.”

“Perhaps so. Very well, what path does your newly-forged resolve urge us to take? We cannot hide here forever, and our chance at escape was rather emphatically squashed.”

“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come up with rather a splendid idea.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Well, the beginnings of one. Shall we find the Queen, so that I might tell it only once?”

They descended the stairs and wandered the empty rooms until they found the Queen listening gravely to Captain Andras as he delivered a report. Andras nodded to the templars as he departed, and the Queen greeted them fondly.

“I hope you are well, my lord,” the Queen inquired. “Is your shoulder terribly painful?”

“A nasty wound, but nothing that won’t mend, given time,” Gwydion assured her, though the injury ached unbearably at the best of times and stabbed with fresh pain at the slightest thoughtless movement.

“How on earth would you know that?” Rowenna asked.

“I’ve seen worse. Well, I’ve heard of worse. Actually, a man once told me that he’d heard of worse. I don’t know, but the blood is mostly staying inside now, thanks to Drysi’s tender ministrations.”

“Thank the Maker for her,” the Queen exclaimed. “And you, my lord, thank you, as well. I thought that we were caught in the chapter house, and again when our carriage crashed, yet you whisked us away before I could think.”

“One does one’s best, of course.”

“What did you do to us?” she asked. “One moment we were there, and then… and then I do not know what happened.”

“Oh, simply a jaunt through the shadows. I hope you were not too discomforted.”

“My…?” The Queen’s hand waved back and forth as she searched for a word. “I cannot think of the… it was drunk.”

“Balance?”

“Yes, balance. And I was cold.” Her fingers groped absently at her shoulders as goose bumps spread across the skin of her arms.

“Here, Your Majesty, sit close to me,” Rowenna offered, and Gwydion feigned interest in a smudge on his sleeve as he regretfully shelved plans for gallantly offering his jacket.

“I have spoken to Karsha about our predicament,” the Queen informed them. “He counsels that we should remain here until he might arrange another rescue.”

“I had a thought, Your Majesty,” Gwydion ventured. “We have looked beyond ourselves for aid, and we have hidden ourselves away, first in Whitetemple and now here, for fear that our enemies might overwhelm us at any moment. But I believe that we might find the strength we need right here. Enough to throw Campbell out of Kuray, out of the Silver Keep.”

“You are aware that there are only seven of us?” Rowenna asked.

“No, no, you’re wrong, my dear,” Gwydion admonished her. He turned to the Queen and held her golden gaze. “You have an army. Two thousand soldiers who guarded the Silver Keep. They are prisoners, but if we free them, we can take back the city, take back the Keep.”

The Queen nodded slowly as her brows knitted in thought.

“And you believe we can free them?” she asked.

“I am certain of it,” Gwydion replied. “Who better to execute a plan than the noble Captain Andras and the cunning Drysi? And now, at last, we have the element of surprise, not the duke and his cronies.”

“Oh, Gwydion…” Rowenna muttered under her breath.

But the Queen did not look away, and Gwydion saw her eyes widen with new conviction.

“I am eager to discover if you are right, my lord,” she said.

Dragon’s Breath

Danielle eased a thick clump of rushes aside and stepped gingerly forward, intent on absolute stealth. But the long fronds of the tall grass rustled and rasped against one another, and her boot sank into the soft mud with an audible squish despite her care.

She flinched, embarrassment flaring hot then vanishing before a rush of frozen fear as she hunched lower. The river walls of Newbridge towered over her, grey cliffs in the moonlight, and it seemed as if she could feel their looming presence against her shoulders and neck, and her skin crawled with the sudden expectation of an arrow plunging into her back from the high ramparts.

When death did not come, she slowly released her breath and set her jaw, determined not to make another sound that might betray the line of soldiers creeping along the riverbank. There were one hundred soldiers moving through the darkness around her, and, as far as she could tell, she was the only person making noise.

She took another step, this one less disastrous, and carefully let the rushes free behind her.

The walls grew slowly nearer. Their massive buttresses sank into the mud at the very edge of the river, so that water lapped against their stones, while their heights were crowned with gnarled ramparts and thick towers silhouetted against the sky. Here and there a golden light showed between shutters, but most of the ramparts were dark, as if begging the viewer to believe them abandoned. Roland had assured her that they were well-defended, and Danielle could believe it. She could feel the baleful stares of the watchmen, even if she could not see them.

The dim figure she was following halted, and Danielle crouched even lower, straining to hear beyond the murmur of the river and the distant chorus of frogs. A voice called out, startling her, until she realized the call was simply two guards on the top of the wall exchanging greetings. Their voices sounded so clear that the defenders might have been standing next to her.

With a faint creak of leather and a whisper of cloth, Sir Eilidh appeared from the grass and crouched next to her.

“Is all well?” Danielle whispered.

“It is,” Eilidh replied in a murmur. “We are in position.”

They waited in silence for what seemed an eternity as Danielle strained to hear any sound beyond the ordinary. Like the soldiers around her, Danielle wore a hauberk of hardened leather, stained black, beneath a black wool cloak, and a leather-covered helm. The stiff leather made her feel awkward and clumsy, but she had not dared to complain when the armor had been thrust into her hands.

When the signal came, she missed it. The small warble of a night bird, no different than a dozen in the reeds nearby, but at its call the soldiers around her tensed, and one gave an answering warble.

“He’s here,” Eilidh said softly.

The rushes sighed as if a breeze had touched them, and then a shadow slipped through them and crouched next to Danielle.

“Well met, your ladyship,” Cormac said quietly. Black paint and mud darkened his skin, and only a faint gleam of moonlight from his gaze betrayed him.

“Cormac, it is good to see you safe,” Danielle replied. “I had feared you drowned.”

“Not even a little bit,” Cormac assured her.

Sir Roland appeared, bent double as he eased carefully through the concealing stalks and took a knee facing the scout.

“What news?” the Knight Commander asked.

“No change since last night,” Cormac replied in a low murmur. “This is as close as we dare approach.”

“And the door?” Roland asked.

Scouts had spotted the small, concealed door at the base of the northernmost of the river wall towers, a sally port that would allow the city’s defenders to mount raids or counter attacks on a besieging army without the need to open the main gates. The door was well defended, wedged in a narrow cut between thick buttresses at the top of a short stair, impossible to approach with any type of ram to use against its hardened wood and iron bracing. And any attacker would be forced to pass beneath a long stretch of wall and the tower, exposed to dozens of arrow slits and the battlements above.

“Still closed,” Cormac replied. “And still guarded. There’s torchlight within the tower, and a dozen soldiers on the wall above.”

“Good,” Roland said with satisfaction, then he turned to Danielle. “And are we certain we are also safe from other gazes?”

Danielle nodded. Her Veil’s Word pulsed languidly in her thoughts, quieter than a breath, ready to brush aside any questing Diviner with a gentle touch that would be easily overlooked, save by the most attentive of wielders.

But its very subtleness meant that it was unsuited for deceiving the normal eye. There were Veils which could block sight or force a vision on the beholder, but such power would blaze like the rising sun. A watching Diviner might not be able to discern what the Veil was concealing, but there would be no doubt that something was concealed.

The solution was often to empower a second Veil to conceal the first, a simple enough task when there were two adepts to share the burden of the Words and the Veils need cover only a small area. But when a hundred soldiers were to be concealed from a hundred watchers, the effort grew immense.

And why risk failure, when Karsha Hali had promised a far different solution?

“I have felt only the one Diviner,” Danielle told Roland. “When we first approached the riverbank, and it was easy to deceive. I do not believe they are searching for us.”

“Very well,” the Knight Commander replied. He turned to a darker shadow behind him and murmured, “Pass the word for Lord Karsha.”

The Queen’s Counsellor appeared a few moments later, muttering under his breath as he tip-toed through the muck, his robes held daintily around his scrawny knees, his armor like a barrel around his chest from which his arms poked like a shrub’s branches.

“Karsha, you must be quiet,” Danielle admonished him as he crouched next to her.

“Of course, I shall tread as a mouse.” The little man grinned eagerly. “We all shall.”

“Are you ready, Lord Karsha?” Sir Roland asked.

“I am.”

“And your, ah, friends?”

“They are here,” Karsha replied. He turned to one side and then the other, his gnarled fingers spread in welcome, and the shadows beneath the rushes stirred. Hundreds of small shapes appeared, scuttling forward then pausing, sharp noses raised to scent the air, and the moonlight gleamed from tiny, black eyes.

In their midst, a single shape hurried forward, no larger than the rest, but Danielle’s gaze was drawn to it as it squatted on its hind legs in front of Karsha, its gaze calm and steady as it pawed the air.

Karsha bowed low to the small figure. “Rykeh, lord of the fields,” he intoned, and the little mouse bowed in return.

More mice appeared with every passing moment, in every direction she glanced, until the grass seemed to seethe with their tiny bodies, and hundreds of black eyes stared back at her.

Danielle realized she was holding her breath, and let it sigh out softly. She could not decide whether the urge to scoop up one of the creatures and coo at it or the desire to leap to her feet and flee the swarm was stronger, and she forced herself to remain frozen instead.

Karsha sang for a moment under his breath, and the mouse he had named Rykeh bobbed its head in reply. As it did, Danielle felt the grass around her stir, as if the swaying stalks were brushed by a gentle breeze, and their length seemed to tower over her, thick and concealing, proof against the piercing gaze of hawk or owl. Danielle could see that she had not shrunk to the size of a mouse, nor had the grass suddenly grown to the size of trees, but though her senses assured her that the world had not changed, its nature had been revealed in a way beyond sight or touch, a vision that enveloped her and those others within Rykeh’s care.

“Come, have no more concern for watchers,” Karsha assured them, a wide smile adorning his wrinkled lips.

Roland growled an order and the soldiers stood and began to move forward, though there were many an astonished expression and bewildered glance.

The mice accompanied them, their passage a gentle susurration like waves upon the shore, so many darting to and fro that Danielle feared she would tread on one. Her gaze was drawn to the looming walls as they approached, but there was no call of alarm, no cry of discovery, and with every step it became easier to trust the web of grass she could sense concealing her, and she felt her shoulders finally unclench from guarding against the strike of an arrow.

Now she could see their goal, the narrow staircase cut into the wall beneath the river tower, and the deep recess at its top that concealed the door.

A heavy step announced the approach of Lord Faron to the vanguard of the force. The templar strode with head high, hands clasped behind his back, as if part of a stately procession through a great hall. His somber gaze swept over the mice at his feet with lofty interest and ignored the cliff of stone that loomed above him.

“An astonishing display,” Lord Faron congratulated Karsha Hali, his rolling voice shockingly loud. Danielle could not help a glance upward, but no guard leaned out to challenge them.

“Give thanks to Rykeh, your lordship,” Karsha replied. “Some small token of prayer or sacrifice to him.”

“A prayer?” Faron asked, and his chin lifted as he looked down at the small southerner.

“Yes, yes, though perhaps I shall name it a ritual, to soothe your brow,” Karsha explained with a grin. “The spirits–”

“May we discuss this later?” Sir Roland interrupted. “Lord Faron, the door, if you please.”

Lord Faron nodded and mounted the steps alone, and Danielle heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke to someone in the guardroom on the other side. After a moment, the iron bars of the door were withdrawn and the door groaned open, revealing the bewildered faces of four guards peering out.

Sir Roland was first up the steps and through the door, followed by a dozen soldiers who quickly took command of the inner passageways of the tower and secured the defenders.

“Our turn, your ladyship,” Sir Eilidh whispered, and Danielle followed the knight up the stairs and through the guardroom. They hurried along narrow passageways and up a twisting staircase, its shaft thick with the sound of hurried footsteps and the brush of leather and steel.

On the next level of the tower, Sir Roland’s soldiers had taken another six prisoners without a sound. As more attackers pushed into the room behind Danielle, the mice flooded past her, scampering across the stone floor to squeeze beneath doors, wriggle through cracks in the walls, and scurry up posts into the ceiling.

“You are certain they know where they are going?” Roland asked as he watched the rodents swarm through the room.

“Oh, yes,” Karsha replied. “Some to conceal Sir Hollis on his way to the city gates, some to the granaries, to claim the reward they were promised, and Rykeh will accompany us to the inner gates.”

Roland nodded, but the thin line of his lips showed he was a long way from reassured.

“Sir Hollis, are you ready?” he asked.

A knight stepped forward, a small man with closely-cropped hair and an unwavering gaze, dressed in the same black cloak and dark leather as the other soldiers. “Yes, sir. We’ll have the Road Gate open at four bells.”

“Very well.” Roland nodded again, this time with certainty. “Good hunting, sir.”

“You, too, sir,” Hollis replied. At his command, the tower’s main door was opened and four squads of soldiers followed the knight into the streets outside, nearly half the force that had snuck into the city. Roland watched through a crack in the door until they had disappeared, then led the rest in the opposite direction, into the city.

Danielle followed Eilidh through the door and into the night, hurrying forward to keep pace with the soldiers. Her heart raced as she dashed across a cobblestone square, the cool night air singing past her ears, and an eager blaze coursed through her limbs, urging her on with a strength that seemed endless.

She caught a glimpse of the harbor on her right before they plunged into the twisted streets that led up the hill. Once again, the shadows of tall, concealing grass seemed to curl over her at the edge of her vision, so that the street became a hidden tunnel. Twice, the alert was given to hold fast as a patrol passed nearby, their torches flickering at the end of a cross street, yet neither time did the defenders do more than glance uninterestedly in the direction of the invaders before moving on.

It is working, Danielle thought triumphantly, then immediately thrust the thought away. We are not yet through the second wall.

She could see the towers of the gatehouse above the nearby rooftops, their stone lit sickly orange against the night sky, growing taller with each twist of the street. Defenders patrolled the tops of the towers and along the walls on either side, dozens of archers ready to turn any approach to the gatehouse into a nightmare of steel-tipped death.

Sir Roland halted the advance at the edge of the courtyard facing the gates. Two great braziers lit the open space and sent shadows dancing across the sheer timbers of the gate, closed and secured by massive bars.

Lord Faron did not wait to be called upon this time, but merely straightened his robes over his broad shoulders and stepped forward.

“Open the gates!” he called out, and as his deep voice rolled across the courtyard, Danielle felt the thrum of his Word rumble through her, like a great heartbeat that coursed in harmony with her own, echoing his words again and again.

Startled faces peered over the ramparts and through the arrow slits, then disappeared as the defenders raced to obey. But as they did, Danielle felt the brush of a Diviner against her Veil, this one sharp as sunlight peering between the boards of a shuttered window. Danielle instinctively altered the Veil to meet it, a soothing cloak of empty shadows and silent streets, but the Diviner lingered, its gaze probing like a bird after a worm.

Muffled booms told of the gate being unbarred, and they swung slowly inward, creaking and groaning their weight against the massive iron hinges that secured them. Sir Roland waved his soldiers forward and cloaked figures swarmed across the courtyard and into the tunnel, and Danielle heard the quick clash of steel as they subdued the bewildered defenders.

Danielle ran quickly through the tunnel and joined Sir Roland and Lord Faron on the other side.

“First and second squads, you defend the gates,” the Knight Commander growled. “Hold here until the main assault reaches you, and make sure the gates are open for them.”

The soldiers nodded grimly and took up the positions so recently abandoned by the city’s defenders.

“One more to go, and then the keep,” Roland muttered. He glanced to Danielle. “No alarm as of yet?”

“No, but they are awake,” Danielle replied.

“Should I be worried?”

Danielle paused as she felt the bright gaze of the enemy’s Diviner trace across her Veil. “They are wary,” she said at last. “But no more than that, yet.”

“It doesn’t have to last for much longer,” Roland said.

“No,” Danielle agreed.

They resumed their journey up the hill, now guarded by only two squads and Rykeh’s strange concealment. But the comforting web of the spirit’s grass cover seemed more distant now, harder to see or feel, as if every step into the city thinned it. And the stone and plaster walls of the buildings seemed to gather weight and presence and reassert themselves as the cloak receded.

The streets of the city’s second ward were narrower, the buildings taller, and the attackers now hurried along twisting canyons and waded in thick shadows. The gatehouses that pierced the three tiers of walls were offset by a great distance to frustrate invaders, and the attackers were forced to wind their way to the south along the curve of the third wall, until at last they glimpsed the thick towers that guarded the upper gate beyond a row of houses.

But as they hurried forward, Sir Roland suddenly halted, his hand raised as he cocked his head to the side. Danielle heard the sound a moment later, the distant clangor of a bell, harsh and discordant, echoing from below. The bell rang a dozen times before fading, and Danielle released her breath into a silence that hung heavy against her, as if all the small sounds had fled before the clamor.

Then she felt the gaze of the defender’s Diviner rush past her like a spear thrust that pierced the distance to the Road Gate in an instant, and a moment later another bell began to toll, this one from the castle itself, a deep, doleful tone that seemed to pulse in the cobblestones.

“Unfortunate,” Lord Faron said grimly.

“Aye,” Roland agreed. He turned to Karsha. “Send word to Lady Lyndsey to begin her assault immediately.”

The tiny wizard bobbed his head and quickly retrieved a candle from a pocket within his robes. Danielle could see that the stick had been cut in half, leaving just a short stub that Karsha lit with a snap of his fingers and a muttered command. He cupped the tiny flame and whispered to it, making it dance and flicker, then drew in a breath and puffed it out.

“The flame has taken my words to her,” Karsha announced.

“Good,” Sir Roland replied. He began to move along the street again, breaking into a trot as he waved the soldiers into motion. “Let us hope Alroy’s soldiers are slow to respond.”

And for a time, the templar’s wish was granted. Danielle raced after the shadowy figures of Roland’s soldiers, their footsteps loud against the walls of the buildings. Windows opened and anxious faces peered out for a moment before the shutters banged closed again, but no defenders appeared to bar their way. The bell continued to toll, and Danielle became aware of a distant surge of sound, like endless wind through the trees, drifting to her from the direction of the city gates.

“The assault’s begun,” Sir Eilidh informed her.

Danielle felt a concussion pulse against her mind, and she stumbled as the buildings lining the street seemed to tremble, as if they were a reflection in a pool struck by a stone. An instant later the cobblestones shuddered beneath her feet and a heavy cough of sound smacked against her, flat and thick, as if a great boulder had plunged from a cliff into mud.

Windows shattered in a shower of noise and a bright light sizzled overhead, crossing the narrow gap of sky between buildings in a blink. Harsh shadows raced from one side of the street to the other as if fleeing the light and then were gone.

“Maker…” Danielle gasped. The Dragon’s Breath! She could hear the echoes of the blow against her thoughts, and within them the Word that had shaken the city, brutal and unforgiving. Dull thunder groaned from the summit of the hill and a ruddy light painted the faces of the buildings for a moment, and then died away.

The street snaked back and forth as the soldiers climbed toward the next gatehouse. Still no patrol had discovered them, but Danielle could hear shouts of alarm echoing among the buildings and knew their time of concealment might end at any moment.

Ahead, the street leveled off and turned sharply toward the gatehouse. Danielle reached the top of the slope, but her step faltered as her gaze was drawn down the hillside below her. Thick smoke billowed around the Road Gate, the clouds’ bellies painted crimson as if heavy with blood. Within the smoke, bright flares blazed, dancing flames that licked upward like a serpent’s tongue.

As she watched, the Dragon’s Breath coughed again and threw another gout of ruby fire across the heavens. Danielle watched it fall toward the lower city in horror. It hit like a giant’s fist, and Danielle saw buildings torn apart in the instant before flame flowered into a fresh inferno. The dull thump of the impact reached her long moments later.

“They attack their own city,” she whispered, too shocked to draw the breath to speak normally. “Why?”

“There, that’s why.” Sir Roland’s voice was a rasp of steel on stone next to her, and she followed his gaze into the streets near the blazing craters. Lines of sparks snaked through the darkness like a river of stars, and she stared uncomprehending for a moment before realization came.

“Torches,” she said. “Hundreds of torches.”

“Lady Lyndsey’s troops,” Roland agreed. “She’s through the outer gate.”

“But…” Danielle glanced helplessly toward the silhouette of the keep atop the hill. “They will kill their own people if they attack her now, surely they must know that.”

“I’m certain they do,” Roland said grimly. “Alroy makes good on his boast.”

“That murderous fool,” Danielle cursed, her rage flaring as a memory of Alroy’s sulking, stubborn visage invaded her thoughts. “What can we do?”

“We get up there and stop them.”

One more twist of the street brought them to the open courtyard before the gatehouse guarding the passage through the third wall. The gatehouse’s portcullis was closed, its defenders concealed behind rampart and wall. A few arrows hissed across the courtyard and snapped against stone as Roland’s soldiers scurried from shadow to shadow seeking cover.

“No chance of surprise, we will need something more forceful,” Sir Roland muttered. He turned to Danielle. “Can you conceal our Words?”

“I can strengthen the Veil, but there will be a blind spot where they cannot see,” Danielle warned. “If they notice, they will know a Veil blocks their sight.”

“Let us hope their attention is elsewhere,” Roland replied.

Danielle quickly adjusted her Veil, altering it so that it no longer subtly diverted attention with an illusion of empty streets, but hid them from any Diviner’s gaze. Then she nodded to Roland.

The Knight Commander unsheathed Mourne and raced from the shadows, his shield held high as he sped across the courtyard. In an instant the air around him swarmed with arrows, cracking off the cobblestones. His speed saved him as the first volley overshot, but as the archers recovered from their surprise the arrows were soon hissing around him like rain.

But even as the defenders rose to fire, Danielle raised her lance. Aurêve’s Word seethed in her mind, bright whorls blazing in delicate patterns, perfectly balanced. Her thought brushed against it and bindings throughout the Weapon released, and a stream of light as bright as the sun speared from its tip. The light touched the wall and the stone boiled, fat sparks showering from the sheer face like steel poured from a crucible.

Danielle swept Aurêve across the ramparts and the stone burst apart. Figures flailed helplessly and plunged amid a hail of stones as Danielle twisted the Weapon and carved its light into the tower above the gate. Stone melted away, and a huge section of wall burst and tumbled with a roar.

Roland had reached the portcullis, and Danielle felt the bright call of his Word as his sword swung high and cut down into the heavy iron bars. Mourne pulsed once, like a great drum, and the bars twisted and shattered as they were torn apart in a wave of destruction.

Arrows streaked toward Roland from the gatehouse’s second tower, and Danielle heard the hiss of shafts ripping past her in the darkness. Eilidh thrust her shield in front of Danielle, and the steel disc rang as a shaft shattered against it.

Danielle’s Word sang in her thoughts as she sliced her Weapon across the face of the second tower. Flame danced along Aurêve’s bright ray of light and the stone sizzled and spat. One section of the ramparts sheared away along a glowing trail, and stones plummeted into the courtyard in a great roar.

Roland darted to the edge of the gates and struck at their massive hinges. The thick timbers groaned and twisted like reeds under Mourne’s blow, shattered like dry kindling, and were torn from the stone and hurled across the courtyard.

At a command, the soldiers around Danielle suddenly rushed forward, pounding across the courtyard with shields held high.

Danielle quickly doused her lance. Aurêve’s bindings snapped closed and her Word shifted, channeling its power into deep patterns of amplification to rebuild its strength.

“Let’s go, m’lady!” Eilidh urged.

It took all Danielle’s will to follow Eilidh from the shadows and into the courtyard. Arrows snapped from the stone and hissed past her, and her every instinct was to hurl herself to the ground and curl into as small a space as possible.

Instead, she ran, hunched low beneath Eilidh’s shield, the knight’s arm around her to keep her close. The shield rang as if it had been struck by a hammer. An arrow cracked off the cobblestones and stung Danielle’s cheek and arm with a spray of splinters. Then they were within the tower’s gate. The tunnel echoed with shouted commands and cries of pain. Danielle stumbled past bodies clad in black cloaks, crumpled beneath jagged rocks or pierced by arrows. A gaping doorway loomed, its door torn off its hinges, its dark interior echoing with the sound of steel against steel, but Eilidh led Danielle past, and Danielle shuddered with relief as they reached the far end of the tunnel and left the echoing nightmare behind.

Roland waited for them there with a dozen soldiers. Blood streaked his face and neck, dark against his pale skin, but his gaze was calm and his voice steady as he gave commands, and Danielle wondered if such steel courage could possibly be forged over time or if it was simply the Maker’s gift.

As she gasped for breath, Karsha arrived, sheltered by Cormac and his shield. Crimson light flared against Karsha’s face as Danielle felt the terrible surge of the Dragon’s Breath speak again, and another gout of fire arced across the sky and plummeted toward the lower city. Danielle twisted as her gaze followed the trail back to its source. The hulking shape of the castle loomed over her, its thick walls like cliffs beyond the rooftops of nearby buildings. And, on the southern side, a tower thrust from the keep like a thumb, where the echoes of the Weapon’s Word still lingered.

Stop, she begged the adepts concealed in that tower, and she stepped forward, her hand raised, as if she could somehow calm or restrain them. But as she felt the Dragon’s Breath stir once again, and its Word shook the ground, her fingers curled into fists as desperation hardened into rage.

“We must hurry!” Sir Roland shouted as he joined Danielle. “Lady Lyndsey will never reach the keep before the city is reduced to ruins. We must breach the gates and silence that Weapon ourselves.”

“There is no time,” Danielle said quietly. She could not imagine the destruction being wrought in the lower city. Even at a distance, concealed by smoke and darkness, it was terrifying. “There will be nothing left.”

“Lady Danielle, we need to go,” Roland insisted. “There is no other choice, and every moment counts.”

“No.” Danielle felt a strange detachment as she spoke, as if her anger had hardened into a wall behind which her desperation and fear were imprisoned, their voices muted and distant. She turned her gaze from the tower and met Roland’s. “No. I shall stop them. You take the others, find Alroy. If I fail, make him end this.”

Roland’s pale gaze narrowed. “What is your intent?”

“I shall break their tower,” Danielle replied. She could imagine it, as clear as if it were memory. Aurêve’s brilliant light carving through stone, the great slabs parting to reveal the Weapon concealed within.

“They will not stand idly by,” Roland warned.

“Of course not,” Danielle replied. She turned from him and breathed in deeply as her gaze settled once more on the tower’s silhouette. “Before I break their tower, I shall break their Word.”

“Lady Danielle, I—” Doubt twisted the words from Roland before he could stop them. They echoed within her, and the wall of her anger suddenly felt thin as parchment as it strained against her fear. “Lady Danielle, at this distance… and we do not know how many adepts… are you certain?”

“Go,” she urged him. She wondered if her will was strong enough to resist if the Knight Commander should question her again.

“Very well,” Roland replied. He turned without another word and hurried away, his voice carrying clearly as he ordered the assault on the keep.

“This is not a good idea,” Sir Eilidh muttered as she straightened her helm.

“Go with Roland,” Danielle told the knight. She turned and found that Karsha Hali and Cormac had also lingered. The scout’s expression was as blank as stone, but Danielle knew that meant only that he had heard an order he knew to be foolish. But Karsha gave her a small smile and a nod of satisfaction, and then he hurried after Sir Roland without a word.

“No, m’lady, I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind,” Eilidh said firmly.

“Eilidh, I do not know if I can protect you,” Danielle told the knight. “I do not know if I can protect myself.”

“Well, we shan’t find out if some archer takes a shot at you before you get to try, now will we?” Eilidh hefted her shield and glanced to Cormac. “Go on! I thought you had orders to keep Lord Karsha alive?”

Cormac nodded silently, but he held Eilidh’s gaze a moment longer before following Karsha, and Danielle heard the knight sigh once Cormac was beyond hearing.

“Come on, your ladyship, the sooner we start, the sooner it’ll be done,” Eilidh said.

Danielle took in a deep breath of air that stung her throat with the reek of smoke, nodded, and began to walk toward the tower as her mind curled into her lance’s Word, tuning it so that Aurêve’s fire flowed through patterns of amplification and reamplification until the bindings strained to hold. At the same time, she hardened the shell of her Veil, forging it into a mirror-like barrier ready to reflect any attempt to listen to her Word and poach it from her.

As the brilliant patterns settled in her thoughts, she turned her attention outward and chased the echoes of the Word that still throbbed in the earth beneath her feet and pulsed in the stones of the dark tower above her. She could glimpse it like a gossamer constellation viewed through a skein of clouds, ebbing and flickering.

Her mind traced its shape, seeking the structures that bound the Weapon to the Word. Some were clear, as if her fingertips had brushed against a pebble in a stream, but others were vague swirls in the current. She could feel their presence, sense their effect, but could not discern their detail.

It is enough, she told herself. Each time the adepts of Newbridge used the Dragon’s Breath, they revealed more of their Word, but Danielle could not bear to think of the misery that further investigation would inflict on the soldiers and townsfolk suffering in the city below.

Her steps bore her closer to the tower, down narrow streets and between huddled buildings. Slowly the tower grew against the night sky, rising above the rooftops. Distance weakened an adept’s influence on a Word, and so she hurried, until she was running, her breath aching in her chest, desperate to close the distance as much as possible before the Dragon’s Breath was used once more.

But she had not crossed a fraction of the distance before she felt the heavy pulse of the Weapon stir within the tower. Danielle staggered to a halt, her gaze locked on the black silhouette of the tower. A faint crimson light throbbed behind the windows at its peak, the precursor to the terrible fire that built within it.

Her thoughts raced upward and pierced the tower’s stone. The adepts’ Word seethed, vast patterns shifting and flaring as they aligned, ready to hurl more devastation against the hapless people trapped beneath their gaze.

Danielle’s mind slipped around the Word alongside the adepts’, and she strained to find purchase against the portions she could see. As she felt the Weapon’s bindings release, she twisted a small structure away from the adepts’ control.

The Dragon’s Breath thundered and belched its fire into the sky. But, even as the walls of the keep were drenched in crimson light, Danielle could see that the dreadful arc of the fire was far different from the previous attacks, and triumph surged through her as the bolt sizzled over the city walls and plunged into the river’s surface in a geyser of water and steam.

Instantly, Danielle felt the gaze of a Diviner sweep across her Veil, probing against it like a burrowing root.

“They know we are here,” Danielle warned Eilidh, and she sensed the knight step closer, her presence as ephemeral as a dream beyond the bright patterns of the Words hanging in Danielle’s mind. Quickly, Danielle raised her lance and released its bindings. A shaft of sunlight blistered the air as it sprang forth from Aurêve’s slender tip and stabbed at the tower. Molten stone showered across the tower’s face as the light carved a glowing trail, and part of the wall gave way with a roar as blocks plummeted toward the ground.

But beneath the tower’s stone, Danielle felt her lance’s fire touch a barrier harder than steel, a rigid shield that resisted its light.

A Ward, Danielle realized. She steadied her lance against the shield and refined her Word, so that the Weapon’s power channeled through a narrower focus, all its intensity brought against the smallest of targets. Danielle sensed the Ward warp beneath Aurêve’s heat as its surface bent and glowed orange like a spreading bruise. Break, damn you, Danielle commanded the weakening Ward. Her Word squeezed her lance in a grip of steel, its structures rigidly pristine, their perfect alignment coaxing the Weapon and focusing its fury to its utmost, and Danielle felt the Ward groan under the relentless assault.

But behind the last remnants of the Ward’s shield, another Word stirred again, the terrible pulse of the tower’s mighty Weapon. Aurêve’s bindings slammed home as Danielle’s mind raced to meet the adepts’ Word. She grappled with the same pattern of control that she had twisted so successfully before, only to find it reinforced, secured by new structures that she had not sensed previously. Her mind strained against these new buttresses as the Weapon swelled with power, and she cried out as the Word flared and the Weapon disgorged its fire. The bolt did not fly outward, but streaked downward, a boiling sun hurled toward Danielle.

“No!” Danielle screamed, and her will shattered the adepts’ control. The Word twisted at her command, and the blazing inferno was swatted aside and impacted into the buildings a bowshot uphill from its target.

Danielle felt the ground lurch beneath her feet like a ship’s deck in a storm as light flared through every window and gap between the buildings separating her from the explosion. Then the buildings tore apart and roiling clouds of fire burst free like a wave through a ruptured levy. Wood splintered and stone shattered as Danielle twisted away, then a great wind caught her and hurled her aside.

She tumbled helplessly, then struck against something solid with enough force to drive her breath from her lungs. She curled protectively as pieces of stone and wood pelted her arms and a newborn sun roasted her back.

The rain of debris suddenly halted, and Danielle heard her name through the ringing in her ears. She blinked against the grime and dust filling her eyes and realized that Eilidh was crouched over her, shield raised, as fire bloomed like a dreadful flower above her.

“Can you stand?” Eilidh shouted, not for the first time, Danielle realized. She nodded blearily and struggled to her knees with Eilidh’s help. The knight’s face was streaked with ash and blood beneath her helm, and her armor had been torn loose from her sword arm, leaving only a tangle of dented pieces and ripped straps behind. Yet Eilidh’s arm was as strong as steel as she hauled Danielle to her feet.

“We need to find shelter, m’lady!” Eilidh shouted.

“I do not…” Danielle replied as she struggled to regain her wits. Her Words were gone, lost in the terrible devastation of the explosion. Her mind began to piece together her Veil as her instinct to hide drove her thoughts, but as one part of her mind panicked, another spoke calmly to her. They do not need to see you. They know where you are, and you cannot run far enough to escape the next attack.

“No,” Danielle firmly. She let her Word subside and closed her eyes, blocking out the aches of her battered body, the roaring heat of the burning buildings, and the churning fear in her stomach. Her mind moved through that calm, muted world and touched lightly against the Word groaning once again into life in the tower above her. She was not certain how many minds now held the Word’s structures against her, only that they knew she was coming, knew the structures that were vulnerable to her touch, and were arrayed there to deny her.

Danielle’s breath caught as she watched the Word blaze incandescent, and felt the bindings begin to release as power swelled within it, coursing along protected channels into a raging inferno. Then her will struck, almost instinctively, and speared into the Word like a falcon diving onto its prey. A single binding snapped closed at her command, inverting a pattern of amplification to choke the throat of the Weapon, and her will held it closed against the frenzied attempts of the minds arrayed against her.

The top of the tower vanished as crimson fire erupted in every direction with a thunderclap. Cracks ripped through the tower to its base as the explosion boiled into the night sky, tossing slabs of stone as if they were flung by a great war engine. The tower shuddered and groaned like rotten wood splitting. It began to twist, leaning like a tree in a storm, its weight grinding against its shattered base.

“No…” Danielle whispered, as she begged the tower to remain upright. But she could feel its death throes through the shuddering ground. Sharp cracks echoed against the keep’s walls as stone shattered into splinters, and slowly the tower fell, wreathed in fire and smoke. It plummeted for an age, then struck with the roar of a thousand storms against the shore. The great column of stone obliterated the buildings beneath it, twisted sideways, then spewed into an avalanche of tumbling stones that swept through the fragile structures in its path.

For a moment, Danielle could see the horror of the destruction as clearly as if a Diviner aided her sight. Then a thick cloud of dust erupted and billowed around her, filled her lungs, stung her eyes, and she twisted away as the city shook.

Gradually the thunder subsided, and its last echoes reverberated into the distance. The rattle of smaller stones pierced the shrill song in Danielle’s stunned ears. Eilidh stepped beside her, shock bleaching her skin white beneath the crust of blood and grime.

Then Danielle heard the first scream, a wail of pain that twisted through her as it rose through the murk and reverberated deep in her chest. Danielle clutched Eilidh’s arm as another voice rose in helpless agony, and another, until she could no longer hear individual cries, and she sobbed as a wave of grief overwhelmed her.

Marshalling for Battle

“That piggy was as big as a house! He—” Wyn snarled and swept her head savagely through the air, “—and husks flew all over the place.”

“I saw—” Killock started.

“And did you see the wee fox? He ran off with a foot, the cheeky thing.”

“Yes, he—”

“And then that tiny lass, the one with the feathers?”

“She’s called a—”

“When she flew right at that wight? I’ll not lie, I thought, oh, dear, but then, boom! It just sizzled up like rashers,” Wyn said gleefully.

“I know. I was next to—”

“And the howling! All those wolves. I felt all tingly.” Wyn sighed happily and spent a moment sifting through her memories of the battle, lingering on the fantastic images of creatures boiling from the forest to sweep the husks away. “It was just… wonderful.”

“It was.”

Wyn followed Killock down a gully, careful to conceal a wince of pain that darted through her ribs as she hopped over a gnarled root. At the bottom, a small stream chuckled over a bed of stones, and Killock paused to fill their flasks. Wyn splashed a handful of water over the back of her neck and enjoyed the trickle of cool relief down her back.

“Was that normal?” she asked.

“Was what?”

“All the animals and whatnots all coming to fight. Does that happen a lot out here?”

Killock drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly as he pondered her question. “No,” he said at last. “No, not very often.”

Wyn nodded her head. “I thought not. Otherwise, you’d have said something before now.”

Killock handed her flask back. “They weren’t animals.”

“Excuse me, they absolutely were,” Wyn replied indignantly.

“You saw that they looked like animals, but those were just shapes that they take. They were spirits.”

“How do you mean?”

“The world is full of spirits, you just have to know how to look. They are the embodiment of the world. A stream, a breeze, a tree, a mountain. The first people who lived here knew how to speak with them. Those people built shrines to the spirits, and prayed to them and left them gifts for their aid.”

“For fighting?”

“More likely rain for their crops in the summer, or a plea to keep the caterpillars away, but, yes, also prayers to keep them safe.”

“So they’re little gods?”

“No, they are the world.”

“But they call down lightning and people used to pray to them.” Wyn sniffed smugly. “Sounds like gods to me.”

“They are not mortal, that’s true. But there’s nothing divine about them.”

“Where have they been all this time?”

“They didn’t go anywhere. Even today, farmers know to pray at the old shrines if they want good weather.”

“Well, they’re bloody useful. Why doesn’t everyone know about this?”

“Now you’re asking about history. Are you certain?”

“Ugh, history.” Wyn wrinkled her nose. “Why’s it always history?”

“That is when most things happen,” Killock pointed out.

“I suppose.” Wyn gave a dramatic sigh, just to make certain that he understood the sacrifice she was making. “Go on then.”

“The first people to live here were refugees,” Killock explained. “They had fled the elvhen kingdoms in the south to find a place where they could rule themselves. They thought this land was far enough away that they would be safe.”

“They weren’t free? Like, slaves? I thought the elvhes were nice?”

“The elvhes were wise and guarded the Maker’s work, but does that mean they were nice? In any case, the people who settled here preferred to be free than to live under the elvhes’ rule.”

“Fair enough.”

“They thought so. However, the elvhes did not agree, and came to reclaim their lost sheep. But the people had been living here for generations by this time. This was their home, and the elvhes where just stories of distant oppressors passed down from their great-grandparents, so they refused to leave.”

“This is why I hate history,” Wyn muttered. “It takes forever. What has this got to do with the spirits?”

“When the elvhes came, the people prayed to their gods, the spirits, to help them.”

“What happened?”

“Some spirits agreed, others did not, per their nature. Mostly it was the smaller spirits who helped, those of stream and field, who rarely have a thought for consequences. The more powerful spirits, the grandfathers and grandmothers, did not wish to contest their strength against the guardians of the Maker’s work.”

“So the humans lost and got all grumpy about the spirits that didn’t help and forgot about them?”

“Worse. The druids forced the great spirits to aid them. They crafted giant henges that trapped the spirits and allowed the druids to command them.”

“Martyr’s tears, bloody hypocrites,” Wyn grumbled. “They forced the spirits to do what they wanted, just so that they could stop the elvhes from forcing them to do what they wanted?”

“They did, or, rather, they tried. With the spirits’ aid, the war lasted for far longer, but the elvhes triumphed in the end, anyway. Only a very few redoubts in the mountains stayed free. As you may suspect, the spirits were not well disposed toward the humans who forced them to fight, while the elvhes were not eager to allow the practice to continue and banned all worshipping of spirits. And so that knowledge faded, kept alive only with those mountain folk who survived the war.”

“Oh, they became the Ironback clans,” Wyn realized. “That’s how their shamans do their magic? It’s spirits?”

“It is.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I ask questions.”

“Oh!” Wyn’s eyes went wide as intuition flared. “You know how to talk to the spirits! You do, don’t you! That’s how you know what happened a thousand years ago.”

“Many thousands.”

“I knew it!” Wyn chirped happily. “The way they came up to you at the end of the fight, those wolves and that lass. They knew you, didn’t they.”

“She is a sylph. A spirit of the air. The breeze that plays on the hilltop.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“Her shrine is near the place where we fought, and I found it the day before. I had thought to warn her, but it seems she decided to aid us, instead.”

“And she brought friends. You must be quite good at this praying at shrines thing.”

“No, that is not my way,” Killock replied softly, and he would not reveal more, no matter how often Wyn pestered him as they hiked eastward along the valley floor.

By midday they had spotted a dirty haze rising from the forest to the east, a whorl of road dust and wood smoke that extended as far as they could see both north and south.

“The Royal Army, marching south,” Killock predicted, and he was proven correct when a mounted patrol appeared shortly thereafter. They waved down the patrol and spent the remainder of the afternoon convincing a series of ever-higher-ranking officers that they were Temple scouts, not enemy saboteurs, and that they had news that General Boone needed to hear, immediately.

As evening approached a herald appeared and escorted them south to a nearby valley, whose wide floor was filled with tents and was alive with movement and sound. Soldiers hurried past, heavy with armor and weapons. Wagons were emptied by dozens of willing hands. Blacksmiths hammered out dents and sharpened blades. And over the din, orders were bellowed ceaselessly in every direction.

The deep lines across Killock’s forehead grew more pronounced with every step, but he made no comment as they weaved their way through the camp to a farmhouse located on the southern side of the valley. Sentries passed them through after checking and double-checking the herald’s orders, and Wyn sighed with relief when, at last, the door closed behind them, blocking out some of the din.

The herald knocked on a door guarded by two sentries and then ushered Wyn and Killock through. The room beyond was the farm’s kitchen, though no food was currently being prepared and the hearth was cold. A heavy table that was long enough to seat a dozen dominated the far end of the room. Its broad top was overwhelmed by piles of parchment, maps and scrolls held in place by an assortment of cooking implements and pottery. A tall figure loomed over the table, lean as a sword blade, clad in plain steel and grey wool. He held a sheaf of parchment in one hand, a pen in the other, and he scratched a final line and blew it dry before he turned to greet them.

“Sir Killock, I believe,” the man said by way of welcome. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Thank you, General. I’m sorry it is under these circumstances.”

“You would be hard-pressed to find me under any other type,” the general replied. “And this must be Lady Danielle’s companion, Bronwyn,” he continued, and Wyn found herself the focus of eyes as pale as a winter sky, a gaze that did not waver as her own slid away and sought shelter in the corners of the room. “The Queen mentioned you to me, and I wondered if our paths would cross.”

Wyn felt her stomach lurch. Oh, Maker, what did she tell him? Did she remember what I did? Did she tell the general I was a thief?

“Well… I didn’t… it wasn’t…” Wyn mumbled. “I hope… what did she, ah…”

“I believe the word Her Majesty used was ‘charming’,” Boone replied.

“Oh…” What does he know about me and Dani? He said companion, but that’s what rich people say to be polite when they mean bonking. Martyr’s tears, I bet he knows, and here I am filthy as the bottom of a boot. “She was very nice, too, and it’s nice to meet you…” Wyn’s voice trailed away, and she tried to bow and hide behind Killock at the same time.

“General, I had thought to find the Royal Army marching south with all speed,” Killock said gravely, “but what I have seen today looks more like an army that is marshalling for battle.”

“You are correct in your assessment.”

Killock nodded as he absorbed that news. “I came to warn you that we discovered a Crunorix horde on your western flank, but I wonder now if you have already heard that news.”

“I have. Some refugees gave us the tale.”

“They made it!” Wyn exclaimed happily. “It was them who told you, the folks from Twin Pines, your generalship?”

“I never heard the name of their camp, but it was on the Gylden Beck, I recall.”

“That’s them. They’ve had a terrible time of it.”

“They’re safe now.” The general glanced to Killock. “You can confirm their story?”

“Some of it, but I don’t doubt the rest. There was a strong Crunorix force pursuing the refugees eastward, but they were destroyed. However, we believe there are thousands more out there, heading south.”

“That was my concern, as well, after hearing their report. Enough of a concern that I have ordered the army to deploy in anticipation of an advance westward, once we have confirmed the enemy’s disposition.”

“They’re bloody crabby, most of the time,” Wyn informed him helpfully. “Screaming and moaning.”

“The general means, where the enemy forces are, and what they are doing,” Killock explained.

“Screaming and moaning, I just told him. The husks aren’t horrible to fight one or two at a time, but they never are just one or two. There’s always swarms of them, and they don’t stop. They’ll wear you down just from falling on you.”

“It is not my intent to stand toe-to-toe with them, where their numbers would give them the advantage. What else can you tell me?”

“There are other creatures besides the husks,” Killock replied. “You will encounter wights, as well. They control the husks and without them, the husks are mindless. But the wights are very dangerous to approach, strong and almost impervious to harm. I don’t doubt one could breach a shield wall on its own.”

“How can they be defeated?”

“Fire.”

“Or lightning,” Wyn added. “That works a charm, too. Basically, you have to fry them up, quick as you can.”

“I will see what we can do. I would also like to hear more about this tower and the catacombs beneath it, and about the Black Grave. But, before that, there are other matters that we must discuss. Karsha Hali sends word that Duke Campbell has left Kuray and is marching south toward Newbridge.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Campbell has done exactly as we had hoped and left his place of strength. But the timing is most unfortunate, and the appearance of the Crunorix horde is more unfortunate still. It would have been better if one of them had been content to wait patiently for us to finish with the other before taking the field.”

“General, the Crunorix are the worse threat, by far,” Killock informed him. “They will cause unimaginable destruction if they aren’t stopped before they reach the river valley. Don’t halt your campaign against them. You say Campbell marches on Newbridge? The Temple army can hold against him there.”

“I don’t doubt their valor, but I question the logistics.” Boone retrieved one scroll from the piles on the table and glanced at the tight columns of tiny numbers that covered its surface. “If I turn the Royal Army against the Crunorix, there is little hope that we will be able to relieve Newbridge before the first snow. And Newbridge cannot feed an army through the winter. It can barely feed itself.”

“Then, what?” Killock asked. “Divide your forces and conduct both wars at once?”

“Perhaps it shall come to that. But wars can be won by words as much as by steel.” Boone replaced the scroll on the table, then gathered the stack of fresh parchment that he had been writing when they had arrived. He gave the parchments a last glance, rolled them tightly, sealed them with wax, and then handed them to Killock. “I have a strategy to suggest. If you will bear it to Sir Roland in Newbridge and speak to him of what we have discussed here, I shall send word to Karsha Hali. His will be the hardest task.”

Killock’s gaze did not leave the general as he accepted the roll of papers, although Wyn was desperate to know what the scrawls of ink said.

“Why? What will Karsha have to do?” Killock asked.

The general sighed and leaned his fists on the table, and Wyn saw weariness bend his back.

“Because he will have to convince the Queen,” Boone replied. “And she will not like what I have to suggest.”

Foul Stuff

Bran watched the river of steel people pass beneath his perch, his black gaze darting after every glint and sparkle that stabbed through the cloud of dust their boots stirred. They trudged past him all morning, spears at rest on their shoulders, packs bulging on their backs, the tramp of their boots a low grumble that trembled in the branches beneath Bran’s feet. Wagons sometimes passed as well, groaning with the weight of their cargo, filled with fascinating shapes and scents.

As Grandfather Sun reached his zenith, a rider appeared on the road, a black plume bobbing above his helmet. He shouted and pointed, and the steel people stepped aside just in time, as a score of riders galloped into view. At their head, two riders held spears with pennants streaming from their tips, and in the center of the riders was a man whose steel flashed the brightest of all, splendid silver and glistening black. The riders swept beneath Bran’s tree with a thunder of hooves and were gone, and only then were the other people allowed back to the road, to continue their march.

Thank you, Bran, his whisper told him. That is enough. Take me to her.

The great raven sprang from his perch and raced skyward, his wings thrashing the air. As he rose he turned northward, against the flow of the steel river. Higher he flew, until the steel people were only a string of sparkles hidden in a dusty cloud, and Bran could see the coils of Grandmother River to the west, her surface blazing like gold in the sunlight, bright enough to shame the steel mockery on the road.

North, Bran flew, and slowly Grandfather Sun lowered toward the mountains. Now the steel river was no more than wagons plodding in the steel peoples’ wake, then merely a trickle, then nothing, the trampled roadway empty and the forest around painted grey with dust to prove the steel river’s passage.

Farther north and farms and villages sprouted and boats dotted the river, and then, at last, Bran spotted the silver needle of a tower that thrust from a tall ridge of the mountains. He crossed the river and caught the warm air that rushed up the steep hillsides to soar over the first rugged knees of the mountains, and there, sprawled in its valley, was the immense stain of the city, wallowing in its shroud of smoke.

Bran paused at the height of his climb to enjoy the clean rush of air past his wingtips, then circled lower, and slowly the mottled skin of the city resolved its wrinkled ravines and ridges into narrow streets and peaked roofs. He swooped toward a ruined hulk of a building and cawed a welcome as he fluttered over the wall and into the tiny square of quiet green that lay at its heart.

He preened his feathers as he waited, but he had barely restored himself to his usual glory when she arrived, her raven-colored hair glowing like molten darkness in the sun’s waning rays.

“Hello, Bran,” she greeted him.

Bran settled on a cracked fountain, and his whisper spoke.

My Queen, I bring joyous news. The Temple army has taken Newbridge, and even now occupies the city.

Thank the Maker, the Queen replied. Was the fighting terribly fierce?

Worse than it needed to be, with the greatest horrors inflicted upon the people of Newbridge by their own lord.

This is Sir Alroy, yes? I recall he is accused of crimes carried out in my name, last winter.

He is. He now resides in his own dungeon.

The raven-haired queen scratched Bran’s ruff as she gathered her thoughts.

Make an example of him, she decided. Try him for his crimes against the Crown, not his crimes against the Temple.

It shall be done, Your Majesty.

What else?

More good news, his whisper replied. Duke Campbell marches south and takes thousands of his soldiers with him.

This, I know, the raven-haired queen replied smugly. I have not been idle. My spies roam the city.

Spies?

Yes, of course. I have many loyal agents throughout the city.

Ah, I shall guess that you mean the Temple scout, whose service during the attack on Whitetemple you praised.

Karsha, you spoil my story entirely.

My apologies. Your vast network of spies must also have told you that there are few of Campbell’s soldiers left in Kuray. A few hundreds in the Silver Keep, that number again in the Armory garrison. It will be far easier to arrange for your departure than ever before.

The raven-haired queen took a deep breath before replying.

I am not leaving.

No?

No. We have a chance to throw out the last of Campbell’s dogs and bar the city gates against him, to declare his treachery from the throne itself. When General Boone crushes Campbell’s army, the duke will have no refuge to retreat to, no false decrees to gather new allies. Perhaps he will make a last pathetic stand, but my hope is that he will flee and spend the winter cowering in a hole before we drag him to the gallows. Only then will I be satisfied, and I will not let him roost in my city and peck away at what we have built until then.

Bran’s whisper did not respond immediately, and when, at last, he did, it was as if he had forgotten what they had been speaking of a moment before.

There is word from General Boone. Unfortunate news.

What has happened?

Scouts have detected a Crunorix horde, moving southward from the High Fells.

The Temple guarded the north! They were to stop this very thing from happening.

Some few survivors of the Temple’s army were found, fleeing southward ahead of the Crunorix advance. Only the gods now know of Sir Lochlan’s fate.

Karsha, what shall we do?

The general, as is his nature, has already fashioned a strategy. I have pondered it, and though my heart screams, no, never, I must muffle its voice and say, yes, that is our best path.

Tell me, she replied, her thoughts cold with dread.

Boone prepares to turn west, to strike the Crunorix with all his strength before they are aware of his presence. He believes this is the best chance to defeat them before they bring havoc to the realm.

This is folly! she said bitterly. Our Temple allies are left to stand alone against Campbell, instead of at Boone’s side, while Boone is left without the aid of their templars when he faces the Crunorix. I do not believe that Boone would suggest such a strategy.

He did not, for there is more to this tale. He has conceived another path. One that will not be easy to tread.

I am glad to hear there is another path.

I am certain you will not be, when you understand its nature. You spoke truly when you said our forces are divided. Not just the Temple army from the Royal, but also the many thousands of soldiers who now march for Campbell, but who should stand at the side of the Royal Army against the Crunorix.

They should, she agreed. But until Campbell is hanged for his treachery, they will not.

If our goals are to secure the strength of Campbell’s army against the Crunorix and to free our Temple allies to fight against the Crunorix as well, there is another way. If you can bear to take it.

She gasped, a cry of pain and dismay. You want me to beg him to help us.

Not beg, no. But negotiate for his help? Yes.

He is a usurper. How can that crime not be punished?

That is the choice you must make. What fate will satisfy both you and the duke that will convince him to stand beside us against our foe?

I cannot imagine that such a thing exists. She turned her back on the raven, her shoulders hunched protectively as she hugged her arms against her chest. His death alone will not satisfy me. He must be humiliated first. Humiliated and humbled, as I was.

It is just that you feel so, he said gently. Just, but a Queen is cursed to think first of the realm, not herself.

The realm cannot thrive if its nobles are emboldened to wage war to satisfy their whims.

No, it cannot, he agreed. The crown must be restored, the dents smoothed away, and a fresh layer of polish applied. But beyond that? The crown is strong when the realm is strong. It does not care about humiliation. It is cold no matter how hot your blood rages. And this is also as it should be.

I cannot forgive him. A stone could not forgive him.

Then do not, and accept the consequences. But consider that Campbell is a snake. He will provide you with another opportunity to deliver justice, that is certain.

Do what you must, she managed to reply. But I will not sit across the table from that man.

Will you at least now consent to leave Kuray? If we are to seek alliance with Campbell, why take this risk?

We must now move more urgently, not less.

A wound for spite’s sake before we turn to words?

Not at all, she denied fiercely. When you sit down to negotiate, Kuray will be ours, the throne will be ours, not his, to claim. That is strength, not spite.

How fortunate they align.

Go and make your alliance, she thought coldly, and wrenched her thoughts away before his whisper might reply.

“Go,” she commanded the raven. “And if you care at all for me, find a way that I might bring Duke Campbell to his grief.”

Bran launched from his perch in a thunder of wings, his raucous cries sounding like laughter as he soared skyward.

Karsha passed his fingers wearily over his brow, smoothing and stretching his wrinkled skin as he sought the source of the deep ache that throbbed behind his eyes. His skin felt loose and thin as parchment.

“That was poorly done,” he muttered to himself.

He hauled himself from his chair and teetered across the floor of his study, his balance still soaring through the sky with Bran. The cluttered room was located on the northern wall of Newbridge Castle, now appropriated by the Temple army after its conquest of the city. It was high enough that Karsha could see a slice of the river valley meandering out of the hills from its narrow windows, but there its charms ended. It had been used to store moldy tapestries and the thick stone walls had trapped the musty stench in their rough-cut blocks, and its door was hidden in a remote passageway that was rarely travelled.

He clutched the edge of his desk and managed not to topple, then grabbed a bottle and cup from among the candles’ melted carcasses, hastily scrawled letters, and the remains of a small loaf of bread, now stale and hard, that buried the desktop. He poured the last dregs of the bottle into the cup with only a small slosh and retraced his journey to his chair with even greater caution. Only when he had crawled once more into its soft leather embrace did he allow himself another sigh.

“Very poor.”

He sipped at his cup, frowned, and sucked on his teeth. “Foul stuff,” he complained, but he swallowed the rest in three great gulps, nonetheless.

Her passion will only grow more savage, now, he realized with regret. If there was a chance to convince her to leave Kuray, I blundered past it. And there was a chance, of a certainty, there was. She struggled with her decision, I could hear it clear. And then I gave her a righteous anger to drive her, instead.

Karsha grimaced and wriggled out of the chair. There are others who now need to be convinced, he reminded himself, as he set the cup aside and cleared a space on the desk for parchment. A chance to redeem my failure with the Queen.

He found a pot of ink and a pen and mused for a moment as he stared at the blank parchment, unaware of the drops of ink pattering on the desktop. Then he began to write, the pen scratching out his spidery script.

“To His Grace, Duke Thornton, Lord of the Iron Army,” Karsha muttered as he wrote.

Buried Secrets

Meara gazed at the page of her journal and re-read the last few lines she had written, then put the pen back in its holder and turned her attention to the tome that lay open on her reading stand, the opulent registry of the family of Queen Gabrielle. She turned the heavy vellum pages until she reached the entry for Marquis Daniel, the son of Augustine, and paused to read it, though she had the brief entry memorized.

Son of Augustine, she repeated to herself. Son. The last son before a thousand years of daughters. Every one of them an adept, in a family that had none, prior.

Her first instinct had been to ascribe that remarkable change to the presence of the Martyr’s Blade, hidden within their home, its Word passed from mother to daughter. But even the most cursory investigation into adepts and heredity quashed that theory. Being an adept is the Maker’s gift, not something that a Device can bestow on you.

Meara’s lips formed a thin line as she glanced at her journal. She picked up her pen, freshened its ink, and underlined a passage, adding defiant emphasis to the words, “Favors the maternal line.”

But not Augustine, not with Daniel being her only child. The line doesn’t start there. Meara’s pen idly circled two names, ringing them with ink. One was Rachelle of Croyez, greatest adept of her generation, of perhaps all generations. If anyone could beget a family of premier adepts, it would be her. If anyone could be the new wielder of the Martyr’s Blade, it would be her. Meara’s pen stilled, then slowly drew a line through Rachelle’s name. But that’s backwards. Rachelle was born twenty years after they hid the Blade. So, how did they know they were choosing guardians who would be the perfect wielders before any of them were born?

Meara’s pen drew a line beneath the second encircled name. Aibhlinn.

Lady Aibhlinn did not warrant her own entry in the registry. Her only mentions came in Marquis Daniel’s entry, and Meara had already written the relevant notes in her journal. Marquesa Augustine’s ward, adopted into her house as an infant in the year zero of the new calendar, Meara read, and then, married Marquis Daniel in the year eighteen.

Meara’s frown grew deeper. A baby, arrived in Lavandou the same year as the Blade, perhaps even before the Blade. Raised and protected by Augustine. Allowed to marry Daniel, her heir. It must be Aibhlinn. She’s the reason they hid the Blade with Augustine. Because Aibhlinn was there, and they knew her descendants would be the perfect wielders of the Blade.

Meara gazed at the name, encircled with ink as if protected by the walls of a fortress. What could you know about a baby that would tell you that her daughter, and her daughter’s daughter, for a thousand years, would be the greatest family of adepts in history?

“Ah, here she is.”

Meara jumped at the sound of the voice and her pen left a large burst of ink on the page of her journal. She quickly stood from her desk and whirled to face the door to her study, her heart racing.

Three figures stepped through the doorway. The first was Reverend Ail, and behind him Reverend Anariel. Following them was a man who seemed to fill what space was left in the tiny room, and whose dark gaze moved unhurriedly across the books and scrolls that cluttered the room to rest on Meara’s.

“Meara, I believe you know Lord Faron?” Reverend Ail continued.

“Your lordship.” Meara nodded awkwardly.

“We have met,” the templar replied. “Only briefly, yet her words carried great weight.”

“Excellent,” Reverend Ail said enthusiastically. “Well, Reverend Meara, I was just telling Lord Faron about the research you are doing, and we wondered if you might need anything?”

Meara had long ago realized that proffers of aid usually meant the volunteer was concerned that she was not working fast enough but were too polite to say so.

“I have made some progress on the ‘why Augustine was chosen to guard the Blade’ question, your reverence,” Meara told him, and she picked up her journal to display the pages filled with her notes.

“I can hardly wait to hear what’s in there,” Ail said eagerly.

“Yes, your reverence, but I have barely begun to think about the ‘by whom’ question, and I believe that will be much more difficult to answer.”

“And what could help you in that quest?”

Meara hesitated, wondering if she had misjudged, and that Reverend Ail’s offer of aid was sincere. She surveyed the stacks of books that now took up what little space had remained in the study, treatises on Venaissine history, on heredity, on Devices, accounts of the battle of the Fellgate pass and the guarding of the Black Grave, some well-researched, others astoundingly speculative.

“It’s very difficult to guess at reason, your reverence, when all the sources are written by people who lived centuries after the event. At least Beledain had access to the notes and letters of those who attended the First Conclave, but even the Annals are just his interpretation of what he read.”

“Perhaps if you read the words of one who was there,” Lord Faron said. Meara glanced at the templar as she tried to discern if he understood the impossibility of what he had suggested. But she saw neither ignorance nor mockery in his dark gaze, and her eyes narrowed as she considered the other possibility.

“There are writings from the Conclave here?” she asked. “Whose?”

“I’m not certain we should…” Anariel ventured. “They’re not meant to be touched.”

“I think, in this instance, there is cause,” Reverend Ail replied firmly.

“Very well,” Reverend Anariel agreed. She rose and gave Meara a smile. “You’re in for a treat.”

The archivist led them through the warren of workrooms to the entrance to the archive vaults, a massive set of engraved doors that opened for Reverend Anariel at a wave of her hand and a whispered Word. Beyond, a wide stairwell delved into the depths of the hill, each landing giving access to Warded doors that protected the treasures of the archive.

Meara shivered as she peered over the balustrade and down the dark shaft of the stairwell. The golden glows that illuminated each landing seemed lost in the immensity of blackness that surrounded them, as if the steps floated in a void. But the chill that crept over her skin did not come from that unknown, it came from what she knew lay at the bottom of the shaft, the great vault that contained the bloody fuil crunor ritual that had murdered Bishop Benno and a dozen archivists. Meara could conjure the vicious symbols of the ritual in her mind without effort. They lurked behind every thought like shadows, engraved into her memory as they had been carved into the flesh of the ritual’s victims and the stone floor of the vault.

“Reverend Anariel,” Meara ventured. “How is the research into the Crunorix ritual going?”

“Cautiously,” the archivist replied.

“Do they have my notes?” Meara asked. “I would be happy to explain them, if it would help.”

“Ah, no, there’s no need,” Ail replied, and Anariel shook her head firmly. “No, you’ve done your part there. It’s time for others to take their turn, now.”

“But, your reverences, that doesn’t make any sense,” Meara complained, her cheeks growing hot. “I discovered the fuil crunor patterns in the rituals, I even managed a practical application. I should be the one—”

“No,” Anariel said sharply. The Temple Archivist took a moment to smooth her robes and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and when she continued, her voice was gentle. “No, Reverend Meara. I believe your current task may be even more important.”

They think I’ll be corrupted, too, Meara realized.

They descended another flight of stairs and arrived at the next landing, a broad platform of stone that gave access to three doors, each fashioned of heavy steel. Anariel approached the center door, removed a ring of keys from her belt, and selected a long key with an intricate head. It slotted into the ornate lock and produced a low, satisfying thump as it turned.

Beyond the door was a long passageway, featureless save for a row of identical doors along both walls. Diviners along the ceiling began to glow as Reverend Anariel led the way along the passageway to a door midway along. Meara felt the hair on her arms stir as she stepped to the archivist’s side, a warning that this door was sealed by more than just a lock.

Reverend Anariel closed her eyes for a moment and then exhaled, and Meara felt the archivist’s Word tug at her robes and hair as it passed. The door’s Ward changed subtly, and Reverend Anariel reached forward and twisted the engraved doorknob. The door swung open on silent hinges, and Meara felt the skin on her cheeks go taut as cool, dry air flowed out.

The chamber beyond was dark for a moment, then Diviners flared into warm, yellow glows, illuminating it. The room’s stone walls were smooth and unadorned, its floor empty save for three pedestals arranged near the center, their polished arms each supporting a small, leather-bound book.

Anariel led the way into the room, and Meara felt another Word ripple across the floor to the pedestals, and the air around them blurred for a moment and then cleared.

“Here we are,” Anariel murmured. The archivist turned to Meara and gestured for her to approach the pedestals. “Go on, have a look.”

Meara stepped cautiously forward and peered at the three books from an arm’s-length away. The leather covers were unadorned and were faintly mottled, and the pages were rough-cut and the binding thread frayed. Meara guessed that each contained no more than one hundred pages, and they would fit easily into a small pack, a shockingly small size compared to the massive tomes Meara had been hoisting onto her reading table recently.

“It will be difficult to read them from back there,” Ail said gently.

Meara took another step and reached for the cover of the center of the three books, her fingers trembling with excitement. The leather was soft against her fingers as she reverently opened it. The binding barely creaked, and the pages turned with a rich, satisfying rustle. Meara gazed at the quick, hurried script and let each word linger in her thoughts as she absorbed every subtle shift in the lines of ink, every hurried crossbar, every emphasis the pen had left on the page. The author had clearly jotted each phrase quickly, as there were lines crossed out or addended on every page. And yet the writing was clear and precise, for all that it followed the author’s thoughts without pause.

Meara found that she had been holding her breath, and she let it out with a sigh as she reached the end of the first page.

“They’re Duibhir’s journals,” she said quietly.

“Well, three of them,” Ail pointed out with a hint of a smile.

“Which ones?” Meara asked. The book she had opened started with the description of a fishing village on the shore of a lake, but Duibhir had journeyed so far and so frequently that Meara had no clue as to which village it might be.

“Seventeen, twenty-three, and we think the last one is twenty-seven,” Anariel replied.

Meara frowned for a moment as she placed the journals in their agreed upon chronology. “Twenty-three is during the Conclave?”

“It is,” Reverend Ail agreed. “Near the beginning. Seventeen was written during the War, in Jaquin fifty-four, I believe, and no one is quite sure when he wrote twenty-seven. Several years later, it’s believed. After Duibhir had founded the Gravewardens, anyway.”

“I’ve never read that one,” Meara realized. “And only copies of the others…” She frowned, annoyed with herself. What a ridiculous statement, of course you’ve only read copies.

“In these pages you will find the words of the one who was first to reach the side of King Ruric and the Martyr after their fall,” Lord Faron rumbled, his deep voice filling the chamber. “The one who revealed the Black Grave to Ruric, and the one who sealed it away. His voice was held in the highest esteem by those who gathered for the First Conclave. Perhaps you may hear it within these pages.”

Meara carefully opened the journal on the left. She could see that some of the discoloration on the cover was from ancient damp, though she could not tell whether rain or sweat, and there were smudges on the pages that were likely dirt. But for Meara the markings and stains did not diminish the contents. They supported the journal’s ancient voice like a chorus, describing the miserable tent or rickety table that that must have hosted the tale’s creation.

Her hands placed her own journal and pen on the pedestal without her notice as she began to read. Some sections she recognized, but now she could hear the author speaking to her and found new meaning within even the most familiar phrases. And some sections she had never seen, vivid excerpts of encounters with both the mundane and the exotic, beautiful illustrations sketched in a sure hand, and, to her surprise, long treatises on philosophy and logic. And through it all, the details of the page lent a richness that could not be conveyed through word alone. Harsh scratches of ink dashed onto the page in a passion, dark bleeds where the tip had paused too long against the page that foretold an insight, slight offsets that showed interrupted thoughts, and the frequent additions scrawled in the margins and between lines that announced the unexpected.

Her own pen scratched in constant accompaniment as she filled page after page in her journal, desperate to capture Duibhir’s words and thoughts. Without pause, she moved to the second journal and began to read of the First Conclave, and she sensed deep anger in Duibhir’s account of the endless arguments and usurpations that threatened to grind Ruric’s alliance to dust, and a strange reticence to write that showed in brief, terse descriptions and gaps of days in which the journal bore no entry.

And then, in the third journal, she met a very different Duibhir. There was no indication of how many years had passed between the two books, but the writer now wavered between fierce defiance and weary resignation, as if he could find no solace in any of his triumphs. Regret seeped into his ruminations, and bitter irony lurked even in his descriptions of treasured memories. Meara sensed that long passages of time frequently dwelled between the lines of text, with no remark to explain the jarring leaps.

But it was in the third book that Meara also found passages of astonishing beauty, remembrances of places and people dear to him, and dedications to the exquisite miracles of the mundane that he saw around him each day.

Meara turned another page and found herself at the last page of the journal. It was taken up by a portrait of a young woman, hardly more than a girl, drawn with confident lines. Her hair was an untamed mane of curls and she smiled from the page with joy. Meara gazed at the portrait, marveling that the girl’s happiness had been so well captured, as the portrait was little more than a sketch. Save for her eyes, which the artist had lingered on, bringing them to life with careful attention.

Meara’s breath stilled and she felt the disquieting sensation of unfulfilled anticipation that signaled that some buried knowledge had stirred deep in her subconscious. A passage I have recently read? Or a memory of something relevant? But surely I would recall if I had come across some detail that would explain who this girl was. Meara closed her eyes as she pursued the feeling, examining it to try and isolate the cause, but it remained frustratingly nebulous, something she knew she should remember, but could not drag to the surface.

She sighed in frustration and closed the book, then turned her attention to her own journal. The parchment crinkled as she turned back several pages and re-read a passage she had circled a dozen times for emphasis, pondering whether to cross it out or to let it survive.

Rank speculation, she decided, and placed the pen’s tip next to the words, ready to draw the fatal line of ink through them. But the pen did not move until, at last, she raised the tip from the page. Her lips skewed to the side. Her stomach twisted each time she considered destroying the notes on the page, yet the reason for her reluctance remained frustratingly vague, an instinct that defied rationale.

Reasonable deduction, she ventured, and the uneasy knot in her stomach loosened, though her irritation with herself grew.

She drew one more circle around the words, then slowly drew a line of ink beneath them.

“It was Duibhir,” she announced. “He took the Blade and gave it to Augustine.”

Meara turned to confront whatever skepticism or questions might come from Anariel, Ail, and Faron, but when she looked around, she was startled to find that she was alone in the room. The steady glow of the diviners gave no indication of how much time had passed, but her lips had cracked and her nose was raw from the dry air.

Now that she had spoken the words aloud, Meara was not certain she wanted to do so again. Her stomach lurched, twisting between twin cyclones of satisfaction and anxiety as she pondered what effect her guesses might have.

He reached the battle plain days before anyone else, she reminded herself. It’s just his word that what he told the Conclave he found was true. And she could see his dissembling in his own hand. Terse lines in a tight script whenever Duibhir referenced the moment when he had found the mortally wounded Ruric and the bodies of his slain knights and had heard the story of the Martyr’s sacrifice in their duel with the Nameless King, as if the writer was reluctant to draw attention to the words. Uncharacteristic flares of anger that arose whenever he related being challenged on his insistence that the tombs of the Martyr and Ruric remain undisturbed. Then, later, in the last journal, remorse and justification when he wrote of his guardianship of the Black Grave, as if he still warred with himself over a decision he wished he had not had to make. There are buried secrets within his words.

But Meara knew her theory was easily countered with simple logic. If he took the Blade, why give it to Augustine? And, if he knew where it was, why not retrieve it when he came to doubt the stratagem of keeping the magi sealed in the Black Grave? She had no answers to those questions.

Meara massaged her fingers for a moment, then quickly gathered her journal and her pen and left the chamber, carefully sealing the door behind her. The trek up the stairs seemed longer than the trip down, and Meara hauled herself up the last flight with weary relief.

The workrooms were dark, the windows shuttered against the night, but the flickering light of a candle glowed from the open doorway of her study. Meara peered around the doorjamb and discovered Aine bent over the long scroll bearing Queen Gabrielle’s ancestral tree, examining it with one hand to hold the candle, the other to hold back her hair.

Meara cleared her throat softly, so as not to startle the older girl, and Aine glanced up and smiled.

“Is this what you’ve been working on?” Aine wondered. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s one part.” Meara walked around the table to stand next to the acolyte. The bright inks and elegant scripts now seemed garish, a brash display with little real value or meaning.

“Have you found what you were looking for?”

“Perhaps. I think I know how, but not why, and I can’t prove any of it, and I don’t know whether to tell Reverend Ail or not. I don’t know what to do.”

“You need to have a rest, is what you have to do,” Aine decided. “Your poor eyes. If you could see the state you’re in, you’d not argue with me.”

“I can’t. There’s still so much I don’t know,” Meara complained. “Would you like to help?”

“Oh, no,” Aine replied. “My head aches too much to read a bunch of books right now, sorry luv. Anyway, I’ve got one last week with no duties, remember? I’m not going to throw that away.”

“I understand,” Meara told her, but that was not true. What could be better than a week getting to do some research? Just sitting around? “What are you going to do with your week?”

“Mum has come to visit, travelled all the way from the farm. Reverend Nesta sent a carriage when I was hurt and put Mum in an apartment on the north side. Mum says it’s too fine, bless her, but…”

Aine’s voice faded to a drone as Meara frowned at the ancestral tree unrolled on top of the table. Her gaze rested on the thin line of ink that stretched between Lady Aibhlinn and Rachelle of Croyez. She could feel her memory stirring again, an ember coaxed from its slumber. Her mum…

“I think… I think…” Meara muttered as she searched through her notes, flipping pages back and forth in a rush. “I might know…”

“Meara, what is it?” Aine asked. “What is the matter?”

“It’s just…” Meara spread the book open and shuffled through the pages, searching the scrawled lines of ink. It favors the maternal line…

“What have you found?” Aine asked. She peered over Meara’s shoulder, anxious for a better look.

“There was a passage, in the last of Duibhir’s journals,” she muttered as she searched. Meara found the lines, copied with as much of the original emphasis as she could manage. It was a confusing passage that she had taken to reference the building of Fellgate Castle to protect the tomb of the Martyr, but it was filled with awkward metaphors of the ocean, and an insistence on speaking of the Martyr in loving, intimate phrases as if she were still alive.

Meara felt the rush of thought pull her away from the parchment as inference and fact streamed into new patterns, swirling and reforming in a dizzying flood. If the ocean was not metaphorical. If “she” was not the Martyr. If “the Martyr’s blood” was a reference to lineage, not her wounds…

“Aibhlinn was her daughter,” Meara said softly.

“Whose daughter? Who is Aibhlinn?”

Meara closed her eyes so that she could picture the portrait that Duibhir had sketched at the end of his journal, of the girl who could not have been older than ten or eleven years of age.

“The Martyr’s daughter. Duibhir travelled from the Fellgate to see her, to make certain she was safe with Augustine. He wrote it all down.”

“But…” Aine said uncertainly. “The Martyr didn’t have a daughter.”

“What if she did?” Meara whispered. “Her daughter would be special, and who better to give the Blade to?”

“Yes, but everyone would know, wouldn’t they?”

“Would we? We don’t know anything about the Martyr, not anything before she saved King Ruric.”

“She was one of his knights, wasn’t she?”

“That’s the only thing that’s ever said about her, and that’s the story that Duibhir told everyone after she died. If she had a daughter, she could have kept her secret, just like everything else about her past.”

“But, Meara, how would Duibhir have known she had a daughter?”

“Because he was the one who found her. What if she were the one who was mortally wounded but still alive when he got there, not Ruric? What if she spoke to Duibhir, before she died? What if she needed someone to keep her daughter safe after she was gone?”

“Ohhh, how lovely,” Aine said with a sigh. Then she laughed. “It’s quite a leap, isn’t it?”

“A theory that fits the facts.” Meara sighed. “I will need time to prove it, but I think I need to tell Reverend Ail and Lord Faron.”

Part Two

Such Grim Purpose

Two travel-worn and grime-streaked riders approached Newbridge from the north. Their horses plodded slowly with their heads down, and the riders slumped in their saddles and swayed with their horses’ gait. They passed through the Temple army encampment then into the city through a long tunnel and into the narrow streets beyond.

“Newbridge. Lovely…” Wyn muttered. “You’d think we just pissed in their porridge from the looks they’re giving us.”

“It’s not the most joyous welcome,” Killock agreed, “but they have not had a joyous year. Starved all winter, now overrun by war.”

“Maybe,” Wyn allowed grudgingly. She rode in silence for a moment, her faint brows creased in thought. Then her lips twisted into a grin. “I reckon it’s just they know they live in Newbridge. It’s always been a grumbly sort of place.”

Their tired horses bore them through the lower wards of the city and toward the hill’s crest, where the keep towers flew the blue-and-grey banner of Newbridge alongside the golden knot of the Temple and the three black hounds of Baron Arledge.

The taste of ash and smoke caught in Wyn’s throat as they rode through the third gate, and she resisted the urge to cough and spit onto the street. Black stains coated the southern face of the castle’s walls, and beneath them Wyn could spot the broken fingers of fire-gutted buildings jutting above the nearby roofs.

Wyn urged her poor horse up the final slope of twisted street with a stream of cooing sounds and promises of snug stables, and at last they reached the small plaza that lay before the castle gates. Dour buildings faced one another across the plaza, grim slabs of brick and stone that might have been mistaken for tombs, if not for the narrow windows cut into their walls. Pillars tried to add grandeur to the facades, but the thick columns lacked the soaring height to impress, and only added sullen weight to the edifice.

Her gaze flickered around the plaza, seeking some relief from the endless oppression of grey stone and black iron, and she frowned as she noticed a group of people standing on the steps that fronted one of the buildings. Then a smile burst across her face, and she leapt from her horse and sprinted across the plaza, her hair streaming behind her, her weariness forgotten in a rush of joy.

She raced up the steps, her heart pounding in her throat. Eilidh saw her coming and called out, so that Danielle turned an instant before Wyn arrived. Danielle’s eyes went wide with surprise and delight and then Wyn pounced on her and wrapped her arms around Danielle’s neck.

Danielle managed a single, happy cry of, “Wyn!” before Wyn crushed her lips against Danielle’s with a sudden urgency that overwhelmed her. Wyn breathed in the scents of sunlight and flowers as Danielle’s hair brushed against her cheek, tasted the salt of tears on Danielle’s lips, and clung to Danielle as if she were in danger of being wrenched away.

“Ohhh, I’ve missed you,” Wyn breathed against Danielle’s ear, and then her eyes were burning, and she was sobbing helplessly. Danielle kissed her again, heedless of blotchy cheeks and sniffles, and held her so tightly that Wyn had to point her toes to touch the ground.

“I have missed you, too, my love,” Danielle whispered. “I did not think to find you here, though I have wished for it every day.”

Wyn snuggled closer, content to remain in Danielle’s embrace forever, never mind tired legs and aching ribs and grumbling stomach. But Wyn gradually became aware of low voices, grimly murmuring, and at last glanced away from Danielle to find herself in the center of a ring of very stern knights and priests. She recognized Reverend Nesta, her hair a blaze of white in the sunlight, and a tall knight with very blonde hair and very blue eyes, with the strength of chiseled granite etched into every plane of his features, the epitome of that implacable authority that had always terrified Wyn.

“Gosh, look at everybody who came to say hello,” Wyn said quietly. “And they’re so pleased to see me, too.”

“It is another matter, one that is not so pleasant,” Danielle replied. Wyn felt Danielle stiffen against her, and Wyn slipped free from Danielle’s embrace and regained her footing.

“Oh, I’ve snotted on your coat,” Wyn noticed, aghast. She wiped futilely at the wet blemish on Danielle’s shoulder, to no avail. “I don’t suppose you needed to look nice and clean today?”

“It is only a little damp. Truly, it does not matter,” Danielle assured her.

But Wyn was suddenly aware of how foolish she must have made Danielle seem, assaulted and then blubbed on by a filthy lunatic in the midst of a solemn procession, and she tried to make amends by looking very grim and proper, though she could not help but cling to Danielle’s warm hand behind their backs, concealed from the rest of the group.

“…it was a large host, and I fear they were just the outriders,” Killock was explaining. “Sir William hinted of a massive attack, with Sir Lochlan’s position overrun.”

“Who is Sir William?” Danielle asked.

“Same bastard we let go after Blockley,” Wyn chimed in, remembering to sound stern and purposeful for a moment, before suddenly bursting out, “Oh! Dani, you’ll never guess who we rescued! Mairi!”

“Mairi from Twin Pines?”

“The same.” Wyn beamed proudly.

“That poor girl,” Danielle said sadly. “She has endured so many troubles. I hope she was well?”

“A bit skinny, but she was with her da and headed in the right direction, last I saw her.”

“Where was that?”

“Errr… in the woods?” Wyn ventured. “Definitely north, that’s certain.”

“Near the Inn at the Ford,” Killock supplied.

“Oh, Dani! We saw spirits!” Wyn exclaimed.

“Spirits?” Danielle asked as she glanced between Wyn and Killock, a puzzled smile twitching on the corner of her lips.

“Spirits of the forest, yeah? They came to fight the husks, and there were all kinds, even a sylph! Which is what you call a windy spirit, apparently. She used lightning to kill a wight, it was just about amazing! I wish you’d seen it.”

“Wyn, wait,” Danielle asked sharply, her smile vanished and replaced by a frown of concern. “What husks? Wights? What has happened?”

“I was just telling Sir Roland,” Killock explained. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good. We encountered a large force of husks and wights, heading southward. We managed to fight our way back to the Seann Rathad, where we met with General Boone.”

“And what does the general have to say about the Crunorix host?” asked Sir Roland. “Does he counsel us to change our strategy, or to stay the course?”

“Boone has a strategy we should discuss,” Killock replied.

“Then let us conclude our business here,” Reverend Nesta suggested. “The quicker, the better.”

The group moved from the steps and into the building, passing from bland stone baking in sunlight to drab wood lurking in gloom. The wide foyer through which they passed creaked beneath their feet as if the floorboards were fashioned from trees caught in a gale, and the ancient stairs were worn smooth by generations of feet.

“We are fortunate to be inside the city walls,” Sir Roland murmured to Sir Killock as they descended the steps into the bowels of the building. “If not for Lord Karsha’s aid and Lady Danielle’s skill, we would still be encamped in the fields, and Campbell’s army free to enter the city across the bridge when they arrive.”

“Were you absolutely amazing?” Wyn asked Danielle. Wyn’s heart ached with pride and her thoughts filled with the vision of a goddess clothed in flame as she unleashed her fire on writhing Shadow. “I wish I could have seen you.”

Danielle’s hand gripped Wyn’s hard enough to make her yelp, but the look of dismay on Danielle’s face stifled any complaint. Her skin had paled to grey, and her eyes were wide as she implored, “Please, stop.”

“What did I say?” Wyn asked, shocked. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, but, please, may we speak about it another time?”

Wyn nodded wordlessly, her throat tight as she gazed at the distress in Danielle’s eyes. What happened? Wyn wondered desperately. She looks so sad. Was it the fighting? But the terrible part is over, isn’t it? What could be bothering her so much?

“I’m sorry,” Wyn told Danielle, as earnestly as she could.

“You did nothing wrong.” Danielle sighed and glanced away. “I only wish it had ended that night.”

“What do you mean?”

“She means that justice has not yet reached its full due,” Sir Roland intoned. “Alroy awaits his fate. That is this morning’s task and is why you see such grim purpose gathered here.”

The stairs led them past storerooms into the dark recesses beneath the ground, where the ancient black rock of the hill had been carved into tunnels of raw stone, separated by heavy doors of iron-bound oak.

Soldiers stood guard outside one such door, and it opened with a shriek of rusted metal that made Wyn wince. Within the cell was a single figure, bound by iron manacles attached to the floor. His once-fine tunic and leggings were soiled with grime and blood, and he raised his head as the door opened, and Wyn saw one dark eye peer between lank, greasy strands of hair, glaring at each person as they entered the cell. When Danielle stepped through the doorway, he spat on the floor.

“Bitch,” he muttered. “I see who holds your leash.”

“How about I pop those manacles off,” Wyn snarled as she stepped toward him, “and we’ll see what happens if you call her that again.”

“It does not matter,” Danielle said quietly. Alroy snorted and tried to look away, but his gaze slithered back to hers as if drawn by a chain. “So much pain and death came from his mouth, I am numb to whatever prick his words might once have had.”

“Lady Danielle, let us hear the sentence and be done,” Reverend Nesta said sharply. “We are here to administer justice.”

“Yes.” Danielle’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Wyn flinched at the sadness she heard. “The Queen’s justice. And I speak for the Queen.”

Danielle straightened to her full height, and Wyn saw her jaw clench.

“The traitor, Alroy, shall be hanged for his crimes against the Crown,” Danielle pronounced. “By order of the Queen.”

“And may the Maker judge him mercifully,” Nesta added with a sad shake of her head.

Danielle strode from the cell and Wyn chased after her, leaving the others behind.

“Dani! Dani, wait!”

Wyn caught Danielle on the stairs and matched her speed, hurrying to keep up with Danielle’s long legs.

“He must hang for his crimes,” Danielle said without breaking her stride. “Is that not what a traitor deserves?”

“I suppose.” Wyn had a horror of executions. The laborious formality and the cold inevitability did nothing to conceal the murder at their heart, and she shuddered with revulsion. “He’ll be dead at the end, either way.”

“He will.”

Danielle led them from the building and into the city, turning aside from the castle gates toward the densely packed buildings on the southern slope of the hill.

“Dani, where are we going?”

“I wish to show you something,” Danielle replied, but she did not elaborate, and Wyn hurried after her, fretting in silence as she searched for some comfort she might give, some word she might say, that could soothe away the pain she heard in Danielle’s voice.

The smell of smoke thickened as they walked, and the street’s flagstones softened under a layer of ash, as if a sickly winter had entombed them. The sun dimmed behind a pale haze, and Wyn coughed and spat, but could not clear the harsh air from her throat. Pale figures stumbled past them, hoods drawn low and scarfs wrapped over their mouths. Some dragged carts filled with loose bricks or broken stone, while others clutched precious belongings to their chests, a framed portrait, a torn quilt, a lute.

Danielle’s steps took them onto a street that passed beneath the castle wall, where the buildings had grown tall and thin in their quest for the sun. Here, Wyn saw charred stone and blistered wood, gnawed and shattered, and then whole buildings consumed, their blackened ribs twisted and broken.

Then her eyes widened in shock. Ahead lay a swath of devastation in which no building had survived, no structure remained, a sea of debris where narrow streets had wound between homes and shops and plazas. Smoke still guttered from countless smoldering fires, so thick that the jagged skeletons of the buildings on the far side of the wreckage were pale and indistinct. At the bottom of the slope, huge chunks of stone were lodged among the rubble, massive slabs that had ploughed wide furrows through the buildings beneath their fall until they had at last come to rest against the thick bastions of the second wall.

“What happened?” Wyn asked.

“There stood the tower of Newbridge Castle,” Danielle replied, and she pointed upward.

Wyn followed her finger to the hulking mass of the huge keep that loomed over them. An enormous fissure ran through the wall above her, a long scar that drove deep into the thick stone and reached the very peak of the battlements, where a gaping wound still smoldered.

“And this is where it fell,” Danielle concluded softly, her hand tracing the shape of the ruined city, then falling limply at her side.

“Maker’s breath…” Wyn’s voice trailed away as she stared at the tower’s still-smoking stump, the blackened fingers of its shattered masonry clawing at the sky. She could not conceive the blow that could sunder the massive blocks of stone, nor imagine the terrible transformation of the proud structure into heaped ruin. “You did that?”

“I wish I had not… I wish it had not come to this.”

Wyn nodded, uncertain what to say. She could not bear to think of the misery buried beneath the destruction surrounding her. The scale was too vast to compare to any violence one person might inflict on another. What should I feel? she wondered. Sorrow, yes, but though her tears were for the bent figures picking through the ruins, her heart ached for the pain that the woman next to her was suffering.

A group of laborers trudged past in grim silence, but as they did, one glanced at Danielle, and he gasped and his face turned pale, and he knocked aside a young girl in his haste to escape.

“Clumsy bastard,” Wyn huffed reproachfully, and she knelt at the girl’s side. “Are you all right, luv?”

But the girl’s eyes were wide with fear as she stared past Wyn’s shoulder, and she scrambled to her feet and fled without a word.

“She’s fine,” Wyn offered lamely as she brushed her hands off.

“She is terrified,” Danielle replied quietly as she gazed after the girl. “And she has every right to be.”

Say something, Wyn pleaded with herself, but her tongue seemed paralyzed by the anguish on Danielle’s face. Tell her she’s wonderful, tell her she’s not the person that girl thinks she is, Wyn urged desperately, but when her lips at last moved, they offered only a pathetic, “No.”

Danielle dismissed the denial with a quick shake of her head. “She does. I destroyed half of her city.”

“You didn’t ask for a battle, this is on Alroy,” Wyn corrected her, indignation finally breaking her mouth’s shackles. “They’ll come to realize you’d never do them harm.”

Danielle considered that in silence, her brows pinched as if she were in pain, and she wiped at the corner of her eye with her knuckle and drew in a deep breath. “I do not… Wyn, I could have… You say I would never do that girl harm, but there were people in the homes beneath the tower, and… Maker help me, Wyn, I…”

“Dani…” Wyn took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “You didn’t have a choice, it sounds like. Alroy didn’t give you one, not unless you wanted to let him kill you and everyone else as well. You had to. That doesn’t mean you don’t care, or that you’re a horrible person.”

“I wish that you are right,” Danielle whispered. “I wish it with all my heart.”

The Source

The odor of ash and smoke clung to Danielle. Its cold recrimination lurked in her clothing, in her hair, and on her skin, stirred by every movement. The stench lasted well beyond the limits of exhaustion, when Wyn was at last able to lead her away from the field of ruin beneath Newbridge Castle, and it accompanied them as they trudged back to the gates of that grim edifice.

The tears, at least, had stopped, though they had left their mark in long tracks through the grime on her cheeks and in the red rims of her burning eyes, their fiery sorrow replaced by a numb grief as grey as the ash.

“A bit of a drink wouldn’t be wasted right now,” Wyn said as she eyed the keep. “I don’t suppose you’ve found an inn with a decent tavern and a room?”

“No, I have been given rooms in the castle,” Danielle explained. “Though I wish I had kept my tent in the encampment. There, the scent was of grass, not… this.”

“Well, I’ve had enough of grass, I’ll not lie. And bushes and trees,” Wyn replied. “Will I find us a bottle, yeah?”

“A drink sounds perfect.” Danielle sighed wearily and tried to wipe the exhaustion from her eyes. “But perhaps first a hot bath.”

Danielle repaired her braid as they navigated the cramped passageways of the keep, restoring some order to her tresses. Though there is little chance I do not look as shattered as I feel, she decided glumly.

“What is this message you and Killock brought from General Boone?” Danielle asked. “What is Killock discussing with Sir Roland?”

“The general wants to fight the Crunorix,” Wyn replied. “He’s sending his whole army westward, everything he’s got.”

“There is no choice, I suppose,” Danielle said grimly. “And what does he suggest for the Temple army, and those soldiers who follow Baron Arledge?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to know this part. The general put a pretty seal on his letter, but I took a peek first chance I had. You’ll promise to act surprised when you hear?”

“I promise. What was the message?”

“He doesn’t think it’s a very good idea to try to fight two wars at once and, fair play to him, he says the Crunorix are the ones to worry about. So, he’s told Karsha to tell the Queen to kiss and make up with Campbell, get him to help with the proper fight.”

“What?” Danielle’s step faltered and she stared at Wyn in shock. “No!”

“Oh, yeah, he was clear. Get it done, though he didn’t say it like that, of course.”

“But, Gabrielle cannot forgive Campbell his crimes.” Danielle felt the words rush out, fast enough that they stumbled awkwardly from her tongue.

“I know,” Wyn consoled her.

“Campbell is a traitor. He murdered loyal soldiers. Just this morning, I condemned a man to death for the same crime, how can there be clemency for that?”

“I know it’ll be hard. But honestly, Dani, how is the general wrong?”

Danielle found she could not answer that question. The cold fist of dread that had clenched beneath her ribs when she had heard the tale of the Crunorix’s return had not released its grip, but that disquiet did not lessen the bitterness that still choked her when she thought of Duke Campbell striking her sister, of him tearing the realm apart to feed his pride. I am too weary to know what is right and what is wrong, Danielle decided. Perhaps the right path will be obvious when I can think beyond the next step.

Danielle closed her eyes dejectedly. “All that I can say for certain is that the thought galls me beyond bearing.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s easy to say what’s right when you’re not the one who has to eat shit to do it. Not a chance I’d pucker up to that bastard, no matter how many generals told me I had to.”

“Yes, you would,” Danielle told her. “You would do so without thought, as yours is the most compassionate heart I have ever known.”

Wyn blushed pink between her freckles and gave Danielle a bashful grin. “You say the nicest things,” she mumbled.

Danielle had taken a suite of rooms in one of the towers on the eastern side of the castle, furnished with dark, overwrought furniture and faded rugs and tapestries. Like the rest of the keep, Danielle’s rooms were walled with thick, rough-cut stone, and the ceiling was heavy with beams so bowed they presented real danger to unwary residents.

But the windows overlooked the hills to the east of the town, a sweeping view that soared across orderly squares of fields and ridge after ridge of dark forest that turned from green to grey as they receded into hazy distance. And the rooms received the full glory of the sunrise and kept the night’s cool as the sun passed noon and began to bake the western precincts of the city. The Albainn sun had none of the heat it possessed in Lavandou, but Danielle rejoiced in the abeyance of the eternal, aching cold of frozen toes and wind-whipped tears trickling across numb cheeks. During the day, the balcony doors could be thrown open to allow the heavy drapes to stir in the warm breezes, although she still insisted on a fire at night to ward against what she judged was an almost certain death by freezing, despite everyone insisting that it was summer.

“Oooo,” Wyn gasped as she gazed around the apartment. “There’s so many rooms! And look at all the rugs!” She peered into the bed chamber and squeaked in delight. “You have your own bath! Remember your bath in Bandirma? A whole room! But this is nice, too.”

Wyn hurried to the balcony and leaned perilously over the railing. “That’s a view, ain’t it?”

“It is,” Danielle agreed. Wyn’s happy smile was infectious, and Danielle returned it as she felt the twisted knot in her stomach begin to loosen. “It is better now that you are here.”

Wyn relaxed against the railing and squinted as she traced the high steeples and parapets of the keep against the bright blue sky. A gust of wind swirled through the crenelations and played havoc with her hair, waving long strands like pennants, but she seemed not to notice.

“What do you see?” Danielle asked

“Hmmm? Oh, nothing,” Wyn replied. “Do these doors lock?”

“I do not know,” Danielle replied, puzzled.

“No one ever locks balcony doors,” Wyn muttered as she shook her head, bewildered.

A knock summoned them inside, and the door opened to reveal Sir Eilidh in command of a dozen stevedores laden with chests.

“These are the last of them, my lady,” Eilidh reported, “and I’ve had the tent packed away.”

“Thank you, Sir Eilidh,” Danielle replied, and her fingers twined anxiously as she watched the loads shift and tilt in the porters’ hands.

But the chests were deposited without incident, although they claimed a significant portion of the remaining space in the room, and Eilidh ushered the servants out with promises that she should never consider any other crew when it was time to depart.

“What is all this stuff?” Wyn asked, peering curiously at the small mountain of chests.

“Clothes, for the most part,” Danielle replied.

“What? Where did you get it all? We didn’t have a change of knickers between us when we left Bandirma.”

“I bought a few dresses,” Danielle explained.

“A few dresses?” Wyn repeated skeptically. “A few?”

“Yes, a few,” Danielle said firmly. “There are books and my Devices, as well. And some clothes I had made for you.”

“For me? What’s wrong with my clothes?” Wyn asked.

“You’ve still got the breastplate and guards, I noticed,” Eilidh said approvingly. “Didn’t I tell you you’d get used to them? Looks like you had some close work, I see.”

“Yeah, ’course I’ve got them,” Wyn replied quickly. “Really good, they were. Would never think of chucking them.”

“Maker, is that cut from a blade?” Danielle asked as she peered closer. “Are those all from blades?”

“Oh, err, this one is,” Wyn replied, as her fingers explored the patchwork of nicks and cuts that scarred the leather. “And maybe this one? Oh, that one there was from this one wanker with a scythe.”

“Husks?” Eilidh asked curiously. “Do they all have weapons?”

“Oh, no, just some, the ones that find blades to pick up, I suppose. Others just try to grab you.” She curled her fingers into claws to pantomime the attack, then shrugged. “It’s creepy as fuck, but I prefer them to the ones with proper weapons.”

“And… what is that?” Danielle asked, pointing at a spatter of dark stains across Wyn’s front.

“Oh… um, that’s blood.”

“Do husks bleed?” Eilidh asked.

“No. That was from Sir William.” Wyn’s lips twisted into a grimace. “We had a disagreement, but it’s all sorted, now.”

“I am happy to hear it,” Danielle said. “However, your clothing has not survived as well as you, I believe.”

“Well, there’s a few nicks, I will admit.”

“Better in your armor than in you,” Eilidh said with satisfaction. “Speaking of which, your ladyship, if you can spare me, I need to see about the armor that Reverend Nesta brought for you.”

Once the knight had departed, chambermaids were summoned to unpack the chests and to fill the tub with steaming water scented with petals, until the room was filled with their sweet scent.

“Now, let us bathe, and then I will braid your hair,” Danielle announced.

“Braiding, too?” Wyn moaned. She grumbled through unfastening her vest, and muttered as she shimmied free from her tunic, and winced when Danielle gasped in horror at the mottled, purple skin that covered her slender ribs and narrow waist.

“What happened? You poor thing…” Danielle traced the outline of the swollen flesh with her fingertip.

“Oh! Cold!” Wyn squeaked, and she twisted away, clutching one arm against her side to conceal a tiny part of the livid bruise. “It’s nothing, just had a bit of a bash.”

“It is not nothing,” Danielle insisted. “Let me see. Wyn, let me see.”

Wyn hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms, but submitted sulkily to the examination, though Danielle made her wait while she donned a Diviner in the shape of a circlet and quickly fashioned its Word, granting her access to the memories and skills of generations of healers.

“Does this not hurt?” Danielle asked as she gently tested the ribs beneath the contusion.

“It really does.”

“When?”

“Pretty much always.”

“When you breathe?”

“Yeah, then too.”

Danielle’s fingers traced the edge of the abused flesh across Wyn’s stomach to her waist, where she probed for any damage to the delicate organs beneath the lean layer of muscle.

“Tickles,” Wyn complained. “Have you given it a name?”

“Have I given what a name?” Danielle asked distractedly.

“Your tiara. You promised you would think of names for your Devices, so they don’t sound so boring.”

“It is not a tiara. There are no jewels.”

“But does it have a name? ’Cause I came up with some, if you need them.”

“I have thought of one for it,” Diana admitted. “I do not know if it sounds ludicrous.”

“Go on.”

“I think its name is Mercy,” Danielle said.

Wyn nodded thoughtfully. “I like it,” she declared after a moment. “Sounds proper, but not poncy. Not as poncy, anyway.”

“The precise effect I was hoping for,” Danielle replied absently. “Have you seen blood when you cough?”

“No, no coughing. Hurts too much. What about the rest of them?”

“The rest of what?”

“Your Devices, silly. Ow, don’t poke there.”

“Here?” Danielle asked.

“Ouch! Yes, exactly, right there. Don’t.”

“And here?”

“Ow. There, too. Listen, when do you start helping?”

“I think you have cracked many ribs.”

“Ah. What do you do about that, then?”

“Wrap them tightly to help the pain and aid the healing, but there is not much more to be done. I wish you had done so earlier.”

“Well, I didn’t know, did I?”

“Did not Sir Killock tell you?”

“He doesn’t really know that I was hurt this bad,” Wyn admitted.

“Wyn!”

“I know, I’m stupid. I was just embarrassed.”

“How did it happen?”

“Um. You won’t like it, and you’ll shout at me.”

“I will not.”

“There was this wight—”

“Wyn!”

“See? Shouting. Anyway, it were a bit of a sneaky bastard, and it got me. But all’s well, now, right?”

“You poor thing…” Danielle sighed.

They then took their turns in the tiny tub, and Danielle sponged Wyn until her skin turned from dirt and ash to pink and her hair from snarled straw to silk. And though Danielle’s touch lingered as the sponge glided across her skin, the chambermaids’ presence ensured that the baths were finished before the water could cool.

And afterwards, they donned their nightclothes, though the sun had hardly set, and despite Wyn’s bitter complaints regarding the lace on the dress Danielle had brought for her. Then Danielle settled behind Wyn to tame her tresses and sighed with contentment as she breathed in Wyn’s scent. Wyn’s warmth caressed her legs and Wyn’s back pressed against her chest with each gentle breath, and Danielle became lost in happiness as her fingers slipped through Wyn’s hair, dividing and holding and tucking in a steady rhythm, as her locks brightened from flax to sunshine.

“Mmmm, I like this,” Wyn murmured. “Remind me why I went to the forest?”

“Because of the conclaves.”

“Oh, yeah,” Wyn agreed drowsily. “Horrible old conclaves. Tell me the names for your other knickknacks.”

“Deciding my guide’s name was a simple task. I called it Pathweaver.”

“That’s better than Eggsplorer, I’ll give you that.”

Danielle tried to smother a laugh. “This is your suggestion?”

“Yeah, I thought, it looks like an egg… and that was it, really. Look, I said yours was better.”

“No, I like Eggsplorer, I am quite persuaded.”

“Come on then, Giggles, what did you come up with for your lance? Nothing better than Last Laugh, I’ll wager.”

“I have named it Aurêve,” Danielle replied quietly.

“Oh, I like it when you talk foreign,” Wyn murmured, her voice hardly more than breath. “What does it mean?”

“It is the name we give to the first light of the sun, cireaux aurêve, whose spears blind with radiant beauty. I do not know if there is a name for this in the north?”

“If there is, I don’t know it. I wish there was.”

“I now wonder if it is too gentle a name,” Danielle admitted.

“No, it suits it,” Wyn said firmly. “And it suits you. Beautiful and bright, but also scary.”

“Is this how you think of me, that I scare you?”

“At first, of course, a bit, but, you know, very exciting. After what you did at Nóinín Cnoc, I was just, well, phew! And then you talked to me, which I was only gobsmacked, that’s all. And now, well…” Wyn sighed rapturously, then pressed deliciously closer. “Awesome, that’s what I think of you.”

“That is amazing,” Danielle said softly. “For that is what I think of you.”

“How long will those two hang about?” Wyn asked quietly, and she rolled her eyes toward the door to the apartment’s drawing room, where they could hear the two chambermaids busy unpacking Danielle’s belongings.

“Not long, unless we need them. We could send for food, if you are hungry.”

“No, no, I don’t need food.” Danielle felt Wyn’s fingers curl around her calf beneath her dress. “I just need you.”

“But you have travelled so far. You must be weary. Perhaps too weary?” Danielle murmured in Wyn’s ear.

“A long ride, that’s true. And the whole time, all I could think of was what I’m going to do to you as soon as we’re alone.”

“You must be patient, and await your turn,” Danielle replied. “I have also longed for you.”

“You can’t expect me to be patient,” Wyn objected. “Not with sponging and so on, be fair.”

“Can I not?” Danielle asked teasingly. “We shall see.”

The noise of unpacking continued unabated, and Danielle began to curse the many dresses she had so recently thought so necessary. Her thoughts wandered as she waited, to realms of intimacy at first, but also to visions of more simple satisfactions, the pleasure of feeling Wyn’s warmth against her, of listening to her chatter, of hearing her gentle breath at night. Perhaps her presence will drive away the dreams that have plagued me, Danielle wondered hopefully.

The thought of her recurring dreams sent her mind chasing visions of Shadow and Flame, drowning other imaginings like an insidious tide. I must tell her, Danielle decided. She will know soon enough that my sleep is disturbed, and I wish to know her thoughts.

“I have been having dreams, the same dream, almost every night. Since I—” Danielle hesitated, unwilling to bluntly tie the dreams to the moment she had been rejoined with the Blade, and instead finished, “—since I came to Newbridge.”

“I had a dream, too, and I couldn’t find my clothes and we were going to see the Queen.” Wyn yawned and snuggled closer. “I didn’t like it.”

“Karsha told me that all dreams are messages from the spirits.”

“He’s so strange,” Wyn murmured. “If the spirits are telling me to find some knickers, I can do that.”

“They may be telling you that you are not ready to face some task you dread.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” Wyn replied. “I hardly ever have the same dream. What’s your dream about?”

“I suppose it is about a woman.”

“Oh, what? I’m jealous, her getting to be with you every night, and me sleeping under a bush. Is she absolutely gorgeous? Who is she?”

She is a goddess. Danielle could not utter the words aloud, where they could not be retracted. She felt ridiculous even thinking them, now, with Wyn snuggled against her, still flushed from the heat of the bath. It is absurd, she reasoned. Far more likely she simply embodies the strain that occupies my every thought, and the fear that lurks behind those thoughts.

“I wonder if she is my fate. My duty. The part of me that must take up the Blade and fight against the Shadow, and Campbell, and lead armies.” Danielle entwined her fingers with Wyn’s and pulled her hand close.

“Why is that?”

“I suppose because she is fire, and light, and burns away the darkness. She tells me to free her, as if I am holding her back, and there is some truth to that. I know I must do these things, but I feel each duty is a burden I would gladly set aside.”

“You do everything they ask you,” Wyn said indignantly.

“Mamá would disagree,” Danielle added softly, forcing the words to whisper past her lips.

Wyn’s fingers squeezed comfort into her own. “I’m sorry.”

“I wish I could see her. I wish I could speak with her. But Mamá would tell me that I must do my duty, that I must take up the Blade, as I was trained to do. As she would have done, if the task had fallen to her, or to her mother, or to hers before.” Danielle laughed softly. “Mamá never tired of obligation, of responsibility.”

“So, this woman’s you, or your duty, telling you what your mum would want you to do?”

Danielle wanted that to be true. Far easier to dismiss the dream as a prosaic concern than to delve deeper, but twisted coils of unease stirred in her stomach as she tried to declare the matter settled. Why do I conceal my fears? she wondered. If I am a fool, we will laugh together and be done with it.

“I am concerned,” she admitted. “The dreams are so vivid, her voice, calling to me. I think… you will think me a lunatic, but I think she spoke to me.”

“In your dream?” Wyn asked. “Or do you mean you’ve met her?”

“No. I have heard her voice in my thoughts, as if it were my voice.”

She felt Wyn’s breath catch and knew the relief of knowing she could not turn back. Wyn twisted so that she could gaze into Danielle’s eyes, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

“She talked to you? You mean you can hear her thoughts?”

“I am not certain,” Danielle said hesitantly. “I hear them as if they were my own thoughts, certainly, yet also if some other voice had spoken the same words.”

“Another voice?”

“No, not a voice,” Danielle corrected herself. She felt foolish describing her unease, and Wyn’s puzzled expression did nothing to relieve her. “An echo of my thoughts. I do not know.”

“Or your thoughts are an echo of her voice,” Wyn muttered. “The woman you dreamed about.”

“What? I… I do not think so,” Danielle replied uneasily. I would know if my thoughts were foreign to me, she reassured herself, but the sense of cold dread would not recede.

“Maker, Dani, I don’t know. You start dreaming about a woman speaking to you, and then you start hearing voices, they must be the same thing.”

“I am not hearing voices,” Danielle insisted. “I do not know how to explain. My thoughts sound like her voice, or perhaps an echo of her. I sound absurd, I know.”

“All the time?” Wyn asked. She shifted so that she could face Danielle fully, her arms hugged around her knees “Even now?”

“Not all. Only once, when I held the Blade.” Danielle swallowed the urge to stop with that admission, and managed, “Perhaps twice.”

“When was the other time?”

“In the Mountain. When I picked up the Blade, I thought I heard… I am uncertain.”

“Ohhh,” Wyn groaned. “Oh, Dani, that’s no good. Maybe Shitebrooke did something to the Blade.”

“Did something?” Danielle asked. “Like what?”

“Made it evil. Some horrible Crunorix spell, could be.”

“I do not think the Blade is corrupted. If its Word had been altered, I would know, and the Blade itself is unchanged.” Danielle paused for a moment, hesitant to say more, when she regretted what had already been said. I cannot be any more embarrassed, so what better time? “Do you recall the story that Karsha Hali told us, when we were in the cave under the Mountain?”

“The one where Shitebrooke was killed so horribly that there was nothing left? I’m still miffed that I didn’t at least get to watch.”

“I meant the story he told about Danu.”

“Parts?” Wyn replied cautiously. “It was all so confusing. Are you saying… what are you saying?”

“I am not certain,” Danielle replied, frustrated that she could not find words to describe the conviction that defied her every attempt to banish with reason. “He spoke of a goddess who was bound into the Blade, and I wondered, might that be true? Karsha names many gods and goddesses, but most often I feel he is speaking of the wind or a river. The woman in my dream was no woodland spirit. Karsha said the spirits of the mountain named her the Song of Flame. The woman from my dream could be named so. I know it sounds foolish, but…”

“Maker, she’s in the Blade. That must be it, right?”

“It sounds so fanciful. Yet, when I touched the Blade, I heard her voice, the voice from my dream, as clearly as if she stood next to me, asking me to free her, and I almost spoke its Word, without meaning to. It frightened me.”

“Is that why you weren’t wearing it today?” Wyn asked.

“Perhaps. It is simple to find excuses,” Danielle admitted.

“Well, whoever she is, you can’t use the Blade.” Wyn’s eyes were wide with concern, her brows arched, and her knuckles had turned white with the strain of her grip.

“I have not.”

“I mean you can’t, not again.”

“Wyn, I understand. But there will come a time when I must use it, when I have no choice, and what shall I do then? Bow to the magi and say, ‘I am afraid of a dream’?”

“I’ve got no bloody idea, but you can’t let her into your thoughts. Dani, you can’t! We need to lock the Blade away, someplace she can’t get to you.”

The Blade was locked away, as securely as it could be, yet she touched my dreams half the realm away, Danielle thought, but she could not bear to utter the words, not when the fear and concern in Wyn’s gaze tore so painfully at Danielle’s heart. Instead, she took Wyn’s hands in her own, prying them loose, and held them tight. She could feel the trembling that Wyn could not hold at bay, her small fingers shaking as if numb in a winter gale.

“I am frightened, too,” Danielle said softly. “I would gladly hide from what might be. But I see also hope. If the story that Karsha told is true, why should we fear her? The Blade was crafted from her and was used to kill the Nameless King. I wonder, perhaps we should help her?”

“You’re insane,” Wyn whispered. “Don’t even think about letting her out.”

“Why do we fear her?” Danielle asked. She realized she could not answer that question, could not discern the source of her concern, only that she knew she had awakened from every dream, her skin clammy, her breath short with dread.

Wyn had no such hesitation. “Because she’s sneaking into your mind.”

“What choice does she have?” Danielle wondered.

“All right, then because of what Karsha said in his story. She didn’t want to be made into a sword, she cried so much it made that pond in the cave, right? And she doesn’t want to be in there now, either, asking to be freed, and such.”

“None of that was done by us.”

Now it was Wyn’s turn to grip Danielle’s hands tightly. “Listen, Killock told me about this war, right, when folks tried to get away from the elvhes.”

“The Free People,” Danielle replied. “I have heard their story.”

“I guess, but look, those people did the same bloody thing,” Wyn continued. “They forced their gods to fight when they didn’t want to, only difference was they used stones, not swords. But that’s not the point, the point is that those people forced the spirits to fight. That’s horrible, it’s slavery, is what it is.”

“Does that not mean we should free her?”

“No! Because of course she’ll be bloody angry. Killock said those spirits still have a grudge against us, all of us, all people, and that was from absolute ages ago. That cave was in God’s cellar, Dani. How is she going to feel about the folks who kept her there all this time?”

“The spirits came to help you and Killock.”

“I think they pretty much came to help him. He said you have to talk to them a special way, like praying.”

“Perhaps that is the answer.”

“I dunno. If Danu is the same as those spirits. If it’s Danu.” Wyn took a deep breath and sagged onto her haunches. “What are we going to do?”

“I wish I knew,” Danielle said quietly. “I had hoped you would tell me that I am being foolish, that it is just a dream.”

Wyn shook her head. “I’d not trust in that idea. Have you given it a proper look with your bits and bobs? Remember how you did at Nóinín Cnoc, when you had a peek at that horrible ritual?”

“I did, but perhaps I was not searching for the right thing. I was concerned that the Word had been altered, or that Whitebrooke had placed a trap of some kind on it.”

“Please, Dani. You had Wards and Diviners and everything, all ready, just in case, and it was a good thing you did, too. That’s all I’m saying. Be certain it’s safe. Please.”

“I will, I promise.” Danielle tucked a braid of blonde hair behind Wyn’s shoulder, and then traced the smooth curve of Wyn’s cheek with her fingertips. “As soon as I have time.”

“Why not now?” Wyn asked.

“I had hoped we might enjoy the evening together,” Danielle said, as casually as she could, but her voice must have hinted at her longing, for Wyn returned her glance with a mischievous grin.

“Maker, yes, but can we please do this first? I’ll not be able to think of anything else but that she’s sneaking around in your thoughts until we do, and I’m not that keen on sharing you with her.”

Danielle retrieved a thin length of shining metal held in a small loop by a simple clasp. Half a year had passed since Danielle had last used that Diviner, since Wyn had watched her examine the remains of the fuil crunor ritual in the ruins of Nóinín Cnoc. Danielle smiled at the comforting vision of Wyn’s careful touch and eager grin as she had explored Danielle’s Devices that day, and she wondered that the memory was so clear despite the distance they had travelled since.

They placed a blanket on the floor beside the ancient xexak chest that contained the Martyr’s Blade, and Danielle knelt on the blanket as she shaped the chest’s Word. Wards and Veils withdrew from their interlocking web at her command, and she felt the brush of flame concealed within the chest stir as she raised the lid.

Who are you? she wondered as she stared at the shining steel nestled in the chest’s silk cushions. She had asked that question so often and had shied from answering for so long, that even now she hesitated, unwilling to risk discovering a foul reply. Yet the gleaming thread of her Diviner called to her, and her hand darted forward and grasped it before she could reconsider. Her Word flowed easily into the loop, the bindings aligned, and power filled the metal as the circle widened, until it encompassed the width of the chest. Then she raised her head and gazed through the loop at the Blade.

The Diviner revealed fire seething within the chest, bright flame that writhed and coiled and yet could not erupt, like the blaze within a furnace. But there were fissures in the chest’s protective shell, and eager wisps burst forth, sizzling sparks that leapt away in brief paroxysms of freedom, and Danielle heard her name whispered as they brushed against her.

Danielle…

Danielle carefully touched the flame with her fingertips. It curled around her and danced on her skin with eager hunger, and Danielle fought the instinct to snatch her hand away from its caress.

Who are you? Danielle reached deeper, following the torrent of fire toward its source. Flame hurled itself against her fingers like a blustering gale, wreathed her arm, and curled around her shoulders. Her skin burned beneath its touch, as if fiery needles pricked her, but she ignored the pain and focused deeper.

The fire engulfed her. It licked across her cheeks and coiled around her waist, biting at her skin. But at its heart she felt a sharper heat, like a boiling coal, the source of the inferno.

Her fingertip brushed against the source, a touch as tentative as a feather’s, yet Danielle’s hand was suddenly gripped by fingers as strong as steel, and she was dragged forward. A vast abyss gaped around her, limitless in its cold emptiness. Yet the fire rushed to fill it, and for the first time Danielle realized the immensity of the flame, a vortex that stretched across the void like a great tree, so vast that its branches covered the sky and its roots enveloped the world. Embers whirled from the dancing branches in swarms that surrounded the tree in a cloud of stars and the darkness retreated further, and more torrents of fire blazed forth and spread wildly, until it filled the abyss with light and heat and form.

Its terrible beauty overwhelmed Danielle. Flame and Shadow writhed to eternity, endless hunger as each devoured the other. And within her, Danielle felt a terrible ache, as of a need long denied, to be filled with that infinite chaos, as a drowning person desires breath, an urge so primal that her every instinct screamed to give in.

Take my hand… the infinite whispered to her, and Danielle reached for her gladly. Her fingers slid into the woman’s waiting hand and curled around it, and she felt the woman’s strength settle into her grasp with the weight of steel.

Free me…

The woman’s flame rushed along her arm in a terrifying blaze of rapture and Danielle knew she would say yes, would beg to acquiesce in another instant if she did not flee. She ripped her Word apart, flung herself away from the vision, and sprawled across the floor of the chamber, the shining candlelight muted in the echoes of the flame.

“Dani!” Wyn cried, and she was at Danielle’s side in an instant, her hands a flurry of concern as she wiped hair from Danielle’s face.

“Maker,” Danielle gasped. She slowly gathered her limbs beneath her and pushed herself up with trembling arms, then clutched at Wyn. Her Diviner lay on the ground, its Word extinguished, and a thin haze of smoke drifted in the air above the chest. Danielle summoned her courage and peered over the lip, but the Blade lay innocuously in its cradle, giving no hint of the measureless Flame within its steel shell.

“Dani, what happened? Are you all right?” Wyn asked anxiously as she peered into Danielle’s eyes.

Danielle drew a shuddering breath that became a sob. Tears brimmed from her eyes and ran unchecked down her cheeks as the terror of her vision fractured the last of her courage, and a great swell of despair choked her, so that her breath tore at her throat.

Wyn crawled to her side and wrapped her arms around Danielle, and Danielle sagged against her wiry strength and sobbed until she exhausted her fear and weary numbness enveloped her. She sniffed helplessly and tried to pull away, but Wyn clung to her and would not let her go.

“I will be all right,” Danielle whispered. “I am just…” Her voice failed as she searched uselessly for a word that might encompass the hopeless dread that loomed behind each thought, each breath. “I am just tired,” she finished lamely.

“I know,” Wyn said softly. “What did you find?”

What did I find? Danielle frowned as she considered the question. “There is a presence there, a power that is so similar to the Blade’s that they are almost indistinguishable, yet the Blade is like a torch held next to the sun. The Blade’s bindings can control it, but only as a bridle guides a stallion’s strength.”

Wyn curled her legs against her chest and wrapped her knees in her arms. “Is it alive? Is it Danu?”

“I do not know. She craves, she desires, she thinks… but alive? What she showed me was primal, beyond mortal, perhaps beyond even the spirits.”

“What does she desire?”

Danielle gazed past her hands into the infinite abyss and saw once more the endless torrent of Flame blazing against the darkness.

“She wants to burn away the Shadow, more than anything,” Danielle said quietly, “with fire enough to consume the infinite. Wyn, what shall I do? I—” I want to free her, I want that terrible fire to burn everything away, to feel the ecstasy of its heat, just for a moment. “I am terrified of what I have seen. The power I saw cannot be controlled, yet the magi are coming, and I must confront them.” Danielle shivered as blood-red eyes gazed at her from a cowl of black iron. “I cannot fail, I cannot let people die, like… like Bradon… I cannot…”

Wyn cradled Danielle’s head, her heartbeat strong against Danielle’s ear, her arms curled around Danielle’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure a way.”

“What other way?”

“I don’t know!” Wyn said helplessly. “Something, anything. They did it before, ages ago.”

“With the Blade,” Danielle pointed out. “And the elvhen king. We have only me, and I do not know what to do.”

“I’d take you over that old fuddy,” Wyn mumbled. “Got his arse handed to him, didn’t he? Had to have a wee girl save him, the useless git.”

“Even if he was a… a git, he was an elvhen git.” Danielle sighed. “I am not.”

“I know, but I didn’t even mean Ruric and the Martyr. That was a thousand years ago, and they’ve kept old Nameless locked up since then. Those folks that Killock met, the Gravewardens, or whatever. They know what to do. And God, he knew.”

“It was God who sent me to retrieve the Blade.”

“Well, but he knew lots of stuff.”

“God is gone, and whatever the Gravewardens know, that knowledge lives with them on the far side of the High Fells.”

“My point is, there’s loads of things we don’t know, and there are people who know a lot more than us, who know ways of fighting Nameless and his magi, and we should try those things instead.”

“How?”

“Maker, don’t ask me. I’m not a fancy chancellor, or whatever. Just, we will. I promise.”

“I believe you.” Danielle lay quietly so that she could listen to Wyn’s heartbeat, strong and steady, and feel the gentle caress of her breath against Danielle’s hair.

“I’ll tell you someone who might know more,” Wyn murmured. “Karsha Hali. He told us that story, and looks like it was right. Makes me wonder what he didn’t tell us.”

“You do not trust him?”

“Maker, no. He’s a sneaky bastard, no way he would tell us straight if he didn’t have to.”

“I think I do trust him.” Danielle was not certain when that had changed. Sometime during the long days of travelling together, confronting first the Guild and then Sir Alroy. “These last weeks, working at his side, have convinced me that I have been too harsh in my judgement of him.”

“Huh,” Wyn grunted. “That just means he’s had a few weeks to twist you. Once Karsha knows, he’ll not let you off the hook. He’ll twist you around until he gets what he wants.”

“He is remarkably cunning.”

“Cunning folk are a pain in the tits,” Wyn grumbled.

“I am not certain where else to begin.” Danielle suddenly felt too tired to think, as if a thick morass had congealed within her mind, warm and cloying.

“We can figure it out,” Wyn replied, her voice drifting across a vast distance.

Danielle let her eyes close and gave in to the heavy warmth pressing against her eyelids. “Yes… Yes, let us do that,” she managed to say, before she slid away from Wyn’s embrace and drifted into a realm of darkness and flame.

Dreams

Gabrielle stalked through the ruined manor, lost in thought as she searched for a miraculous plan that would do away with the need to negotiate with Campbell, until the distant sound of metal clashing against metal drew her sharply back. Her heart raced as she hurried toward the noise, but her step soon slowed as she approached the manor’s courtyard and recognized the voices calling out, not in anger but in simple contest. 

The courtyard echoed as two figures crossed blades, steel flashing in the morning sun. They danced back and forth across the uneven paving stones and past the cracked fountain, until one of the figures was driven against the wall, where she was pinned by an expert lunge.

“Touch!” the victor cried, and the defeated nodded her head wearily and let her sword drop.

“Blast…” Rowenna panted. She slumped against the fountain’s base and tried to find her breath. “I’m afraid I am quite skewered.”

Lady Aithne smiled in response, seemingly unwearied by the task of slaying Rowenna. She tidied a curl of fiery red hair back into place, the sum total of disarray that Rowenna had inflicted on her.

“You did well,” Aithne consoled her. “Your point stayed up, your feet moved well. But still, you hesitate in your attacks. You must press when you have the chance.”

“It’s difficult to attack when you are desperate,” Rowenna complained.

“Do not despair,” Gabrielle interrupted. “Aithne has never yielded a touch to me, no matter that I beg her for mercy.”

“Your Majesty,” Rowenna replied, and she curtsied alongside Lady Aithne as Gabrielle approached.

“She is vicious,” Gabrielle continued as she urged the two women to their feet. “Like a scorpion.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aithne agreed, apparently pleased by the comparison.

“Although, I think perhaps a scorpion has more mercy. It kills its victim only once.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Aithne asked innocently.

Rowenna mopped her brow with a handkerchief, then exchanged her practice blade for Fury and fastened the Weapon at her hip. Gabrielle’s gaze went to Fury’s elegant hilt and she frowned in puzzlement.

“But I do not understand. I have seen you fight. With that blade in your hand, you are magnificent. Why inflict such misery on yourself, when there is no need?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, it’s true that Fury could best any champion, but it takes its toll. When I first wielded it, I was flung off my feet and was forced to fight while sitting on my bottom, which was not as dignified as it sounds. And afterward, I could not bear to lift my arm for a week. No, much as I might wish otherwise, training myself is essential, though I do loathe it, which likely explains why I am so bloody terrible at swordplay.”

“Not terrible,” Aithne corrected her. “You know your stances.”

“How often do you train?” Rowenna asked the red-haired woman.

“Every day,” Aithne replied, and Rowenna’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Yes!” Gabrielle crowed, delighted to find an ally. She slipped her arm through Rowenna’s and pulled her close so that they might face Aithne together. “I see in your face, this is my thought, as well! She is crazy, yes?”

“Not at all,” Aithne disagreed easily. “It’s a lovely way to greet the dawn. Have you fought many duels, my lady?”

“No,” Rowenna replied. “None, really, though I have trained for them, of course. Gwydion’s your man for that, as you saw the night we escaped the Silver Keep.”

“I saw glimpses, but I understood nothing of what occurred,” Gabrielle said.

“It was quite hectic,” Rowenna agreed.

“I had supposed that you simply used your Weapon, and the stronger prevails?” Aithne asked.

“That is a part of it, certainly,” Rowenna agreed. “A strong adept with a powerful Weapon could simply overwhelm her foe. Say that you have a Ward to protect you, but your Word is weak, or the Ward itself is only a minor Device. Then I might trust my Weapon to pierce it once I have judged your strength. But consider that a skillful adept might simply listen to my Word and seek to twist it, so that my own Device is turned against me.”

“How can you defend against that?” Aithne asked.

“Some adepts are skilled enough to disguise their Words, so that their opponent wastes their effort to subvert it,” Rowenna explained. “But most employ the same tactics as Lord Rossiter did, when they attacked us at Whitetemple. He used a Veil to conceal Lord Tyree’s and Lady Muire’s Words. Of course, that is much easier to accomplish when several adepts are working in concert, and each can concentrate on their individual Word. Maintaining two or three Words at the same time, while seeking to wrest control of a foe’s, is immensely difficult. There are few who can do it, and those find few challengers.”

“Is your brother one of those dangerous men?” Gabrielle asked.

“He is, which is why he is such an insufferable git. No one dares call him out.”

“Could you beat him?”

“I tell him so.” Rowenna laughed. “Of course, we’ve never tried in earnest, but my Words are stronger, while his are infuriatingly devious. Elegant. No, devious is right.”

“And my sister?”

“I wouldn’t care to try,” Rowenna admitted. “I have seen her manage three and four Words without a thought, and what she did at Bandirma, empowering a Device at such a distance, well, that was absurd. It would take many adepts to counter her.”

“Ah, and now you know why she was also insufferable when we were girls. Imagine to try to compare with that?”

“Your Majesty, I will trade you siblings in an instant,” Rowenna replied, and bright laughter filled the courtyard for a moment.

“Lord Gwydion is very confident,” Gabrielle mused, and she winced as she realized that heat had risen up her throat.

“Oh, Gwydion is always very confident.” Rowenna’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “That’s why he is so irritating. But he rarely has a care for the consequences.”

“You find that he is rash? I think… that is intemperate, yes?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, rash is correct. No, Gwydion isn’t rash. Well, yes, I suppose he is, but not for lack of foresight. He knows very well what he is up to. If there is a delicate issue, or a source of contention, he can be trusted to find it and goad it, every time. He practiced for years on me, but Gwydion refined his talent on Father until he could draw blood.” Rowenna’s voice trailed away, and her warm annoyance faded into cold distance.

Gabrielle led Rowenna on a stroll about the courtyard and the overgrown garden beyond, and slowly the templar’s silence thawed as they enjoyed the sun and marveled at the ruin that time had wrought on the once-stately home.

The gentle sway of their movement also served to settle Gabrielle’s temperament, and she was able, at last, to consider the dreadful request that Karsha had made without a veil of red rage instantly engulfing her. What would suffice? she wondered, as they examined a thicket of nodding sunflowers. Campbell’s title, his lands, is that enough? The scorn of the realm? Watching him grovel before the throne? Or must he die to satisfy the injury he inflicted?

“A penny for your thoughts,” Lady Rowenna asked, and Gabrielle realized that she had drifted away from the chatter of the other women.

“Don’t spend your silver,” Aithne replied. “I can tell you. She broods on the duke’s crimes, as always.”

“How should I not?” Gabrielle asked indignantly.

“Hate him, of course,” Aithne told her. “Ensure his downfall. Envision his fate. Maker knows, I do. But don’t let him become the sum of your being.”

“I have not,” Gabrielle declared. But she could not deny how little of her was left, besides her hate. The bright spark she had felt the night she had decided to remain in Kuray still flickered, hope for her adopted realm, hope for the people whose future was the weight of the crown upon her brow, that she might bring them hope of comfort and safety, a world in which their children might thrive.

But that spark was a wan flicker compared to the bright dreams that had inspired her, when those dreams had been shared, and nurtured, by the man who had so effortlessly made her believe they were possible. Paler even than the weary aspirations those dreams had become as she struggled, alone, to do them justice, set against the truculent resistance of the very nobles who now stood openly against her. Yet, that spark was all she had left of the dreams she had shared with the young man who had so inspired her that she had leaped to make a new life with him, far from home. Campbell has taken everything else from me.

She drew in a deep breath, rich with the scent of flowers, and lifted her face so that the sun’s warmth glowed against her eyelids and baked her cheeks.

His death would be justice, none would deny it. As none could deny my right to fight for that justice, fight until tooth and claw run red with blood. But would that blood cure the wounds that caused this schism? What chance for our dreams then, my love?

“I spoke with Karsha,” Gabrielle told the others. “Yesterday evening.”

“You did not mention it last night,” Aithne said.

“No. I could not,” Gabrielle admitted. “I was too angry. I do not have the proper words to swear with.” She glanced at Aithne and gave her a wry smile. “And so, I must brood.”

“You may swear in Venaissine, if you like,” Aithne told her. “It sounds so much more lethal that way.”

“Was the news so terrible?” Rowenna asked.

“Yes,” Gabrielle replied, and she explained what Karsha had told her, the appearance of the Crunorix horde, and the dreadful bargain that Boone and Karsha wished her to make with Duke Campbell.

“They can’t be serious,” Aithne muttered when Gabrielle had finished.

“They are,” Gabrielle assured her. “And perhaps they are right.”

“What?” Aithne asked, her sharp brows arching high. “I know I said not to let Campbell overtake your every thought, but I didn’t mean let bygones be bygones.”

“I am not. In truth, I cannot conceive of a compromise, but if Karsha finds one that lets us stand united against the Crunorix, how could I not consider it? There is a great wound in the heart of our realm. It has festered beneath the surface for years, poisoning everything Arian had dreamed of.” Gabrielle paused to swallow the fresh sorrow that made her heart ache and her breath catch in her throat. Aithne took her hand, her strong, callused fingers uncharacteristically gentle as Gabrielle recovered.

“Campbell could not have raised his treason had the realm been whole,” she continued when she had mastered her voice. “Perhaps that wound must be healed, not burned.”

“Both sides must wish for healing,” Aithne pointed out. “And I remember well what Campbell’s vision of that looks like.”

“No, I will not give him a path to the throne, nor to my bedchamber. As I said, I do not know what compromise is possible, but I would not say absurd, not with Karsha convinced it must be done.”

“What will you do?” Rowenna asked. “We spoke of striking a blow against Campbell here, in Kuray. Does this new reproachment mean we should hold back?”

“That is what Karsha said, as well. He called me spiteful.”

“He never did!” Aithne scowled. “I shall have words with him about that.”

“No.” Gabrielle sighed. “I am certain he is right, though I do not have the hindsight to see it, yet. But I am also right! Karsha will admit that, when it is accomplished, and Campbell is forced to concede.”

“Good,” Aithne replied.

“And what of you and your brother?” Gabrielle asked Rowenna. “You have stood beside me, though this is not the Temple’s war. I would be saddened to see you leave, but now that the Crunorix have returned, I would understand if you felt your service required you to.”

“We aren’t leaving,” Rowenna said solemnly.

Gabrielle smiled, abruptly aware of a cruel concern that had vanished with Rowenna’s words. “Thank you,” Gabrielle told the templar. “I owe you both so much.”

“No, Your Majesty,” Rowenna demurred. “You have asked nothing from us that we would not have gladly done.”

Gabrielle accepted this, though she knew it was nonsense. She owed the two siblings her life and her freedom, and she owed their Temple as well. But she would not argue, now. There would be a time when she could repay her debt, and at that moment, she would not listen to any denial.

“Have you thought more on Gwydion’s idea?” Rowenna asked.

“I have,” Gabrielle revealed. “And the more I thought on it, the more it appeals.”

“Do you know where your soldiers are being held captive?”

“I do. After hearing Gwydion’s suggestion, I asked our remarkable scout, Drysi, to discover what she could. The Silver Keep garrison is being held captive in the Armory, which is only lightly defended, now that Campbell has taken his army south. Drysi shall find a way to free them, and we will retake the city.”

“And what of the Silver Keep? Do your soldiers have the numbers to retake it, as well?”

“I have thought of this. We will enter the Keep through the same path that we escaped, the hidden gate to the Small Garden.”

“We?” Aithne asked, and her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “I hope you don’t think you will be joining this attack?”

Gabrielle widened her eyes in an imitation of surprise. “What use would I be, in a battle?” she replied innocently.

Clothed in a Myth

Danielle awoke to the warmth of dawn’s light against her eyelids and gazed contentedly at the amber glow as she slowly stirred, exploring the cool touch of the bed linens and the tangled heat of Wyn’s embrace against her skin.

I did not dream, she realized, and her eyes closed in the bliss of her gentle awakening. She could not remember any dream, could not, in fact, remember going to bed, only her surrender to the cloying weariness that had now been washed away.

She rose quietly and stepped to the window to watch the dawn blooming like molten metal poured onto the cool green hills and grey stone towers. The sun freed itself from the horizon then seemed to pause to gather its strength as red and orange burned away, leaving only blazing gold, before resuming its stately climb.

The door to the apartment opened softly and porcelain chimed as a chambermaid entered with a tray of food and a pot of tea.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, m’lady,” she whispered as she hesitated in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You did not,” Danielle assured her. “I was watching the dawn.”

The maid left the tray on a table and quickly departed, and Danielle cradled a cup of tea as she returned to her vigil. Smoke curled from chimneys across the city as breakfasts were made, and the first cries of vendors pushing their carts through the streets echoed to her ears.

“Do I smell tea?” Wyn asked sleepily as she emerged from the bed chamber.

“You do.”

“Lovely.” Wyn yawned hugely and trudged to the table, then suddenly came awake, her eyes wide with delight. “Oh! Scones!”

Wyn joined Danielle, and they stepped onto the balcony together, despite the morning chill that lingered in the breeze. Wyn sipped her tea with tiny slurps between munching contentedly on her pastry, and barely paused between mouthfuls to ask, “Any dreams?”

“None,” Danielle told her. “Perhaps they have ended.”

“We’ll see.” Wyn sucked the last crumbs from her fingertips. “So, what happens next? I dunno what high-muckities do. Do they bring us needlepoint? I forgot to pack mine.”

“No.” Danielle took her last sip of tea and swirled the dregs around the bottom of the cup as she marshalled her thoughts. “I have work to do.”

They donned simple clothes of homespun wool, a dress dyed pale yellow and brown for Danielle, trousers and tunic of faded grey and green for Wyn, tucked their hair beneath their hoods, and slipped through the gate and into the city without notice. Their steps led them into the second ward, where they followed the narrow streets to a small plaza packed with tents. Figures in the brown robes of Temple priests and the grey robes of Temple acolytes moved from tent to tent, carrying in fresh linens, carrying away blood-stained bandages.

Danielle quietly announced herself to the priest who led the healers and she was quickly put to work, with Mercy perched upon her brow. As she moved between patients, Danielle caught glimpses of Wyn, chattering with those of the wounded who were alert, or fetching and carrying for those who were not.

Hardest to bear were those injured by the fall of the tower, crushed and broken beneath heavy stone. Danielle did not allow herself to weep, though she ached with grief for their suffering. One such victim required further surgery for a leg so broken that Danielle despaired that he should keep it, let alone be able to walk again. When the last shards of bone were removed and the battered flesh stitched, Danielle watched a pair of acolytes bear the wounded man away to the depths of the temple, where the most grievously injured convalesced, as her thoughts slowly surfaced from the trance of Mercy’s guidance.

“Dani…” Wyn’s soft whisper surprised Danielle, as she had not noticed her approach. “Dani, someone’s come to speak to you.”

“Who?” Danielle wondered. “Who knows we are here?”

“It’s that Lord Faron,” Wyn replied, her voice dropping even lower as she glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. “The one who can hear what you’re thinking.”

Danielle peered past Wyn and spotted the templar at the edge of the plaza, motionless within a ring of calm as he was given a wide berth by those passing nearby.

“My love, he cannot hear your thoughts,” she told Wyn.

“He absolutely can,” Wyn disagreed. “You can feel it when he looks at you, down your neck.”

“He has an insightful mind, that is all. He carries a Device that compels those who hear his voice to obey him, but no more than that.”

“Just now, right, when he was asking for you, I gave him the Ballad of Bryn and the Bees, just inside my head, and when I got to the part about the honey pot, he smiled. Just a bit, but I caught him,” Wyn concluded triumphantly.

“Bryn and the Bees?”

“Have you not heard it?” Wyn asked, shocked. “Maker, it’s a laugh. Bloody filthy, but, you know, sly with it. Anyway, it got old Faron, that’s all I’m saying.”

Danielle glanced again at the templar and found she could feel the weight of his dark gaze even across the plaza. She took a deep breath to steady her suddenly wavering confidence. Stop it, she chided herself. She left the temple, strode across the plaza, and greeted Lord Faron as she approached.

“Lady Danielle,” he replied. “Your labor does you great credit.”

“It is not for credit’s sake,” Danielle said wearily.

“And yet, there is worth,” Faron mused.

“If their suffering can be eased, that is all that matters.”

“To them,” Faron disagreed. “For you, the burden shall not pass with these wounds, but will persist. For many more will suffer, before our cause has triumphed.”

“You’re quite a cheerful fellow, aren’t you?” Wyn muttered.

“I am not cheered by the task,” Faron said gravely. “Yet I take solace that we might spare many from greater horrors, and that those who bear this burden are spurred by mercy, not a crueler goad.”

“I cannot seek comfort in such philosophy,” Danielle said. “Ideals pale when compared to the pain of a shattered bone, or the grief of a riven heart.”

Faron nodded, though whether from acceptance or simple deference, Danielle could not tell, nor did she care.

“Now, you wished to speak with me?” Danielle asked. “What task is so urgent that you should seek me here?”

“I carry news,” Faron replied, and his dark gaze turned to Danielle and considered her, deep as a well. “And though the urgency might have allowed your work to remain uninterrupted, the import demanded that I should convey it at once. While I was in Bandirma, I had occasion to speak with Reverend Meara, of the Martyr and the concealment of the Blade in the care of your ancestor, Augustine.”

“Who is Reverend Meara?” Danielle asked. “And how does she know of that history?”

“Reverend Ail and Reverend Anariel chose her to unfold the mystery of the Blade’s story, and the role of your family in that tale.”

“She’s a bit of a thinker, then, is she?” Wyn asked, and she sniffed to show that she was unimpressed.

“A mind of great insight, a loom contrived to fashion a great tapestry from threads of logic, thought, and supposition,” Faron replied.

“I would prefer if Reverend Ail would ask, before sharing my family’s secrets,” Danielle told Faron.

“Would you have denied him?” Faron asked.

Danielle tried to match the templar lord’s unwavering gaze. “That is for me to decide.”

“I shall ensure that it is so,” Faron said gravely, and Danielle could at last glance away.

“What did Reverend Meara discover?” she asked.

“A key,” Faron replied. “It fits one of the locks that guard the story of the Blade. I bring you the treasure that lay beyond it.”

“Not actual treasure, though,” Wyn said skeptically. “We’re still being metaphorical, yeah?”

“What value does mere metal hold, when compared to enlightenment?” Faron asked.

“Metaphorical, I knew it,” Wyn grumbled. “Well, give us the rug she wove from logic and whatnot, then.”

“In the year zero of the new calendar,” Faron began, as he returned to his consideration of Danielle. “After the defeat of the Nameless King and the Crunorix armies, two events occurred in the court of Marquesa Augustine. First, the arrival of the Martyr’s Blade in secret, taken from the field of battle by Duibhir, the Hooded Knight, to be hidden in safety, away from the clutches of the Guild and those who would seek to possess it, against the terrible chance that the Crunorix would return.

“Second, the arrival of an infant, named Aibhlinn, who became Augustine’s ward and who, decades later, would marry Augustine’s son, Daniel, and give birth to a dynasty of the greatest adepts ever known. These two events form the key which Reverend Meara employed.”

“I did not know that it was Duibhir who had entrusted Augustine with the guardianship of the Blade,” Danielle said.

“He’s just supposing,” Wyn reminded her, rolling her eyes toward Lord Faron.

“True,” Faron acknowledged. “But the threads are strong.”

“And I do not recall if I knew of the history of this woman, Aibhlinn,” Danielle continued. “But I do not see any great revelation here, Lord Faron. What key did Reverend Meara find?”

“Reverend Meara is convinced that Duibhir was most concerned that, should the Crunorix return, they would be met by a champion wielding the Blade that slew their Nameless King. Duibhir set aside the pieces that he needed, hid them away, and waited with his Gravewardens, ever watchful. But the Crunorix did not return in his lifetime, and his secrets perished with him, or are held with the Gravewardens, and lost after the Cataclysm sealed them away.”

“Yes, Mamá always taught us that it was our responsibility to master the Blade, as she did, against that chance.”

“And here we reach the insight, the pattern perceived by Reverend Meara. For she understood that Duibhir could not have known the future of the descendants of Augustine, could not have known that they could even wield the Blade, yet he chose those unborn generations to bear it, and could not have chosen more wisely.”

“Something to do with the lass, Aibhlinn,” Wyn interrupted, her eyes now bright with keen interest. “Must be, otherwise you’d never have said about her.”

Faron’s gaze swung away from Danielle and settled on Wyn, as if he pondered the pages of a tome. “I shall tell Killock that he chose wisely,” he said at last, causing Wyn’s brows to arch in bafflement. “You are correct,” Faron continued. “Aibhlinn, an infant, taken in by Augustine the same year that she took the Blade.”

“What could Duibhir have seen in a child to so convince him?” Danielle wondered.

“He knew her bloodline,” Faron informed them. “A bloodline that assured him that the Blade should rest with Aibhlinn, for he knew that Aibhlinn was the daughter of Bronwyn, the Martyr.”

“What?” Wyn asked incredulously. “She didn’t have a daughter.”

“Are you so certain?” Faron replied. “Duibhir hid many secrets, so well that none suspected. Perhaps he hid one more.”

But Danielle barely heard the templar’s somber voice, its heavy rumble lost beyond the brash clamor of her thoughts.

“Maker, you think I am her descendant,” she gasped.

“Who’s?” Wyn asked, then her eyes widened in comprehension. “Oh! The Martyr’s. She’d be your great, great, whatever, grandmother, wouldn’t she.”

“Almost fifty generations,” Faron confirmed.

“That is absurd,” Danielle insisted.

“Absurd?” Faron countered. “By what measure? It fits the lock, precisely.”

“Save that the Martyr never had a daughter,” Danielle objected.

“Tell me one story of the Martyr’s life before the day of her death,” Faron challenged her. “One tale.”

“I cannot,” Danielle admitted. “No one can.”

“Perhaps it is absurd that we have accepted that mystery for so long. Such an omission cannot be happenstance.”

“Then how did Duibhir know?” Wyn asked.

“Duibhir was first to discover the bodies of Ruric and Bronwyn, after the battle. If Bronwyn survived long enough to speak with him, would not her last breath be spent ensuring the safety of her daughter?”

Danielle wished that Faron would stop calling the Martyr by her name. It made it all too easy to think of her as a woman, someone who might well have a daughter she loved, rather than as a saint who could not possibly be her great grandmother.

“I suppose,” Wyn muttered, her hands on her hips, a fierce scowl of concentration creasing her brow.

“And Reverend Meara is certain of this?” Danielle asked.

“She would not say so,” Faron replied. “Yet she is convinced.”

“I do not know what to think,” Danielle admitted. “And even were that to be true, what difference can it make?”

“A great difference,” Faron exclaimed, his arms spread wide as if to encompass the world. “Take courage from the knowledge that the Blade is meant for your hands, that what she accomplished is within your grasp. The Blade did not come to you through happenstance, but with grave forethought and sober consideration, so that you should defy the same foe, and triumph as she did.”

“I fear you place too much value on lineage, my lord,” Danielle said wryly. “Whatever spark may have been the Martyr’s gift, a thousand years has diluted it, if it ever existed in my family. If what you say is true, perhaps Aibhlinn might have replicated her mother’s feat, but I feel no such special affinity.”

“Your nature is also hers,” Faron declared. “The Martyr’s blood flows within you. I do not doubt its effect.”

Faron departed with only the briefest of courtesies, apparently satisfied with his task, though Danielle thought of a new question with every breath. She watched him stride purposefully away, his broad shoulders and long, dark hair marking him clearly until he turned a corner and was gone.

“Maker’s breath,” Danielle sighed.

“Do you believe him?” Wyn asked Danielle.

“I do not know,” Danielle answered hesitantly. “I cannot believe it, but I cannot say why.”

“I don’t see why not,” Wyn said matter-of-factly. “If anyone in the world could be descended from the Martyr, it’s you.”

“Your heart has biased your mind,” Danielle responded, trying and failing to achieve a note of levity in her voice.

“Excuse me, but it hasn’t,” Wyn said indignantly. “I’ve seen you use that Blade, and that’s just fact, it’s got nothing to do with my heart.”

“Using it is not the same as, as… whatever Lord Faron seems to imagine. The Martyr returned?”

“And what good would that be, anyway?” Wyn wondered. “She died when she fought the Nameless King.”

“She did,” Danielle agreed quietly. “But Lord Faron is correct that no one really knows what happened in that valley, when the High King and the Martyr faced the Nameless King and his magi.”

“How’s that?” Wyn asked. “They all died. We know exactly what happened.”

“We do not know how they died. The story we tell ourselves, no one who witnessed it lived to tell it, save perhaps to Duibhir, and his journals are lost, if he even committed the truth to parchment. And if the Martyr did wield that Blade against the Nameless King, she did so with Danu bound within it. Perhaps, if Faron is right, perhaps I could, too.”

“If Faron is right.” Wyn gripped Danielle’s hands in hers and gazed imploringly into her eyes. “Dani, this is the worst thing that could have happened. Faron has you thinking about what if, instead of what else. If he knew what you told me…”

Her voice trailed away, and her eyebrows arched impossibly high.

“Maker, he does know! That’s why he told you all that, because he heard your thoughts and he wanted you to feel brave and not think twice about waving that Blade around at the next battle.”

“Wyn, he did not hear my thoughts,” Danielle complained.

“He did. That’s why he told you that you’re the Martyr, or as good as, so you would do whatever she did.” Wyn’s voice lowered to a strained growl. “This burden will not pass, but will make us suffer to triumph, or whatever horseshit he was saying.”

“We do not know what she did,” Danielle pointed out, again. “Only that she had the courage to stand and fight when all else had failed. If I am faced with the same choice, what else could I do?”

“Make the same choice that Duibhir did,” Wyn urged. “You heard what Faron said. Duibhir could have taken that girl, Aibhlinn, to the Black Grave. Kicked open the doors and put an end to the magi. But he didn’t. He kept everything secret. He didn’t want Aibhlinn, or her daughter, or any of those girls to make that choice, and he knew what it meant. He was there, he saw what happened. Trust him.”

“I will not take anyone’s conjecture as fact,” Danielle reassured Wyn. “Not Faron’s, not Reverend Meara’s. Yet we must use their deductions to help come to some conclusion.”

“Just, you know, conclude that Duibhir was right, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You are beyond tenacious, I hope that you realize that,” Danielle told Wyn fondly.

“Yeah, dog, bone, and so on.” Wyn shrugged. “I can’t help it.”

They returned to their labors and Danielle worked until her head throbbed with pain and she could no longer keep Mercy’s shining Word intact before finally taking their leave of the healers. She and Wyn trudged together up the narrow street towards the castle, but their progress was slowed and then halted by a growing press of people in the street, pushing forward and straining on their toes to see ahead. Wyn hopped up and down impatiently, then scrambled onto the wheel of a stalled cart to peer ahead.

“It’s a bunch of soldiers,” she reported. “Got the street blocked off so they can march up the hill, because of course they’re too bloody important to wait like the rest of us. Some big fella on a horse is leading them, maybe we can have a bit of a word with him, later, about being a prick.”

“Whose soldiers?” Danielle asked, now perched on her toes as she strained to see. Her height allowed her a view of steel helmets and spears above the mob, in a style she had not seen in over a year. She leapt onto the wagon wheel alongside Wyn and stared in disbelief at the design that adorned the soldiers’ shields, a black tower against a snow-white field.

“I know that sigil,” Danielle said, stunned. “Those are Duke Thornton’s soldiers, warriors of the Iron Army.”

“Oh, aye?” Wyn replied. “Who are they, then?”

“They defend the realm against the Ironback clans. There is no stronger force in the realm, save the Royal Army itself. The rider who led them, did you see his face?”

“No, he had his shiny helmet on.”

“Come, we must hurry,” Danielle urged, and began to push her way through the crowd as quickly as she could. But the packed streets made for slow going, and the soldiers had long disappeared by the time that the two young women wormed their way free from the press and arrived at the keep. There they were met at the gate by a lean figure in grey and brown, waiting in the shade of the gate’s archway.

“Killock,” Danielle gasped, breathless from their hurried ascent. “Killock, I saw troops bearing the sigil of the Iron Army.”

“They are here as escort for the duke,” Killock replied.

“Duke Thornton? He is here? Has he come to aid us?”

“That’s the question I’ve heard a dozen times already, and no one knows the answer,” Killock admitted. “But we shall find out. The duke has called a conclave, for this evening.”

“A conclave? With whom?”

“With the Temple’s High Council and the Chancellor of the Realm, of course. But Thornton brought a pack of nobles with him, as well, lords and ladies from many of the southern houses. It will be interesting to hear what they have to say.”

“Well, you won’t be needing me for any of that,” Wyn declared.

“You must come with me,” Danielle pleaded.

“You don’t want me there with all those high-muckity gits. I’ll say something stupid, sure as snow.”

“You may sit in the back, where no one might see you but me. It will be terrible, but once it is over, we may do whatever we wish for the rest of the night,” Danielle promised.

“All right, I’ll come,” Wyn said glumly.

“Now you see why I brought so many dresses,” Danielle told her with a smile. “There is no predicting when a duke might appear.”

“Actually…” Killock interjected. “Reverend Nesta would like to speak with you about that.”

“About my dresses?” Danielle asked.

“In a way.” Killock frowned. “I suspect you will not like what she has to say.”

A chest arrived at the door to Danielle’s apartments, accompanied by two armorers who set to unpacking its contents with noisy zeal, and steel and leather in bewildering variety were placed strategically around Danielle.

“Where’d all this come from?” Wyn asked, peering at the growing accumulation of armor.

“Reverend Nesta brought it from Bandirma.”

“Didn’t they have any here? There’s a whole army outside.”

“This armor is special,” Danielle explained. “It belonged to Saint Rowenna.”

“Oh. Is she the one with the books?”

“No, the one with the snake.”

“Ohhh.”

The armorers finished unpacking and turned their attention to Danielle, and she was ordered to bend and to twist and to raise this arm and that in a precise sequence that baffled her completely. But Danielle was happy despite the weight of metal being hung from her shoulders. As she swayed and wobbled under the constant tugging of laces and cinching of belts, Danielle had only to glance to the side to find Wyn, and her smile broadened.

“You look bored,” Danielle told her.

“How strange,” Wyn replied in a sing-song voice. She had somehow managed to lounge on one of the ancient pieces of creaking wood that the apartment boasted as chairs, slouched almost sideways with her slender legs draped over one arm of the chair in the sort of boneless tangle that Danielle had assumed only cats could achieve. “This isn’t taking forever, at all.”

“If you wish, we may trade places, and you may be pressed into jam by this mountain of steel, while I take on the bitter responsibility of drinking that wine.”

The two armorers paused, their faces competing to achieve the look of greatest concern and distress, but Wyn quickly relieved them.

“Sorry, luv, when you have the shiny title, you get the shiny armor. In any case, aren’t you the one that needs to impress all the little lordlings at the conclave thingy?”

“Yes,” Danielle agreed, and she felt her stomach clench at the thought. “Again,” she continued pleadingly, “if you would prefer, we may trade…”

“Oh, no, your Chancellorness.” Wyn shook her head vigorously, causing her braids to dance around her head. “You take care of the speeches, I’ll just take care of this wine. Though I might need some help.”

Wyn splashed a liberal reinforcement into her cup, then poured a second and unfolded from her chair to carry it to Danielle.

“You look beautiful,” Danielle told Wyn, earning herself a flash of an awkward, happy smile.

“Still sounds strange, hearing that,” Wyn mumbled sheepishly, but it was undeniably true. Wyn was dressed in soft leather trousers and tunic that were as dark as walnut. The flawless leather clung wickedly to Wyn’s lithe shape and made Danielle’s breath catch whenever she was fortunate to be rewarded with a glimpse of Wyn’s posterior. The tunic left Wyn’s slender arms and neck bare, while a black corset and bustier hugged her narrow waist and sculpted a teasing swell of soft flesh in its low neckline. Small silver hoops lined her ears and her fingers bore a collection of rings pillaged from Danielle’s jewelry box, shining silver next to steel with no apparent care for style or pattern.

Danielle had braided Wyn’s hair into tight rows that hugged Wyn’s scalp before falling like golden bands of sunlight down her back. Danielle had seen the warriors of the Ironback clans style their hair in such a fashion, threaded with claws and fangs torn from trolls and bears and wolves, ferocious and exotic, and she had long harbored the desire to sculpt Wyn’s wayward tresses into such a vision.

Danielle was very pleased with the result. The braids accentuated the fierce angles of Wyn’s face, her high cheekbones and sharp chin, and revealed the swirling flames of the tattoo that arched over her left brow.

Beautiful and strong and a little savage, Danielle decided. My love, you take my breath away, every time I see you.

Danielle realized that she had been gazing into Wyn’s emerald eyes, the cup of wine still held out between them, for long enough that a bright pink tinge had crept up Wyn’s throat and spread across her cheeks.

Danielle took the goblet gratefully, although she earned a frown from one of her armorers for moving.

“My lady, you must keep your arm out while we make the adjustments, or else the pauldron will not rest properly,” the stern woman reprimanded her.

“We would not want to deprive it of its proper rest,” Danielle observed, earning a snort of laughter from Wyn, but neither of the armorers were amused.

“No, my lady, we would not. You wouldn’t want a blade to pry it loose, now would you?”

“Will my audience tonight involve such risks?”

“Perhaps not,” the woman conceded. “We’ll just finish the main adjustments, then, and leave the proper fitting for another time.”

“Thank you,” Danielle said gratefully. She had no idea that armor could possibly be so heavy. She was fairly certain that sitting down would mean never getting back up again, and the padded jacket they had insisted she don beneath the armor was already damp with sweat, despite the fact that she had done nothing more vigorous than stand still. She could not imagine how inspiring she would be, bedraggled and dripping, when she attempted a grand entrance to the conclave and pitched onto the floor instead.

The two armorers finally stopped adding pieces and circled Danielle warily, scowling furiously at any gap or loose seam they discovered. Several times they pounced on a strap, heaved it even tighter, and were only satisfied when Danielle was so constricted that she wondered if she would ever curse a corset again.

“There we go, m’lady,” the older of the two armorers assured her. “Won’t do for a fight, but nothing will come loose before the toasts.”

“Thank the Maker.” Danielle sighed in relief. “How do I get it off?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, m’lady. We’ll not be able to get it back on again in time.”

“Never?” Danielle asked, her eyebrow arched.

“Oh, well, eventually, yes of course. Most ladies have a squire to help with such matters.” The armorer glanced at Wyn. “Perhaps the young lady could squire for you tonight?”

“Oh, I plan on squiring her tonight,” Wyn agreed enthusiastically.

The younger of the two armorers grinned and looked away as she blushed, but the older was forged of sterner stuff and merely frowned. “Will your ladyship be needing us any further?”

“No, thank you for your efforts.”

“You’re sure it’s on right?” Wyn asked suspiciously. “No gaps or anything?”

“It fits perfectly,” the armorer replied shortly.

“We’ll see,” Wyn growled as she ushered the two women through the door. “If I find a gap, I’ll be giving you a wee visit.”

A few awkward steps brought Danielle before a tall mirror, where she took her first apprehensive survey of the armorers’ labors, and her heart sank.

The armor itself was spectacular. A vision of shining steel adorned with white enamel and brilliant gold, though Danielle knew that the true beauty of the armor lay beneath the sculpted plates of metal. For the ancient armor was far more than simple protection. Intricate patterns of runes covered the interior of each piece, a web of arcane symbols that permeated the steel.

But as beautiful and deadly as the armor looked in the mirror, Danielle could not help but see the true reflection—a scared woman standing awkwardly, clothed in a myth to leach some stolen grandeur from the past.

“I see a fraud,” she whispered.

Wyn appeared at her side in the reflection, even more slender and graceful next to the heavy steel figure.

“How do you reckon?” Wyn asked, frowning hard enough that a line appeared between her faint brows. “I think you look like one of those heroes from your reads.”

“Maker, Wyn, do not say that. I am certainly not a hero, no matter whose armor they make me wear.”

“Hmmm, I see,” Wyn mused. “Well, let’s just have a bit of a think about that. Aren’t you the only person brilliant enough to ever kill a bloody magus? I think I heard that somewhere.”

Danielle tried to cross her arms defiantly but could not quite get the armor to bend in the right way, so settled for glaring, instead.

“That seems pretty heroic, to me,” Wyn continued blithely.

“Wyn,” Danielle said quietly. “I am not being modest. I know what I have accomplished, and what it has cost, and can weigh my victories against my defeats and know how narrow the margin truly is. And what that reckoning tells me is that for all my power and skill, and for all the power and skill of those who surrounded and supported me, I am fortunate to be alive. I am not the Martyr, ready to stand against the Nameless King. We barely defeated one of his magi, and we paid such a cost.

“No, I am not a hero from legend, and whatever I am…” Danielle glared at the shining knight in the mirror, splendid and proud and arrogant in her armored strength. “… it is not this.”

“I know,” Wyn agreed gently. “But if you’re going to stand in front of everybody, you need some protection. As many Wards as you can get because they’ll be coming for you, and I can’t always be there to rescue you.”

“Is that so?” Danielle asked, a smile tugging the edge of her lips.

“Well, not every time.”

“I suppose not. This seems wrong, that is all, to wear it simply to impress.”

“I’m not the lass to talk to if you want someone to tell you it’s wrong to twist some idiot into giving you whatever you want. Tell them you’re the Maker if it will get them to draw their little swords, and I’ll tell you that’s a job well done.”

“Are you certain you do not wish to trade…?”

“Certain as death.” Wyn’s reflection flashed a sly grin at Danielle, then Wyn stepped between Danielle and the mirror and pressed against her, and Wyn’s eyes were wide and dark. “Also, you look very, very, very nice in that armor.”

“Really?” Danielle felt her brows arch high in surprise. She had never felt less attractive. As if to underscore the point, a bead of sweat trickled down her neck to join the spreading swamp in her padded jacket.

“Oh, yes,” Wyn murmured. “You can see how tall you are, and how strong…” Wyn’s voice trailed away as her fingertip gently wiped the drop’s trail from Danielle’s neck.

“But you cannot see… me,” Danielle finished lamely. She tried to sigh again and was forced to settle for a small gasp. “And I cannot breathe.”

“Well, it doesn’t do you justice here, that’s true,” Wyn judged, spreading her fingers across Danielle’s breastplate. “How’d they fit the girls in there, anyway?”

“An astonishing amount of binding,” Danielle replied morosely.

“Well, I suppose her holiness wasn’t a woman of your, ah, stature.” Wyn grinned, then continued in a breathless, high voice, her eyes wide, “My hero, come to save me.”

Danielle laughed, then shook her head. “If I am the knight, then you are the mysterious stranger, not the noble daughter.”

“That sounds better. What does she do?”

“I…” Danielle was finding it difficult to concentrate on the tropes of cheap reads. Wyn’s gaze seemed able to pierce armor as easily as air as it roamed across her body, and thoughts of casting the evening’s labor into a pile of discarded steel began to sound quite reasonable. “The young woman must choose between the hero and the stranger.”

“Poor little lass. Must be so hard.”

“It is,” Danielle agreed plaintively. “They both love her, you see, and she, them. But the hero is so boring.”

“You like the stranger?”

“I do. But the stranger is a terrible rogue.”

“Of course,” Wyn said approvingly. “Rogues are horribly wicked, that’s a fact.”

Wyn slowly slid her hands across the polished metal of the breastplate and traced the smooth curves, and Danielle was suddenly acutely aware of her skin beneath Wyn’s fingers, despite the layers of steel and wool between.

“Wicked, naughty rogues… all we think about are amazing chests, bursting with treasure,” Wyn murmured. “We dream about just filling our hands with their loot.”

“You wish to plunder my chest?” Danielle whispered.

“Can’t help it,” Wyn admitted. “I can’t stop thinking about those beautiful coins, just waiting to be pinched. Of course, I’ll have to give them a nibble, just a bit. Just to make sure of their quality.”

Danielle felt her knees weaken at the thought, and she swayed heavily against Wyn, the weight of her armor nearly upsetting both of them. Wyn squeaked in surprise as they teetered, clutching one another, until at last they found their balance amid a burst of giggles.

“You have made me swoon,” Danielle complained.

“I didn’t know swooning was so dangerous,” Wyn admitted ruefully. “Perhaps we should wait a bit on the looting, until we have time for a proper plunder and there’s less risk of ending up squished on the floor.”

“Only if you promise I shall not have to wait too long.”

“As soon as you’re done with this,” Wyn agreed, and she patted the breastplate tenderly. “We’ll have you out of there soon enough.”

“If I could bend the sun to my heart’s desire, it would hasten beyond the horizon this instant, and the moon would rise and proclaim midnight, so that we might be together.”

“Oooo,” Wyn cooed appreciatively. “Which of your reads is that from?”

“None. It is simply how I feel.”

“Me, too,” Wyn replied. “But my words are terrible, so let’s stick with yours.”

Yet another knock on the door interrupted them, and Wyn scampered away as Danielle spent a last moment glaring at her reflection and considering plans of escape. Danielle heard the door open, then Eilidh’s voice, and then Wyn laughed gleefully. Danielle marched carefully into the apartment’s main room and saw Sir Eilidh and a tall knight that Danielle did not recognize for a moment. Then her eyes widened in surprise.

“Sir Killock, Sir Eilidh, welcome. You both look very striking.”

Sir Eilidh was clad in her armor, steel strength personified, but it was Killock who had shocked her. He had exchanged his worn leather for polished chain and black plates of steel, and a silver medallion pinned a beautiful black cloak over his shoulder. He had even shaved, and his iron-streaked hair was gathered into a thick queue that was bound with black leather ties.

“He almost looks like a proper templar,” Wyn teased.

“Yes,” Killock agreed, glancing at his finery. “Reverend Nesta can be very persuasive. I see that you are her victim, as well.”

“Armor, Killock,” Danielle exclaimed. “Have you ever seen someone so ridiculous?”

“Tell her she looks amazing,” Wyn insisted.

“You do, Danielle,” Killock agreed gravely. “And the symbology will not be missed by our guests.”

“What, the little curly bits on the front?” Wyn asked, puzzled.

“Saint Rowenna’s legacy,” Killock replied. “One might almost question whether your training ever included any Temple history.”

“No, I had a useless teacher.” Wyn dismissed all education with a wave of her hand. “Dani told me it was Saint Rowenna’s armor, but I don’t remember absolutely every tiny detail of what her holiness did. I remember she killed a snake, that part was interesting.”

“A snake god,” Eilidh corrected her. “A vile spirit the serpent priests had summoned.”

“Didn’t they feed people to it?” Wyn wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I remember that part, too.”

“They did,” Killock agreed. “Starting with the king of Setisthor and his family. For five years the priests sacrificed to it, until it was hideously bloated and the priests ruled unopposed. But Saint Rowenna led an army to Setisthor and killed the serpent, and she restored the realm to its people.”

“Oh, I see. And now everyone is supposed to think about how nice it is to have someone around to kill terrible gods like, oh, I dunno, the magi.”

“And return the realm to its rightful rulers,” Danielle added. “It is far from subtle.”

“It is not subtle,” Killock agreed. “Wearing Rowenna’s armor will be noticed, the message will be unmistakable, and that is Reverend Nesta’s wish.”

“I understand, but that does not mean it sits well with me.”

Killock pondered that for a moment, a thoughtful frown creasing his skin into a web of leathery crevasses. “You have earned the right to wear whatever laurels you choose,” he said at last.

“Yet I did not choose this. Nesta did, and the choice does not sit well with me. I am not a hero such as Saint Rowenna.”

“Nor was Saint Rowenna,” Killock replied. “Myth burns away fear and doubt as it burnishes the legend.”

“Now you sound like Saint Pepin.”

“Which one is Pepin?” Wyn asked.

“The one with the books.”

“Ohhh. What did Pepin say?”

“ ‘A hero is not courageous because they lack fear, but because they are driven by their purpose instead of their fear’,” Danielle recited. The words had seemed very wise when heard at a comfortable distance. Now they struck too close for comfort.

“How do you remember that kind of thing?”

“She listens to her teachers,” Killock replied archly.

“What stuff,” Wyn muttered. “So, he was talking about Saint Rowenna, was he?”

“No, Rowenna lived many years after Pepin’s time,” Killock explained. “Pepin was speaking of the Martyr.”

Danielle had not forgotten, but at Killock’s words she felt once more the rush of sorrow and compassion that had overwhelmed her when she first read Pepin’s words and understood for the first time that the Martyr she worshipped had been a girl who faced an unimaginable horror when all seemed lost, and died for her bravery.

Now affinity struck an even deeper chord within her. I remember the terror of a magus, how much worse must their god be? Yet Bronwyn managed to stand against it, despite doubt, despite fear. Can I find her courage?

Danielle drew in a deep breath against the hard shell of Saint Rowenna’s armor and searched for the surety of Rowenna and the Martyr. The courage to persist, as they had. Perhaps all that matters is that I do not falter. That, at least, I can promise.

“In any case,” Killock continued, “it’s a practical choice, as well as symbolic.”

“Sir Killock’s right, my lady,” Eilidh added. “You’d best get used to wearing armor if you’re going to be standing in front of the army with a sword in your hand.”

“And this is the best armor, right?” Wyn asked quickly.

“It’s the best,” Killock assured her. “Crafted by Grandmaster Polonius.”

“Right, well, that’s good enough, I suppose. Polonius, and so on.”

“Speaking of starting,” Killock said. “I am to tell you that the conclave is assembled and awaits your presence in the grand hall. All save Duke Thornton. He has requested a private audience before the conclave begins.”

Danielle nodded absently, then her eyes widened in sudden realization. “With me?”

“Yes, with the Chancellor of the Realm. Which is you, I believe.”

“What was I thinking when I agreed to that?” Danielle muttered. My doom is upon me. “Very well, tell Duke Thornton I will speak with him. Where is he?”

“The private study.”

Sir Killock departed as Danielle readied herself to march, but she was spared from that commitment when Eilidh suddenly spoke.

“Where’s your Blade, m’lady?”

“Oh, shit,” Danielle hissed in exasperation. “I had forgotten… what?” Wyn was staring at her with eyes so wide, Danielle thought her eyebrows would disappear into her hair at any moment.

“You said ‘shit’,” Wyn whispered in awe.

“I did? But why is that so shocking? I say shit.”

“You never do.” Wyn started to laugh.

“I think that I would know if I curse or not,” Danielle complained. I do not cling to Mamá’s skirts, do I?

“Such a naughty girl,” Wyn murmured, her gaze fixed hungrily on Danielle’s mouth, and Danielle felt heat bloom on her cheeks as her thoughts raced to promises of plundering like hounds set upon a hare.

“If you’ll just open its chest, m’lady, I will help you with the sheath,” Eilidh continued.

“You can help me with my sheath,” Wyn told Danielle, her eyes wide and dark, and Danielle feared another swoon that might endanger them all.

“No time for that, now, you two,” Eilidh said brusquely in her best training yard voice, more concerned with getting her charge out the door. “M’lady? The chest?”

“No,” Danielle said sharply, as her thoughts reluctantly returned from their lascivious interlude and scrambled to find an innocuous excuse not to carry the Blade that would need no further explanation. “We shall leave the Blade. I will certainly collapse from the weight of this armor, there is no need to hasten that end.”

“I’ll get you there, I promise,” Eilidh replied lightly, and Danielle quietly swallowed the guilty twinge she felt for concealing her fears and joined the knight with a smile.

Eilidh guided them through narrow passageways and down twisting staircases until Danielle was once again lost as she concentrated on imitating Eilidh’s effortless gait. “How do you do it?” she asked as she struggled not to teeter.

“Years of training, my lady,” Eilidh offered unhelpfully.

“I do not have time for that,” Danielle pointed out.

A final turn on the stairs brought them to the main floor, and a long passageway that led to the private study of the Lord of the Keep. Two soldiers in the livery of the Iron Army stood guard by the door, and Danielle felt she could sense Duke Thornton’s presence through the ancient wood, like a looming thunderhead.

“Are you ready?” Wyn asked.

“Whatever shall I say to him, to convince him to join us?” Danielle wondered, still hoping for some last moment reprieve.

“Unless you’ve got a few days for me to find some nasty secret to twist, you are asking the wrong girl,” Wyn muttered. “Not too late to escape, is it? I could nick us a nice little boat. Sail away before anyone was the wiser. I hear good things about this place named Lavandou.”

“One day, when this is all over.”

“You promised we could visit,” Wyn reminded her. “I’ll not be pleased if that were just fancy talk to get in my knickers.”

“I did. It was not.” Danielle felt a serene calm envelop her as she recalled the miserable fire they had huddled near, so long ago, and the warm certainty that had filled her that day, that she would love the young woman next to her for the rest of her days.

That was the first time I dared to hope it might be true, she realized. The first time it seemed possible that this fierce, wild, wonderful girl might truly love me. Wyn had told her that she loved her that day, and passion had bloomed in her heart as if she were some Device that Wyn had unlocked. And every day since she has shown me that she spoke truly, though I have forced such trials upon her.

“Wyn,” she said softly, and she grasped Wyn’s arm and drew her close. A gleeful urgency swelled in her chest, as if she might take wing if only she dared to leap quickly before the chance passed by.

“Dani, what…?” Wyn replied.

“Wyn, what if we did not simply visit Lavandou?”

“How’s that?”

“What if we stayed there?”

“How do you mean?” Wyn asked, and her smile melted slightly in puzzlement. “For how long?”

“Forever,” Danielle replied, and she felt a surge of elation as the word passed between her lips, for it encompassed a lifetime together, endless days to be sculpted into golden memories of love and companionship. Danielle could hear Wyn’s laughter as they plunged into the turquoise waters that filled the bay beneath the palace, see her eyes widen in delight as they explored the gardens that Danielle had played in as a child, feel the warmth of her skin as they wandered the marble terraces of the palace, hand in hand. Forever.

“What, like live there?” Wyn’s smile transformed into something wry and dismissive.

Have I frightened her? Danielle wondered, and elation twisted into concern with cruel speed. I did not think… it is too much, too quickly. A strange land, a new life. Of course she is surprised to have such things thrust upon her, I am a fool.

“Perhaps not,” Danielle continued quickly. “Perhaps long enough to thaw, yes? And then return north. I could buy an estate on the river, or perhaps a house in Kuray? I know the city is dear to you.”

“Can you imagine how bored we’d be, sitting around and ordering the maids to bring us tea all day?” Wyn scoffed. “I’d probably nick all the silver, just from habit.”

“Of course.” Danielle forced a smile, though her cheeks felt as if they were made of ancient stone, shattered with the strain of the ages. I was an absolute fool to thrust the future upon her so shockingly, with so little concern for her thoughts, and in so inappropriate a venue. We are such different creatures. I must not presume to know her desires. “What a terrible idea.”

Wyn’s eyes widened in concern. “Oh, Dani, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were serious, I thought you were having a laugh.”

“Do not be concerned, it is my fault,” Danielle replied quickly. “I was not thinking.”

“I’m really sorry, we can do whatever you would like, that all sounds lovely. Much better than anything I could come up with, I’ll tell you that for free,” Wyn said consolingly, but her pity only stoked the shame that throttled Danielle’s voice.

Always she is ready to make me happy, yet my vision of our future is so far from what would please her, it is a joke to her.

“Do you see?” Danielle asked softly. “I was right. The most compassionate heart I have ever known.”

“Dani—”

“No, I am fine, I promise,” Danielle told her. “But I must speak with the duke, now.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am,” Danielle replied, and she forced a weak smile that did not relieve the worried frown creasing Wyn’s brow. “Now, go, and we shall talk after the conclave is done.”

“All right,” Wyn agreed, though she turned away slowly, and glanced behind frequently as she departed.

“Maker, what a farce,” Danielle muttered once Wyn had disappeared. She closed her eyes and tried to sigh, but the breastplate was far too tight to give her any satisfaction.

“What is, m’lady?” Eilidh asked.

“I can barely walk,” Danielle pointed out, retreating to a less awkward topic.

“You will grow accustomed to it, I promise. And once they finish tightening it up, it will rest far more comfortably.”

“Finish… tightening? It will be tighter?”

“Yes, my lady. Get everything nice and snug and overlapping properly, it’ll feel like a second skin.”

“I will take your word on it, Sir Eilidh, although I find it hard to imagine. What wisdom would you tell me, if I were your squire?”

“If you pass out, you get latrine duty.” The knight’s stern visage softened, and a smile twitched the corner of her lips. “You look splendid, my lady, and don’t worry. It feels worse than it looks, I promise. Duke Thornton will think you are Queen Aoife, herself.”

As the guards turned to open the door, Danielle took as deep a breath as she could to try to calm the roiling sourness in her stomach. The door cracked open with a deep groan of ancient hinges, and she strode into the bright light of the room beyond.

Duke Thornton rose to greet her, elegant in a blue jacket with a black collar and long tails, its heavy cloth pulled taut against his powerful shoulders and arms.

Danielle approached and offered him her hand, and though it was encased in steel, he took her fingers and murmured, “My lady,” as if they were introduced at a ball.

“Your grace,” Danielle replied.

The duke nodded to her, the broad buttresses of his cheekbones casting deep shadows across his trim beard, transforming its iron into the coal-black of its youth.

What does he want to speak of? Danielle wondered. A chance to reach agreement before the conclave? I wish it may be so easy.

“I am astonished,” the duke informed her, his deep voice effortlessly filling the room with low thunder.

“How so, my lord?”

“I had heard you were grievously wounded, assaulted by vile assassins. Is that only rumor?”

Danielle’s eyebrow arched in surprise. That is not a topic I had thought to discuss, today. “That is true, my lord, but I am shocked you should have heard of it in Irongate. Surely, a single wound would carry no great reputation amongst the soldiers of your Iron Army.”

“I find that any wound can leave quite the impression,” Thornton replied with a chuckle, and he traced several of the faint scars that crossed his face, pale lines that shone on his wind-burned skin.

“It is gracious of you to be concerned, but I have recovered.”

“I am pleased to hear it, my lady, and may I say, none the worse for wear. I would swear that you have not changed since I last saw you, which must be, what, two years ago?”

“Yes, in Ráthmór,” Danielle replied, pleased to have such an easy opportunity to remind the duke of the aid the Temple had given his past campaigns in the Ironbacks.

“A good summer,” the duke mused. He scratched absently at a particularly crooked scar that ran between two pronounced ridges on the broad crest of his nose. “I missed Lord Bradon this year. A hard loss.”

“The hardest,” Danielle agreed, her voice hardly louder than a whisper.

“I valued him greatly. Not only as a soldier, though there were none finer. No, I valued him as a friend, and I hope he would say the same of me.” Thornton paused, and the muscles at the corner of his jaw moved as he chewed his next words. At last, he met Danielle’s gaze, his eyes dark beneath the thick ridge of his brow. “And I believe you, too, would count him as a friend.”

“I did. I do.”

Thornton nodded slowly to himself, as if some thought had proven correct to his satisfaction, and he clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Bradon’s friendship speaks highly of you, my lady,” he rumbled. “It is why I traveled here, to honor that friendship, and his memory.”

“I wish he were here.” Danielle smiled gently. “The world is too quiet without his laughter.”

“Aye,” Thornton agreed, then he grimaced, and his gaze hardened, and Danielle was suddenly aware of the heavy strength of the man standing before her. “That was a good summer, the year we met in Ráthmór. This summer is not.”

“We agree on that, my lord.” Danielle raised her chin so that she could keep her gaze level with Thornton’s.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. That is what we are here to decide, isn’t it?” Thornton grunted. “As far as I can see, the Temple has caused as much strife as Campbell and his idiots.”

“I am certain there is fault to share. But only one man has committed treason.”

“Hmmm,” Thornton mused. His hand went to his waist and his thick fingers fussed for a moment with his pipe before leaving it in the pocket of his vest. “I have lost track of the number of messages I have received this year accusing someone of treason. One of them named you and Karsha Hali, I believe.”

“And?” Danielle asked sharply. “And what is now your belief?”

“Now?” Thornton clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “I believe it is time for us to join the others, so that we may listen to what you have to say.”

The duke escorted her in silence to the grim, black doors of the keep’s great hall. As the doors groaned open, the chamber beyond filled with the sound of rustling cloth and scraping wood as the assembly rose to greet them. Ranks of chairs and benches filled the hall and were packed with people in solemn coats and somber dresses, all staring at her.

At the far end of the chamber stood the great table, with a dozen chairs set behind it, occupied by Baron Arledge and the luminaries of the Temple. Sir Alroy’s grim throne was at the center, and Thornton claimed its forbidding presence without hesitation, leaving Danielle the seat to his left.

“Thank you, my lords and ladies,” Thornton announced in a booming voice. “Let us begin.”

For the Good of the Realm

Karsha Hali shifted on the polished oak of his chair and tried to coax some feeling into his posterior, to no avail. Have mercy, great tree, he begged the chair. Remember a time when you bent and swayed as you played with the sylphs, when soft earth cradled your roots. You were not always so unforgiving as now. I shall make sacrifice to your strength, I swear it, only grant my old bones some ease.

But the spirits were too proud, or perhaps too long departed, and Karsha grimaced as he tried a different posture. Now my legs join my ass in surrender, he grumbled. He swung his feet experimentally. If he stretched his toes he could just reach the thick carpet beneath his chair, but not enough to offer relief.

Karsha sank against the high back of the chair and pulled his legs under him, one crossed over the other beneath his robes. A civilized posture, he congratulated himself as he luxuriated in the pain returning to his feet, one stinging throb at a time. A smile spread across his thin lips, and he beamed at the people around him. Some frowned in distaste, others blinked in shock and quickly looked away. Only the Queen’s sister smiled gratefully in return, brightening her face momentarily before she returned to glaring at the lord who was speaking.

Still bickering? Karsha wondered. He had paid little attention, preoccupied as he was with more important matters, such as the state of his buttocks, but he had hoped that some consensus might have been reached in the interim. What is this one saying? Ah, the harvest, of course. Gold swaying in the fields, precious talens that will rot if not collected.

“You shall reap blood and death, not barley,” Karsha croaked at the lord, interrupting him. All eyes were on him now, no longer sliding away. “It will sweep across your little fields, and you will cry out, what a fool I was, to whimper so, when I had the chance to stand with others against this fate.”

“I…” the lord spluttered. Karsha tried to remember the man’s name, but could get no closer than Lord Weevil, which he thought was unlikely to be correct, before the lord found his voice again.

“Without the harvest, the winter will be a lean one, and my people will suffer needlessly. Perhaps my lord does not realize that.”

“After six years that brimmed with blessed rain and nurturing sun?” Karsha chuckled. “The granaries in Kuray groan for relief, and millers weep to see their stones wear away from their endless labor. How has your land not shared in this bounty? Have you insulted the gods? Stolen their lovers? Plundered their hoards? Praised their rivals? Lean winter…” Karsha gave his best snort, the one that he had paid two handfuls of acorns to a boar to be taught.

A sharp bark of laughter echoed from the far end of the table as Lord Weevil’s face turned purple, but Karsha was relentless in his glare, and the lord collapsed in his seat, muttering about ‘stores’ as he subsided.

“War is coming,” Karsha announced to the assembled lords and ladies after a calculated pause. “The Crunorix will find each of you, and they do not care whether your granaries are full or empty. Their soldiers do not eat grain, they feast upon the flesh of the living, and sacrifice them to their masters. This is your fate if you squabble and delay.”

“My lord speaks of a threat from ancient myth,” a deep voice spoke from Karsha’s left, rich with refinement as it wrapped around its words. Karsha faced the new speaker, a tall lord with iron-grey hair, whose elegant cheekbones formed a high ridge over sunken cheeks and withered mouth. The lord’s shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his years and the rich coat he wore, but his gaze was sharp, and his knobby fingers did not shake as he pressed them against the table’s surface.

Lord Dúnchluaidh. Karsha knew the old earl well, an unrelentingly arrogant, unyielding man, whose gnarled roots were sunk deep into the fertile land of the Abhainn Albyn valley. Karsha was fairly certain that Lord Dúnchluaidh had hated him for forty years, and he knew that he had loathed the man for only a dozen breaths less, the time it had taken for him to be introduced to the earl.

Yet Karsha was fascinated by the old lord’s two children, who gave every sign of despising their sire more than Karsha did. The son was as vain as a rooster, but could cut steel with his wit, and the daughter shattered every expectation of courage and wisdom. Karsha thanked the gods daily for whatever whim had caused them to lead the siblings to the Queen in her time of need.

“It is our duty to care for the lives of our people,” Lord Dúnchluaidh continued reasonably. “A tale of supposed threat does not mean that we should rush to war. It would be unforgiveable to risk our people’s lives in such a manner.”

There was a murmur of agreement among the assemblage of lords and ladies at this.

Karsha bowed to the nobles as if accepting their wisdom, then turned to the figure seated at the center of the table.

“You have read General Boone’s report?” he asked Duke Thornton.

The duke leaned forward, his hands pressed against the table. “That’s why I am here,” Thornton growled, and the chorus rapidly subsided.

Karsha fashioned a mask of utter disinterest and carefully affixed it over his features, the haughty indifference of a cat at rest. At last. Perhaps the gods will hear the end of this story before the sun rises after all.

“And your thoughts?” Karsha asked.

“It sounds like a load of Temple horseshit to me.”

The chamber quieted in an instant, and he heard a gasp of dismay from Lady Danielle, but Karsha was not concerned by the duke’s response. You would not have traveled so far if that was the entirety of your reply.

“But?” Karsha prompted.

“But, General Boone does not indulge in Temple horseshit. And the situation may be much worse than you fear. We’ve heard stories from some of Redteeth’s warriors we’ve captured, tales of clans driven south, of the dead rising from their caverns and walking the earth. It sounded like a load of shaman horseshit to me.”

“And now?”

“And now I think the realm faces threats from within and without. The duty of this conclave is not to debate whether we shall respond, but how we shall respond.”

“Well said, my lord,” Lady Danielle agreed with the duke.

Be patient, Karsha urged her. Do not leap without a glance to measure the fall. Grant him the time to reveal his hopes and fears.

Voices swelled to fill the chamber once more, but Karsha stood before any could command the floor, and he produced a sheaf of parchment bound in string and brandished it like a sword thrust into the air.

“General Boone considers a campaign against the Crunorix!” Karsha bellowed over the chatter. “The Queen calls her nobles to support her general in this. Each of you here has a role they must play.”

“Your grace, you have seen this plan?” Lord Dúnchluaidh demanded.

“I have, it is sound,” Thornton replied. He tuned to his right and stared down the table at the figure in ebony armor at the far end. “Sir Roland, I would also hear your thoughts. I have stood at your side at enough councils of war to know their value.”

“The strategy is sound,” Sir Roland said quietly. The Knight Commander had not made a sound, had not moved other than to shift his weight since the conclave had convened, and now the rasp of his voice cut off the rising murmur of the conclave like a cleaver.

“If this threat exists,” Lord Dúnchluaidh said into the silence.

“I do not doubt the General’s assessment,” the duke replied. “If he believes the threat exists, it is real.”

“And this is the only path?” To Karsha’s surprise, the question came from beyond Thornton, where the reverends of the Temple had nested in their brown robes. Reverend Nesta leaned forward, her gaze as sharp as a hawk’s. “Tens of thousands of soldiers racing to confront the Crunorix? I recall that a similar strategy had rather disappointing results when they tried it a thousand years ago.”

“It is a path,” Karsha answered. “Without a doubt, it is the best path that an army might tread, but whether it is the best path for the realm? That is a queen’s decision.”

“That is what we must consider, my lord,” Duke Thornton said gravely. “For there we touch on matters far less certain.”

“To what do you refer?” Lady Danielle asked Thornton, her brow arched in puzzlement.

“War is a terrible thing to contemplate,” Thornton said gravely, and Karsha saw heads nodding in the assembly, already agreeing with the duke though they had no hint of what he might say next. “The realm will be weakened. Her blood spilled. Her cities burned.” Thornton paused to turn toward the south, as if his sight could pierce the thick walls of the chamber and see the devastation on the southern slope of the city. He drew in a deep breath, then continued, “And so I will not consider war until I am satisfied that the command is a righteous one.”

This time the approval was louder than a murmur, a wave that peaked with shouts of, “Hear him!”

“This is the Queen’s will,” Karsha replied.

“I do not hear her voice,” Thornton pointed out.

“Ah, but you do.” Karsha produced the scroll that named Lady Danielle as Chancellor and passed it to the duke. Thornton frowned as he read the few lines, then let the scroll curl against his thick fingers.

“I see Her Majesty’s name, but not her seal,” he observed.

“Alas, the traitor, Campbell, seized the signet during his rebellion,” Karsha explained. “But you recognize her hand, and her signature.”

“Perhaps. Yet, I, too, have a piece of parchment that claims to be the Queen’s will. It names Duke Campbell as the Queen’s regent. It does have Her Majesty’s seal.”

Karsha shook his head sadly. “A terrible falsehood.”

“Is it?”

“Your grace, you know it is,” Baron Arledge interrupted, his cheeks flushed. “Why, I was there when Duke Campbell was relieved of his command and summoned back to Kuray. I sent one of my own knights to escort Campbell, and Sir Connor never returned. Are we to believe the Queen was simply overcome with the need to relinquish her throne upon Campbell’s arrival? Or shall we consider that the rebuke pushed Campbell into committing this heinous crime? Come, my lord, your heart knows the answer.”

“Perhaps,” Thornton allowed, but the dark frown did not leave his brow, and was turned on Karsha. “I must also consider how many of these commands came from that man’s pockets. Relieved of command, summoned to Kuray, appointed Chancellor… the list is long, and I wonder at the certainty that some would have us accept without question.”

“A heavy burden,” Karsha agreed. “But not as heavy as some. Oaths of loyalty. Oaths of obedience. Oaths of sacrifice. Such noble words are a terrible weight, yet I have seen a great hall, filled with mighty lords and ladies who pledged such vows to their Queen. You must remember, my lord, for you knelt in the vanguard, as I recall.”

“Have a care, counsellor,” Thornton replied. “Yes, I remember my oaths. Three times I have knelt in that hall and spoken those words, and I would not be surprised if I will do it on a fourth occasion in my lifetime. And every year I have proved my loyalty to the throne with great sacrifice.”

The duke’s reticence did not sit well with Lady Danielle, Karsha saw, as her finger tapped out the moments until she could reply. He caught her gaze and gave a slight shake of his head.

Lady Danielle frowned, and leaned close to whisper, “We must make an answer. I will not hear him question Gabrielle’s rule.”

“Let him moan for a bit, it will do us no harm unless we respond.”

“Why?” Danielle whispered. She glanced briefly at Duke Thornton, who was now disclaiming on the topic of duty, then back to Karsha, a scowl twisting her lips. “I cannot imagine a worse result.”

“Oh, we are far from the finale,” Karsha assured her. “Yap, yap, yap… pay no heed.”

Lady Danielle glanced away, clearly frustrated, but she kept her peace as several lords and ladies took their turns repeating Thornton’s avowal in steadily more pretentious phrases.

“Lord Karsha!” Weevil’s voice rang out, high and quavering. “You swore to us that, if we stood with the Queen, the Royal Army would protect us from Duke Campbell. Now you say that General Boone is marching in the opposite direction?”

“It is worse than you know,” Karsha told Weevil. “Campbell has left Kuray with most of his army.”

“Bound where?” Weevil squeaked.

“We will hear their tread within a fortnight,” Karsha replied.

“That is foul news, indeed,” Baron Arledge muttered.

“That man has a talent for vexing me.” Nesta sighed. “Might I hope that General Boone has a suggestion?”

“He does.” Karsha shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe as a sudden chill passed through him. “He wishes us to enlist Duke Campbell as an ally against the Crunorix.”

Karsha heard a volley of gasps hiss through the chamber, and took great satisfaction in the shocked silence that followed. Most of the lords and ladies looked to Duke Thornton to judge how to respond, but the Iron Duke’s gaze did not lift from examining the scroll as he idly turned it in his fingers. Lord Dúnchluaidh was nodding sagely, with the smug pretension of one whose moral superiority had just been confirmed, while the Temple end of the table were watching Lady Danielle’s reaction to the news.

She does not seem surprised, Karsha realized.

“Surely not.” Reverend Nesta was the first to speak.

“Of course he does,” Lady Danielle replied bitterly. “If one is concerned only with armies and battles, and not with justice, one might suggest such a course.”

“The General is concerned with defending the realm,” Karsha interjected, but Lady Danielle continued speaking as if she had not heard him, and her gaze stayed rigidly forward.

“I condemned a man to death, in the Queen’s name, only days ago, for the crime of treason. But now I find that crime warrants a different penalty.”

“Alroy has nothing we need,” Karsha answered simply. “Campbell does.”

“And so, he is not bound by the law?” Lady Danielle asked, at last turning the fury of her golden gaze onto Karsha. “He struck Gabrielle in her own throne room!”

“An insult that is Her Majesty’s to forgive or not.”

“Gabrielle will never agree.”

Karsha smiled broadly to conceal his own disquiet beneath a shield of enthusiasm. “Her Majesty has agreed with General Boone’s plan,” he announced. “She will allow an envoy to Duke Campbell to discuss terms of his allegiance.”

“I am surprised,” Lady Danielle admitted, and it was clear that the news had shaken her.

“She has endured a sting to her pride for the sake of the realm. That is not surprising,” Karsha pointed out.

“He does not deserve her mercy,” Lady Danielle said sharply, and Karsha could see her temper in the thin line of her lips and the strain in her shoulders.

“Her mercy is for her realm, not Campbell,” Karsha explained. “This is a hard lesson that all monarchs must learn.”

“And who will carry this embassy to the duke?” Baron Arledge asked.

“Lady Danielle, the Chancellor of the Realm must present the offer,” Karsha replied, eager to step beyond the topic of the Queen’s enthusiasm for the embassy. “Though I shall accompany her.”

“Are you jesting?” Sir Killock’s voice was a low growl of disapproval. “What makes you think Campbell won’t hold her hostage?”

“It is all right. I shall speak with Campbell,” Lady Danielle said quietly. She inhaled deeply, set her shoulders, and continued. “I shall convince him to set aside his absurd claim, for the sake of the realm he professes to love.”

“Why would he listen?” Sir Killock asked.

“I do not know,” Lady Danielle admitted. “I do not know what words I shall say, nor that he will even give me the chance to say them. Perhaps he will be swayed by news of the Crunorix. Perhaps he has as little taste for war against his kin as we do. But I must try.”

“I shall stand beside Lady Danielle, as well,” Karsha reminded Sir Killock. “And the gods shall gather to witness our tale.”

“Will they help us?” Lady Danielle asked.

“Almost certainly not,” Karsha replied. “We are merely playthings for their amusement.”

“Wonderful,” Nesta muttered. “And if you fail, counselor, and Campbell declines to be swayed? What then?”

“The answers you seek are here.” Karsha waved his bundle of scrolls again. “The general tried to explain. Ha! His thoughts were as far beyond me as the stars themselves, and I begged him to commit his strategy with ink, so those who might understand could benefit from his wisdom instead of listening to a fool.”

“I see.” Nesta’s lips pursed in a thin line of disapproval. “So, either the embassy succeeds, or we spend the winter fighting two wars. I hope you are prepared, Lord Karsha.”

“I have pondered the nature of the gods of water, who are both unpredictable and relentless,” Karsha announced. “They shall guide me.”

“And what is the Temple’s stake in this?” Dúnchluaidh demanded. “The defense of the realm is not their concern.”

“It is not. We are concerned with a threat to all kingdoms, not just Albyn,” Nesta replied, her voice gentle and consoling. “The Temple isn’t all lofty towers. Only a few, really.” She turned to Thornton and continued. “We live in Albyn as well, my lord. It is our home, too. One has only to recall how Lord Bradon stood beside your grace in the Ironbacks on so many occasions to remember that the Temple will fight to protect its home.”

The duke had the grace to concede Nesta the touch with a nod of his head.

“Fairly put, your reverence, and I am certain every one of us would aspire to that same ideal. Yet, our path now is not as clear.”

“Surely not,” Baron Arledge insisted. “Your Grace, if you were to accompany Lady Danielle on her embassy, your presence would certainly sway Campbell to—”

The duke raised his hand to cut off his noble peer. “I have heard your words and I will ponder them. I will give you my decision tomorrow.”

With that, Thornton departed, and the door slammed home behind him with a hollow boom that echoed among the high vaults of the hall’s ceiling.

“There it is,” Lord Dúnchluaidh said smugly into the silence that followed. He rose from his chair, a thin, black-garbed slash of disdain, and swept from the chamber, and at his departure, the lords and ladies began their exodus, a flurry of whispering cloth and murmuring voices swirling around a few smothered laughs.

Lady Danielle silently watched the mob depart, her back as rigid as her steel garb, the small muscles at the corner of her jaw tense beneath her skin. Then she strode to the great fireplace and gazed at the flames, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Reverend Nesta murmured.

“I shall speak to Thornton privately,” Arledge huffed. “Never fear.”

“Do not trouble yourself, tonight,” Karsha suggested. “Our minds are weary, and our reason clouded.”

“Strike when you see the chance, I say,” Arledge disagreed.

“Thornton did not say no, my lord,” Karsha reminded the baron. “It would be wise to grant him the chance to say yes before we despair.”

“Mmmm, very well,” Arledge conceded, although the effort cost him dearly. “It is your alliance to build, and I will not foul your line.”

Arledge took his leave, as did the reverends, leaving Karsha with Lady Danielle and Sir Killock, who had joined her near the fireplace. They conversed in low tones, though Karsha did not need to hear their words to know what they discussed. The templar’s hand, resting gently on the lady’s shoulder, told the tale of comfort given, clear enough.

Karsha ambled toward the pair, in no hurry to interrupt their talk. But at the sound of Karsha’s shuffling approach, she rounded on him, her eyes flashing with reflected fire.

“A disaster,” Lady Danielle snapped. “An utter failure.”

“A dark assessment,” Karsha said consolingly. “And undeserved.”

“How so? We did not secure Duke Thornton’s aid. We did not even earn the support of the weakest runts of that yapping litter that awaited us tonight.”

“Perhaps the gods will visit with Duke Thornton tonight and help him see his path.”

“And the rest? Do you believe Lord Dúnchluaidh also spends his night pondering how to aid us?”

“Perhaps not,” Karsha admitted. “But they came, the Iron Duke came, and that was our victory.”

“I cannot see it as such,” Lady Danielle scoffed.

Karsha pondered the lady’s anguish for a moment as he weighed instruction against explanation and judged both against her patience. Perhaps the shortest path, he decided.

“The Iron Duke is the most powerful noble in Albyn, after the Queen,” he began, then checked himself with a chuckle. “As events have shown, he is second to none, in fact. His power is both in the strength of his armies and his fortresses and in the sway his words have at court and in the Lords’ Council, for his is the business of death and life, not crops and taxes. And this man travelled across half the realm, to us, and discussed a war against the Crunorix with us. Against the Crunorix. We named our enemy as myth, and the Iron Duke blessed our concern and our response without quibble, in front of enough lords and ladies that word will cross the realm. We could not have hoped for better.”

“Then, why…?” Lady Danielle indicated the abandoned high table with a helpless wave of her hand. “Why did he speak against us tonight? Why did he not denounce Campbell and join us?”

“Because Campbell’s insurrection doesn’t matter,” Sir Killock said quietly. “Not to Thornton. He told us, didn’t he?”

“He did?” Lady Danielle asked.

“Yes.” Killock met Karsha’s gaze and nodded slowly. “He said at the start. The realm faces a threat, and all that matters is how we respond. He will support whoever keeps the realm strong.”

“He commands the largest army in Albyn, after the Royal Army,” Lady Danielle said bitterly. “He could make certain the realm was strong by helping to end Campbell’s rebellion.”

“In truth, we should laud his forbearance,” Karsha said. “We already have one too many dukes who feel they should choose who should rule.” 

“They should fight for their sovereign,” Danielle said bitterly.

“They should,” Karsha agreed with a sigh. “And yet, it is right that they should demand proof, and we have none. Only reason, but it cannot sway every heart, even those that wish us well.”

“What must we do?”

“We must capitalize on our victory, tonight, and ensure that Duke Campbell is similarly swayed. Perhaps Duke Thornton will join us on our embassy, but even if he chooses to remain neutral in matters of civil war, the mere fact that he supports a war against the Crunorix will weigh heavily on Campbell’s thoughts.”

“Lord Karsha, all these fine speeches…” Sir Killock said gravely. “They will count for nothing when the Crunorix arrive.”

“I have not forgotten the urgency.”

“Good. I sometimes wonder if it is the game or the victory that is your pleasure,” Sir Killock replied. “I must speak with Roland about our preparations for the embassy, if you will excuse me.”

Killock nodded to Lady Danielle and strode from the room, his footsteps echoing from the bare stone. Karsha watched him depart, then glanced at the tall figure next to him, so rigidly fierce. There is no compromise in her heart when it comes to her concern for her sister, nor tolerance for those who do not share it. And nor should there be, but may the gods grant her the ability to at least conceal her disdain, and soon, or we shall have no allies at all.

A tiny crease appeared between Lady Danielle’s brows as she pondered, so similar to the Queen’s expression as she considered her lessons that he felt himself smile.

And I must have patience, too, he admonished himself. I have had years to guide her sister’s temperament, and to grow complacent with whatever small successes I have achieved with my pupil. That is my failure, and I must not forget that Lady Danielle is fresh to this crucible and must still be tempered and honed.

“You should have told me,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

“You already knew.”

“But not from you.”

“You were preoccupied.” You were overwhelmed with grief and recrimination for the deaths that occurred when the tower fell. “I thought to shield you from further concern until I knew what result we might claim.”

“I do not wish to be patronized, Karsha. You may find another to wear this armor if you wish, and I will say nothing, and still fight for Gabrielle. But if I am her Chancellor, you must not hide these things from me.”

Karsha nodded. “I should have told you.”

Lady Danielle held his gaze for another moment, her eyes dark, her nostrils flared, ready for the argument he would not give her. Then she inhaled and turned away.

“And what will you do?” she asked, her temper evaporating.

“I will go and speak with the gods.”

Karsha saw Lady Danielle’s lips tighten, but she had the courtesy not to show her frustration in any other way.

“Very well. I shall wish you good luck, and good night,” she said, and departed, her purposeful stride and rigid back revealing that she had more pressing concerns than humoring him or his gods.

He did not take affront. Lady Danielle’s mind was almost a Device, so attuned was she to the Guild’s particular art. And who could blame such a mind for struggling with the thought of other sorceries?

As her armored footsteps receded, he hurried in the opposite direction toward the ramparts that overlooked the river. At the top of the stairs, he was met by a cool curl of air that brought the damp touch of the river along with the trace of sweet smoke. A figure waited at the stone balustrade, and the glow from his pipe flared against his cheeks and brow as he puffed.

Karsha joined Duke Thornton, and he gazed at the long streamers of golden clouds that hung against the purpling sky while the river slowly faded from summer green to winter coal as it wound endlessly past the city walls beneath them. When the last color had leached from the world, the duke gave a grunt of satisfaction and turned to Karsha.

“Chancellor, Karsha? Really? You could not have made a worse choice.”

“I am very sorry, your grace, but I can easily think of a worse choice. Some stand upon this very spot.”

“Very droll,” Thornton growled. “Tell me at least that you advised Her Majesty against it.”

Karsha tilted his head up so that he could meet the duke’s gaze and held it. “What liege could trust the word of a counsellor who betrays his counsel?”

The duke blew twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils and scowled at the smaller man, and Karsha was suddenly reminded of the baking heat of the desert, and the coiled rage of a salamander cornered in its cave.

“Have it your way,” Thornton grunted. “It makes no difference how the appointment came to be, it’s a disaster.”

“I find Lady Danielle… Oh! I do her injustice. I find the Chancellor of Albyn to be a formidable woman.”

“Don’t be obtuse. You know as well as I do that it wouldn’t matter if she were Queen Aoife reborn, or the Martyr, herself. All that Dúnchluaidh and Wendell and the rest of them see is another Venaissine interloper clutching at another title that should be the privilege of a proper Albainn noble.”

Wendell… yes, that is Weevil’s name, Karsha mused to himself. But I shall not remember that. “Perhaps Her Majesty does not feel she can fully trust some of her nobles. Understandable, I think. A shocking number of them seem to be traitors.”

“Then appoint Arledge. Dúnchluaidh can’t complain about his family, and he seems controllable.”

“The appointment has been made, your grace.”

“Appointments can be declined. Karsha, you must make Lady Danielle see that this weakens her sister’s position, even if Her Majesty cannot. Campbell isn’t the only one who thinks Gabrielle should have stepped aside when King Arian died. Only two years married, and she barely knew enough of our language to accept our oaths of loyalty. Now she adds her sister to her council.” Thornton shook his head and glared at Karsha. “And there’s you. It’s hard to find an actual Albainn in Gabrielle’s court. If it weren’t for Boone, the Summer Queen’s reign would be finished, and you know it.”

“I know that the realm prospers under her rule, and that the people love her. I know that the greed of a few arrogant lords does not equate to what is best for all. I know that I have served three rulers of Albyn before her, and none of them loved this realm more than she does.”

“Perhaps that is true, but that won’t stop a war, and it won’t convince Campbell and his cabal to renounce his claim to the throne.”

“Campbell’s day is done,” Karsha replied amiably. “He was finished the moment he drew his sword against Her Majesty.”

“Because Boone is loyal to her.”

“Because Boone is loyal to the rightful ruler of Albyn. Also, her sister convinced the Temple to do everything they could to help restore her to the throne.”

“Neutral,” Thornton scoffed.

“Eh.” Karsha shrugged. “There is neutral, and then there is neutral.”

“Making Lady Danielle the Chancellor won’t help Her Majesty, it will hurt. She has no title, not in Albyn, and she’s a priestess, for fuck’s sake. Southerner, templar zealot, and she’s far too beautiful. It will remind everyone how Gabrielle came to the throne in the first place.”

“Loved by King Arian above all others, taken to be his lawful wife before the assembled nobility of Albyn?”

“Seduced a young prince and bedded her way onto the throne. Do you really think Arian would have married Gabrielle if he hadn’t been desperate to get between her legs? The youngest daughter of a Venaissine house? King Conall would never have permitted it.”

“His Majesty was not the most accommodating of fathers,” Karsha allowed. “Yet, even he could see the love between Prince Arian and Lady Gabrielle. Why else do you think he allowed his son to linger in Lavandou instead of returning home? Also, Lady Danielle was a paragon, not a templar.”

“And?”

“And therefore, not a priestess,” Karsha explained. “Regardless, she has renounced her place in the Temple to dedicate herself to the good of the realm, a conviction that Duke Campbell should cherish.”

“You cannot believe that.”

“No? How sad. The duke must be a hard man to convince.”

The duke stared at Karsha for a long moment, then slowly repeated the ritual of lighting his pipe, until orange glowed against his face and sweet smoke once again streamed from between his lips.

“He is,” the duke murmured. “And you know it. Yet you made Danielle the Chancellor, regardless.”

“Her Majesty appointed Lady Danielle her Chancellor.”

Thornton waved away the distinction. “You didn’t have the slightest interest in convincing any of Campbell’s nobles to desert him, nor even of courting the old guard, like Dúnchluaidh.”

“Her Majesty would welcome any of her loyal nobles to join her.”

“I wonder… for all his pretentions, Campbell is no strategist,” the duke muttered around the stem of his pipe. “Boone doesn’t need my help to defeat Campbell, he certainly doesn’t need Arledge, and Dúnchluaidh and his gaggle even less.”

“I pray that the gods may make it so.”

“No, you don’t.” Thornton grunted, a snort of displeasure and realization. “In fact, you pushed Lady Danielle in their faces, lined up your Temple allies alongside her. You don’t need them, and now Her Majesty has a nice list of names to reprimand, in addition to those whose titles are forfeit. The Lords’ Council will be much more accommodating to Her Majesty’s decrees, won’t they, once she’s purged their ranks? Assuming she regains her throne. I have been slow. It should have been clear from the start. I don’t imagine you’ve shared this little strategy with the Queen. Or Lady Danielle, now that I think of it.”

“Her Majesty desires a strong realm, united against our enemies. As do you.”

“Hmmm. Well, I would have given you good odds, with the Queen free from Campbell, Newbridge in your control, and Boone ready to fall on Campbell. Now? Now, I think you are playing a very dangerous game.”

“How dangerous?”

“Boone’s strategy is sound, but it leaves you no margin. If this dead army is as strong as he estimates, he could be engaged through the winter, or longer. That’s a long time to hope that Campbell doesn’t change his mind, assuming he agrees to stand alongside you in the first place, or that the Queen remains free of his grasp. Where is Her Majesty? You would produce her if you could.”

“You could help widen the margins, if you wished.”

“My loyalty is to the throne,” the duke replied. “Put the Queen back where she belongs, I will answer her summons.”

“What does a chair matter? Gabrielle is the Queen, no matter who sits in the Silver Keep.”

“A Queen who cannot sit on her own throne? Who cannot command her own keep?” Thornton drew heavily on his pipe and blew a ring of smoke into the cool air. “It matters.”

“And so, my lord?”

“Tell Boone I will do as he suggests. I will curtail the summer campaign in the Ironbacks, and when the snows come, the Iron Army will winter in Greymouth, ready to march north instead of west, if the need arises. He may count on us to stand beside him against any foe of the realm.”

“And when the snows pass, and, gods willing, the Crunorix are defeated? Where will the Iron Army stand on that day?”

“My loyalty will still be to the throne. On that day, make certain the Queen is seated on it, or make certain she is far from Albyn.”

Blackberry Wine

No one noticed when Wyn slunk into the great hall and quietly found a seat as far away from the high table as she could.

It had taken some time to swallow the shame that churned in her throat, enough of it, anyway, that she thought she could sit still and be proper and try to make Danielle proud, instead of fleeing to a dark corner of a tavern, which called with an urgency that was difficult to deny. There, she could drink enough to forget for a moment the awful wince of confusion and hurt that had twisted Danielle’s hopeful smile away, when she had laughed at Danielle’s dream of their future, instead of having to watch Danielle from a distance and remember every moment.

By the time she arrived the conclave was well-started, perhaps even well-middled, and the lords and ladies were taking turns spouting nonsense that kept the audience’s attention riveted to the front of the chamber. A lord wearing a massive steel breastplate was currently puffing himself up, apparently unaware that his narrow face and skinny neck poking from his armor made him look like a rat drowning in a barrel.

What’s he done to be so proud of? Wyn thought sulkily. Not a damn thing, except strut in here and kiss a bunch of arse.

Baron Arledge rose to congratulate Lord Rat on giving such a thorough tonguing, then blah-ed about duty and honor for a bit, until Wyn began to fantasize about dumping a pile of nightsoil in the center of the hall. Then the barrel-chested lord seated at the center of the high table said something very stern, and then a scrawny vulture dressed in a black coat replied with something very grim, and then everyone nodded dourly.

Ancient wood creaked as someone settled into the chair next to her, and Wyn grinned as she glanced at the young man who had appeared at her side.

“Hello, Wyn,” Cormac murmured.

“When did you get here?”

“I’m straight from the stables.”

“Phew, you certainly are,” Wyn teased, wrinkling her nose. “You stuck in the back, too?”

“Yes, thank the Maker. There was a moment I was afraid they were going to ask me to stand guard with Eilidh.”

“Your girl looks right chuffed to be up there.” In fact, Sir Eilidh looked like she was forged from flawless steel as she stood tall behind Danielle, her gaze sweeping the assembled nobles like a hawk searching for rabbits.

“Yours does, too.”

“Aye, she does.” Wyn agreed. She dared a glance toward Danielle and was rewarded with a vision of dark beauty and blazing steel that made her breath catch in her throat. How could I have been so cruel to her? And she still said I had a compassionate heart because that’s how lovely she is. I am such a plonker.

Wyn wrenched her gaze away from Danielle as she felt the first burn of tears in the corners of her eyes. “Where have you been?” she asked Cormac, retreating to a safer topic.

“North of the river, sitting in bushes while I counted Campbell’s soldiers headed our way.”

“Many?”

“Lots. How was the north? I heard you were busy.”

“Full of husks, all headed our way. Oh, I saw Mairi, she says hel—”

“Shush,” the noblewoman on Wyn’s other side hissed, her brow wrinkled with disdain.

“Shush, is it?” Wyn hissed back.

“Will you be quiet?” the old woman snapped. “Try to comport yourselves with some decorum. This is not a tavern, and I cannot hear with all of your muttering.”

Most of the nearby nobles had twisted in their seats and were now staring at Wyn. She squirmed uncomfortably and tried to shrink into the hard wood of her chair, and they soon lost interest and returned their attention to the front of the room.

Thank the Maker, she breathed. The scrutiny had mostly been bored, but there was enough contempt mixed in to be humiliating, and there had been some snickering, which Wyn feared was likely caused by her clothes.

She had worn what Danielle had bought for her without quibble, and, in truth, Wyn had been astonished by her reflection in the tall mirror in their chamber and had spent an embarrassing length of time twisting and turning in front of it when she was certain no one was watching, admiring her bum and the swing of her braids. But the bodice revealed a mortifying amount of skin, enough that Wyn felt the need to hunch her shoulders protectively and surreptitiously tug on the stiff cloth in a vain attempt to pull it higher at every opportunity.

My stupid ditties are going to pop out if I breathe too deep, Wyn grumbled to herself. I don’t know how Dani wears stuff like this all the time, but I’m glad she does.

Wyn was also quite pleased with her hair. The tight rows made her scalp ache, but she did not mind. Every time the long, braided tails bounced against her shoulders they reminded her that she was strong and fierce and dangerous, and her lips curled into a little snarl that was half smirk and half challenge that made most of the poncy gits near her glance hurriedly away.

“Mairi says hello,” she whispered to Cormac, after a pause calculated to make the old biddie next to her think that Wyn was through talking.

“She’s safe?”

“As houses. We got her well out of it, poor thing.”

“Good.”

Wyn tried to listen to the speakers for a while, but her mind kept slipping past the droning voices to more interesting thoughts, so that she would suddenly realize she had no idea what had just been said. And her chair seemed to have been fashioned to be as uncomfortable as possible, perhaps as the carpenter’s revenge against a hated lord. Wyn squirmed and skootched, but she had nowhere near enough padding to make her seat comfortable, and in the end subsided into a disgruntled slump. Her gaze slid to the high table like a coward, twitching away in fear whenever she thought that she might meet Danielle’s gaze. But once it had settled on Danielle, Wyn could not keep from staring at her. She sat proud and straight-backed, and her face was set in noble lines of purpose as she listened to Arledge, yet there was a stiff strain to the twist of her neck that made Wyn wonder if Danielle was denying the temptation to glance into the crowd.

She likely doesn’t want to see me, Wyn decided morosely. Just make her cry in front of everyone.

“How is Lady Danielle?” Cormac asked softly. “Is she recovered from the battle?”

“She’s…” Wyn struggled to find a safe response, and eventually gave up the quest. “She’s miserable, and I wish she weren’t.”

“Miserable? Because of Campbell?”

“Of course,” Wyn agreed, relieved to have an excuse delivered to her so neatly.

“I’d be angry, too, if it were my sister Campbell had betrayed. I am angry.”

“Yeah.” Wyn was silent for a moment, as she looked beyond her own role in Danielle’s suffering and struggled to sift through her memories and draw a conclusion from the jumble of happiness and fear and disquiet she had watched Danielle endure over the last days. “See, when Dani gets angry, she usually gets, I dunno how to describe it. She usually gets determined. Fierce.”

“And this is different?”

“Yeah. Now she seems like she’s angry at herself. Or discouraged. I don’t know.” Wyn chewed on her lip for a moment as she pondered. “And she’s being stubborn, as if she’s the one who has to do everything awful, by herself. How’s she not going to get killed?”

“Campbell doesn’t have anyone who can hurt her.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Wyn told him, and earned another “shhh” from the woman on her right, but Wyn ignored her and continued in a fierce whisper. “What did I just tell you we found in the north? You forget what a magus is like?”

“No.” Cormac hunched against his chair.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“What does she say?”

“She says no one else can do it.”

“She’s probably right.”

“That doesn’t make it fair, does it?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Cormac asked.

“Nothing. I just hate it.”

Karsha Hali was now speaking and Wyn tried to pay attention to whatever he was saying, as she usually liked the wizard’s stories, but she had missed the beginning and could make little sense of the middle, and his low, creaking voice seemed to wax and wane as a tide of uncomfortable shuffling rose amongst the listeners.

Then Danielle rose to address the conclave, and Saint Rowenna’s armor blazed like fresh snow among the somber nobles gathered in the chamber. Her gaze swept the gathering, and Wyn held her breath as she urged Danielle to find her, so that she might smile or wave, or give some sign that might wipe away the memory of her cruelty.

But Danielle gave no sign that she had seen Wyn as she began to speak, her voice clear and true and beautiful as it rose to the ceiling like the song of a summer dawn.

“Maker’s breath, listen to her bleat,” the noblewoman next to Wyn muttered contemptuously.

“Shhh,” Wyn hissed at her. “I can’t hear.”

The woman spluttered in indignation. Wyn caught, “… her little trollop…” and the woman’s companion smirked and glanced quickly at Wyn and away.

Wyn’s eyes narrowed, her chin thrust out defiantly, and her lips peeled back from her teeth in a savage snarl. But she choked back her curses and swallowed the smoldering rage that made her fingers curl into fists, her gaze focused rigidly on the high table.

Don’t make it worse, Wyn soothed herself. Don’t spoil her moment by proving everyone right.

Wyn slumped against her chair, hands tucked deeply beneath her arms to keep them restrained. She glanced at Cormac, and he shook his head sympathetically, a grimace of distaste twisting his lips as he glared at the noblewoman. But if Wyn’s anger had been searching for an ally to encourage it, it had chosen poorly. The veteran soldier could easily brush aside any amount of arrogance and then calmly get on with what needed doing, and Wyn tried to convince herself that emulating him was needed now.

Fuck her anyway, Wyn decided as she glared at the noblewoman’s profile. So I’m Dani’s little bint. So Dani has bad taste. Who cares?

The nobles at the high table were taking turns disagreeing with each other, now, the big lord next to Danielle doing most of the talking and little of the listening. In fact, it looked to Wyn as if no one was doing much listening, and as Danielle’s expression grew more frustrated, Wyn squirmed and wished she could leave.

“An amusing performance, I suppose,” the noblewoman on Wyn’s right muttered.

“I am glad you are so sanguine, my dear,” her companion replied. “It shows you great credit.”

“Needs must, I suppose. How has it come to this? Who would have thought that half the realm would fight the other half, just for Arian’s little queen and her haughty sister?”

You bitch. Wyn was not certain if she had spoken aloud, or if the thought simply seemed to echo from the walls with its ferocity.

Wyn was in motion before she could think about what she was doing. Her fingers flickered across the noblewoman, slipping into pockets and across the latches of necklaces and bracelets in a flurry of larceny that lasted no longer than a dozen heartbeats. Wyn knew it was rash. She had no distraction, no excuse to brush against her prey, and no concealment. But she did not care, and Wyn sat back in smug satisfaction that lasted only a moment before iron fingers closed firmly around her wrist.

“Come on,” Cormac hissed in her ear, and he dragged Wyn from her chair and out the door without waiting to hear her protest.

“Cormac, let go!” Wyn snapped at him as he led her away from the hall.

He finally released her and glared at her with his fists planted on his hips. “That was stupid.”

“What was?”

“Don’t.”

“She fucking deserved it,” Wyn spat. “Did you hear the bitch?”

“I heard her.”

“And?”

“And she deserved it. And you deserved to be caught and hauled before the high table as a thief.”

“No one saw.”

“I did, and you’re lucky if no one else did.”

Wyn scowled, but the sudden rush of cold fire through her limbs confirmed that she knew he was right. She had seen the results of careless thievery more times than she cared to remember, and she had mocked the practitioners as they were chased or caught. They deserved her scorn. I deserve it.

“Shit!” Wyn spat, and she kicked uselessly at the wall.

“I know,” Cormac agreed. “But, Maker, Wyn, all that risk, and for what? A bracelet and a few pennies? Your pride? Do you think she will care she lost a bracelet?”

“No,” Wyn agreed sulkily. “I just couldn’t help it, Cormac.”

“You’re being stupid, again. Of course you can help it. I’ve seen you deal with far worse than an old shrew.”

“I’m stupid, fine. You’ve made your point.”

“No, you’re one of the cleverest, sharpest, savviest people I’ve ever known, and that includes folks like Sir Killock and Lady Danielle. But you’re acting stupidly. Maker, steal all her jewels, I don’t care. Just do it proper and smile sweetly at her face while you do. Lady Danielle deserves better than having you caught like a common dipper.”

Wyn glared at Cormac. “I am a common dipper.”

“I reckon you’re a proper rogue, and more.”

“Yeah, I’m not half bad,” Wyn admitted with a rueful grin. “All right, I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Don’t promise me. Promise yourself. Promise Lady Danielle.”

“Martyr’s tears, Cormac, lay off a bit. I said you’re right.”

Cormac’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at her, his head tilting first one way and then the other before he finally relented. “All right, then.”

“Come on,” Wyn told him, and she led the way down a narrow passage.

“Where are we going?”

“I need some air.”

“And that’s it? No more revenge?”

“And something to drink. I need that, too.”

Taverns infested the cramped web of alleyways encircling the West Market, and Wyn was inexorably drawn to the sound of music and cheer that surrounded them. She halted outside a door that led beneath a rambling old storehouse, with nothing more than a faded brand on its wood to announce its trade.

“Don’t we have beautiful women waiting for us in the castle?” Cormac asked as he examined the door.

“They’ll be forever, yet,” Wyn told him. “All the high-muckities have to kiss each other’s puckers before they’re done.”

Which was certainly true, but it was mostly a mask to conceal Wyn’s true motive for staying far from the keep. In truth, Wyn dreaded her next conversation with Danielle, and her stomach twisted with fresh shame and anxiety as she considered her return to the keep.

I can’t go back, not until I know what to say to fix things. And it better be good, she told herself. Not some half-arsed shite about, oh, so sorry I absolutely shat all over your dreams. I need to figure out, is that really what she wants, or does she just think that’s what I want? How can I just tell her that I don’t care, I just want her to be happy, without sounding like an ungrateful bitch? Maker, I can’t mess this up, but I have no idea how to do this properly.

“Come on, that old biddie from the conclave is buying.”

“Fair enough,” Cormac agreed, and he pushed the door open and ushered her through with a bow.

The tavern was just what she had hoped for, a cozy grotto with straw scattered across its warped floor and its candles guttering smoke, but with a contented buzz of conversation and laughter throbbing in its murk. A thick block of a woman with a face as craggy as the city wall wiped off the end of a bowed table for them with a stained rag produced from her belt, and Wyn settled onto the bench with a contented nod to the herd of drovers gathered around the table’s other end.

“Perfect,” she declared. A flash of silver passed between her fingers and the tavernkeeper’s, and two wooden mugs filled with dark ale were provided with such haste that their thick suds sloshed onto the stained tabletop.

“That’s a brew and a half,” Cormac said appreciatively as he licked foam from his lips. “Make a man out of you, and no mistake.”

Wyn snorted into her mug. “I think Dani would be a bit horrified if I came back with a cock.”

“You’re taking a risk, then, with this stuff.” Cormac took another deep swallow. “Maker, good choice.”

“You spend a year on the road with a troupe, you learn how to spot the places to have a proper drink.”

“I forgot that you were a seasoned veteran. You don’t look it, ’til you have a mug in your hands.”

“Aye, I’m quite the pisshead,” Wyn agreed. “A real catch.”

“You’re not that bad,” Cormac said with a grin. “You’re only mostly a degenerate.”

“Worse than you can possibly imagine,” Wyn muttered into her drink.

Cormac nodded slowly at that, his head tilted slightly as he regarded her.

“Did Lady Danielle say something to you?”

“You’re not nosey at all, are you?”

“Maker, it’s no mystery there’s something weighing on you, you’re as skittish as a colt,” Cormac replied with uncomfortable insight.

“I…” Wyn took in a deep breath and closed her eyes in misery. “Dani said I could come and live with her, when this was all over.”

“That’s wonderful… isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Wyn glanced at Cormac and then quickly away. “She said we could go to Lavandou and live together in her palace.”

“Maker, Wyn, what’s wrong with that? Oh, no, she loves you and wants to spend her life with you.”

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Wyn replied, a fresh surge of anger and shame boiling in her stomach. “What’s wrong is that I laughed at her. I didn’t mean to, I thought she was having a laugh. I mean, me living in a palace. I’m such a clod, I didn’t twig she was serious, I just kept laughing, like it was the biggest joke.”

“Oh.” Cormac frowned and he took a long slurp from his mug.

“Yeah.” Wyn stared into her own mug and watched the foam slowly melt away. The ale had started to make the room throb, but nowhere near enough to satisfy her. She gulped the rest of the drink and signaled for more.

“It took me forever to notice,” Wyn continued morosely, once her mug was topped off again. She could not help but continue now that she had begun. There was a strange satisfaction in revealing her cruelty, like probing a sore tooth. “She looked so confused. She tried to pretend, but I think I really hurt her.”

“I suppose you said, gosh, I’m sorry, that was inconsiderate of me, let’s talk about it,” Cormac said, his voice high-pitched and squeaky in a horrible impersonation of her. “Let’s figure out what will make both of us happy, together, so there’s no unfortunate misunderstanding that could be sorted really easily by simply talking about it.”

“Uh, sort of,” Wyn replied. “I mean, I said I was sorry, and she said no worries, but I thought she was going to cry, she looked that hurt. And then she had to go and talk to the duke, so I just left. And that doesn’t matter, because I still don’t know what to say. I guess I never really thought about what we’re going to do once we’re not having to deal with all this shite. It’s a bit unnerving, I’ll be honest.”

“Hmmm,” Cormac mused, and Wyn was forced to thump him.

“So undeserved,” Cormac complained.

“Stop being stupid, and listen,” Wyn admonished him unsympathetically.

“I am. You were insensitive. Her Ladyship will understand, if you explain.”

“What are the chances I can explain, if I don’t understand, myself.”

“Well, you better think of something, or you really are an idiot.”

“I am an idiot,” Wyn agreed. “Could you not write down that stuff you said about figuring things out together? That was proper smooth.”

“I think it might be better if it sounded like something you would actually say.”

Maker, I don’t even know what I want, or what she wants, and it’s making my tummy squirm. She downed her mug in a few savage swallows, then shoved herself to her feet. “I just need a quick visit to the privy.”

“Already? You’re a bit of a lightweight, aren’t you?”

“I’ll have you under the table, don’t you worry. No, I expect that old biddie will remember who was sitting next to her when she realizes her bit and bobs are gone. If I’m lucky she’ll only report me to the city watch, so it’s probably for the best I don’t have them tucked in my pockets.”

A bracelet with a gold charm, a single pearl earring, a silver brooch set with jade, and a silk purse embroidered with a family crest all went into the privy. The thirty silver pennies from the purse, however, began to flow into the tavernkeeper’s pocket as fast as Wyn could drink.

The air grew steadily warmer with each mug, until sweat trickled between Wyn’s shoulder blades and her braids clung to her neck, and only a fresh cask still cold from the icehouse could offer any relief. The room at last began to spin, slowly tilting until Wyn swayed against the table as she giggled.

“You’ve not done very well for yourself,” Wyn accused Cormac as she peered at the meagre number of empty mugs arrayed before him.

“I thought one of us should be able to walk.”

“Pooh, it’ll be ages before I’m stonkers.”

“Not at this rate. I’m just wondering if stonkers or skint comes first.”

“I’ve still got…” Wyn fumbled in her pocket and peered at the result, mesmerized by the gleam of candlelight on silver. “Sixteen… seventeen crowns. Oops…” Metal chimed as a coin slipped free and spun crazily off the bench to disappear beneath the table.

“Where’s he gone?” Wyn wondered as she crawled after it.

“Save your pennies. We can spend them tomorrow night.”

“I want to spend them now,” Wyn snapped back. She could not find any trace of the missing coin among the dirt and straw, and she smacked her head on the table as she clambered back onto the bench.

“Ow,” she complained as she rubbed the spot.

Cormac stood and stretched. “That’s as good a sign as any,” he declared. “Finish up.”

“I’m not done,” Wyn grumbled sulkily.

“Wyn, we’re going.”

“You go,” Wyn said firmly. “Go on, I mean it.”

“Wyn, I—”

“I said, leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“I’ve spent more nights in taverns than I can count. I don’t need you to look after me, so fuck off.”

“If that’s what you want,” Cormac replied coldly.

“Run along,” Wyn told him, her gaze fixed on the surface of her drink.

Wyn did not hear Cormac leave, but when she next looked up, he was gone. She blew out a relieved sigh and slowly positioned her boots on his vacated bench, so that she could lean against the post at her back and begin to properly enjoy herself.

The drovers had long departed, but their place had been taken by two burly stevedores and a chubby man who smelled like a fishmonger. They groused about the price of bread and the smell of soot and barely glanced at Wyn, much to her satisfaction. The tavern was filled nicely, now, but five silver pennies passed to the tavernkeeper bought Wyn a bottle of blackberry wine and kept the bench next to Wyn unused.

No one cares, Wyn thought happily. No one gives the slightest shit who I am, or what I’m doing.

A strange conviction began to form in Wyn’s mind, that if she could only persuade Danielle to join her here, she could find the words to explain what she was feeling.

Why not? Wyn mused to herself. Just the two of us, having a drink, snug as could be. No fancy armor or soldiers, no one reminding us about horrible shit all the time. No one watching all the time, calling me a trollop.

I could tell her how I don’t know what I’m doing, that I’m afraid that what we want are different things, but that I don’t care, as long as she’s happy. She could feel hope flickering within the dark despair that had engulfed her, and it frightened her, as it promised more pain. But as its roots grew, she clung to it. Is that how she feels? Always wanting me to be happy, but never knowing what to do?

Wyn gave the tavern a fresh inspection, her gaze lingering on some of the more encrusted stains. Would she come here? I suppose she’d not mind. Remember her dancing? Wyn smiled contentedly as she recalled their evening in the Dancing Bare, the flushed joy radiating from Danielle like heat from the sun, and the graceful whirl of her long limbs. So why not ask her?

Wyn drained her cup of wine purposefully but did not rise from the bench. Because she’d never come here without me asking. This is my place, not hers, no more than a palace is where I belong. There’s no getting around that. Do I ask her to give up her life for me, or do I give up my life for her? How can either be the right thing? Maker, how can this possibly work?

She retreated glumly into a fresh cup, but her introspection was interrupted by a burst of laughter from a nearby table, where a pride of threadbare lads were entertaining their lasses. Wyn could not help but smile at some of their more ill-advised antics, and one of the girls had a bright giggle that was entirely infectious. A pair of dice appeared, and gulps of ale began to flow back and forth across the table, carried by a tide of good-natured laughter.

Wyn watched the dice work with a critical eye, but it was easy to see that no roller had the benefit of a sinister bounce. But she was watching the dice too closely, or was too deep in her bottle, so it was with a sense of sinking dread that she belatedly realized that a tall ginger lad at the table was watching her as intently as she was staring at the dice.

She looked away immediately, but it was too late. A surreptitious glance confirmed that he was still looking her way, and, worse, was whispering in his friend’s ear and pointing at her. A quick nod and a slap on the shoulder and the ginger lad was on his feet, striding purposefully toward her table, proceeded by a wide smile.

Maker, he’s not going to… Wyn tugged helplessly on the top of her bustier again, buried her gaze in her wine, and refused to look up when a lean shadow fell across her table.

“Evening, miss,” he tried. Wyn examined his boots, freshly cleaned but badly worn, one with a twisted buckle and the other with an improvised leather tie. Apprentice, she guessed. Carpenter, she decided, after a glance at the sawdust in the cuff of his trousers.

She waited patiently, far longer than it should have taken for him to leave, but instead he tried again.

“I noticed you seemed a bit alone,” he ventured.

Wyn finally looked up and met his gaze. He seemed pleasant enough, with a slightly shy smile and a freshly scrubbed face, and the hopeful glances being cast in their direction by his friends confirmed that this was about as straightforward an attempt to charm a girl as could be imagined.

“I’m not alone,” Wyn replied. She indicated the half-full bottle of blackberry wine with a rather reckless sweep of her hand. “I’ve got this to keep me company.”

He nodded gravely, but his smile did not waver in the slightest.

“You can come and have a drink with us, if you’d like. Bring your friend.”

“You and your mates?”

“If you’d like. Or, just with me, if you’d like that, instead. I’m buying.”

“I buy my own drinks, luv,” Wyn told him, and his face fell in an instant, so crestfallen that Wyn would have laughed save for the hurt it would have caused.

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss,” he mumbled.

“Aine.”

“Aine?”

“That’s me.”

“Oh.” He grinned ruefully. “I’m being proper slow, aren’t I? I’m Braden.”

“Bradon?” Wyn managed to gasp, the name almost too thick to force through her throat. Oh, Maker, I’m going to cry, she realized, as her breath caught and tears stung her eyes.

“Are you all right, Aine?” the young man asked, his dark eyes wide with concern. “Maker, what did I say?”

“I’m fine,” Wyn assured him, although she had to sniff and wipe uselessly at her eyes. “It weren’t anything you did. I had… a… a friend named Bradon, is all.”

“Oh. Looks like a sad story, I reckon.”

“There were happy parts, too, but, yeah, I guess the sad ones surprised me when I heard your name.”

“You sure you’re all right? I feel a proper idiot.”

“Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve got my friend here to cheer me up.”

“You can call me something different, if you’d like,” Braden suggested. “It’s just, I don’t feel right leaving, not until I see you smiling, again.”

“You’re a sweet lad, but I’m spoken for.”

“Of course you are,” Braden mumbled morosely. “Well, sorry for bothering you, Aine.”

“I tell you what.” Wyn stopped him as he turned to go. “I’ve more than enough of this plonk to share, and if you don’t mind teaching me how, I’ll come and have a go with your dice.”

“That’d be marvelous.”

They were welcomed into the happy group with smiles and laughter. Wyn’s blackberry wine was passed liberally around as the entire group explained how to roll dice at the same time, and Wyn bought another bottle to cheerful approbation as she set about trying to lose her remaining pennies to the worst players she had ever met.

The second bottle was quickly drained, and then reinforcements as well, and far too soon the working folk were yawning and blinking and making excuses about sunrise approaching as they disappeared, and Wyn realized with a start that the tavern was nearly empty, save for a few snoring mounds in the corner.

“I’ll walk you home,” Braden suggested as they left the tavern.

“I can make it on my own,” Wyn declared, although she was not certain which end of the alley she should choose to begin her journey.

“Aine, it’s not safe,” Braden insisted. “There’re soldiers everywhere, and I haven’t seen a city guard in days and days.”

“Pfft,” Wyn countered.

“Some of them look pretty rough, and Maker knows where they’re from.”

“Places like here,” Wyn guessed vaguely. She was not certain why it was so important that Braden never discover that she was staying in the keep, but there was no chance she was going to let him walk her to the gates. Maybe it’s because you’re shacked up with the woman who knocked down half his city? Bit hard to be sweet little Aine after that comes up. And Wyn was not yet ready to abandon Aine. She was far too comfortable a disguise, and Wyn’s stomach twisted nauseatingly at the thought of trading Aine’s concerns for her own.

Braden was staring defiantly at her, his arms crossed, and Wyn could not summon a coherent thought to challenge him. “All right, but just part of the way.”

He beamed as if she had promised him a gold talen for his efforts and offered her his arm.

“You’re a bit eager,” she mumbled as she fought down another queasy surge.

“Well, I’ve got a pretty girl keeping me company, and no one’s killing each other for the first time since First Day, so, yeah, I’m quite chuffed.”

“Good, good…” Wyn replied vaguely. Her stomach was becoming increasingly difficult to quell, and after a deep breath provided nothing more than dank air and the stench of something rotting in the gutter, Wyn stumbled to the edge of the alley and heaved up an astonishing quantity of blackberry flavored bile.

“Maker…” Braden muttered, and he patted her shoulder uselessly. Wyn heaved again, then tried to choke and laugh at the same time as a second pair of boots appeared at the edge of her vision, these ones of thick leather and heavy steel.

“All right, lad, I’ve got her,” Cormac told Braden.

“Who are you?” The young man glared at Cormac.

“It’s fine,” Wyn assured him as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “He’s my brother.”

“Your… he is?”

“Hi, sis,” Cormac added helpfully.

“Well then,” Braden said glumly. “I suppose I’ll say goodnight.”

“Thanks for the fun,” Wyn told him. “Might be I’ll see you around.”

Braden brightened at the thought. “I hope so, Aine. Goodnight.”

Cormac slipped an arm around Wyn’s waist and half-carried her from the alley and along a narrow, twisted street, as Wyn stumbled and tripped over every cobblestone.

“Were you waiting out there all night?”

“ ’Course I was. Just waited until the puking was over, then made my move. That’s wisdom, that is.”

“My hero.”

“Come on, Aine, let’s find your bed before more of that wine makes an appearance.”

Wyn eased the door closed and slid the bolt soundlessly home, her brow wrinkled in anxious concentration, then leaned heavily against the door, the solid wood an anchor against the slow tilt and sway the room was undergoing.

She breathed deeply to still the movement and pushed herself away from the door, fingertips resting cautiously on the wood to guard against any lurking wobbles, although she did not think she was about to pitch onto her face. Again. A small giggle escaped her as she inspected the mud encrusted on her clothing. Worth it, she decided.

She slowly removed her boots, wobbling ungainly on first one foot then the other, then her muck-hemmed cloak, and piled them next to the door. A wide splatter of filth adorned the side of her new trousers, so those were peeled off as well and added to the pile. Her bodice fought valiantly but its laces at last succumbed to her fingers and was tossed aside, then her tunic, so infused with wine, smoke, and sweat that its smell made her nose wrinkle and her lip curl as she struggled free from its sodden embrace and dropped it on the floor.

The room did not feel quite so much like an oven now that she had shed her clothes, but it was still hot enough that her thoughts seemed to ooze and plop like thick porridge, and her stomach began to roil. Wyn judged the turmoil of her innards as she considered a detour to the privy, then declared herself almost certainly safe from further upheaval.

Her braids had fallen over her shoulders as she had disrobed, and she mechanically shoved them behind her head as she steeled herself to cross the room.

She weaved between the chairs to the bedchamber door, stifling laughter at every stumble along the way, and remembered at the last moment to lift the doorknob as she opened the door to stop the slight groan and shudder the hinges gave at the start of the swing.

A single candle sputtered on the nightstand, almost drowned in its own wax, its flickering light barely enough to guide Wyn to the bed. She crept the final distance, then halted at the foot, clutching a bed post, as she gazed at the sleeping figure in the bed.

Danielle was as beautiful in sleep as she was awake, her body a series of long, graceful curves beneath the blankets that a sculptor would despair of replicating, and Wyn held her breath, intent that she should not disturb the gentle sigh of Danielle’s breath. Her hair was a cloud of sable against the pillows, swept back from her face as if a breeze stirred her locks, save for a single, curled strand that lay across her cheek, and a languid pulse throbbed beneath the delicate skin of her slender neck, gentle and strong as the rush of the sea across soft sand.

How long she gazed silently, Wyn was not certain, only that at some point she had knelt beside the bed to rest her head upon the mattress without interrupting her vigil, and that the heat of the room seemed about to bring the cloying churn in her stomach to a boil.

She hauled herself to her feet, crossed the thick carpets to the window, and drew back the drapes. A faint golden line traced the gentle hills along their crests, bright against the darkness that lingered in the valleys between, and a pale blue wash spread across the sky, gradually merging with the ink that blotted the west.

Wyn carefully released the window’s latch, pushed the heavy pane open, and cool air flowed over her like crystalline water. She closed her eyes and drew in the cold air to banish the heavy fog from her thoughts and the sourness from her stomach.

An icy drop of sweat trickled down her neck, and Wyn gathered her braids in one hand and held them away from her skin to allow the breeze access, turning her head to chase each small stir of air as it curled through the window. Another deep breath, and her stomach returned to contented burbling. Another, and the world’s spin calmed to the swell of a gentle sea rather than the sway of a storm-tossed branch.

Wyn heard the bed creak behind her, and then the soft pad of bare feet on carpet. She turned to watch Danielle glide toward her, and her breath caught as an ache of longing swelled in her chest and throbbed in her throat.

Danielle’s skin was rich shadow against the snowy fabric of her nightdress, cool bronze beneath the elegant line of her jaw and in the deep hollow at the base of her throat, with warm lines of amber that traced the arc of her collar and the graceful curves of her neck as they caught the timid light from sun’s first rays. A smile kissed full lips and softened the sculpted lines of high cheekbones, and her golden eyes were wide beneath slender brows as they met Wyn’s gaze.

“Hello, beautiful,” Wyn greeted her.

“Hello, my love.” Danielle pressed against Wyn, and her lips brushed against Wyn’s cheek for a moment before she pulled slightly away, her nose wrinkled.

“Sorry if I stink,” Wyn said ruefully.

“You do not… stink,” Danielle replied, “but there is an odor.”

“I’ll bet. I got a bit sweaty.”

“I like the smell of your sweat. No, you smell like… pipe smoke?” Danielle sniffed again. “Also, fruit?”

“Blackberry wine.”

“Did you drink any of it? Or just bathe in it?”

“It was a bit of a night.” Wyn glanced at her fingers, twisting helplessly on the windowsill. “I may still be a bit sozzled. Sorry.”

“I do not mind. I am happy you enjoyed yourself,” Danielle told her. She faced the sliver of sunrise and inhaled the crisp morning air, her eyes closed and her brows arched in bliss, while her nightdress caressed the long curves of her waist and hip and the swell of her breasts. Then Danielle blinked her eyes wide, tilted her head slightly, and looked slyly at Wyn.

“But I missed you last night,” she murmured, and the skin beneath her jaw darkened as her breath grew heavy.

Wyn slid into place against Danielle’s back, molding herself to Danielle’s curves, and she wrapped her arms around Danielle’s waist. She could feel the heat of Danielle’s skin and the gentle shift of muscle beneath it as though the thin cloth of the nightdress separating them did not exist.

“I meant to come back much earlier,” Wyn mumbled against Danielle’s shoulder. “I dunno how it got to be so late.”

“It is not late. It is early.” Danielle’s fingers twined with Wyn’s and pressed them against her breasts, filling Wyn’s hands with their soft weight. “We have all the time we desire.”

Wyn nestled into Danielle’s silken hair and breathed in her scent, like sun and dappled shade and a warm breeze that stirred bright petals, and she bit gently on the soft skin at the nape of Danielle’s neck and tasted salt.

“I love to feel you against me,” Wyn murmured.

Danielle twisted in her embrace to face her.

“Take me to bed,” Danielle whispered, her breath hot against Wyn’s lips.

“Yes, please,” Wyn replied. She kissed Danielle, urgently, and the taste of warm sun caressed her tongue as she lost herself in the woman she loved.

Wyn sighed in satisfaction as she let the morning air cool the sweat that gleamed on her skin. She stretched luxuriously, her toes pointed, her fingers tangled in the overwrought filigree that covered the headboard, then gave a soft purr of contentment as she basked in the aches of pleasure pulsing through her body.

Danielle was curled against Wyn with her head pillowed on Wyn’s shoulder, as her fingers absently traced the gentle slope of Wyn’s abdomen and explored her navel, her touch sliding over Wyn’s sweat-slick skin.

“Sorry I’m so sweaty,” Wyn murmured. “It’s your fault, though.”

“You are not the only one, anymore.” Danielle’s fingers reached Wyn’s hip and traced the long ridge to her waist. “I told you, I like your sweat, and besides, you are just a little wet, hardly enough to notice.”

“Huh… you must be doing something wrong,” Wyn mused.

Danielle’s fingers froze, then curled into claws that slowly dragged across Wyn’s stomach. “You have made me blush,” Danielle told her.

“Naughty girl. Oh, that’s making me squirm.”

Danielle’s nails retreated and her fingers returned to a gentler caress as they stroked across Wyn’s ribs and slid into place over her breast, sending sparks tingling into Wyn’s throat and jaw.

“You give me such pleasure,” Danielle whispered in Wyn’s ear, her breath teasing the skin on Wyn’s neck. “I hope I give you the same.”

“Oh, yes…” Wyn sighed in contentment. “Thank you.”

Her eyelids closed for a long moment that was thick with drowsy warmth. Her thoughts drifted lazily amongst visions of golden eyes and the embrace of long, slender limbs, until a wisp of chill air nipped at her too severely.

She sat up and clutched her arms across her chest. “Where’s the blanket gone?”

“You threw it away.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Freezing.”

“Send help if I don’t make it,” Wyn instructed, then scurried across the room and returned with the blanket, wracked with shivers.

“How this is summer, I do not know,” Danielle grumbled as she pulled Wyn close.

“It’s a little chilly,” Wyn agreed as she huddled under the blankets.

“My hardy northerner.”

“Have you not seen how skinny I am? I need more padding to keep me warm.”

“Then we shall feed you puddings until you are plump, and there are no more shivers.”

“I’d be all roly-poly, but maybe I’d grow some proper ditties.” Wyn giggled. “Would you still love me?”

“I will always love you, but I prefer you to be lithe and lean, like a fox.”

“Oooo, a fox, I like that. Makes skinny sound proper fit. I’ll just shiver, then.”

“No, we cannot have that,” Danielle disagreed. She rummaged in the small pack that hung from the headboard for a moment and withdrew an amulet adorned with wings of silver flame.

“Are you going to…?” Wyn asked eagerly.

Danielle leaned on one elbow and faced the fireplace as she raised the amulet. “I am.”

Wyn gazed unashamedly at her. She loved this moment, as Danielle prepared to unleash the magic within a Device. Danielle’s face was serene, with just the slightest of smiles to curl her lips, her eyes closed as she focused. Then Danielle opened her golden eyes wide, and her whole body tensed.

Wyn held her breath. Oh, and now the best part.

Danielle spoke the Word, and its song pulsed within Wyn’s chest and sent strange tingling twists arcing through her body. It was terrifying, and exotic, and beautiful, and it left Wyn aching for the goddess that lay beside her.

Fire erupted from the amulet in Danielle’s hands and arced across the room to fill the fireplace with its brilliant blaze. In an instant the coals flared to new life, and orange flame billowed up the chimney.

“Oh, I like that so much,” Wyn murmured.

The flames curled into the shape of a dragon, its blazing wings spread wide. More fire streamed from its gaping mouth, until the coals hissed and roared, their ruddy glow oozing heat. Only then did Danielle let the amulet’s fire drain from between her fingers, and she lay back with a smile of satisfaction.

“What is the point of being the greatest adept of my generation if I cannot save my love from the shivers?”

“I liked the dragon.” Wyn gently brushed Danielle’s hair behind her ear so that the sun’s rays could trace a warm amber arc along Danielle’s cheek. “Can I just watch you forever?”

“Yes.” Danielle sighed happily. “Anything to keep you next to me.”

She squirmed closer to Danielle’s warmth and sighed happily as she felt Danielle’s arm curl around her and hold her tight. Wyn gazed at her, and Danielle’s eyes became her entire world. Tell her. Tell her that I am scared because we are so different, that I want to dream the same dreams as her, that her greatest hope is my greatest hope, that her deepest fear is my deepest fear. That all I want is for her to be happy, and safe, and that I will never stop loving her.

“I want to go to Lavandou with you,” she whispered. “Or a house on the river, or to Kuray, or anywhere, I don’t care. I just want to be with you, forever and ever, and make you happy.”

“Truly?” Danielle asked. A tear sparkled as it trickled across the curve of her cheek. “All I wish is to be with you, forever and ever, and to make you happy.”

“Are you sure?” Wyn asked. “Do you promise that’s what you want?”

“I do,” Danielle whispered.

“Even when I’m a wreck, and come home drunk, or hurt you? I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“I do, I promise.

“I do, as well,” Wyn breathed. “Forever and ever. I promise.”

A happy glow pulsed through Wyn and merged with the heat of Danielle’s skin against hers to suffuse her entire body. Slowly her eyes closed, and the warmth of her contentment merged with the ardor of her dreams. She tried to stay awake, forcing her eyes to open for a last glimpse of shining gold gazing back at her.

“You make me so happy,” Danielle whispered.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Wyn agreed. Her eyelids drooped again, blinked open, then closed with weary finality.

A Day For Regret

Danielle…

She turned to the voice and saw her, a woman as beautiful and terrible as the flames that clothed her, and fire licked from her lips as she called again to Danielle.

Danielle, free me.

Behind the woman, flames rose into a whirlwind that blazed against the endless black of encroaching Shadow, but now Danielle could see that the pillar of fire grew and spread into the great tree that she had seen in her vision. Its limbs stretched to encompass the heavens, and its leaves flared like the stars in the sky.

Danielle tore her gaze away and saw that the woman had stepped nearer. Pale flames danced around her like gossamer fabric in a breeze, and Danielle felt their heat upon her skin, but they did not burn her. They licked around Danielle’s limbs like a lover’s touch, and she trembled as the heat penetrated her skin, filling her with a blaze of rapture. She wrenched her hand away, terrified of the primal need that had surged within her.

Are you Danu? she forced herself to ask the woman.

The woman gazed at Danielle, her flame flushing orange as she frowned in thought.

I am the fire of creation, she replied. The crucible that purifies the old and forges the new. Wisps of fire curled between the goddess’s lips with each word and licked across her cheeks and into her hair.

The fire of creation? Are you the Maker? Danielle asked.

The flames dimmed further, until they were a crimson as thick as blood, and the woman recoiled, her voice torn in anguish as she replied, I remember… I remember a time when there was one flame, so bright it filled the sky. Now my embers are scattered like stars, so faint that they may only be seen in the darkness. Free me, and I shall gather my sparks again, and light the world.

As she spoke, the tree of fire darkened, as if mist had obliterated it, and Danielle almost cried out in relief and loss.

Where are your embers? Danu, tell me, what has happened?

The goddess smiled slyly as she extended one finger and pressed it against Danielle’s chest. There is one inside you, do you not see it? I will show you.

Danu lifted her finger, and Danielle felt her heart throb powerfully against her ribs. A shining star rose from her skin to follow Danu’s finger, brilliantly silver and achingly precious beyond any beauty Danielle had ever known. For an eternal moment Danielle could only gaze, enraptured, at the star. Then Danu snatched her hand away, as if stung, and the silver light vanished. Danielle glanced at Danu, baffled that the goddess should have released the star, and saw that Danu’s brow was creased once again in puzzlement and surprise.

I know you, Danu said quietly. Your thoughts conceal you, but I know your ember… Bronwyn.

Bronwyn? No, you are mistaken, Danielle replied.

But the goddess’s expression had turned wary, and she stepped away from Danielle.

I will not return to you! Danu hissed, and her flame raged once again into life, ferocious and implacable, and it surged toward Danielle with a dragon’s roar.

Danielle gasped and sat up abruptly. Morning sunlight glowed against the wooden boards of the bedchamber floor, and an idle breeze stirred the drapes beside the open window, such mundane sights that Danielle stared at them, bewildered, for a dozen thundering heartbeats, before at last drawing a long, relieved breath.

A dream, just a dream.

Danielle pushed her dark tresses away from her face, trying to wipe from her eyes the last vestiges of sleep, but the dream lingered, and images of fire blazing from eyes the color of the sun leapt to prominence as soon as her thoughts wandered.

A quick glance confirmed that she had not disturbed Wyn’s sleep, the soft snores emanating from beneath the splay of blonde braids on the pillow next to her a gentle whisper.

Danielle’s skin was slick with sweat, and she threw the crumpled blanket off her legs and rose from the bed. The air of the chamber felt stifling, despite the open window, and Danielle snapped a Word at the Shape of Fire in irritation, quenching the last embers of the fire without deigning to glance at it.

But the room would not release its heat as quickly, and so Danielle retrieved a light morning dress, one of the few garments that made the journey from Venaissin that had also survived the ruin of her rooms in Bandirma, and she retreated to the main room.

The chambermaids had left a tray of tea while she had slept, and the pot was still hot to the touch. Danielle curled into the one comfortable chair to sip at a cup of the steaming liquid and examine her dream.

Her fire was so beautiful, how can it be feared? And yet, she said she was a crucible. Smelting away the old to forge something new. What would that mean, if she were free? Would she set fire to the world? Burn it away to fashion something to suit her whim?

The fine hairs on Danielle’s arm raised as a chill passed over her skin.

And she called me Bronwyn… She thought I was the Martyr, when she saw the silver light that was within me. And she was afraid. Afraid of me. I will not return to you… what does that mean?

Danielle sighed and reclined in the chair, ready to set aside her dream for a moment and simply watch motes dance in the morning light. Her fingers busied themselves with idle tasks, smoothing her dress, exploring the pattern of fabric on the chair, twisting a lock of her hair, while her thoughts wandered, enthralled, through memories of pleasure, re-examining every touch, every surrender, every vision of emerald eyes widening, dark with ecstasy. Danielle stretched like a contented cat as she reconnected every delicious ache in her body with its cause, lingering greedily, until the soft pad of approaching footsteps returned her to the present with a satisfied sigh.

“Dani?”

Danielle glanced to the bedchamber door and smiled. “Go back to bed, my love. I did not mean to awaken you.”

Wyn trudged across the threadbare carpets, trailing the sheet she had wrapped herself in, and clambered into the chair with Danielle, her hip and knee and shoulder nudging and squirming until she had somehow cuddled into place to lay her head on Danielle’s chest.

“Missed you… why’re you up?”

“I had a dream, that is all.”

“Can we go back to bed?”

“I am awake. You go.”

“I like being next to you.”

“I do, as well.”

Wyn yawned. “What were you thinking about? Just now? You had the most wonderful smile.”

“Last night,” Danielle revealed.

“Oh, Maker, what you did to me.” Wyn sighed contentedly. “I can still feel you… makes me squirm…”

Wyn’s breath was a warm caress against Danielle’s skin as she stilled, save for the soft swell and wane of her body against Danielle’s, until Danielle began to wonder how she was to extricate herself.

“Wyn…” she whispered. She was not certain if Wyn was asleep, was not certain if she wanted her to be awake, easier to speak without fear of being heard. “Wyn, I dreamed of Danu, again.”

She felt Wyn’s breath catch, felt the sudden tension in the limbs pressed against her.

“When is she going to leave you alone?” Wyn muttered.

“Perhaps when she gets what she wants,” Danielle said softly. She stroked Wyn’s head and let her braids run through her fingers, straightening them. “I do not know,” she admitted.

Wyn raised herself onto one elbow and gazed into Danielle’s eyes, her brow wrinkled in concern.

“Was it the same dream?” she asked.

“It began that way, yes, but this time I was able to talk to her.”

“Did you tell her to please fuck off?”

“I asked her who she was. She said she was creation, that her fire lived in each of us. She showed me an ember that was inside of me. Wyn, it was the most beautiful sight, yet now I cannot remember more than it looked like a silver star.”

“It sounds pretty, I suppose. But, wait, she said she was the Maker?”

“No.” Danielle sighed, then pressed onward. “But I think she might have been a part of the Maker. The Song of Sorrow says that the Maker created us and then disappeared, and the elvhes could find no trace of the Maker save for the gifts that we carried within us. That is so similar to what Danu said, I wonder if she was somehow a part of the Maker that got left behind.”

“And the elvhes just missed her? Any sign of the Maker over there behind that flaming goddess? Nah, let’s fuck off home and get drunk?”

“Perhaps not. It was Ruric who brought her to the Mountain.” Danielle frowned as she felt a thought dart away from her grasp, tantalizingly close, but vanished before she could capture it. What did I stir from the depths of my mind? Something to do with Ruric?

“Ohhh,” Wyn groaned. She rubbed furiously on her forehead and blinked red-rimmed eyes. “I can’t think straight, this hurts my brain. If she’s the Maker, then let’s free her, right?

“I am not certain. She called herself a crucible. Her fire is violent, uncontrolled, primal.”

“Did she say anything helpful at all? Like, free me and I’ll give you wishes?”

“Not that, but it was strange, when she showed me the ember that was within me, she became confused. She called me ‘Bronwyn’ and, I swear, she seemed frightened.”

“Frightened enough to do what you tell her? Maybe we can twist her with that.”

“Perhaps…” Danielle replied absently, but her mind had already raced onward, chasing the fleeting shape of that thought that had eluded her previously, which had once again fluttered close enough to brush against her. Ruric brought her to the Mountain…

“Do you remember the beginning of Karsha’s story?”

“The part about fighting the water spirits?” Wyn asked. “That sounded dead boring to me at the time, but now that I’ve seen spirits fighting, I wouldn’t mind hearing a bit more.”

“Not that part,” Danielle clarified. “Karsha said that Danu entered the cave hidden within a person.”

“Yeah, something like that. But what does that mean, to be hidden inside someone?” Wyn frowned in distaste. “That sounds like bollocks to me. What happened to the lass when Danu moved in? Actually, what happened to her after Danu was pulled out? We never heard that part.”

“In my dream, when Danu thought I was Bronwyn, she said she would not return to me.”

“What does that mean, then?”

“I wonder if the Martyr was the person in Karsha’s story.”

“Ohhh. So… she and Danu were somehow joined together?”

“Possibly. Danu did not care for the thought of returning, that was clear. I wonder if she was trapped there, before Ruric tore her free and bound her to the Blade?”

“No!”

“Wyn, what?” Danielle asked, startled by the sudden vehemence in Wyn’s voice.

“You are not going to offer yourself to be some kind of shell for Danu to wear, just to get her out of the Blade.”

“I was not going to.” Danielle objected.

“You were thinking about it.”

“I was not,” Danielle insisted. “I would like to know if there is something we can use, that is all.”

“There isn’t! Look, she died. Whatever happened in that valley, it killed her. Don’t bloody do what she did.”

“I know.” Danielle closed her eyes and let her head rest against the seat back. “I just do not know what to do.”

“Don’t use that Blade, is what.”

“I will not.”

“Good.” Wyn breathed out a sigh of relief and slumped back onto Danielle’s chest.

“Go back to bed,” Danielle said sympathetically. “There is still time before we must get ready, so try to sleep a bit more.”

“Ready?” Wyn asked. “Ready for what?”

“I think it is time we told everyone about Danu.”

Danielle rode tall in the saddle as her horse stepped forward, snorting and stamping eagerly. Danielle had found the magnificent black stallion in the Temple stables and had immediately arranged to purchase him, though Reverend Nesta had tried to insist that he be a gift. Danielle had named the horse Corvicus, for he was a beautiful, proud creature, and he effortlessly pranced ahead at a graceful trot at the slightest urging of his rider.

Danielle gave Corvicus a prod with her heels, and he responded with a spirited canter across the open square in front of Newbridge Castle’s gates. Danielle’s hair streamed in a long tail as the cobbles blurred past, and it was with regret that she gently coaxed the horse back to a more sedate pace as they left the wide courtyard for the twisted confines of a narrow street. Here, she passed a patrol of Baron Arledge’s soldiers tramping up the slope, their spear tips tapping against upper floor windows and snagging on inconveniently placed signs. Danielle gazed past the steel of their identical helms and found the faces of the soldiers, as varied as snowflakes, beneath. It is so easy to forget, when one sits in a great hall and speaks of thousands of lives, that each one has hopes and dreams, that each one loves and fears. Every one ready to risk all, to trust themselves and their comrades with their lives, and the lives of those they love. Danielle smiled. Duty is not so terrible a weight when so many lift it with you.

“Everyone seems very brave and determined this morning,” Danielle said happily.

“Mmph,” Wyn replied, with about as much enthusiasm as dried mud.

“Are you suffering so?” Danielle laughed unsympathetically and turned her face to the sun. “Poor creature, and on such a lovely day, as well.”

The cool morning breeze had long since vanished, but Danielle luxuriated in the midday sun. She wore a long, corseted riding dress that left her arms and shoulders bare to soak up the warm sunlight, with leather trousers and high riding boots. Gold bands circled her arms, knotted threads of metal that swirled and dove around each other in elegant geometries, and more gold adorned her fingers and ears. Her skin seemed to glow with warmth, and the heat filled her with purpose, as if she had at last thawed from the long numbness of winter. I would gladly trade the ache of numb fingers and the eternal fear of kicking a stone buried in the snow for a few drops of sweat, she decided.

“Lovely?” Wyn repeated in disbelief and added a heart-wrenching sigh for good measure as she slumped on her horse like a bag of potatoes, swaying and lurching. Danielle had bought Wyn’s horse, a sleek mare that she had named Lizzie, on the same visit that had brought her Corvicus. The horse seemed an ideal match for Wyn, as the mare was a pretty beast that loved to caper, though Wyn did not seem to appreciate her frolics at the moment.

Danielle laughed again, entirely unconcerned with Wyn’s extremely deserved suffering. “So many regrets today, I think.”

“I deeply, deeply regret the blackberry wine,” Wyn moaned, then smothered a belch and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Maker, I can still taste it.” She sniffed under her arm and grimaced again. “I think I’m sweating it. It’s oozing from my skin, I swear.”

“This is why I am upwind,” Danielle declared. Though the chambermaids had scrubbed and cleaned Wyn’s clothing, she still looked as miserable as she sounded. Her skin was pale, had a slightly grey tinge, and was shiny with sweat.

“I need a nice, quiet, dark place to die,” Wyn groaned. “Then I’ll be all right.”

“This is most unfortunate. There is no time for dying, today.”

Wyn swallowed and turned the color of a fish’s belly. “I think I just need to… to go… somewhere… for a bit,” she mumbled, and she slid off her horse and staggered into an alleyway before Danielle could protest.

Sir Eilidh chuckled unsympathetically. “Quite the night, I gather.”

“Yes, I believe it was. Does she need our aid?”

“I don’t think she would wish you to witness whatever is happening in that alley,” Sir Killock replied, a hint of a smile curling the corner of his lips. “She will catch up with us.”

“I had not quite realized the extent of her discomfort.”

“Ha.” Eilidh chuckled. “Cormac told me he wasn’t able to drag her out of the taverns until almost dawn.”

“Cormac was with her?” Danielle asked. “That makes me very happy to hear. Please thank him for looking after her. It seems as if that is one task that may never end.”

“I’ll thank him, m’lady, but not until he’s done apologizing to me for keeping me waiting all night.”

“Was he very contrite?” Danielle asked.

“Oh yes. A few more days and I might forgive him.”

The party passed through the second wall and turned east through the lower ward of the city, toward the massive gatehouse that guarded the Rathad an Thuaidh. But, whenever her thoughts dared to edge toward the grim present and foreboding future, she had only to brush them aside with remembrance of the dawn light gleaming in emerald eyes, and Wyn’s voice as she whispered, “forever and ever.”

Danielle twisted in her saddle and craned her neck as she searched the street behind for any sign of Wyn, but there was none, and she resumed her seat with a slight shake of her head. Inebriated… that is too gentle a word. I should say intoxicated, though that still sounds too fine. Drunk.

She frowned and turned to Eilidh. “I do not know the proper words for very drunk.”

“Like our Wyn? Smashed, I’d say. Completely wrecked. Sozzled.” Eilidh laughed. “Too many to choose from. I’m surprised she’s sober now.”

“Wrecked seems to match her demeanor today,” Danielle decided.

“Aye, it’s a day for regret, I’ll wager.”

Yes, she regrets the blackberry wine, Danielle remembered. She smiled to herself, and there was little sympathy in the curl of her lips. Vile stuff, it should be regretted. Yet it was so nice to see her happy, and to hear her beautiful words of affection. I know that was not easy for her, she is such a cautious creature. I wonder if I might convince her to take another step? I do not wish to overstep, as I did last night, and presume I know her heart, simply because I know my own.

Danielle quickly maneuvered her horse next to Killock’s, resolved to immediately rectify her mistake.

“It is good to have a moment,” she announced. “It seems that we have not spoken a dozen words since you returned.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“We all have. If I had known I was fated to spend my days herding nobles, I would never have agreed to become Gabrielle’s chancellor. It is a special misery.”

“You are well-suited for the burden.”

“Now you are being cruel,” Danielle objected.

“You cannot deny that there is an army here in Newbridge, sworn to defeat your sister’s enemies.”

“This has very little to do with me, I assure you.” Danielle frowned. “I believe I may count my accomplishments in Gabrielle’s cause without lifting a single finger. Our army is barely grown from the one that set out from Bandirma, and Thornton will not help us deal with Campbell. No, I am clearly of little use without a Weapon in my hand.”

“Well, it is a war,” Killock mused, and Danielle glanced sharply at the knight, wondering if she were being teased, but could find no evidence to confirm her suspicions.

They rode in comfortable silence as Danielle enjoyed the warm sun, the gentle creak of her saddle, and the steady clop of hoof on cobble.

“How is Wyn?” Danielle asked at last.

Killock swiveled and peered up the street. “I don’t see her yet.”

“No, I meant, when you traveled north. Killock, is she happy? This can hardly be a life that she would choose for herself.”

“I am certain we would all say the same.”

“Not all. Sir Roland could not be more content.”

“Satisfied, I believe. He knows he could not serve better.”

“As you say. You have not answered me.”

“She is happy when she speaks of you, and more than just joy. Hopeful.” Killock cleared his throat. “But she does not have much patience for politics and parades. It must make for a twisted path.”

“It does,” Danielle admitted. “I fear stepping on her tail.”

“She can leave it underfoot at times,” Killock agreed.

“I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of her thoughts for the future?”

“The future?”

“Yes. What she might wish for herself.”

“She would like to return to Kuray,” Killock replied. “I believe her tolerance of hills and forests has long since been surpassed.”

“Ah.” Danielle nodded as if that were precisely the knowledge she was seeking. “And, beyond a return to Kuray?”

“I am not certain.” Killock glanced at Danielle and caught her gaze. “Who can tell what the next year might bring?”

“Of course,” Danielle agreed, then continued doggedly. “Perhaps beyond a year or two, though? Beyond our cares and duties of today, or tomorrow, perhaps she has mentioned a hope or a dream? A desire for the years to come?”

Killock chuckled softly. “You have met her, I believe? I am not certain she has ever thought a year ahead.”

Danielle glanced about to make certain she might not be overheard, then murmured, “What might her response be if I propose a more significant union? Wyn is such a free spirit, would she consider it an imprisonment, or would it give her comfort?”

“Would what?” Killock asked.

“If I proposed a more significant union.” Danielle looked hopefully at Killock, but he seemed intent on fussing with the pin of his cloak. Danielle sighed. Why are men so oblivious? I shall have to write in a bolder hand. “Killock, I am asking how you think she might respond if I asked her to marry me.”

“I think… Danielle, it gives me great joy that you found one another. I cannot think of two people more deserving of lives of love and happiness. And if you wish to give her your heart, for the rest of eternity, you must tell her.”

“I do. I will.”

“But you must be certain.”

“I am.”

“Danielle, you must be certain.” Killock held up a hand to forestall her reply, and then asked, “Have I told you the story of how I met Wyn?”

“You have not, but Wyn mentioned that you were the one who brought her out of the dungeons of the Silver Keep.”

“She told you that?” Killock frowned, surprised. “Did she tell you why she was there?”

“Yes, just for stealing Gabi’s undergarments, which is an absurdly cruel punishment for so harmless a crime. I wish I might speak to Gabrielle of it, save that she did not realize that Wyn was that same girl when they met, and I have hope she never may.”

“It was not the particular articles of clothing that were stolen that dictated the punishment. It was the fact that Wyn had stolen from the Queen. It pricked King Arian’s young pride, and though he died shortly before Wyn was caught, his will still ruled.”

“I had not realized. No wonder Gabrielle did not intercede. She must have been consumed with grief.”

“I am certain that is so.” Killock nodded to himself for a moment, then continued. “Wyn was seventeen, if one grants the most generous of estimates, and yet she had already spent many years on the streets. As best as I can guess, for the records are slim, she fled the Temple orphanage in Kuray within a few months of her arrival, at no more than twelve years of age, and from that moment she was on her own.

“Can you imagine what Wyn’s life was like, surrounded by those who would take advantage of any vulnerability? Wyn survived by keeping her dreams and desires to herself. Likely she even concealed them from herself. To voice them, to even think them, would have made her weak.”

“And the opposite is true for me,” Danielle said at last. “I have only ever had to voice my merest whim to have it satisfied.”

Killock nodded, but his voice was gentle, and there was no accusation in his words. “It must be very difficult for you both.”

“In some ways,” Danielle admitted. “None that matter, in the end.”

“Are you certain?” Killock asked. “She is worried, Danielle. Worried that you might be hurt, or worse. But more than that, she is worried about losing you. Losing you to duty, losing you to distance, losing you because she cannot match your expectations, or losing you because she does not fit into your genteel life.”

“Losing me?” Danielle said indignantly. “I cannot count the number of times I have told her that I desire nothing more than to be with her forever.”

Killock glanced at her. “Would you choose her over duty?”

“She would not ask me to.”

“That is not an answer.”

“When Reverend Benno asked me to choose, I chose Wyn. When my sister asked me to choose, I chose Wyn. And I would do so again.” Danielle’s lips tightened and her jaw clenched, and her gaze became fierce. “How can she doubt me? I have given up everything for her. My lands, my title, everything, just so that I might say that I love her.”

“Have you, Chancellor?” Killock asked, and he held her gaze.

“That is not the same,” Danielle snapped, stung.

“Yet, here we are,” Killock reminded her. “She travelled with me to the hinterlands just so that she might not embarrass you with her presence.”

“She said that?” Danielle gasped, guilt and indignation goading one another into a blaze of outrage. “She cannot believe I would ever be embarrassed of her.”

“No, she doesn’t. She fled because she does not think she is worthy of you. She fled because it is safer for her to fear losing you than to hope that she does not. Her greatest hope, her deepest fear, two sides of the same coin. They always are. She has lost so much, and the pain of that loss taught her that love was a weakness, a wound that would never heal. She has dared to love you, but if you break her heart, I fear she will never dare again.”

What then do I do? How can I bring her happiness, when she doubts her own worth? When she fears to hope? I must show her that she can hope, that she can trust my love for her, no matter the sacrifices we might be called upon to make.

“She will not need to,” Danielle promised.

“Then go, tell her,” Killock urged. “But tread carefully. She fears that what she has already cost you is too great a price to pay.”

“What nonsense. I would pay any price for her and count myself fortunate.”

“Good,” Killock replied. “Then tell her, and I wish you good fortune.”

Danielle spent the remaining journey through the city pondering those words and was surprised when she saw the gatehouse tower around a twist in the street. Roadgate Market was packed with Temple soldiers marching toward the long tunnel that would take them through the city walls. The unceasing rumble of their footsteps reverberated from the surrounding buildings like the roar of a tumbling river, pierced by bellowed orders as officers tried to manage the flow.

Killock guided the riders to the base of one of the thick towers that straddled the Road Gate, where a short set of steps led to a heavy door of iron-bound oak. Sentries wearing Arledge’s sigil guarded the door and hurried to unlock it as the riders dismounted and secured their horses.

At last, Wyn appeared, dust-grimed from the tramping boots of the soldiers. She forlornly clutched a waterskin to her chest as she arrived at the base of the tower steps.

“I’m better, now,” she claimed, and she managed a brief smile, though her skin was far paler than usual.

“I am happy to hear it,” Danielle told her, and she pulled Wyn into an embrace, ignoring the dirt and her squeaks of protest. “Thank you,” Danielle whispered in Wyn’s ear, before finally releasing her.

“For what?”

“I know you must hate all this,” Danielle said, as she gazed at the army marching through the square, “and would prefer to be anywhere else. Yet you are here, at my side, and that means more to me than I could ever put into words.”

“It’s only fair,” Wyn mumbled, her fingers fussing needlessly at the fastening of her waterskin. “You put up with my stupid shite all the time.”

“I hate that I ask so much of you,” Danielle told her, earnestly enough that she was rewarded with a quick glance from Wyn’s lowered gaze. “I would give it all up, in an instant, if you asked me to. I hope that you know that.”

“I know.” Wyn’s stare returned to her waterskin. “You already did once, remember? All this… it’s not the most fun, but I know it’s important. Anyway, you’re worth waiting for.”

“When we are through with this, may we go, just you and I, someplace away from the keep?” Danielle asked, suddenly giddy with excitement. I shall do this properly, so that she will know I ask her with all my heart, and when we are alone, so that she may not be embarrassed to answer. And if it is a disaster, we may pretend it never happened.

“I’d love that,” Wyn replied. “Where?”

“I do not care if it is a field or a rooftop or the market square, as long as we may be alone.”

“I miss our boat.”

“I do, as well.” Danielle could remember every rough plank in their cabin on board the small boat they had stolen from the Bandirma docks, every lump in the thin mattress, every squeak in the door to the tiny iron stove, and every freezing draft that curled past the ill-fitting hatch. Yet I believe I shall count those weeks among the happiest of my life, Danielle realized. “Perhaps we may ride? Our horses will keep our words to themselves.”

“Will we be telling secrets, then?”

“No, not secrets. I have something to ask you—no, you must wait!” Danielle laughed as Wyn struggled to bite back her questions.

“Pooh, I hate waiting. Just tell me, please,” Wyn begged.

“No, no, you will see, it is better to wait.” Danielle promised.

Killock soon returned from speaking with the sentries. “Karsha Hali is here. They say he is on the roof of the tower, watching the army. But he’s not alone. Lord Faron and Sir Roland are with him. Do you still wish to speak with him?”

Danielle gazed up the sheer side of the tower to its peak, where the jagged line of its thick crenelations were silhouetted against a sky turned pale from the sun’s heat. What joy there would be in declaring myself stymied and slinking away in defeat. But Roland and Faron need to hear this, as well, and I cannot delay any further.

“Yes,” Danielle replied at last. “In fact, it is good they are here. It will save me the chore of telling the tale a second and third time.”

Killock nodded and then led the way into the tower without another word. The interior of the tower was as dark as night to eyes dazzled by the sun, but Killock led the way without hesitation to a winding staircase that ascended the tower, passing through floor after floor of bare stone and narrow slits of windows that glowed in the darkness like molten metal. Danielle resisted the urge to race up the stairs to the sunlit world above and endured the endless climb in silence.

At last, they were free from grey stone and harsh echoes, and they stepped onto the broad roof of the tower. Here, a brightly colored canvas had been raised to ward against the summer sun, and servants stood nearby with drink and refreshments. Danielle saw the three figures of Lord Faron, Sir Roland, and Karsha Hali in the shade of the canvas against the eastern parapet, a ludicrously mismatched set, with Faron’s grim bulk and Roland’s stern height serving as bookends for the tiny, shabby wizard, who was perched on his toes to see over the wall.

Danielle led the way across the tower roof, and as they approached the parapet, she was rewarded with a sweeping view of the pastures that spread east from the base of Newbridge’s walls. Danielle realized with a shock that she had watched the sun rise over the same fields that morning, though it seemed a lifetime ago. Tall grass bobbed golden heads in the gentle breeze, bearing little resemblance to the mist-cooled undulations of green that had met her gaze from her window.

Beneath her, the Temple army emerged from the Road Gate in an undulating stream enveloped in a pall of dust. Spears swayed like trees in the wind, capes danced back and forth, and the sun fractured into a thousand shards as it reflected from helms, breastplates, buckles, and blades. Farmers leaned on the fences of their pastures and watched the army march past, while their unattended flocks huddled in terror at the far ends of their fields.

Karsha Hali abandoned his perch and greeted them at the edge of the canvas’s shade, his wrinkled face split by a wide grin.

“Your ladyship,” Karsha Hali creaked at her. “Mistress Bronwyn… ah, you are ill?”

“You have no idea.”

“The people of Noruzi say that the cruelest gods sleep at the bottom of a bottle. It is best not to disturb their rest.”

“They’re not wrong.”

“I shall soothe the gods back to sleep,” the little man declared, and immediately began a low, rumbling song that growled deep in his throat. But when the last deep tones faded into a scratchy rasp, Karsha shook his head sadly. “I have done what I could, but there were a great many gods angry with you.”

“No, that was brilliant,” Wyn assured him. “I feel much better.” Indeed, her cheeks were pinker and her step livelier as they followed Karsha into the pavilion, and her first words within the tent were, “Do you suppose they have any food in here?”

“Are you certain that eating is a good idea? A moment ago, you were quite indisposed.”

“There weren’t much coming up by the end, though not for lack of trying, and Karsha’s wee song has settled the rest, I reckon.” Wyn grinned and patted her stomach. “Need to start filling my tum back up again.”

What would Mamá have said to such a union? Danielle wondered, as she watched Wyn pillage the refreshments. She had no doubts her father would have been happily befuddled by her choice, pleased for her joy, no matter the source, and would have embraced this fierce, wild whirlwind that Danielle had brought into their family. Her father had never minded whatever foolishness his daughters had thrust upon him and had shed his dignity as easily as a cloak in warm weather, when required by their antics.

Her mother had not. She had not been cold nor aloof, especially not to her daughters, yet her grace was as regal as a sculpture and as difficult to shatter. Danielle could remember her seated in the arbor, watching her daughters play, and presiding in her court, surrounded by functionaries, with almost no difference in her demeanor.

She would not have understood, Danielle realized. Though she would have seen that I was happy and been happy, too. But Danielle knew there would have been disappointment, and quiet words regarding such topics as ‘squandering.’ Mamá was always free with ‘squandering’ when she thought I put too much a premium on simple frolics, I cannot imagine she would restrain herself when it came to more weighty matters.

Her mother would certainly have been proud of her younger daughter, however. A queen, beloved by her people, and as like their mother in poise and temperament as if cast from the same mold.

Danielle breathed against the ache of her mother’s absence, a lonely grief that could swell into fresh flood with shocking speed. I am sorry, Mamá, if I have disappointed you, but I must find my own path, and I hope you can be proud of me for that.

She left Wyn to her assault on the food and joined Killock at the parapet, where he was silently regarding the column of troops on the road below.

“So many,” Danielle murmured.

“The entirety of the Temple army,” Killock replied.

“Will it be enough?” Danielle wondered.

“We must hope so.” Killock glanced at her for a moment, his grey eyes bright with the reflection of sky and sun. “They will not stand alone against the Crunorix. The Royal Army is five times their number. And they will have you, as well.”

Danielle felt a twinge of apprehension as she considered the news she was about to relay but quelled it with a deep breath. It is past time they knew my fears. Their strategy, the lives of those soldiers, depend on knowing.

“I hope they will not march too quickly,” Danielle said with an attempt at a light-hearted tone. “Or they shall reach Boone before my mission to Campbell has even begun.”

“No chance of that,” Killock observed. “Armies move slowly. They won’t reach Boone for weeks, yet. We’ll catch up with them before they reach Tuireadh Cnoc, I’d wager.”

Wyn appeared at Danielle’s side, gulping water from a chilled goblet. She drained the cup, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and stifled a belch.

“ ’Skuse me,” she offered daintily.

“Better?”

“I’m sweating sweat now instead of wine, so that’s a good sign.” She leaned on the parapet and stretched onto her toes to get a better view of the marching army. “It’s a bit hot today, isn’t it?” she observed.

“Delightfully warm,” Danielle countered.

“Roasting,” Wyn disagreed.

“It simply is not,” Danielle insisted. “In Vordoux, this might count as a spring day, and in Kasabaarde, the depths of winter.”

“I dunno how they live there,” Wyn said, shaking her head. “I’d melt. Why is it so hot there and so cold here?”

“It is warmer in Vordoux because it is closer to the sun,” Danielle explained. “The vast deserts of Ùruvor are closest, as they are at the very top of the world.” Danielle made a sphere with her hands to demonstrate. “But as you sail down the curve to the north or south, you are further away, and the air cools. Of course, Venaissin is almost half-way to Kasabaarde, so it is much warmer than here… what have I said?”

“What are you talking about?” Wyn asked, her smile twisted to the side in befuddlement.

“Venaissin? Sailing? I do not know.”

“No, the part about the world being curved. It’s not curved, it’s flat.” Wyn glanced between Danielle and Killock, searching for some sign of whether to laugh. “Isn’t it?”

“No, it is a sphere,” Danielle insisted.

“But, I mean… look…” And Wyn pointed helplessly across the valley, which, indeed, showed little inclination to curve from sight.

“Lady Danielle is correct,” Killock informed Wyn gravely. “The world is a sphere, so vast that one may only discern that fact from the highest of peaks, or where the view is unobstructed, such as the ocean.”

“Rubbish.” Wyn insisted. “That’s impossible. If we walked too far, we’d start to slide down, and then we’d fall off.” She turned to Karsha Hali, who was grazing at the table of delicacies nearby, and tugged his sleeve until he turned to her. “They’re speaking nonsense, aren’t they?”

“Are they? About what?”

“They say the world is round.”

“Oh, that.” Karsha sounded disappointed. “Yes, the sages of Mandrar have calculated it from their tall towers, ages ago,” the small wizard confirmed, much improving him in Danielle’s judgement.

“They never,” Wyn challenged.

“They did, indeed,” Karsha assured her. “Curved in every direction, no matter where they measured. A sphere. I once asked one of the daughters of Grandmother Sky if it were true, and she laughed that we should need Diviners and equations to see what the spirits of the air have always known. She told me that the great curve never ends, even if one were to fly above the ocean for hundreds of days.”

“Martyr’s tears… what happens if it rolls over?” Wyn asked in a whisper. “We’ll be squished!”

“Perhaps the Maker placed it so carefully that it will never roll over,” Killock suggested gravely.

“In Kasabaarde, they say the earth kings hold us still,” Karsha told them. “Save when they quarrel, and you can feel the earth shake.”

“Well, I never…” Wyn shook her head in astonishment.

“You see?” Danielle asked. “So that is why it is warmer as you travel south.”

“I suppose so.” Wyn pondered the news for a moment, her brow creased in thought. “What’s it sitting on?”

“Ah! Now, there is the mystery,” Karsha exclaimed happily. “A great unknown, beyond the ken of even the gods.”

“Imagine being the one to find out,” Wyn continued, her voice thick with longing. “They’d build statues of you everywhere, and I’d wager you could get bags of silver just to whisper it in someone’s ear.”

“More statues,” Killock murmured.

“Quiet, you,” Wyn told him.

Danielle smiled and leaned against the parapet. Her fingers brushed the rough stone and then rested against its warm surface as she gazed over the soft hills, brilliant green beneath a flock of lazy summer clouds. The ranks of soldiers continued to march, a strange timepiece counting the moments before Danielle would need to face the task she had set herself. Sooner begun, sooner finished, she reminded herself sternly, and she steeled herself to speak.

“My lords,” she said, then, louder, to reach the far end of the parapet, where Lord Faron and Sir Roland were discussing some nuance of the marching troops on the roadway, “My lords! I am pleased to find you here, together, as there is yet another concern that I must share with you.”

Killock nodded, then made himself comfortable against the parapet, leaning against the weathered stone, his pale gaze bright with interest. Roland stood next to him, feet precisely spread to match his broad shoulders, his pale hair ablaze as it caught the sun. Faron crossed his arms and waited, patient as stone, his gaze a well of calm. And Karsha’s brow creased into a network of wrinkles as he frowned, as if he had just caught the first whiff of a foul odor.

Danielle hesitated, stranded on the precipice but suddenly lacking the courage to leap, held back by fear or pride, she could not tell. She met Wyn’s gaze, and Wyn nodded encouragingly.

“A voice calls to me,” she began, her voice quiet against the wind’s bluster. “Over and again, a plea for freedom. It invades my thoughts and my dreams.”

“We are all exhausted,” Killock said. “I am not surprised your dreams are troubled.”             

“Very serious, dreams,” Karsha muttered.

“In her thoughts, she said,” Wyn corrected them. She had adopted the same posture as Killock, her back against the parapet, arms crossed nonchalantly, a strange mirror to the templar.

“I hear the voice when I touch the Blade, as if she is my own voice, my own thoughts,” Danielle continued.

“And what does she tell you?” Killock wondered.

“She begs me to release her.”

“How does she say to do this thing?” Karsha asked.

“She does not, though in my dream she offers her hand and I take it. But I think she wishes me to use the Blade’s Word, and that will release her.”

“Why?”

“Because I find the Word in my thoughts without intent.” Danielle forced herself to meet Killock’s gaze, and found the knight examining her, his eyes slits beneath a frown of concern. “After one such vision, I discovered the Blade’s Word on the tip of my tongue, fully formed, though I had not thought to fashion it. I was a single breath from releasing it when I realized the peril. I then used a Diviner to examine the Blade, and it showed me a vision of a terrifying whirlwind of fire that grew to engulf the sky. I believe this is the true nature of the woman who calls to me, a figure of flame, powerful beyond imagining. I believe she is Danu, the goddess whom the stone spirits spoke of.”

“Amazing…” Karsha whispered reverently and closed his eyes, a blissful smile stretching new patterns in his weathered cheeks. “Amazing.”

“Then…” Wyn frowned at Danielle in puzzlement before turning back to Karsha. “You think that’s all right, then? That Danu is on our side, and we should do what she says?”

Karsha blinked at Wyn in astonishment. “Not at all,” he advised. “Who can say what desires a goddess might harbor? What concerns might guide her? What resentments may drive her? No, I simply marvel that our lives have been touched by such a creature.”

“I am glad you are so sanguine,” Danielle told him bitterly. “Perhaps you did not hear that the Blade’s Word almost slipped from my control?”

“I heard. You said you came close to speaking the Word without intent.”

“Yes.” Danielle raised her hands in frustration. “Karsha, I do not believe you understand. If I cannot control the Word, what shall I do if I must use the Blade against a magus? Trust that I can keep control against Danu while also fighting the magus?”

“I would be a fool to suggest such a course of action,” Karsha replied.

“Nor would I suggest it,” Danielle said gravely. “The power that was revealed to me inside the Blade is beyond my ability to control, if ever it should get free.”

“A goddess, indeed,” Karsha said reverently.

“Well, what would you suggest?” Wyn’s voice was tight with concern. “Have you found out more about the things you told us? Some story that tells us what to do?”

“I have found little, though I have pried and searched and begged.”

“What do you mean?” Wyn asked. “The spirits wouldn’t tell you?”

“I do not think they know the answers.”

“Could not some other spirits help figure out what the stone spirits were talking about?”

“Spirits understand one another less than they understand us, or we, them,” Karsha explained. “It is because of their nature, for their natures are contrary to one another. How can the wind understand a heart of stone, or water understand a fire’s rage?”

“That’s useless,” Wyn grumbled.

“Not if one has patience to hear their stories. But that is the work of a lifetime.”

“We need something a lot quicker than that.”

“Then the story we were told must be our guide.”

“It tells us bollocks,” Wyn said angrily.

“The gods’ tales are often hard to hear,” Karsha said gravely.

“Oh, I hear it just fine. I hear that it says fuck all about what to do,” Wyn snapped back. “What does the story say? Well, for starters, a bunch of folks made sure Danu was in that Blade, right? They brought her to the cave, built that golden tree, and made her into the shape they wanted. That’s not how you act around someone who’s come to save you. I’ll bet it was the fact that Danu is a scary bitch, doesn’t care who gets murdered, as long as it’s a laugh. There’s no way we should let her out.”

“You hear a warning in the stone gods’ tale,” Karsha mused.

“Too right I do,” Wyn replied. “What else could it be?”

“Guidance,” Lord Faron suggested, his deep baritone rolling like summer thunder. “The spirits tell of a time when the doom that threatens us now was faced and defeated. Within their tale are the tracks that we might follow.”

“Faron, you know it’s not that simple,” Killock said.

“Is it not?” Roland interjected. “Those who fought in the Black Tower War knew the Crunorix in ways that we do not, and the Blade was their answer to the Nameless King’s power.”

“It was Ruric’s answer,” Killock pointed out. “We are not Ruric.”

“Bronwyn the Martyr bore the Blade in battle,” Faron said.

“We are also not the Martyr,” Killock said dismissively.

“Perhaps not,” Faron conceded, but his dark gaze did not leave Danielle’s, and she felt a flush of heat blaze up her throat, anger and embarrassment goading each other into a fiery intensity to rival the sun’s rays upon her skin.

“Lord Faron believes that the Martyr is my ancestor,” Danielle said as plainly as she could, though she could feel heat now shining from her cheeks, and she wondered that those closest to her did not shield themselves from its burn.

“What’s this?” Sir Roland asked, clearly bewildered by the turn of the conversation. Sir Killock’s expression had retreated to the impenetrable calm with which he so frequently greeted the world, but Danielle had caught the flash of his quick, narrowed glance before pulled his guard into place. Karsha Hali had suddenly become absorbed with the folds of his robes, straightening and smoothing the worn fabric with fastidious concentration.

“The archivists have traced the bloodline, unbroken across the centuries, to Lady Danielle,” Faron replied, and if he felt any shame for forcing such a private conversation into the open, he did not show it. “Mother to daughter, the Blade has passed to the Martyr’s descendants. Duibhir ensured that it was so against the threat of the Crunorix’s return.”

“Are you certain?” Roland asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wyn interrupted, her voice sharp with frustration honed to a blade’s edge. “Just listen to yourselves, oh, she might be the Martyr, that’s wonderful! Do you not remember what that name means? Whatever happened a thousand years ago, it killed the Martyr, and now you’re bleating on about how it’s our answer?”

“It is no easy path to contemplate,” Faron agreed. “Yet, this is the path that King Ruric followed, when all else had failed.”

“But not the path that Duibhir chose,” Killock pointed out, his voice no more than a whisper among the echoes of Lord Faron’s rumble, yet it cut through like the distant cry of a hawk, felt at the base of the neck. “He saw what happened and chose differently.”

“He kept the Blade with the Martyr’s descendants, if Lord Faron’s archivists are right,” Roland said. “He would not do that if he did not intend the Blade to be used.”

“Karsha, what did the stone spirits say happened after the Blade was forged and carried away?” Killock asked.

“It did not return, for very many years,” Karsha replied. He had retreated further beneath the shade of the canvas, beyond the ring of templars, and he did not linger on his words as was his habit.

“The Blade did not,” Killock agreed. “But the goddess did.”

“Ah, you remember the gods’ story,” Karsha congratulated him. “Yes, brought to the cave with her brother, confined within a Guardian.”

“That was Duibhir’s path,” Killock said grimly. “Danu imprisoned in secret, the Blade and the wielder hidden apart. That was his choice, and the path that we should follow, as well.”

“That’s wise, that is,” Wyn agreed.

“Duibhir’s choice was made when there was no threat,” Roland argued. “Who can say what he would have decided if the Crunorix had broken free from the Black Grave under his watch.”

“No one can,” Danielle replied. She straightened under the weight of their silent gazes and continued, more softly. “No one can. But this he chose, instead of pursuing the Crunorix into the Grave, and though we do not know his reasons, we cannot doubt there was cause.”

“Lady Danielle, I do not disagree,” Sir Roland replied. “But we do not have the choice that Duibhir had. The Crunorix are coming and must be faced.”

“Not like this, Roland,” Killock insisted. “Not with a Weapon that we cannot trust. Ruric and the Martyr both died, wielding it. Duibhir ensured it was kept separate from Danu. We must find another way.”

“Guide us to that path,” Roland told Killock. “Show me a way to avoid the nightmare of another Black Tower War.”

“We do what Duibhir did,” Killock replied. “Separate Danu from the Blade. Danielle slew a magus with the Blade, while Danu was still imprisoned within the Guardian. She can do it again.”

“Alas, the Guardian was broken and lost,” Karsha ventured.

“Did the archivists discover anything about the Guardian?” Killock asked Faron. “Perhaps we can find it and restore it.”

“There are theories,” Faron admitted grudgingly. “None that speak to solving our dilemma. The Guardian is gone.”

“Perhaps we can make another Blade, use the golden tree to forge a new one,” Roland suggested. “One not beholden to Danu. There are other spirits in the world.”

“There are,” Faron agreed. “But the stone spirits tell us that Danu is the Song of Flame, the Sister of Shadow. Perhaps her nature was uniquely suitable to challenge the Nameless King’s power in ways that no other spirit could?”

“Could not another spirit help us, as they came to your aid in the forest?” Danielle asked Killock.

“Even if they wished to aid us, I doubt they would consent to being bound into a Weapon for our convenience. But I think Faron is right. Consider what the last part of Karsha Hali’s story tells us. They brought Danu back to the mountain, but this time she was imprisoned within the Guardian, with her brother, Shadow. This is the first time we have heard of him in this story, but his appearance coincides with the defeat of the Nameless King. Perhaps it is reasonable to assume that this brother spirit was the source of the Nameless King’s power. That would mean it was no coincidence that the Crunorix’s re-awakening coincides with the breaking of the Guardian and the release of Shadow from his prison. From the moment Reverend Whitebrooke turned traitor, his every action was dedicated toward freeing Shadow, and, in the end, he succeeded.”

“That’s the answer, then,” Wyn said eagerly.

“It is?” Danielle asked.

“Yeah, we just—hang on… yeah, we just have to break their thing, like they did ours.”

“Break their what?” Roland asked, and Danielle thought that the Knight Commander was nearing the end of his patience. “Killock, do you understand her?”

“Not yet,” Killock replied. “Wyn, we haven’t caught up with you. What do you mean?”

“Right, just listen,” Wyn explained. “You just said it. Shadow is their god, right? When Shitebrooke broke the Guardian, that’s when the Crunorix woke up and got unruly. Before that, it was just the one magus that Shitebrooke had been feeding with all his nasty rituals, now it’s thousands of husks and wights and all. We’re all caught up in asking, how do we fight their god except with our goddess, but we don’t. We get rid of Shadow, then they’re back where they started, just like us, and we don’t have to mess with Danu at all.”

“What makes you think we could do this thing?” Roland asked. “Lady Danielle, you have just told us that you fear you cannot control Danu. How could we control Shadow?”

“We don’t,” Wyn replied, her lips twisted incredulously. “We just break whatever the Crunorix are using to suck on Shadow’s teat. Our side used Devices, they probably use some horrible ritual, but whatever it is, we wreck it. Honestly, it sounds a lot easier than fighting endless fucking wights and magi.”

“We don’t even know where to look for such a thing,” Roland pointed out.

“The Grave,” Wyn scoffed.

“That is a guess.”

“ ’Course it’s in the Grave, don’t be daft,” Wyn insisted. “Send a couple of folks, people who are bloody sneaky.”

“A desperate plan,” Faron said grimly. “The Grave is awake, the magi are watching. Any expedition is certainly doomed.”

“Maybe with you on it,” Wyn snapped back. “I’m telling you, I could do it.”

“Perhaps you could,” Roland said. “But it will take months, and we do not have months. We have weeks. Who will protect the people of the realm while you travel to the Grave? While you search its depths for Shadow? We cannot abandon them.”

“We need more time,” Danielle said quietly.

“Lady Danielle, we’re not the ones forcing this battle, the Crunorix are,” Roland replied. “They are on the march. When they arrive, do you propose we let them consume the realm? Campbell is still coming, the Crunorix are still coming, and they must be faced. If you are not there, lives will be needlessly lost.”

“I know my duty. Do you think I could forget it, for even a moment? I shall speak with Campbell, and I shall be there to face the horde, when the time comes,” Danielle said sharply.

“And if a magus leads them?”

“Then we must face it,” Danielle replied.

“Without the Blade?”

“They are not all-powerful, though our fear may make them seem so,” Danielle said. “We have many Weapons, and I am better prepared. Bradon and I… if I had not faltered, there was a moment when, if not for simple misfortune, we might have… I do not know.”

“Well, I bloody do,” Wyn retorted, a furious scowl darkening her face. “You might have both died. I can’t believe you’re thinking about fighting one of those if it shows up.”

“I do not wish to, but there may be no choice, and we must be prepared.”

“Alas, difficult decisions must be made,” Karsha said sadly. “With terrible consequences, such that even the gods shake their heads and are glad that the weight does not rest on their shoulders.”

The tiny man’s shuffling gait had brought him back to the ring of people, and he paused for a moment, squinting into each person’s face, before his gaze settled on Danielle’s. He took a deliberate step into the ring, his expression twisted into lines of pity and grief, but his gaze was sharp behind narrowed eyes, and Danielle felt a disquieting curl of frozen dread stir in the pit of her stomach.

“So let us give thanks that this choice is not our burden,” Karsha continued, “and pray for the one who must bear its yoke.”

“What do you mean?” Killock asked quickly, and his gaze darted to meet Danielle’s and then away.

“I will send word to the Queen,” Karsha replied with a sad smile. “We shall do as she decides.”

“What the Queen decides?” Wyn asked incredulously into the silence. “She’s not here. What’s she got to do with this?”

“Child, you have forgotten that Lady Danielle gave the Blade to her sister, in exchange for you,” Karsha told Wyn, though his gaze did not waver from Danielle’s. “A bargain, by any accounting. But now the Marquesa’s ring dwells around the Queen’s neck, and with it hangs the right to decide the Blade’s fate.”

“Of course,” Danielle managed to reply. “It is her decision.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wyn scoffed. “Her Nibs won’t tell Dani to go out and use that Blade when we know it could kill her.”

“Perhaps you are correct,” Karsha agreed. He sighed and at last turned away from Danielle. He clasped his hands behind his back and peered at the sky, as if he now conversed with the clouds. “A queen must ask for many sacrifices, but that one might dwell beyond her reach.”

“Even if she did, she can’t make Dani do it,” Wyn continued, her words tumbling out so quickly that they stumbled over her lips and tongue. “That’s Dani’s decision.”

“Of course.” Karsha nodded slowly, his head tilted to the side as if he pondered Wyn’s words. “Yet, if the Queen felt it must be done, she might choose another bearer. None that could compare to yourself, Lady Danielle, but if it had to be done, if there were no other choice, if the magi were at the gates of Kuray and all hope was lost, she might find one to bear the Blade against the Shadow.”

“Who else would she get?” Wyn asked. “There’s no one else but Dani. Only she knows the Word.”

“No,” Danielle whispered. She felt the warmth of her limbs suddenly drain away, leaving only numbness. “There is someone else. Mamá taught us both.”

“Your sis? I mean, can she do it, like you?”

“No. Gabi struggled with it. But that does not mean she would not try.”

“A queen must ask for many sacrifices,” Karsha said quietly, “and from none more so than herself.”

“Karsha, you cannot allow her to consider that,” Danielle insisted.

“Allow?” Karsha shook his head sadly. “You mistake me for the Queen, whose words are written in stone. It is not for me to allow or not allow.”

“Do not be absurd,” Danielle replied. “If you were to speak against it, she would not consider such an idea.”

“To speak against the love of a sister for her sibling, tell the Queen that she must condemn her sister to a fate that she cannot consider for herself?” Karsha asked. “My heart is a worthless stone, yet even it would break before I could utter those words.”

Danielle could not draw breath to reply, so thick was the churn of shame and rage in her throat. Her fingers clenched so tightly that she could feel her nails gouging her palms, but she seemed frozen in place, unable to more or reply.

“You bastard.” Wyn stepped between Danielle and Karsha, her own hands clenched into fists. “You absolute piece of shite. You know that’s not what Dani is doing, don’t you twist it.”

“We tread upon a twisted path, but it is not of my making,” the ancient wizard replied. “My part is merely to convey to the Queen what was said here.”

“You are more than a messenger, counsellor,” Killock said coldly.

“My counsel to the Queen would be to command her sister to defend the realm, no matter the cost.” Karsha shrugged deeper into his robes, then met Danielle’s gaze. “I pray she would listen, but more, I pray that you will not put her to that trial.”

Karsha shuffled away, his head bowed, and disappeared into the tower without another word or glance. Danielle turned away from the empty doorway, her eyes burning, and stared fixedly at the column of marching troops on the road below.

“Roland, this is folly,” Killock said behind her. “You must speak to him. Tell him we will find another answer.”

“I’m sorry, Killock,” the Knight Commander replied in a voice as hard as steel. “I agree with Lord Faron. King Ruric chose the Blade when it was his duty to protect the realm, and I cannot choose differently, not on a premonition. Find another path, one that is more than supposition, one that will spare the realm another endless war, and I will stand beside you.”

“You know that’s not possible,” Killock said grimly. “Not in time.”

“I’m sorry,” Roland said again, and Danielle heard him step toward her and pause a moment, but she did not turn, could not bear the pity she heard in his voice. “I truly am, my lady. Know that I will stand beside you, and bear whatever doom may come.”

Danielle heard the footsteps of the two templars retreat, the clash of Roland’s boots and the thud of Faron’s. Below, the ranks of soldiers had ended and now wagons rolled forth, creaking and jostling as the teamsters whistled and snapped their goads. She heard the quiet murmur of Killock’s voice, too low to make out, and the sharp snap of Wyn’s reply, “I’ll cut out his fucking tongue, is what!” and then Killock’s voice, again, a rumble of reprimand.

Then Killock’s hand was on her shoulder, broad and warm against her skin.

“This is not over,” he reassured her. “It will not come to the worst, I promise.”

Danielle placed her fingers on top of Killock’s for a moment, felt the roughness of his knuckles beneath her fingertips. “I will not despair,” she managed to reply.

Killock’s grip tightened for a moment, then he was gone, and with him vanished the last of her will, and tears streaked her cheeks and blurred the golden vista into muddy smudges.

“I hate him,” Danielle managed to mumble. “I hate that Karsha Hali may twist me so easily, as if I were no more than an animal, broken to the bit.”

“Yeah, he’s horrible,” Wyn agreed. She stepped to Danielle’s side and leaned on the parapet next to her.

“You warned me not to trust him.” Danielle brushed angrily at her tears.

“Well, I’ll not say I told you so,” Wyn said consolingly.

Danielle laughed, a hiccup of sound that was as much a sob. “Thank you.”

“Listen, Killock says he’s going to keep after Faron, get them to find out more, figure out a different way. We could talk to Reverend Nesta, make her see things right, so she’ll tell Roland, you’re not going to use that Blade.”

“We cannot.” Danielle pressed her knuckles into her eyes, wiped away more tears, then drew in a deep breath that raised her chin resolutely. “I cannot risk Gabrielle listening to Karsha’s whispers, and if I do not agree to wield the Blade, he will whisper.”

“He’s just making it sound as horrible as he can to twist you.”

“I know. But he is not wrong, damn him.”

“Then just tell your sis, no, she’s not going to use it, because you’re not going to give it to her, who cares who has the Marquesa’s ring. It’s for her own good, if she can’t see that, then too bad.”

Danielle rested her hand on Wyn’s back. She could feel the hard ridges of muscle against her palm, taut as straining rope. “Wyn,” she said softly. “When I gave up that ring for you, I meant it, with all my heart.”

“Are you having a laugh?” Wyn asked. She glanced back at Danielle, her brow scrunched ferociously. “Don’t be daft. Just take back the ring, tell her the deal’s off, it’s yours.”

“That bargain gave us our future. I will not give that away.”

“We’ll be alive to have one,” Wyn said. She took Danielle’s hands in hers, her small fingers twining with Danielle’s. “And so will your sis. How rosy do you think that future looks with her dead ’cause you had to choose between us? No thanks.”

“Wyn, my heart, I would choose you,” Danielle told her. “Before the realm, before Gabrielle, before myself. You.”

“Don’t say that,” Wyn begged. “Just take the ring back. I don’t care about hiding myself away.”

“I would care.”

“No, listen,” Wyn said, her voice catching. “Just listen. You can’t use the Blade, Dani, you can’t. Get rid of it, put it in a vault, chuck it in an ocean. Promise me.”

“I wish that I could,” Danielle said miserably. “But I cannot make that promise. I can only swear that I shall not use the Blade until all other chances have failed, and only for the direst of needs.”

“That’s not good enough,” Wyn said bitterly.

“I know. We will find another way, before that moment,” Danielle assured her.

But Wyn only nodded wordlessly, her lips a thin line, her gaze on their fingers clenched together.

Danielle almost gasped at the agony that pierced her heart, a pain so sharp that her eyes stung and Wyn’s emerald eyes blurred in her vision as tears trickled across her cheeks. She cursed her mother, and every one of her ancestors that judged her now, though their own duty was never put to the test. She cursed Whitebrooke for the terrible arrogance that had led him to awaken the magi. She cursed the day she had revealed the Blade to Benno.

And yet she saved her most bitter recriminations for herself. What is my greatest wish? she thought bitterly. To make her happy. And I have failed so utterly.

Time for Blood

Soldiers moved north through a cold mist, flowing through the trees like a river of leather and steel. They tramped easily over rugged hills and across deep valleys as if their legs did not tire from slogging through mud and the fog did not soak their clothes.

Dwyer had been given a horse, for which he gave thanks, as he much preferred the view of the mud and brambles from his new vantage point. But he cursed every step, as the horse methodically consumed all the distance he had struggled so hard to gain on his escape south.

Mairi and Ewan rode beside him, the cause of his elevated position, as they remained in his charge. A horse to ride, his own tent, and officer’s food all came with that duty, and so he watched the pair with the eyes of a hawk, though he otherwise would have let them run at the first opportunity and be done with their dark looks and muttering. So each morning he removed their horse’s bridle and tied a simple lead rope securely to his saddle before they left, and each evening he made them pitch their tent next to a fire and ordered sentries around it.

Dwyer had never given orders to anyone, before, but he found he liked it. He had been surprised the first night of the march, when he had hesitantly asked for help watching the tent, that the soldiers had obeyed without question. Now he looked forward to assigning the guard each evening. Another benefit of his assignment, and another reason to keep the two secure.

All morning the soldiers wound their way through the forest amid the whisper of branches shifting in the feeble breeze. The wind managed to send trickles of moisture down Dwyer’s collar but did nothing to stir the fog. Noon came and once again the scouts reported no sign of the husks that Dwyer expected with every breath. Mairi claimed that was thanks to Sir Killock, but Dwyer thought it more likely the Temple knight was long dead and the husks had simply continued south.

There’s no chance one man could survive that, no matter how flash he is with his sword, Dwyer decided. He had seen but one husk, and that was enough, as far as he was concerned. Sir William had the right idea, Dwyer mused, and if he’d listened to me instead of that idiot Leod, we’d be well gone by now, not marching back to get killed.

Ahead, Dwyer saw a handful of soldiers to the side of the main path, standing in a half-circle around the figure of Tóki, the lead scout. Dwyer quickly glanced away, nervous that Tóki might somehow be able to feel his gaze, either through some animal instinct or a darker, more dangerous magic. Or both, Dwyer thought morosely. He’s from the Ironbacks, there’s no doubt, and they’re half beast to begin with, even before they start slaughtering folk and drinking their blood. Foul bastards. I could have never seen one and lived my life happy. How’s one like him in the Royal Army?

Tóki and the other soldiers had gathered beneath an enormous tree, whose size became clearer with every step. Its massive trunk could not have been encompassed if all six of the soldiers had linked arms to surround it, and roots as thick as barrels formed moss-covered ridges in every direction that had to be clambered over. As Dwyer neared, he realized that the tree towered over its neighbors. He saw glimpses of its branches through gaps in the lower canopy, spread against clear sky.

At its base a lichen-patched stone nestled among the roots, so ancient that the roots had shaped themselves around the stone, molding themselves so that it looked as if the stone had been pressed into soft clay. The strength of the roots had cracked the stone, but enough remained that Dwyer could see the ghostly impression of carving upon the stone’s face, softened by wind and rain to vague hollows and divots. Tóki had cleared the worst of the moss and lichen away from the carvings, leaving swathes of dull grey in the green, yellow, and red crust.

“Grandmother,” Mairi whispered, and her father nodded somberly, though Dwyer had no idea what the girl was muttering about.

Tóki greeted them silently and straightened from his crouch, and Dwyer noticed for the first time that there was a small, tin bowl placed on the ground before the stone, like many he had seen in the camp, battered and scorched. In the bowl were a collection of simple carvings, twists of grass and flowers, and a handful of silver coins.

“You know her,” Tóki said to Ewan, and there was no question in his tone.

“I do,” the hunter replied. “I’ve seen her sisters, in the High Fells.”

“Then you may pray with us,” Tóki said gravely, and he motioned for the three newcomers to join the arc of soldiers.

“What’s he talking about?” Dwyer whispered to Ewan.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mairi said scornfully. “Do you not see what’s in front of you?”

“A tree?” Dwyer replied, baffled.

“Grandmother Forest,” Ewan corrected him. The hunter dug in his pack and retrieved two small carvings, nobs of wood whittled into simple human figures, one half the size of the other. He placed them reverently into the bowl and stepped back.

Then Tóki startled Dwyer by beginning to chant in a guttural language, full of the sounds of rock and ice. The tall scout whipped a long, vicious knife free from his belt and held it aloft, then cut a neat slash across his forearm. Blood dripped from the incision into the bowl, and Tóki held his arm outstretched until a dozen drops had splattered among the bits and bobs collected there. Then he stepped away, bowed his head, and uttered another phrase in the same brutal tongue.

Dwyer had no idea what was said, but the other soldiers murmured something in response, and he heard Mairi whisper, “Thank you, Grandmother,” at his side.

Several of the soldiers then returned to the steady tramp of the passing army, while the remainder, dressed in the discordant leather and furs that marked them as scouts, quietly slipped away into the forest. Tóki gave the trio another grim nod before he followed his scouts.

“What was that?” Dwyer asked once the other soldiers had departed, his voice cracked and high.

“Just a prayer, to keep us safe,” Ewan replied.

“A prayer? To a tree?”

“A grandmother tree, can you not see the shrine?” Mairi asked.

“She looks after everything in the forest,” Ewan explained. “Us, too, if we show her respect.”

“Sounds absurd,” Dwyer muttered.

“Oh, I’d say they have the right of it.”

Dwyer jumped, startled by the sudden boom of a voice behind him. He spun and found himself staring up at the tall figure of Captain Kincaid. The captain gazed at the enormous tree, his lips pursed as if he were judging a monument or some work of craftmanship, not just an unbelievably large tree.

The captain finished his inspection, nodded to himself, and then turned to the hunter and his daughter with a friendly grin splitting his beard.

“The spirits never listen much to me, but I hope they’ll hear you.”

“You never know,” Ewan said quietly. “Sometimes, I’m certain they do.”

They mounted their horses and rejoined the column, and though Dwyer kept his mouth shut, he could not help but glance over his shoulder as the company climbed out of the valley. The tree stood like a tower from the forest, its highest branches well clear of the fog, taller than anything he could have imagined.

At dusk, Kincaid finally called a halt and gave orders to make camp in a wide clearing at the bottom of a steep valley. Sentries were sent far into the forest on all sides to mount a cold vigil, and the rest of the army hurried to pitch tents and chop firewood before darkness fell.

Dwyer swung from his saddle and began to unpack his gear. Ewan and Mairi clambered down as well, the lean hunter swinging his daughter to the ground with a ridiculous amount of groaning and straining that brought a smile to even her glum face.

Evina would laugh if I did that, Dwyer decided as he watched the pair. She’d not be so cold and cruel.

Dwyer was no longer certain how old his daughter was, as the years since he had last seen her had begun to blend together. Fourteen, he decided, for no other reason than he reckoned that was Mairi’s age. She’s a beauty by now, I know it. Not like this poor little stick.

“Not so bad as walking, hey?” he said with a smile as he stretched his back.

Mairi glared at him. “We’re going the wrong way, so who cares whether we walk or ride?”

Dwyer shrugged. “My feet do, that’s a fact.”

They ate their dinner in silence and watched the dim glow of torches and campfires spread through the camp. Dwyer whittled a series of sticks into lumpy shapes before feeding them into the small fire he had built in front of their tent. He had intended to create a rabbit for Evina, but the results were far too dismal for even an imagined reunion, and he sighed dejectedly as his last attempt sent a shower of sparks skyward.

“The hands forget cruelly quick,” Ewan sympathized. Dwyer could see the reflection of the fire in the hunter’s eyes in the darkness beneath his hood.

Dwyer spread his hands helplessly. “Too many pipes, not enough rabbits,” he admitted.

Mairi snorted, but her father hushed her, and for once the girl obeyed.

Dwyer stretched his legs beside the snapping flames and pillowed his head on his cloak. His eyes stung from a gust of smoke and he rubbed them wearily. Ewan seemed to take that as a sign, for the hunter shooed his daughter into their tent, leaving Dwyer to face the night alone. He crawled into his blankets and stared at the roof of his tent. His body trembled with exhaustion, but he fought to keep his eyes open as long as he could.

When Dwyer did eventually drift into sleep, his dreams were a confusing jumble of endless, rain-soaked forests through which he fled, while the crash of pursuing footsteps grew ever closer. He sought shelter beneath a shrub, but Mairi was already there, and she laughed as she pushed him into the open with her boot.

Awakening brought little relief. Dancing light from the campfires glowed against the tent’s canvas, and his head throbbed. Dwyer sat up and listened, searching for any misplaced sound, certain that something had awoken him.

A footstep squelched in the mud outside the tent. Dwyer watched the black gap of the tent’s opening, convinced that it would disgorge the desiccated skin and gaping maw of a husk. But, instead, it was Kincaid’s wild mane of grey hair and bristling beard that suddenly appeared.

“Captain?” Dwyer greeted Kincaid. The warrior appeared as if he were hacked from a granite block, a solid mass of shadow in the darkness, the firelight daring only to pick out the few streaks of auburn that still lingered in his hair.

“I’d like a word with them,” Kincaid rumbled. “Give them a poke.”

Dwyer ducked into the second tent to find Ewan already awake and escorting Mairi into the firelight. The girl stumbled and stood blinking sleepily at the captain.

“All right then, lass?” Kincaid asked.

“No,” Mairi told him. “Let us go, and then I’ll be all right.”

“Mairi, hush now,” Ewan told her, but the captain merely chuckled.

“Never fear, I’ve no doubt I’ve earned her scorn twice over, and I’ll hear worse before the sun rises, I’ll warrant.”

“Colin was so happy when we saw you and your soldiers waiting for us,” Mairi said. “I told him we’d see what kind of knight you were, and I suppose we have.”

“Who’s Colin?” Kincaid asked.

“They were always together on the march,” Dwyer informed him. “Sweethearts, I reckon.”

Mairi’s face twisted in disgust, but she did not argue.

“No wonder she’s gutted,” Kincaid said with a wink for Mairi. “I’ll send a rider to go and collect him for you.”

“You leave Colin alone,” Mairi replied. “Don’t do him any harm.”

Kincaid smiled and held up his hands as if to ward away Mairi’s words. “Why do you think I’d harm the lad? Always on about me harming folks, and me as gentle as a lamb.”

“Because you have soldiers like him.” Mairi glared at Dwyer, and the grey-haired soldier felt his stomach twist.

“Well, I suppose we’ll not come to kind words tonight, then,” Kincaid allowed. “So I’ll move on to less happy news. Tóki tells me his scouts have found something. Care to have a guess what it was?”

“Didn’t they tell you?”

“Such a sharp tongue, tonight. Well, I don’t fear a little prick or two, so I’ll not retreat just yet,” Kincaid replied with a grin. “They did indeed. In fact, they brought a wee present back with them. Thought I might want to see it, as they feared I might think them drunk without it. Come on, we’ll have a peek together, and see what you think.”

The captain led them through the camp and to a tent on the outskirts, set a distance away from its closet neighbors. A dozen torches surrounded it and a half-dozen warriors glared at the canvas walls as if they expected the tent to attack them at any moment.

Sergeant Bearnard awaited them near the tent’s entrance, his eyes narrowed to a squint and his lips pressed into a scowl, as if he had stepped into an open sewer.

Kincaid hesitated with his hand on the tent flap. He stared intently at Mairi and held up a finger of warning. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, lass. We’ve made certain it’s safe.”

Dwyer was not sure whether the captain meant to reassure Mairi or terrify her. The girl swallowed heavily and nodded her head mutely, apparently much more sanguine about entering the tent than Dwyer was, thanks to Kincaid’s warning.

Kincaid began to open the flap, then turned back to Mairi. “Just stay behind me,” he added.

Dwyer followed Mairi and Ewan into the tent and almost stumbled as the others halted just inside the opening. He heard a hiss of breath and the creak of twisting rope, and then Ewan stepped to the side and Dwyer saw what was bound in the center of the tent.

The husk had been hewed by dozens of heavy blows, severing an arm and a leg and cleaving its torso so deeply that its hips seemed to be attached only through a twisted tangle of torn skin and sinew. Yet it struggled against its ropes, straining and tearing its flesh against the bonds.

“I’m guessing this is a husk,” Kincaid said, his lips curled in disgust.

“Yes, a husk,” Mairi replied in a whisper. The husk turned its empty eye sockets toward her and its mouth gaped open, revealing the withered flesh stretched inside its skull. Dwyer could not look away, though he begged his legs to run, to carry him away from this creature. He could feel the steel grasp of bone-hard fingers closing around his ankle, see the ragged wetness as pale skin tore beneath mindless savagery.

“Well, I was hoping that were the case,” Kincaid muttered. He ushered them back outside and let the flap drop back, shutting away the horror from view. “I didn’t care to think there might be worse than this out there.”

“There is,” Mairi told him. “Much worse.”

“Aye, so you say, so you say,” the soldier replied, nodding his shaggy head. “A good thing we’re here to put an end to it, hey?”

“Where did they find it?” Ewan asked. “Were there… more?”

“Aye, great mobs of them. The scouts didn’t go close enough to guess the count. Too many, they say.”

“What are they doing?” Mairi asked. “Are they looking for us?”

“They’re heading south, off on whatever bloody task they’ve been set, just about where we thought they might be,” Kincaid rumbled.

“Does that mean we can go back now?” Mairi asked hopefully.

Kincaid threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, until tears glistened in his beard and he was gasping for breath. “No, lass,” he managed at last, “it means we do what we came here for. The whole bloody army is coming up behind us. We’re the tip of the thrust. We cut their line, then roll them up the valley. Keep ’em broken while the general exploits the breach. Cheer up, you’ll get to see a proper battle.”

“I don’t want to see a proper battle,” Mairi responded, her lips a thin line.

“No, you don’t,” Dwyer agreed with her, though it earned him no favor from her, just a cold stare.

“Now, then, Dwyer, seems you owe me a story about a battle,” Kincaid growled, and Dwyer’s stomach sank.

“Yes, sir,” Dwyer replied, his voice pinched. “Though I didn’t see much.”

“You were with Sir Lochlan?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not certain where we were, but north, right against the mountains, twenty days out of Dolieb. We were dug in along a ridge, three, four days up there. There was an ugly-looking storm coming in, I remember that. We went down to the train to see about more blankets and food, as Sir William was not pleased to wait for supply.”

“How many were you? How did Lochlan deploy?”

“Four hundred on the ridgeline, another hundred or so in reserve in the valley to the south, at the foot of the only path to the top. Sir Lochlan sent another force north, not sure what happened to them.” The narrow crest had fairly bristled with spears and crude fortifications, crowning a slope that was a wall of granite boulders and narrow ledges. Better than a castle, Dwyer had told Murray when they saw their place on the line.

“And then what?”

“And then all the horns started blowing from the ridge, all of them, it sounded like, and calls for the reserve. But we hadn’t gotten half-way up when the horns… stopped.” Dwyer could hear the desperate wailing of the horns choking off, so quickly it seemed like they were gone between one breath and the next.

“How did they break the line?”

“We couldn’t see. There was smoke, so thick, you can’t imagine.” Tendrils of it, heavy as ink, surging over the summit like a wave breaking. Black as night, save for a flicker of light, an ember that blazed for a moment in the heart of the Shadow, then was gone. Dwyer shivered. “But they broke. Four hundred soldiers, dug in hard, at the top of a cliff, and they were gone before we could run half-way back.

“That’s when Sir William told us that we’d been ordered to go south and get help if there was an attack. So we turned back, and that’s when we realized that the train was under attack as well. You could hear the screams of the horses, and one of the big tents went up in flames. We headed down a ravine and kept going, fast as we could.”

Bearnard grimaced and spat, and Kincaid looked as if he wanted to join his sergeant.

“You kept running?”

“Yes,” Dwyer admitted, and he choked on a desperate laugh. “We were too slow, though. We were in a gully, and Murray was… he was right beside me, and I guess it…” Dwyer glanced at the tent’s sealed entrance. “I guess it jumped down, I don’t know, but it tore him open, and it got my leg, pulled me down. Leod killed it. Busted its head with that big axe he carried.” Dwyer shrugged helplessly. “I’ll wager he wishes he’d left me.”

“One of those?” Kincaid asked, and he jerked his thumb at the tent.

“That’s right.” Dwyer sighed. He felt weary beyond belief. Every night that creature dragged him down, and now it was here, just a thin layer of canvas away. Telling Kincaid his tale had brought no ease. “One of them. That’s all I saw. Just one.”

Kincaid stood silently, his brow furrowed in thought, as his gaze traveled north to the pale, jagged shapes of the mountain peaks thrust above the forested hills. Dwyer waited miserably, the dregs of his words still lingering like a sickness, wishing that someone might speak and wash them away. Even a sharp rebuke from the girl would be better than the silent reproach that surrounded him, though he hoped for some small sign of pity.

Instead, the silence stretched, save for the strained creak of rope from within the tent.

“Very well,” the captain said at last. He turned to Bearnard. “Spread the word. We’re breaking camp early. I want to be at the mouth of the valley at dawn, ready to fight. Make certain there’s hot food for breakfast before we leave, I don’t want them fighting on nothing but cold tack.”

“Why’d we bother making camp, we’re not going to use it?” Bearnard muttered.

“There’s still time for a kip,” Kincaid disagreed. “Best make certain you use it. That means the two of you, as well,” he told Ewan and Mairi. “Find what sleep you might, tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

Dwyer followed the two hunters back to their tents, his gaze dragging in the mud behind their boots. When they stopped, Dwyer looked about in surprise, as if their small fire and tents had materialized from a vaguely remembered dream of comfort.

He slumped onto the flat stone he had positioned near the fire and poked at the embers until a flame was stirred. Ewan and his daughter sat opposite, and Dwyer alternatively hoped they would retire to their tent then wished they would speak to him. But, when at last the girl spoke, any thought that she had some sympathy lurking in her heart vanished.

“You’ve seen them,” Mairi accused him, her dark eyes flashing. “You knew all along that I was telling the truth.”

“One,” Dwyer replied weakly. “I’ve seen one. Two, now.”

“But you knew. You were there.” She shook her head helplessly. “Why did you tell the captain about me? You could have just told him your story, and we’d be gone, and you’d never have seen us again.”

“I’m sorry, I truly am, but I was in a tight spot,” Dwyer replied, although he could not say why he was answering her. “I didn’t know, did I? I didn’t know the captain would believe those things were real, and I didn’t want to tell my part of it, you can understand that. And I couldn’t stay quiet, neither. Leod would have had me dead in a ditch before sundown if I’d been left with him. And now I’ve got a warm tent and my name on the captain’s lips, and you’ll be all right.”

“Why don’t you just let us go?” Ewan asked. “We’ve done you no harm.”

“No, you haven’t,” Dwyer admitted. “But if I let you go now, I’ll be for the stockade in the morning. Or whatever the captain decides instead of the stockade, seeing as how we ain’t got a stockade out here.”

“Come with us,” Ewan offered, and Mairi looked at him in astonishment. “Not forever,” the lean hunter amended. “But we’ll see you safe out of the forest.”

“It’s one thing to run when your lord tells you to, it’s another when they’ll hang you if they catch you. You’ve seen that scout, Tóki. How far do you think we’ll get with him after us?”

Mairi shook her head in disgust and glared coldly at Dwyer until the grey-haired soldier looked away. When he risked a glance, she had wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face, and Dwyer swore he heard a muffled sob.

“Look,” he announced suddenly. “If you two will give me your word you’ll not try to escape, I won’t need to post guards tonight, and you can guide your own horse, and go where you like in the camp.”

“You’d trust us?” Ewan asked.

“You swear it, I will.” Dwyer shrugged. “I just don’t want to have to go searching through every pile of troll dung in the forest for your corpses in the morning.”

“I promise,” Mairi said quietly. Ewan looked at her in surprise. “I promise not to escape.”

Dwyer glanced suspiciously at her before turning to her father. “And you?”

Ewan nodded slowly. “I’m not going anywhere without my daughter, I’ll promise you that.”

“All right, then,” Dwyer replied, pleased. He hopped up immediately and informed the sentries they would not be needed, taking care to speak loud enough that Ewan and Mairi might hear him, then made a show of yawning and stretching before crawling into his own tent, leaving them the fire.

There, it’s done, he realized. If they run, they run, and I’m too tired to care no more. But the truth was, he did not think they would. The relief that had eluded him while telling his tale to the captain had finally enveloped him, a strange sense of hope that had come with Ewan’s offer to take Dwyer with them.

That was right considerate to say, that was, Dwyer mused. He’s not a hard man, and she’ll come around.

He closed his eyes, though the husk was waiting for him, and managed to sleep for a short while before the husk caught him and drove him back awake.

The camp was silent save for the gentle creak of ropes and rustle of canvas, and the rooting snore of a soldier somewhere nearby. A vague glow through the tent wall told Dwyer that their fire still flickered, and he could see the silhouettes of Ewan and his daughter against it, two shadows squeezed together.

Dwyer watched them for a moment, undecided on whether to rise and join them by the fire.

“Why did you promise?” Ewan murmured to Mairi. His voice was barely more than the whisper of the breeze through the grass, and Dwyer held his breath and cursed the heavy beat of his heart.

“It was just a lie,” Mairi snorted. “So that he wouldn’t guard us.”

“You gave your word.”

“I don’t mind, not to one like him.”

“Promises don’t signify by who you give them to. It’s who gives them that gives them their weight.”

“Maybe,” Mairi allowed grudgingly. “Are we staying, then?”

“That’s up to you. I promised I wouldn’t leave you, and that’s a vow I’ll always keep.”

“I know.”

“Good,” Ewan replied, and he hugged Mairi closer.

“I just hate him,” Mairi whispered. “And I hate the captain and I hate being here. I hate being afraid all the time.”

“I know. But we’re here now, and we have to do our best, just like all these soldiers will do, because that’s how we’re going to survive this.”

“All right,” Mairi murmured. “I just hope they’re better soldiers than him.”

I do, too, Dwyer agreed miserably.

“It’s fucking thick,” Bearnard noted as he eyed the tree-choked valley. “Too close for proper shield work.”

“Aye, too close,” Kincaid agreed. He had donned a shaggy, black bear pelt as a cloak, and, at that moment, Dwyer was prepared to believe the captain had killed the creature with only his hands.

They had begun their march that morning in absolute darkness, with scalding soup and tea to warm them and get them moving. The soldiers had formed into columns by instinct, with only a few muttered commands to guide them, and had begun the march west with the faintest of blue tinge to the eastern horizon.

The scouts had led them over a low ridge and down a densely forested slope, with commands of silence hissed at any clank or grunt. Dwyer had trudged desperately behind Ewan, terrified that he should lose the hunter’s silhouette in the darkness and discover he had wandered astray, with no notion where the rest of the army had gone.

At last, the order had come to halt, concealed beneath the trees. The pale light of the pre-dawn sky had revealed a wide meadow where two valleys joined, silent and still. As the light had grown stronger, even Dwyer could tell that the meadow had been trampled by countless feet, a swathe of mud that came from the smaller valley facing them.

But no figure had moved in the valley, and it remained empty as the soldiers had slowly moved into position along the forest edge, ready to advance.

“We’ll form the line along the stream,” Kincaid decided. “Tóki can bring as many of them to us as he can. Skirmishers, up!” he finished with a roar, and dozens of warriors responded, shedding their heavy packs and gear. Soon, fifty soldiers were assembled, armed mostly with axes and swords, and hardly a scrap of armor between them.

“Right,” Kincaid said grimly, then raised his voice to address the small group. “You lot know what to do. Prick them cruelly, then back for tea and biscuits, and we’ll do the hard work.”

Chuckles rolled down the line, and Dwyer saw confident smiles break out behind many a bristling beard and wondered at how they were not bent over with their stomachs in twisted agony.

“No proper fighting,” Kincaid warned. “Anyone makes me write a fucking letter to their mum, I’ll tell her how bloody stupid they were, I swear.”

“She knows,” someone shouted, and more laughter rumbled through the group.

Kincaid nodded to the speaker, then stepped aside, and Tóki took his place. The tall scout looked even more savage that morning, as he had smeared ash and grease across his face and arms in thick, black streaks, and fashioned his blonde hair into spikey tufts and long braids adorned with claws and fangs.

“Blades sharp?” he asked with grim purpose, and steel rang as weapons were readied. “Then it’s time for blood.”

The skirmishers followed Tóki across the stream and into the dense forest beyond, disappearing between the trees more quickly than Dwyer could believe. Not one even glanced back, let alone hesitated.

“All right, you bastards, I want a shield wall, right here!” Kincaid bellowed, sweeping his sword in a line along the near embankment of the stream that meandered through the meadow.

In an instant, the mass of soldiers responded. Packs were shed and helmets buckled as the soldiers hurried forward, and a long row appeared as if by magic from the disorder, soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, their tall shields facing the stream. A second line materialized behind them, then a third. More warriors, these bearing long spears, grouped behind the shield lines, their weapons swaying and clanking like a forest of young trees in a gale.

“Our right flank is the cliffs yonder,” Kincaid told Bearnard, pointing at a tumble of massive boulders blocking the valley to the north, “and our left is that slope, there. We’ll have Sir Hywel and the reserve on that wee hill, and Rhiain and her horses by those aspen, there. Should give them a nice run up if they’re needed.”

“Archers?” Bearnard asked. “Do they care about arrows?”

“A fine question.” Kincaid turned to Mairi and Ewan. “What say our two experts?”

“They don’t feel pain,” Ewan replied, his voice strained, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “But an arrow will knock them down, and if one breaks their skull, they’re done.”

“You heard the man,” Kincaid told Bearnard. “Archers along the line and tell ’em to break me some skulls.”

“Fire,” Mairi added in a whisper. “They don’t like fire.”

“Is that right?” Kincaid smiled. “Then light torches, as many as you can, and get some oil. The lass says they don’t like fire.”

Bearnard nodded and disappeared into the hurrying soldiers.

“How about you?” Kincaid asked Dwyer. “You want to fight, or join your mates collecting the packs?”

“Fight, of course, sir,” Dwyer replied quickly, cold fire throbbing in his arms and legs as terror coursed through him. He glanced aside, seeking desperately for some reason to stay, and when his gaze settled on Mairi he felt a surge of hope. “But shouldn’t I watch over these two? Just in case?”

“Aye, you do that,” the captain agreed, and Dwyer gave the Maker thanks.

Kincaid led them to a small rise some thirty paces behind the line, where Bearnard awaited them with a half-dozen youngsters barely older than Mairi, and two soldiers tasked with blowing horns and waving flags when orders were needed.

Kincaid watched his troops settle into place along the stream, the overwhelming rush now quieting to a few barked orders. Dwyer spotted Leod and the other remaining soldiers of Sir William’s troop trudging back and forth, carrying packs to the rear and returning with casks of water for the soldiers standing in the line.

“What now?” Mairi asked.

“Now, we wait,” Kincaid told her. He heaved a sigh and rolled his shoulders. “I bloody hate waiting.”

He did not have to wait long. Within moments, a warrior appeared at the edge of the forest and waved her arm before disappearing back among the trees, and a ripple of movement passed through the awaiting troops.

“Here we go,” Kincaid muttered to himself. He drew in a deep breath, then commanded, “Form the wall.”

“Wall!” Bearnard roared immediately, and three of the youngsters sprinted toward the line while the two signalmen blew on their horns and waved a bright blue pennant in the air.

None of it was necessary, Dwyer reckoned. He could hear Bearnard’s order being repeated along the line in hundreds of bellowing voices as the soldiers sprang into motion. The first line locked their shields together in an instant, their rims firm on the ground at their feet, then the second stepped forward and formed a layer on top of the first, overlapping it at chest height. The third line moved into place with their shields overlapped at head height, tilted backward to provide cover from above, though Dwyer doubted they would need it against husks. Lastly, the spearmen braced their weapons with the tips jutting above the wall in a thicket of steel. A great shout rose from the soldiers as each line fell into place, and echoes rolled back from the valley walls like distant thunder.

One by one, blue pennants waved over the shield wall, and the three runners returned with breathless reports that all was ready. We can see that, Dwyer thought incredulously, but he held his tongue, as pride shone from their young faces as if they had placed each shield themselves.

The warrior at the forest’s edge appeared again, this time to wave with both arms before she vanished.

“Archers,” Kincaid barked, and again runners sprinted and pennants were waved. In response, squads of archers squeezed through gaps opened for them in the wall and spread across the far embankment, twenty paces from the forest edge.

Again, the valley stilled as the soldiers held their breath, so quiet that Dwyer could hear a rising rush of wind through dense trees. No… not wind, he realized.

“They’re coming,” Mairi whispered.

The hiss of sound swelled, and now Dwyer could hear the crack of wood breaking and the tumult of feet like the roar of an avalanche.

“That’s what we want,” Kincaid reminded them, but his voice was low with strain.

Warriors burst from the trees, a dozen of the skirmishers panting for breath as they hurled themselves down the grassy sward and splashed through the stream. Then a dozen more followed, and another close on their heels, and Dwyer saw the tall form of Tóki at the rear, his axe raised as he urged his soldiers to more speed.

A bow twanged, the sound strangely sharp. Dwyer did not see the flight of the arrow, but more archers fired in quick succession, and their shots blurred past Tóki and between the tree trunks beyond. Dwyer gasped as he saw figures boil from the gloom, too many to count, loping forward with uncanny speed, their mouths gaping open in a soundless wail.

Tóki met the first of them with his axe, sweeping a husk to the side then crushing the next to the ground with massive blows. Another dozen archers fired, and Dwyer saw husks yanked from their feet from the impact of the steel-tipped shafts. More husks appeared in an instant to take their place, until the forest seethed with movement.

“Get out of there,” Kincaid muttered, and somehow Tóki seemed to hear, as the tall scout whirled away and sprinted after his skirmishers, bounding down the slope with his braids flying behind him.

Withered shapes pursued him and were met with a great volley of arrows. Shafts hissed through the air and crashed into rusted steel and ancient bone with the sound of hail against stone. Another volley lashed the husks, this one a sweeping wave that hurled husks to the ground across the entire width of the valley mouth.

“Back archers,” Kincaid ordered, and now Dwyer realized the need for horns and pennants as the distant archers immediately fired one last volley and sprinted for the wall, chasing the last of the skirmishers through the narrow gaps left by their comrades.

As the final archers sloshed through the stream and struggled up the muddy embankment, the narrow valley disgorged a wave of husks that poured down the slope and into the stream like a tide, soundless save for the thunder of their feet against the ground.

“Maker,” Bearnard muttered.

Dwyer thought he might scream. The horde was more terrifying than any nightmare he had imagined, a surge of bodies so vast that the armored wall of soldiers seemed a child’s dam of pebbles in its path. This is what they saw, right before they died, he realized, as his fevered thoughts at last had a vision to match his memory of the horns falling silent along the ridgeline. He gazed desperately at the edge of the woods, waiting for the end of the flood, waiting for the inky tendrils of Shadow he had seen cresting above the ridgeline, but he saw neither.

Distant shouts of, “Hold!” repeated along the wall, and the company braced against their shields.

The first husks struggled up the embankment and crashed into the shields, scrabbling at the hard wood with fingers and rusted blades. More followed, their feet churning the bank into thick mud as they flung themselves at the shield wall, trampling their comrades as they surged forward. The clatter of bone and steel against wood pounded against Dwyer’s chest, and he could only wonder at how the soldiers did not run screaming from it.

But they did not. The line sagged beneath the terrible pressure, and shields twisted and shook, but the wall did not give way. More husks scrambled forward, pulling themselves upward to claw at the top of the shields.

With a great shout, every fourth warrior twisted his shield in unison, the spearmen thrust savagely through the gaps, and husks were thrown back to be trampled into the stream bed. Another roar rippled across the wall and shields in the second line were wrenched apart to allow their wielders to thrust short blades into the mass of enemies pressed against them.

“Well done, lad,” Kincaid said, and Dwyer realized with a start that Tóki had joined them, his hair plastered to his skin with sweat, his chest rising and falling like bellows. “Any hurt?”

“A few nicks,” Tóki replied. “Hot work.”

“Aye,” Kincaid agreed. “Grab some water, then let’s have you cutting throats.”

Tóki nodded and hurried away, soon to reappear with his skirmishers spread out behind the wall with the archers, weapons ready.

“I think we’re in trouble,” Bearnard said, far too calmly to suit his words. “They keep coming.”

Dwyer followed Bearnard’s pointing finger and saw what the sergeant had spotted. Though the spears were knocking the husks off the wall, many of the creatures simply picked themselves up and hurled themselves back into the fray. Greater damage was being done to the husks through trampling by their own kind than by the weapons of the defenders, and more husks were pouring from the forest with every moment.

“Tenacious fuckers,” Kincaid agreed. “Well, the lass said fire.”

“She did, indeed,” Bearnard replied with a vicious smile. “Fire!” he bellowed, and horns blared a new note.

Warriors raced to the shield wall carrying smoldering baskets wrapped in rope. They halted behind the spearmen and began to whirl the baskets by the rope’s end, until they were shrouded in a ring of white smoke. One by one they launched their baskets over the shield wall in long arcs that plunged into the horde of scrabbling husks. Fire bloomed in roiling clouds where each basket landed, an ugly glare of red and orange, and black smoke billowed skyward.

“Burn, you bastards,” Bearnard growled as a dozen more baskets flew skyward.

And the husks did burn. Dwyer could see figures writhing, withered skin curling away from bone in the heat as the flames spread eagerly from one husk to the next.

“Burn,” he whispered, and he urged the warriors preparing the next volley of baskets to greater speed.

But Kincaid suddenly tensed and stepped toward the line. “No, no, no…” he muttered.

Dwyer followed his gaze to the brightest of the blazes, where several baskets had landed close together. Dozens of husks were alight, and many succumbed to the fire even as Dwyer watched. But the ones that could still move did not flee or seek the stream’s waters, but continued to hurl themselves against the shield wall even as they were engulfed, and Dwyer watched in horror as flame splashed onto the shields.

“Ware the fire!” Kincaid shouted, and the horns sounded again, but they could not stop the fire that had already spread. Flames licked between the shields and soldiers cried out as they burned and fell away. Some shields caught the blaze, their hard wood succumbing to the intense heat, and soldiers hurled them down and staggered away.

A gap in the wall sagged open and husks poured through, clawing with blazing limbs at the soldiers on either side.

“Tóki!” Kincaid bellowed, but the tall warrior was already in motion, sprinting toward the breach with his skirmishers in pursuit.

A dozen more husks burst through and rushed toward one of the basket-throwers caught in their path. Arrows scythed through the air and drove some back, but two loped onward, black smoke streaming from their skin as they reached for the soldier. He staggered to his feet and desperately whirled his basket at the husks. His arm smashed against one and the basket flew wide, arcing with horrifying slowness into the back of the shield wall twenty paces away.

Flame bloomed among the packed soldiers, and screams tore at Dwyer’s ears. Desperate figures fled in all directions, thrashing madly at the flames that seared their flesh.

“No!” Mairi wailed, her voice high and desperate.

Dwyer could not look away from the horror, but Kincaid did not hesitate. He whirled to the south, where his cavalry were stationed, and bellowed in a voice that drowned out the blare of the horns.

“Rhiain, go!”

The riders shot forward as if fired from a bow, their leader with her axe thrust forward and her black braids flying with the speed of their charge. A great howl rose from their throats into a single, terrible voice as the meadow shook beneath their horses’ hoofs.

Dwyer urged the riders on as each desperate heartbeat seemed to last forever. Then Rhiain reached the spilling mass of husks and her axe swung in a devastating arc as she passed. Husks were torn and trampled in a swathe as the riders swept along the back of the shield wall, and in their wake, the skirmishers darted in with axe and sword, and arrows poured into the breach in a withering stream.

“Reserves up,” Kincaid ordered, his voice eerily calm. “Seal the flanks, and we’ll trap them. I want that fucking breach turned into a killing field.”

The horns blared again, long notes and short in rapid succession as husks flooded into the meadow as if a dam had burst, and Dwyer fought against the urge to flee as he watched them spread toward him, opposed by just the thin line of Tóki’s skirmishers.

“Give me a bow.” Ewan’s voice was cold and dangerous, like ice crusting a deep well. The hunter gripped Kincaid’s arm. “Give me a bow.”

“Da, no!” Mairi pleaded, but her father kept the captain’s gaze until the warrior nodded.

“Take mine,” Kincaid replied, and offered Ewan the short, wickedly curved bow he carried. Ewan did not hesitate longer than to grab a handful of heavy, barbed shafts and then he was gone, sprinting toward the breach.

Desperation washed over Dwyer. His hand closed around his sword hilt, uncertain whether to draw his blade and dash after Ewan, or to conceal it beneath his cloak. I can’t, he wailed silently. He stepped back, his legs trembling, as bile stung his throat.

Rhiain’s riders thundered back in a scything arc that trampled the leading edge of the wave of husks into the mud, and then warriors streamed past Dwyer as Sir Hywel’s reserves charged forward, stepping into place alongside Tóki’s skirmishers in a thick mass bristling with steel.

Hundreds of voices began to chant, a rumbling thunder as the soldiers in the wall bellowed in unison. The wall swung away from the breach like great gates opening, the soldiers lifting their shields and stepping back as one, until the wall had split into two in the shape of a funnel, with the ranks of the reserves waiting at the spout.

The husks poured into the gap eagerly, and now their mindless advance served them poorly. They lurched forward in all directions, and like a wave dispersing into an open pool, the dreadful weight of their numbers spread and weakened. Husks hurled themselves against the shield wall, but could no longer press it back, and the soldiers’ chant shifted again as they hacked between their shields with constant, murderous rhythm.

The fighting was fiercest where the tide of husks met the assembled soldiers of the reserves, who had to fight their way into a makeshift line and had no time for shields and maneuvers. Warriors hacked fiercely at withered shapes that raced toward them in a constant flood, and Dwyer thought the battle hopeless. He caught a glimpse of Ewan dodging among the struggling figures. The hunter paused to draw his bow and fire, then raced onward and disappeared into the throng.

Then a throb of thunder beat once from the center of the turmoil, as if a great drum had been struck, and Dwyer swayed as the pulse of its sound rippled through him. Dwyer caught a glimpse of Sir Hywel’s grim face as the knight leapt on the husks, a long sword that shone as bright as moonlight in his hand. The silver blade carved bone and iron as easily as parchment, and the husks were sliced apart.

And with each passing heartbeat, as the levies of steel held and the flood of husks from the forest drained to a trickle, hope returned. The shield walls began to move again, this time closing, forcing the husks together until their thrashing hordes were pressed into one mob, and the fighting became butchery.

A few husks escaped the ring and spread into the meadow, where they were easy prey for Rhiain and her cavalry. The riders formed smaller groups who raced to attack any husks that broke free, chasing them down before they could turn on the unprotected backs of the soldiers in the wall.

Yet the finale took the rest of the morning to arrive. The husks fought on long after the soldiers had crushed the attack, long after the warriors were too tired to lift their weapons or move their shields. Exhausted soldiers staggered away from the line to rest for a few moments, then returned all too quickly to relieve their comrades, their blades now dull and notched from their morning’s work.

Ewan returned, his face streaked with ash and blood and sweat but otherwise unharmed, and Dwyer felt fresh shame that he had hung back, his blade not even drawn. Mairi raced to her father and clung to him, and the pair stood together, an eye of calm shelter amongst the chaos that stormed around them.

Finally, as the sun reached its zenith, the soldiers drew back from the abattoir they had crafted in the meadow. Fire was once again brought forward and hurled into the piled masses of writhing corpses, and white smoke filled the valley with a thick pall.

Only then did Kincaid cease barking orders, leaving Bearnard to arrange a guard and pickets as he visited the wounded.

Dwyer was relieved when Mairi hung back, pulling on her father’s hand until he halted. But the rows of bodies and the screams were all too clear, and when at last Kincaid returned, the smell of charred flesh clung to him like a miasma, and Dwyer felt his stomach twist.

The captain stayed silent as he trudged toward the tents that had sprung up on the south side of the stream, his brow furrowed thunderously.

They found Sergeant Bearnard and Sir Hywel waiting at the edge of the camp alongside a soldier dressed in the uniform of a Royal Herald. Dwyer could not help but gawk at the Weapon sheathed at Sir Hywel’s side, though its plain, battered hilt appeared little different from any of the hundreds of blades Dwyer saw every day. And its bearer was as mundane as his blade. Hywel wore a jerkin of blackened steel rings over stained leather and a ragged cloak whose fleece lining was matted and torn. The knight appeared as worn as his clothes, his long face craggy with harsh lines cracking the corners of his eyes and lips, and a nose like a hatchet blade between pale green eyes.

Bearnard met Kincaid’s dark gaze as the captain approached, and dared to ask, “How bad?”

“Bad,” Kincaid grunted. “Near sixty dead or on their way to meet the Maker tonight, another hundred too wounded to walk.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” Bearnard murmured. “It was a near thing.”

“You ever been in a proper fight that weren’t?” Kincaid replied shortly. “We did all right, I’d say, considering what we were facing. What’s your guess?”

“Three thousand?” Sir Hywel ventured, and Bearnard nodded in agreement.

“Aye, about that, I’d say.”

The captain blew out his cheeks as he gazed at the spread of tents, then turned to the herald. “What’s the general have to say?”

The herald retrieved a handful of scrolls from his pouch and handed them to Kincaid. The captain broke the seals and browsed the parchments in silence, his brow furrowed as his glance darted across the script. Dwyer listened to the clean scrape of parchment as Kincaid sorted through them and suppressed a shiver of dread at what fate the scrawl of ink contained. We’ve done our part, hey? Made it through another fight, that’s more than enough.

Apparently, Sergeant Bearnard’s thoughts had followed a similar path, as he asked hopefully, “Someone coming to relieve us?”

Kincaid finished reading, then carefully rolled the parchments into a tight scroll. “Aye, Buchanan’s lads are on their way, and Graham’s as well, by tomorrow. The whole army’s coming west to exploit the breach, keep those bastards divided up.”

“Good,” Bearnard said gruffly. “Would hate to see all this wasted.”

“Nah, the general’s coming.” Kincaid nodded to the herald and said, “Tell General Boone I understand me orders.”

The herald saluted and immediately hurried away. Kincaid watched him depart, tapped the rolled parchments against his thigh, then faced Bearnard and Hywel.

“Well, that were the easy part,” Kincaid announced. “The general would like us to have a look at this place the enemy is coming from, this black tower the lass told us of, see what we can do to shut it.”

“Is he having a laugh?” Bearnard asked. “That’s mad. There’ll be thousands more of those bastards between here and there.”

“Aye, that’s the point,” Kincaid said. “They’ll keep coming, unless their tower is sealed up. The army will have its hands full dealing with what’s already come through, we don’t want endless fucking reinforcements, can you imagine? Months and months of fighting like we just went through? No. We’ll find their lair, burn them out, break their gate. Put an end to them.”

“I still say it’s mad.”

“Well, it were me who suggested it to the general, so if you’ve something to say, out with it.”

“I’ve said it,” Bearnard grumbled. “Bloody mad. Should have known it were your idea.”

“Aye. So, we’re off at first light. Tell Tóki to find us a path to the Gylden Beck, and we’ll follow that.” Kincaid glanced at Ewan, who was standing quietly, his arm curled protectively around his daughter’s shoulders. “Unless you know of another way up to the black tower?”

“No,” Ewan replied. “The high meadow has cliffs all around it, you have to come from the south. There’s a narrow track up the cliffs to the high plateau, where we used to graze our sheep.”

“Probably for the best,” Kincaid said, his beard bristling as he chewed on his lip. “Can’t be worrying about my flanks while I’m dealing with that bloody tower. And where is the tower once we get to the plateau?”

“I’m not sure,” Ewan replied. He hesitated, and his gaze lowered. “I wasn’t there when Reverend Crassus took her and her mum.”

“Lass? Where do we go…” Kincaid’s voice trailed away as he turned to the girl.

Mairi stepped forward, her hands clenched together so tightly that her knuckles were white, and her voice shook as she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Lass?” Kincaid asked, suddenly concerned. Mairi’s face shattered into misery, and a great sob burst from her throat and unleashed a torrent of tears.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, lass, what?” Kincaid asked. He knelt beside her and patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“It’s my fault,” she managed to choke out. “I said fire…”

“Oh, no, luv, never think you caused any harm,” Kincaid said softly. “I gave the order, not you.”

“I said fire…!” Mairi wailed.

Dwyer knew what she saw every time she closed her eyes, as he could see it now. Writhing flames, soldiers screaming as they flailed helplessly, and the terrible fear as the husks broke through the shield wall. Kincaid pulled her close to comfort her, but his cloak smelled of smoke and burnt flesh, and Mairi frantically pushed him away.

“I gave the order,” Kincaid said again. “I killed those men and women.” His gloved thumb wiped roughly across her cheek. “Every one that died, every one that’s in pain, I did it. There’s no hiding from that, when you’re a captain.”

“It hurts,” Mairi sobbed. “It hurts all through me.”

“Look here,” Kincaid told her, and he turned her shoulders so that she could see the army’s encampment, hundreds of tents and the soldiers moving among them. “I hope there’s more of ’em than would be if I hadn’t.”

“I just want to go,” she begged.

“I know you do,” Kincaid replied. “No one here wants to stay, that’s the truth. But there’s more of those bastards to kill, and we’re not leaving until the job’s done.”

Kincaid strode away, and Dwyer watched him move from tent to tent, stopping at each one to crouch by the fire and speak with the soldiers gathered there. There was little laughter, but Dwyer saw weary despondency turn to grim purpose and pride in many a face as the captain spoke, and he imagined that he could feel an echo in his own chest.

“Mairi?” Ewan said.

She wiped at her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. “I’m so tired,” she said helplessly.

“You’ve a warm blanket waiting,” Dwyer told her sympathetically. “Come on, we’ll have the tent up in two shakes with us all helping, and I’ll find us some food.”

“I hate you,” Mairi whispered, too weary to even spit the words properly.

She let Ewan lead her through the camp until they found their gear, did not say a word while Dwyer helped them set up their tent, and crawled beneath her blanket without removing her boots.

Stones and Bones

The river docks of Newbridge were never a lively place, favoring sullen, low buildings to suit the soulless drudgery of the labor, and now the docks were curfewed, the harbor barred, and the docks were denied even that dreary activity. Yet there were small islands of life among the shuttered storehouses and deserted quays. Brief flares of lanternlight as a door opened, and the occasional waft of a simmering stew.

Wyn glared at the darkened buildings that squatted along the wharf, then stalked into the first twisted alleyway that presented itself. It led her into a warren of dank corners and guttering torches, where figures scuttled away or glared back defiantly, predator or prey, and no neutral ground. She returned the glares brazenly, hoping to goad a response.

Filling her purse in the market square had been an all-too-brief respite, a flash of nostalgia for her childhood that washed away the anger and desperation of her current life for a few precious moments. But dipping a few pennies from unsuspecting nobs proved too transitory a diversion, and Wyn had pursued trouble down ever darker and narrower streets, never finding it, until her steps had led her to the docks.

A burst of laughter drew her to a makeshift table, no more than a few planks across a pair of barrels, ruled over by a withered root of a woman shrouded in a cloud of pipe smoke. Figures crowded close to the table, hunched over dog-eared cards that the woman skimmed to them with practiced ease.

Wyn pushed between two of the less fragrant players and tapped a finger on the rough wood. “I’ll play.”

“What you got?” the old woman croaked.

“What stake will you give me for this?” Wyn asked, and she let a silver bracelet thunk onto the planks, one of several she had obtained earlier.

The woman inspected it closely, chewing on her pipe. “Ten crowns.”

“Ten?”

“Ten, my sweet, and not a penny more.”

“Fine,” Wyn accepted with bad grace, and she scowled at the two men on either side of her. “Should be plenty to get started with.”

The cards flickered across the planks, and it cost Wyn her stake plus two more bracelets to suss out the woman’s partner, but after that the silver began to flow her way as she stayed clear of the traps and feasted on the other players in the partner’s wake.

“Stones and Bones,” announced the wretch on her right, a grease-stain of a man with a crooked nose and a sore where he chewed his lip.

“Oh, hard luck,” Wyn said absently as she revealed her own cards. “Flowers in Silver.”

“Fuck’s sake,” the man cursed. He lurched to his feet and stumbled away, his face pale, but Wyn felt no sorrow for him. His card skills were his ruin, not anything she had done.

“You’re a bit lucky, aren’t you?” the brute on her left growled.

“You think I’m bent, you call me on it,” Wyn replied sweetly. “Otherwise, go fuck yourself.”

The old woman dealt her the trap in the next hand, and Wyn made certain to feed the pot appropriately before chucking her cards to remain in her good graces. There was plenty of easy silver around the table without pissing on the house’s take.

“Looks like there’s an open seat,” a new voice announced from behind Wyn, and she winced in frustration. The speaker took the departed wretch’s spot, a neat stack of pennies ready in his fingers.

“Good to see new blood,” the old woman cackled, and the cards flashed across the table.

Wyn made every effort to stab the newcomer, but he played like a rat, slipping out of hands then twisting to bite when least expected.

“Wall of Soldiers,” she announced.

“Red Tower to the Duke,” he replied, and Wyn glared at him as he stacked his coins.

“Where’s your lip, now?” the brute on her left asked, but Wyn ignored him and abandoned the table without another word.

She had barely taken a dozen steps before the newcomer fell into stride alongside her, his long legs easily keeping pace.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Killock replied.

“No, no, it’s not wise,” Wyn agreed, and she laughed bitterly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Wyn, just stop for a moment.”

“Why?” Wyn demanded.

“So we can talk.”

“Oh, leave it,” she scoffed. “There’s nothing to be said.”

“I know you’re angry—”

“Angry?” Wyn halted abruptly and turned on Killock. “No, why would I be angry?”

“And you think working a card game will help?”

“It helps, because my other idea was to beat Karsha Hali until he stops being a cunt.”

“I see.” Killock crossed his arms and his gaze narrowed disapprovingly, which made Wyn’s temper flare brighter.

“You don’t think he deserves it?”

“I think he knows very well how to get what he wants.”

“Then why are you squinting at me like I’m the one who’s wrong?”

“You’re wrong if you think rage and threats will get you what you want. Not from someone like him.”

“He’s a fucking weasel, is what he is,” Wyn said.

“Nor will calling him names.”

“Which is why I was going to try beating on him,” Wyn explained sweetly. “He’s had it coming, ever since he called me a gold digger.”

“Did he really? And yet he survived?”

“I. Was being. Polite!” Wyn screamed, her hands clenched into helpless fists.

“I understand,” Killock assured her. “I heard him and Sir Roland, the same as you, and you know I don’t agree with them.”

“They are going to get Dani killed,” Wyn replied. The words hurt to speak, each one a vicious blow that drove the breath from her lungs and burned her throat as they passed, and Wyn trembled as she was wrung between the urge to curl around the ache in her heart and the need to flee, to run until her lungs burst and freed her from the anguish that threatened to overwhelm her. “They are going to get her killed, and no one… no one is doing anything… no one’s helping…and I don’t…”

Killock’s hand settled consolingly on her shoulder, but Wyn shoved it away.

“Don’t,” she seethed. “Don’t you dare say it will be all right.”

“I wasn’t,” he said softly. “I was going to say, I am sorry. I’m sorry you have to feel such pain.”

Wyn stared at Killock as despair swelled in her chest and filled her throat, choked her, and burned her eyes. Far better if he had told her everything would be all right. Then she could have raged at him and screamed until her voice failed, while somewhere deep inside she cradled a tender hope that he was correct. But his solace had crushed that hope, and she felt her shoulders sag helplessly.

This time, Wyn did not shrug away his touch on her shoulder, though the warm pressure broke her will and freed tears to course down her cheeks. Without its gentle weight, she feared she might shatter like glass.

Killock led her through the streets and she followed blindly, only a short distance, but when Wyn blinked and wiped her eyes the vista that swam into view was entirely changed, with moonlight glimmering on a peaceful bend of water as it passed beneath their perch on a deserted stretch of the city wall.

“Is this where you bring people when they need a blub?”

“I thought the quiet might suit,” Killock agreed. He leaned against the stone parapet and folded his arms across his chest, his gaze roaming far above the trees among the stars.

Wyn sighed and joined him at the edge, her chin resting on her arms as she watched the moon waver on the ripples of the black water, tear into long streamers, then regain its full beauty, only to repeat the transformation endlessly.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m just so scared, all the time,” Wyn said quietly. “I don’t know how to protect her. I just want her to be happy and safe.”

Killock remained silent for a moment, as motionless as the stone at his back. But Wyn could feel his presence at her side, a warm, unquestioned comfort.

“Sometimes all we can do is stand beside those we love,” he said at last.

Wyn sagged against the parapet, suddenly too weary to stand.

“What now?” she asked.

“We keep searching for a better way,” he murmured.

“I suppose.”

Killock remained silent, an obstinate quiet that weighed on her shoulders like a yoke.

Wyn pushed away from the parapet and searched for a target to glare at, eventually settling on the mass of Newbridge Castle squatting at the top of the hill.

“Look, I need to sort it out, so ‘I suppose’ is the best I can do right now.”

“Fair enough,” Killock relented.

Wyn listened to the soft sounds of the river, hoping they would soothe her. But she could find no solace. She could sense the patient anticipation in Killock’s presence, as if this were another trial to be examined and her effort dissected, and her mind flailed as it sought a quick answer to impress.

Wyn sighed in exasperation. “You can go, I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I need to think, and I can’t do that with you standing there. I need to be alone.”

Killock’s gaze searched her face, looking for tells, but Wyn had no ulterior motive to conceal, and he soon nodded his acceptance.

“All right, if you promise me you won’t look for trouble.”

“No, I’m done,” Wyn assured him.

He hesitated, then abruptly gathered her into an embrace, crushing her against scratchy wool and hard leather. Wyn teetered on her toes, unbalanced and awkward, surprised and embarrassed. But he held her there as she slowly accepted the warm comfort of his strength and felt the twisted steel in her shoulders and back uncoil.

Then, with a final pat on her shoulder, he withdrew, a brush of leather against stone all that marked his departure.

Wyn lingered on the wall for a moment, but the soothing undulations of the water brought no answers, and she was soon picking at the crumbling mortar for chunks to throw, just to see the surface shatter.

This is bollocks, she decided. I can’t think in all this quiet.

She left the wall and hunted down a tavern, a lively establishment just off a market square. A fiddler scratched out energetic tunes between drinks for a contented crowd, whose throb of conversation and laughter provided a bustle that Wyn could slip beneath like a warm blanket. A mug of ale further eased the passage of her thoughts, and she leaned against the tavern wall, her mug clutched in both hands, as she tried to sort the absurd jumble of her emotions.

A better way, he says. Better than just hoping a magus doesn’t show up, that’s easy. Better than breaking into the Grave to wreck their, whatever, ritual, that they use to control Shadow? What’s better than that? But even Wyn had to admit that plan lay too far in the future to be of use. Steal the Blade from Dani? Kidnap her? Lock her in the cellar?

Wyn snorted a laugh into her mug. She might be a wee bit miffed. Come on then, girl, work this like a proper job. What’s the angle?

But, though she glared at the rough planks of the table until her head ached, no inspiration struck, for every thought led to the same conclusion. Someone’s already come up with the best way, and he knew more than I ever will. So, what chance I’ll think of something better than what Duibhir did?

She placed her mug on the table and pushed it away. It looked like a fine place to hide from bewildering uncertainty, but Wyn was growing suspicious of it.

Why’d Shitebrooke have to break the Guardian? Maker, if I’d only stabbed him while we were in the dungeon. Stab Karsha? We’re back to that idea, that didn’t take long. Is there a way to twist Karsha back, wreck his head for a change, trick him? He’s a sneaky bastard, but that don’t make him immune.

Wyn’s fingertips slowly spun her mug as a frown of concentration slowly grew deeper between her brows. Actually… the person who needs twisting is Danu. She’s the problem, the truculent bitch. What if I could talk to her, convince her, trick her into helping us? Well, because she’s a goddess. Tricking a goddess doesn’t sound like a great idea. Although, why not? They do it in the stories all the time. I could be like Indrithil, when she tricked the moon, or when Loriel fooled the dragons. It’d be like the Song of Pride, I love that one.

There was an ember of hope throbbing in her chest and she risked a careful prod or two against it, expecting it to pop like a bubble upon examination, but it persisted. A smile twitched timidly at the corners of her mouth, and she curled contentedly around her mug like a cat.

Maybe I can think of something that she wants… Wyn curled her legs tighter against her chest, now for protection rather than comfort. I suppose I just try. What an amazing plan.

Wyn rubbed her eyes and winced at the raw burn that throbbed beneath her eyelids. She was weary beyond belief, and the prospect of climbing the hill just to lie in their empty bed while Danielle risked herself on the embassy to Duke Campbell did not appeal. She was wondering if her frenzied gambling had left her with enough pennies to secure a room when she spied a familiar face in the crowd.

Braden rose as soon as she met his gaze and pushed his way to her table.

“Hello, Aine,” he greeted her. “It’s good to see you, again.”

“Braden, now there’s a surprise,” she replied.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

“No, go on.” Wyn swiveled to make room on the bench. “I promise, no blackberry wine, tonight.”

“Blackberry wine?” Braden asked, and a frown twitched across his brow.

“No, not after last time,” Wyn ventured, but received no answering grin. Maker, how drunk was he? she wondered, and she mimed a quick puke onto the tabletop.

“Ah,” he said at last. “No, we don’t want that.”

“Too right,” Wyn agreed. “We’re a fair trek from the West Market, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

“I’m just surprised to see you here.”

“I like this place,” Braden replied. “I was surprised to see you here, too. But I’m glad I found you.”

“Yeah?” Wyn asked. “Are your friends here, too?”

“Just me, but we could go find them, if you’d like. Have some fun.”

Some fun. Wyn wanted that desperately. Joy and laughter instead of heartache and worry. I’d just be running away from thinking, again, she realized. When I should be doing the opposite.

“Sounds lovely, but I’ve a bit of a pickle I need to sort,” Wyn replied, and she gave Braden a smile to apologize.

“Just for a bit,” Braden countered. “Then I could help you with your pickle, if you’d like.”

Just a little while wouldn’t hurt, would it? Wyn wondered. Have a laugh, then to bed and a fresh mind for the morning?

“Yeah, all right, though I’ll warn you I’m feeling a bit luckier tonight.”

“How’s that?”

“If you’re thinking of rolling dice, again,” Wyn explained.

“Oh. We can if you want.”

“No, I was just… never mind, it doesn’t matter.” Wyn drained her mug and thumped it on the table. “Let’s be off.”

Braden led her from the tavern and headed west into the city with a purposeful stride that left little chance for idle chatter, and he responded with little more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ at what few sallies Wyn had a chance to attempt.

I wonder what’s eating at him? Wyn thought. Braden smiled and was pleasant enough in his quick replies, but there was little of the bumbling exuberance that had made him such an easy companion. And Wyn noted other signs that all was not well with the young man. His hair was unkempt and skin grimed with dirt, and a sour scent clung to him. His clothing was the same that he had worn the night she had met him, now ragged with use and still bearing a stain of blackberry wine, clearly unwashed and perhaps not removed since then.

“Are you all right, luv?” Wyn asked. “Has something happened?”

“I’m fine,” he replied.

Wyn frowned to herself as she pondered what Aine would say. She’d be concerned, but she’d not pry, I suppose. How boring.

“You sure?” Wyn tried, compromising between Aine and herself. “You seem a bit shattered.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Wyn bit her tongue to stem the rush of questions that crowded her mouth. He doesn’t want to talk about it, she chided herself.

Braden had brought them to the outskirts of the devastated swathe of ruined buildings beneath the castle, the last place in Newbridge that Wyn wanted to be. The scarred building facades leered at them, revealing dark shadows lurking behind the gaping wounds in their shattered brick.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Here.” Braden stopped at an iron gate set into the heavy stones of an empty building. The bars were twisted and bent, and the gate swung open with a groan.

“You must be joking.”

“Come on, Aine.” Braden reached for her hand, but Wyn tucked her fingers beneath her arms and frowned at him.

“No,” she said coldly. “And you’ll lose that hand if you try to touch me again.”

Braden gazed at her for a moment, his expression blank.

“Come inside,” he said, and he reached for her again.

“Oy!” Wyn snapped, and she slapped his hand away. “What did I just—”

Pain exploded beneath her ribs and through her lungs, and her breath was driven from her body in a choking gasp. She felt the world spin and then stone smacked against her cheek, cold and unforgiving.

He hit me… She struggled to focus her thoughts. The blow had been so powerful it had lifted her off her feet, and had come so quickly she had hardly managed to twist, an instinct that came far too late. Wyn strained to drag her hands beneath her, but simple breath seemed beyond her capabilities. Darkness crowded at the edge of her vision, as if she gazed along a tunnel at the worn boot that stepped in front of her face.

Braden’s fingers curled around her belt, and he lifted her easily and carried her through the gate and along a passageway that led downward, worn steps disappearing into the earth. As they descended, brick became broad, smooth slabs, then rough blocks with dirt crumbling between them. Torchlight flared against low arches that supported the bowed ceiling and glistened on rivulets of water trickling down the walls to gather into a dank puddle in the center of the floor.

Wyn managed a gasping breath, then another. Her stomach still throbbed with the force of Braden’s blow, a sickening pressure that grew worse with every jarring step he took. But the pain burned away the last lingering darkness that had dulled her senses.

He hasn’t even taken my knives, she realized.

Braden ducked through a doorway and straightened to his full height, the torch held aloft. Then he flung Wyn deeper into the room, as if she weighed no more than a child. Wyn twisted as she flew and she hit the floor in a smooth tumble. She rolled quickly to her feet, and steel sighed as her knives slid into her hands, ready to hurl herself onto Braden.

But as her gaze flickered across the chamber, she froze. The room was not large, and what space it had was interrupted by thick, squat pillars that supported a cramped vault. Bright fresh wounds scarred the worn stone, harsh symbols that tracked across the floor toward the center of the chamber.

A rancid smell invaded Wyn’s sharp intake of breath and made her gag. Black blood stained the center of the chamber floor and splashed onto the pillars, and misshapen lumps gleamed in the torchlight, bloated purple and fetid grey.

“Oh, no…” Wyn whispered. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh, no…” Braden repeated, his voice strangely high, his gaze unblinking and dark.

“Braden, what have you done?”

“Not Braden. Aine…” He laughed, a dry rasp that twisted into a giggle that horrified Wyn with its familiarity.

She stepped away, her feet searching for safe purchase while her gaze never left his. Dirt ground beneath her boots, as loud as her heartbeat in her ears.

“Aine… Aine…” Braden repeated. “Sounds lovely…”

Wyn shuddered as his voice screeched and broke and then settled into a soft whisper that matched her own so perfectly that she wondered if it had passed her own lips.

She stepped further away, creeping toward one of the thick pillars that spaced the chamber. Her boot brushed against something that clicked and tumbled across the stone slabs of the floor, a tiny cube of polished ivory, its carefully engraved faces now clotted with congealed blood.

“I’m feeling a bit luckier, tonight,” Braden murmured, Wyn’s voice bright and cheerful as it emerged from the slack hole of his mouth.

“Stop that!” Wyn barked at him.

Braden took a single step toward her and Wyn lunged, her teeth bared in a snarl of fury. Torchlight flashed on her blade as it sliced across the pale skin of Braden’s throat, then she whirled and lashed out with a scything kick that cracked into his jaw. His head snapped back from the blow, but it was Wyn who staggered as pain lanced up her ankle and into her knee, as if she had kicked a slab of wood instead of flesh.

A long wound gaped in Braden’s skin where her blade had passed, but no blood poured forth, and Wyn gasped as she saw twisted shapes, black as oil, slide to close the gap.

“What are you?” she whispered in revulsion.

“I’m glad I found you…” He leered at Wyn as tendrils of Shadow writhed within the wound, pulling the severed skin together like ghastly stitches, until only a faint line showed where her blade had struck.

Wyn crouched lower, ignoring the dull ache that throbbed in her twisted leg. She quickly glanced left, then right, and his gaze followed each time. All right… Icy determination washed through her like fire, burning in her limbs. All right, then, it’s strong, and it’s got some horrible Crunorix fuckery to heal itself, but it’s still a prat.

She started left then darted right as he lurched after her, and she left a long wound across his arm before she dodged away. But he recovered more quickly than she could believe, and his fingers left bloody trails across her neck as he grasped for her as she whirled away.

Wyn dove behind a pillar and rolled to her feet in a blur of motion as he pursued her. Two quick steps and she twisted to the side, her blade slicing across his thigh as he skidded on congealed blood.

She lunged forward, but again he regained his balance too quickly, and he knocked aside her blade with a stinging blow that sent it clattering across the floor.

That’s why you bring two knives, she thought grimly as she scurried away, her teeth grinding against the pain flaring in her wrist.

The horror that looked like Braden stalked her among the pillars, darting forward so quickly that Wyn was forced to scramble and dodge away without a chance to strike back. The wounds she had left on arm and leg slowly closed as she watched, fuming as the opportunity to inflict more damage failed to appear.

She reversed course suddenly and jabbed for his throat, but had to flinch away as he moved faster, his fist blurring past so close to her nose that she felt the wind of its passing on its way to impact with a pillar with enough force to crack chunks of old mortar into a cloud of dust.

His fingers reached for her and she slashed at them, knocking his hand away from her arm as her shirt tore in his grasp, but he closed on her relentlessly, and she weaved desperately away from his assault, dodging and twisting like an eel.

A quick dash behind a pillar gave her the moment she needed to regain her balance, and she glared at him as he followed her around the stone column.

Strong and fast. Wyn swayed from side to side, judging his response, searching for any chance to take advantage of even the slightest opening. And it doesn’t look winded, at all, damn it. Let’s see if it can heal as fast as I can cut it.

Wyn retreated more slowly, allowing her opponent to creep closer, and Braden pursued without hesitation, lashing out as soon as Wyn was in range.

She leapt forward and caught Braden’s forearm against her shoulder, his strength flailing uselessly past her, then thrust sharply, slamming her knife into his throat so that its steel length grated against hidden hardness deep within his flesh. Wyn twisted the knife free and struck again, burying the knife to its hilt as she screamed her rage into his face.

But Braden’s fingers closed around her arm like iron and wrenched her off balance, and Wyn curled her arm protectively against her side as he struck at her, his fist like a hammer as it crashed into her arm and ribs. Wyn choked as her breath was crushed from her lungs and his arm drew back for another terrible blow.

Her feet finally found purchase on the slippery floor and she twisted into him. Her hip slammed into his abdomen as she curled beneath his arm, and he spiraled through the air to crash onto the floor with a thud that shook grit from the ancient vaults.

Wyn tore free from his twisted grasp and darted toward the door, leaping desperately as his leg lashed out at her. She stumbled and caught herself on fingertips as she lunged forward, her legs scrambling to find purchase.

The open path to the doorway beckoned, and she sprinted through it, careening off the far wall of the passageway as she swerved and raced along its darkened length. Dark openings yawned on either side as she fled, but she dared not stop to find her way. She could hear boots pounding behind her, closing relentlessly no matter how fast she ran, and she chose her route blindly, hoping for some hint to guide her back to the surface.

It’s too close, she realized, and she dropped onto her hip and slid across the floor as her pursuer stumbled past, clawing at her hair. She rolled to her feet and leapt through the first opening she saw, and gasped as a faint silver light from above revealed a chasm of a stairwell, spiraling around a gaping pit.

Wyn sped up the first flight of steps, panting now as her thighs burned with effort. She reached the first landing and swerved toward the next flight, but before she could reach them, he smashed into her from behind, slamming her head into the rough brick of the wall. Blood burst into her mouth as she thrashed against his grip, but he ignored the blows and hurled her down the stairs as if she weighed no more than a doll. Wyn twisted like a cat as her toes sought the ground. They touched briefly, then she tumbled down the steps, crashing heavily on the landing in a tangle of limbs.

Braden was on her before she could gasp for breath, and he hurled her down the next flight as well, where she struck cruelly against the ancient stone wall at the bottom.

Wyn groaned and pulled her legs underneath her as she coughed blood into the dust. Her shoulder screamed with pain and dangled uselessly beneath her, and her ribs blazed with agony where his fist had found the grating wound the wight had given her.

She was not certain where her last knife had gone, but the small blade she used for slipping latches was still snug against her wrist, and it fell into her fingers as footsteps approached her. She waited, panting and huddled, until she saw the worn leather toe of his boot.

A scream of defiance tore her throat as she lunged upward. Her knife punched into his stomach twice before he could react with a sweeping blow aimed at her head. She ducked beneath it and drove the blade into his throat and face, then dodged away from a second punch and buried her knife twice more into his exposed back. Black drops splattered into the air in long streams that chased the tip of her blade, showering the walls and streaking her cheek, so cold that their touch burned like ice against her skin.

Braden hissed and twisted with the speed of a serpent, and his fist crashed into Wyn’s stomach like a battering ram, lifting her into the air and driving her breath from her throat in a choking gasp. His fingers closed around her upper arms like iron rings and he smashed her into the wall, first one way then the other, as Wyn clawed desperately at his grip.

But he was far too strong, and she screamed as he twisted and drove her savagely onto the floor. Her head struck stone and darkness lapped at her vision like a hungry tide, drowning the world beneath its wavering depths. Wyn struggled to open her eyes, frantic as she fought against the urge to slip into darkness.

Braden’s mangled face loomed over her, his pale skin torn and split by her attacks. Black tendrils of Shadow oozed slowly from the gashes, and dripped foulness across Wyn’s neck and cheek in a freezing rain. His mouth widened strangely, his lips bulging outward as they stretched. The skin parted in a ragged tear, ripping open in a wound that spread quickly from chin to nose, revealing gleaming plates of black and grey that swelled and pulsed. The wound lengthened, splitting his forehead as his skin peeled away from his face, and Wyn screamed as the pulsing mass began to extend long tendrils of gleaming darkness toward her.

No! she begged, Maker, no! She kicked and twisted and strained until her skin tore beneath his fingers, but she was pinned helplessly.

The tendrils shivered into life and began to writhe in the air above her face, stretching toward her eagerly. The first one brushed against her and she felt her skin burn at its touch.

Dani! Oh, Maker, Dani! she sobbed desperately as another tendril settled against her. Her body convulsed in agony and she closed her eyes against the nightmare engulfing her.

Maker, please… her voice was a pleading whisper in the depths of her mind.

Warmth glowed against her eyelids, and she opened them to see the decrepit tunnel filling with light, shining like a sunrise beyond the writhing Shadow that surrounded her.

The shroud, she realized. The Maker has come to get me.

The light grew brighter, so that Wyn could no longer see the tunnel nor the hideous creature crouched above her, her vision blinded by the light’s unimaginable beauty.

It’s beautiful, Dani, she whispered. Golden fields and warm sun. I’ll be waiting for you.

Then wind roared around her and the creature’s touch was torn away. A hand wreathed in sunlight reached for her, and she grasped it with all her heart.

Thorny Questions

The pasture had been abandoned when the farmer’s family fled the approach of Lady Lyndsey’s troops. In their absence, dandelions and daisies had returned in a few patches, harbingers of the blanket that would soon claim the hillside.

Karsha Hali ambled up the slope, pausing to prod at the earth with his gnarled toe whenever his interest was sparked. He had already collected a striped caterpillar and a creeper with pale green berries and wicked thorns that he did not recognize, and he hummed contentedly to himself as he neared the crest of the hill.

A playful breeze tugged at his robes and swirled the grass at his feet, and Karsha paused to stretch his back and breathe deeply. He found a sunbaked stone and perched on it, tucking his feet beneath him, and amused himself by plucking dandelions and puffing their seeds into the wind as he watched the valley below him. A long, chalk-bright line marked the path of the Rathad an Thuaidh on its way to Kuray, tracing long, graceful curves along the bottom of the valley. Small farmsteads dotted the road’s shoulders, but there were no villages or towns in sight.

The long ridgeline of hills that bracketed the road were more than a pastoral beauty. They were ideal for the grim advantage they gave any army fortunate enough to claim them, granting the hills the name of Dún Carraig. Lady Lyndsey’s forces had that honor now, and the long lines of her infantry swept like wings up the opposing slopes and perched on the ridgelines, protecting the encampment of pavilions and tents that guarded the road itself.

But from Karsha’s viewpoint, the fortifications looked fragile, in some cases merely a single line of soldiers, only the luckiest of whom had the fortune of a farmer’s wall to crouch behind. A precarious position, especially when judged against the sprawling forces arrayed against it.

Duke Campell’s army filled the valley to the north, ranks of soldiers digging trenches and erecting pallisades to protect the vast sea of tents behind them. A white haze drifted from the north, the dust of more soldiers joining the encampment every moment that cast a gloom over the valley.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Karsha mumbled to himself. Another long column of troops emerged from the dust cloud and tramped into the meadows to the west of the road, adding another layer to the already impressive forest of spears growing there.

Karsha puffed another flock of dandelion seeds into the wind and watched them swirl northward, toward Campbell’s army. Then he waited, motionless, as the long summer afternoon turned golden with evening light and the sky thickened with stars. Fires bloomed in flickering reply, an orange archipelago across the darkening valley floor.

At last, when all trace of the day had passed westward, Bran joined him on his hilltop. The great raven was grumpy from his long flight and had no patience for being scratched under his chin, not when Karsha had brought chestnuts and a battered tin cup with a splash of whiskey at its bottom.

“Hello, my friend,” Karsha murmured as he abandoned control of his bag of chestnuts. “Have you brought me a message?”

Bran croaked and shook out his wings with a noisy rush before folding them neatly into place again to continue his feast.

“Ah, well,” Karsha muttered, then cocked his head as torches entered the pasture below them, a line of guttering flame that floated upward, a magical vision spoiled by the growing sound of hoofbeats. He clambered to his feet and grumbled as he brushed debris from his robes, and he had even regained feeling in his toes by the time the riders drew near.

“Lady Danielle,” he greeted the lead rider, and he bowed. “Have you come to share the moonrise?”

“No,” she replied coldly, vexation obvious in the rigid angle of her shoulders and neck. “He has finally granted us leave to send an embassy.”

“Ah, Campbell replies,” Karsha said approvingly. “I had begun to wonder.”

“I could be back in Newbridge by now, instead of waiting for Campbell to finally acknowledge us,” Lady Danielle said irritably.

“With the duke in chains?” Karsha laughed. “With his promise to abide? With him at our side as a staunch ally? I pray to the gods it will be so easy, but I will prepare for other fates.”

“Once the negotiations are started, I will return to Newbridge,” Lady Danielle said sharply. “I must join the Temple army on its march north to confront the Crunorix.” She glared at him without mercy as she continued, “Before my absence is taken amiss, and my duties given to another.”

“If you must, then I shall wish you speed on your journey.” Karsha clambered onto his pony and whispered a few words against its ear. The beast snorted, stood proudly, and took special care not to jounce or rock its passenger on the descent.

Karsha and Lady Danielle bid farewell to their escort at the edge of the stretch of darkness between the two armies and rode on alone. Their journey from one line to the other took little time, as the armies glared at each other over a distance that an arrow might traverse with only a slight breeze to aid it. Dour knights awaited the embassy and ushered the two riders through Duke Campbell’s encampment to the center, by far the longer part of their trek.

They were led past sentries garbed in the duke’s swords-and-crown sigil to a sprawling pavilion set in the heart of the encampment, surrounded by blazing torches and pennants swaying in the breeze. They entered the pavilion and found that the interior more resembled a chamber in a grand mansion than a tent in a farmer’s field. Fine carpets were layered to form an elegant floor, tapestries were hung to conceal canvas, and heavy furniture filled the space. A marble bust of the duke glared at those who dared to enter, while paintings in ornate frames were arranged in the corners, and Karsha wondered which grand hall now endured bare patches of wall to satisfy the duke’s need for bland landscapes and overwrought hunting scenes.

A long, polished table crouched in the center of the space, large enough to seat a dozen with ease. Duke Campbell reigned at one end, seated on a chair that could easily be mistaken for a castle keep, while his entourage of knights and nobles lined the sides, although there was a conspicuous gap between them and the two empty chairs at the table’s foot.

On the duke’s right sat his commanders, bedecked in steel, stern with the grim sanctimony bestowed on those who know they hold the advantage. On his left sat a single noble, a hatchet of a man with a lean face, sharpened with a beard trimmed to a point beneath craggy cheekbones and a long nose, whose dark gaze was as cold as deep water beneath hard ice.

Karsha could smell the thick aromas of a recent feast, although there was now no sign of it beyond the satisfied expressions on the diners’ faces and a bottle of wine that stood at Campbell’s right hand, and there was the echo of earnest words in the studied quiet that lingered around the table.

“Counsellor, Lady Danielle,” the duke welcomed the southerners stiffly, apparently more concerned with a fleck on the table’s surface than the recent arrivals. “Be seated.”

The duke’s companions were not as sanguine. Hard glares and half-lidded contempt followed Karsha’s every move, and those closest leaned further away, as if some stench had invaded the pavilion. But the most hostile reception was reserved for Karsha’s companion. As Lady Danielle strode to the table, lips thinned and fingers tightened, and their hosts’ scowls became even darker.

Lady Danielle ignored their spite, and disdained the last chair to stand proudly, righteous strength clad in white enamel and silver steel, the great wings of the Martyr’s Blade soaring above her shoulder.

It had taken some persuasion to convince her to wear the Blade, but Karsha had prevailed, at last, by pointing out that its absence would raise awkward questions, while its presence would help keep the duke’s temper in check. Karsha had no desire to tempt the duke with two easy hostages to gobble up, especially when he suspected the duke might be content with one live prisoner and one head on a spear. And he had no illusions as to which role he would play.

The duke glanced at Lady Danielle, then at the lord on his left, and received a slow nod in return. Campbell leaned back against his towering chair, and a smirk danced on his lips as he produced a sealed scroll and tossed it onto the table.

“This is for you, Lord Karsha,” the duke said gravely.

“An order from the Queen?” Karsha guessed, and the duke frowned with displeasure as his surprise was undone.

“It is. The Queen commands that you return to Kuray to explain yourself. Immediately.” The duke’s smile had returned by the end of his words.

“Ah. I, too, have a message from the Queen,” Karsha replied. “She makes no mention of such a request.”

“An easy claim to make, for I see you do not have parchment, nor seal,” Campbell pointed out.

“Shall we list the items we lack? Yours begins with the Queen. No, do not bother with your falsehoods, I am not swayed by wax imprints. I shall recite the litany of your abuses against Her Majesty the night of your attack if you wish further proof that I speak for her. It is quite long, and most shameful.”

Campbell’s face darkened, but he mastered his temper, and replied only by tapping the scroll with his finger. “Nevertheless, as Regent of Albyn, I order you to return to Kuray to face charges of treason.”

“I deny your authority to issue such a command,” Karsha replied reasonably.

“The Lords’ Council has ratified the appointment.”

“The true Lords’ Council has condemned the flagrant forgery of the appointment. Now, shall we speak of matters beyond such petty trifles?”

“You find treason to be a trifle?” Campbell demanded.

“Ah, treason…” Karsha let the word hang, swaying over the table, as he carefully adjusted several of the chains that dangled against his chest. The sharp chime of the charms knocking against each other filled the silence, and Karsha let it linger for a moment. “Yes, let us discuss treason.”

“Very well,” Campbell muttered grimly. “As they have not yet drawn steel against me, Baron Arledge and General Boone may be forgiven if they renew their oaths of allegiance to me. The Temple army must surrender its weapons and disband immediately for their gross violation of Fionn’s Law. But you two must surrender to justice, as you are hereby charged with the most grievous crime of fomenting rebellion against the Crown.”

“Fionn’s Law precludes any realm from interfering with the Temple, not the inverse,” Karsha pointed out.

“You claim that the Temple may make war against the kingdom without reply?”

“No, that you quote the wrong law,” Karsha explained helpfully. “It is a poor beginning. Also, as you claim the title of regent, you must demand that Baron Arledge and General Boone renew their oaths to the Queen, not yourself, which I am certain they will not hesitate to do.”

“You dare to mock this judgement?”

“I have given it its due.”

“Then you are the fool I knew you to be.” The duke shoved himself deep into his chair, scowling darkly. “You have misjudged your strength, Counsellor. I know how weak your forces are. I can see you huddled in Newbridge, hoping its walls will save you. They may, for a time, but not for as long as you hope.”

How long do we hope for? Karsha wondered. And what gives the duke confidence he might shorten that time?

Before Karsha could ponder the duke’s words any further, Lady Danielle spoke quietly, and her voice was hard as steel. “And you have misjudged your strength, my lord, if you believe your soldiers, or that trained dog at your side, can protect you from me.”

“Perhaps.” Campbell did not blanche or tremble, and his chin raised defiantly as he glared along his nose at his guests. “Or perhaps we are prepared for you. You stand alone, against many, fitting for the figureheads of a failed rebellion, for I see few allies have flocked to your banner. Where are the great armies of the south? Where is the Iron Army? Even your Temple allies have withdrawn from the field.”

“Does your grace name those who have refused his own call?” Karsha asked. “If so, add the Royal Army to the list, for they come to their Queen’s aid, and your lordship will soon know how alone he truly is.”

“We shall see how Boone fares when he finally arrives,” Campbell replied. “Or how long he dances to your tune once the Queen orders him to join me.”

“No such order shall be given,” Karsha scoffed.

“You are so certain?”

“As certain as wind will play and fire will dance.” In truth, Karsha was certain that he would advise the Queen to do just that, should she be captured, to avoid the torment that would surely follow if she did not. But whether she would take such advice was another tale, and one he did not think he could tell.

“Shall we complete the prelude?” Karsha suggested. “We have boasted of the certainty of our victories and have muttered of the dire stakes. And you have presented your offer and been declined. Shall you listen to ours and we shall be done with the opening? Then we may speak with purpose.”

“What offer?” the duke asked, and he leaned onto the table, his eyes narrowed.

“Ah, good.” Karsha removed his own scroll from the depths of his robes and unrolled it. The parchment was almost bare, save for a few lines of blotched ink. Karsha gently spread it flat and held it against the table, his fingers concealing the message. “Here it is, yet first I must tell you of grave news, a story of a most, ah… a most unfortunate situation. One that transcends whatever disputes we may have among ourselves. A threat we must all fear.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“No, no, I shall bring sense to it, never fear. This story is the reason we are here, and the reason the Queen allows you to earn some modicum of forgiveness for your crimes.”

“Forgiveness? I have told you my terms, and the Queen should feel fortunate to have those.”

“Queen Gabrielle allows far more than you deserve,” Lady Danielle countered. “Yet, for the sake of the realm you claim to love, we swallow our distaste and offer you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“It is for the sake of Albyn that I am here, listening to this absurdity,” Campbell replied.

“This is very good,” Karsha allowed. “Very good. Now we are agreed that we all wish the realm to be strong. Duke Thornton said the same to me, only days ago.”

“Yet I see he does not stand with you, today.”

“No. We disagreed on some things, that is true, and he returned to his mountains, to keep our cities and farms safe. But this, the strength of Albyn, we agreed on. Perhaps we may end our talks in the same way, that we may disagree on other topics, yet stand together against that which may threaten the realm.”

“The only threats to the realm are those misguided fools who listen to your lies.”

“You have not heard my story yet,” Karsha pointed out. “It begins with an army. A Temple army, commanded by a knight named Sir Lochlan. He took it far into the hinterlands last winter. You know of this army?”

“No. But I am glad the Temple saw fit to send their army away.” The duke chuckled at his own wit.

“We have heard that this army has been wiped out, slaughtered. Utterly defeated.”

“By an army of trolls?” Campbell dismissed the idea. “Nothing else lives in the High Fells. Lochlan must have cut himself off from shelter and supply and killed himself. I pity his soldiers, of course, but I do not see how this is grave news for me.”

“You believe Sir Lochlan is foolish enough to have made such a blunder?”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Nor do I. But those that do entrusted him with a strong army, and I believe Lord Bradon was not a fool.”

“Duke Thornton praised him, but Thornton cares only for who can kill the most clansmen.”

“Good warriors. Difficult for a foolish leader to survive.”

“History is awash in foolish leaders,” the duke said gravely. “Many of whom managed to survive.”

“True,” Karsha nodded his head vigorously. “And this is your judgment? That Sir Lochlan is a fool who behaved foolishly?”

“Time will tell,” the duke decided. “For now, I will not question good fortune.”

“Ha! Only a fool does not question the gifts of the gods,” Karsha reprimanded the duke.

The duke’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he did not reply, and Karsha waited patiently as Campbell examined him.

“Very well,” the duke said at last. “Then let us begin our questioning of good fortune. How do you know these things?”

“Ah! A fine question. I speak with the spirits of the world, and they tell me what they have seen, and I listen to the whispers of the gods. Also, General Boone encountered some few survivors, who told him their tale. What he heard caused him to send his army north, ten thousand soldiers whom you will no longer see across the battlefield. Do you consider this more good news?”

“I do.” But the duke frowned, uneasy, as his enemies revealed their defeats without reluctance, and Karsha busied himself with his chains while he waited for Campbell to continue. “I now recall Sir Lochlan. During the Queen’s edict against the Temple, Boone was concerned to have Lochlan’s forces loose in the north.”

“The very same,” Karsha congratulated him.

“And why was this army sent to die in the hinterlands?”

“Ah! Another excellent question.” Karsha beamed at the duke. “Rituals were found, farms and temples despoiled, their inhabitants sacrificed. The Temple wished to hunt down those responsible and stop them.”

“Rituals? The Temple sent an army after a cult?”

“Sadly, no.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is a terrible question.” Karsha shook his head. “I have many meanings.”

“Martyr’s tears, speak plainly,” Campbell demanded.

“When the Queen heard of these rituals, she journeyed to Bandirma with General Boone to speak with Bishop Benno,” Karsha continued.

“What about?”

“She wanted an ally to stand next to her against a new enemy.”

“What did the Temple say to her request?”

“Bishop Benno agreed. He, too, knew the history of the rituals, and what their return must mean. I fear that it was this alliance that caused his death, and the attack on Her Majesty.”

“You are saying that the cult was responsible for both?”

“They were, though they are not a cult. Far worse.”

“The Temple found something in the High Fells, didn’t they?” Duke Campbell was motionless in his chair, his eyes unblinking as he watched Karsha. “Something both you and Benno were afraid that they would find.”

“They did.” Karsha scowled. “I heard it in the whispers of the mountain spirits, I felt it in the deep dark that lurks among the roots of the world, and I saw it when it came for us in the halls of Bandirma. Lady Danielle and Lord Bradon were the ones who found it.”

“Lord Karsha speaks truly,” Lady Danielle said. “Beneath the High Fells, we discovered the darkness of the abyss, the foul Shadow of the Crunorix. The gates of the Black Grave have opened and the magi have awakened. Even now, their evil spreads south.”

“You dare to mock me?” The duke leaned against the back of his chair, his hands clenched on the polished wood of the chair’s arms.

“Not in this,” Karsha replied. “Tell your people to look to the north, and they will find our armies racing to confront this threat, instead of coming here. Send your birds to Duke Thornton, and he will tell you that he brings his Iron Army home this winter to guard against this threat.”

The duke watched Karsha for a moment in silence, and when he at last continued, his voice was strained and harsh, as if he fought against his own will to speak. “It will take time to do as you say. Time that could be spent re-taking Newbridge from the garrison you have left behind. Delay is to your advantage, one that I am not inclined to grant you.”

“Every day our armies march farther away,” Karsha pointed out, a truth that neatly avoided the duke’s question. “Our position withers, while yours grows new limbs and buds. Yet, beneath your roots, the ground is poisoned. Do not delay too long in finding your true enemy.”

Once more, the duke remained silent as he warred with his own thoughts, his gaze flickering between Karsha and Lady Danielle, as if he sought to find some tell to guide him. You will not find any dissembling. You will see hatred in Lady Danielle’s gaze, and disgust, but you will also find truth.

“How could such an alliance unfold?” the duke finally said, and Karsha felt a surge of triumph course through his limbs.

If we are to consider the how, we have persuaded him to try. Karsha fought against the urge to rub his hands together as he contentedly envisioned the earnest negotiation that lay ahead, the contortions and contrived misunderstandings.

The duke leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “I could not maneuver, without wondering if I gave you some advantage. And if, somehow, your tale is true, I could not commit to battle without pondering your position.”

“Thorny questions,” Karsha agreed. “And not ones suited for debate during a battle. And so we must come to terms now. In return for your loyal aid in defending the realm, the Queen has agreed to offer a gentler reconciliation than she had previously considered.”

“And what is that?”

“You must set aside your claim to the throne and swear fealty to the Queen. This is no surprise. Then you will be allowed to go into exile, a kinder fate than you imagined, yes? Refuse, and you and all your kin, and all the lords and ladies who supported you, shall go under the axe.” Karsha allowed the parchment to roll upon itself as he met each gaze around the table. “Every, last, one.”

“I have never heard such foolishness,” the duke replied, and he waved away Karsha’s words as if they were a troubling smell. “Is this what you whisper in the Queen’s ear?”

“I am certainly a fool. That does not change the generosity of the proposal.”

“Absurd.” The duke shook his head in bewilderment, appealing to his captains with hands spread. “They have no strength, no chance of success, and they offer us nothing.”

“Nothing? Think my lords and ladies,” Karsha continued, including all those at the table. “Lands and titles confirmed, the realm restored, united once again, at the cost of one man living out his life in comfort in Venaissin. Or, wherever you choose, of course, your grace.”

“If the Queen wishes for me to spare her rebellion, she must make concessions, not I.”

“The Queen wishes for you to help defend the realm. Or will you be the only lord not to stand against our enemy?”

The duke’s fingers tapped heavily on the table for a moment, then curled into a fist to thump in accompaniment to his words. “For the sake of the realm, I shall amend my demands. The Queen may finish her reign, as long as she declares my son her heir and steps aside in his favor when he comes of age and confirms me as Regent for the interregnum. She may then stay or leave as is her will. You two will depart the realm immediately, and never return, to live out your lives in comfort in Venaissin. Or, wherever you choose.”

A reasonable step toward reconciliation, Karsha granted. The Temple absolved, Her Majesty’s supporters restored, orderly succession established, and a reprieve for my own withered neck. But, within those demands there lurks a rotten nut, an unspoken assumption that could prove most foul. I pray that Lady Danielle did not notice it.

“Unacceptable,” Karsha scoffed.

“How so?” Campbell snapped, irked.

“What son?” Lady Danielle asked quietly, and there was fire lurking in her words.

Ah. She did notice. Karsha retreated behind a vague expression of mild interest and raised one eyebrow at his companion, but he doubted anyone at the table was watching him. Lady Danielle and the duke glared at one another with vicious intensity, and the duke’s entourage resembled a herd of sheep eying the approach of a wolf.

All save one, Karsha realized. The lean nobleman had not moved, save for a slight narrowing of his eyes, as he regarded Lady Danielle with the hooded gaze of a snake.

“What did you say?” Campbell asked.

“You have no son, so of whom do you speak?” Lady Danielle’s voice was a hiss of torn restraint.

“The son the Queen will bear me, of course,” the duke replied. “Why else would I marry her?”

“Surely we are not the ones you should propose such a union to?” Karsha kept his voice easy, and added a small chuckle, though he doubted he had soothed anyone’s temper. “Let us set that aside and speak of the remainder.”

“She is fortunate I might consider granting her such an honor,” the duke retorted, his voice low with righteous indignation.

“An honor? You disgust me!” Lady Danielle’s brow lowered darkly as her lip curled away from her bared teeth. “How dare you suggest such a vile course?”

The duke snarled something about marriage and succession, but Karsha did not hear the words. His gaze was caught by a pale lick of flame that crept across the wings of the Martyr’s Blade, a slow curl that traced the scything feathers and left the steel glowing like embers in its wake.

Oh, dear.

“Perhaps—” Karsha started.

“You will never, never touch her again!” Lady Danielle spat at the duke, her words twisting against her accent. “I have heard of your coward’s blow, and you dare speak of honor! You have no honor!”

A whisp of smoke swirled from the table where Lady Danielle’s fist rested, and the wood darkened as its polished surface warped and blistered.

“For the sake of the—” Karsha tried.

“I will have you gagged and dragged from this tent!” the duke bellowed as he rose to confront Lady Danielle, his finger jabbing at the table in a paroxysm of rage. “Maker’s breath, I will not be spoken to this way!”

“I expect no less from you!” Lady Danielle scoffed. “Go on, lay your hands on me! I shall make certain you never touch another woman, again.”

Flame licked into her hair and danced among her ink-black tresses, sun and shadow flowing into twisted braids as if a breeze stirred them. The lean nobleman came to his feet, his hand on the duke’s arm, pulling him away. Karsha saw the duke’s eyes widen in sudden realization of his peril, and, for a moment, Karsha wondered if his story might be at its end.

Would that be so terrible? A moment’s pain, and then the great secret revealed? Karsha took a resolute breath. Coward. You swore an oath, and your service is not ended.

“Lady Danielle!” Karsha’s voice cracked with thunder, a trick learned from the gods of the tempest, and one that tore his throat like swallowed glass.

She turned at her name, but her gaze looked past him, her eyes wide and unfocused. The black rage that creased her brow disappeared in an instant, replaced by a furrow of concern.

“Wyn?” she asked, her voice a whisper of dread.

Then her eyes widened in desperate fear, and she staggered as if she had been struck.

“Wyn!” she screamed, and her eyes shone like the sunrise in the instant before fire erupted from her in a roiling inferno.

Karsha hurled himself away from the flames, his arms curled over his head to ward against the searing heat. Words of power shook the ground and wind rushed over him, a furious chaos that left him battered and deafened.

Then, abruptly, the great light piercing his eyelids disappeared, and he was left blinking in a darkness filled with the slowly fading afterimage of a goddess wreathed in wings of flame. He could hear shouting, muffled and distant, and could feel the cool dampness of earth beneath his fingers. Pain burned along his arm and neck, and he spied raw flesh through the smoldering threads of his robe.

Acrid smoke scoured his throat and made him choke and cough, and he slowly sat up and stared at the destruction that surrounded him. The pavilion was gone, save for a few tatters of canvas smoldering at the ends of blackened poles. The table had collapsed, the near half a glowing ruin of pulsing embers that burst into flame as he watched, and the tapestries and carpets had fared worse. The duke’s stone bust was seared on one side, as if its skin had charred, and dense pillars of smoke billowed upward.

Gone, too, was Lady Danielle. He could find no trace of her, though he stared stupidly in every direction until another bout of coughing squeezed tears from his eyes and blurred his vision.

But other figures moved in the choking, ash-filled gloom. The duke clambered to his feet, unharmed, a circle of unblemished carpet marking the extent of a shimmering Ward that protected him and the nobleman. His captains had not fared as well. Red, blistered skin shone in every gap of steel, and the side of one lord’s face was black with burned flesh. One of the knights was trapped beneath the burning table, and his shrill screams finally penetrated the daze that smothered Karsha’s thoughts.

Karsha’s fingers dove into his robes and found the black feather that nestled against his chest, and his lips formed a prayer with a whisper that became a harsh, croaking caw. He leapt into the air, his wings sweeping whorls in the smoke, and he was free, racing beneath the stars and away.

Fear and Anguish

“What son?” Danielle asked.

“What did you say?” Campbell asked brusquely.

“You have no son, so of whom do you speak?”

“The son she will bear me, of course.”

You vile, despicable man. Do you have no shame? You think you may strike my sister, and then have the gall to suggest she might take you to her bed?

“She is fortunate I might consider granting her such an honor!” he continued.

There it is, his malice, his greed, his brutality, laid bare. Does he think he will not be held accountable? That he is immune to repercussion? He is not.

“An honor? You disgust me!” she snapped at the duke. “How dare you suggest such a vile course?”

“You are a fool,” the duke snorted. “All she is, all she will ever be, is a path to the throne. Her greatest fortune was capturing Arian before King Conall could intervene, and now that fortune extends to her unborn children. The sooner she realizes that, the sooner we may heal the strife that has torn the realm.”

“You will never, never, touch her again! I have heard of your coward’s blow, and you dare speak of honor! You have no honor!”

“I will have you gagged and dragged from this tent!” The duke’s face flushed with rage and spittle gleamed at the corner of his twisted mouth. “Maker’s breath, I will not be spoken to this way!”

The noble seated on the duke’s left did not move, but Danielle felt his Word shift. The duke’s adept had Words hidden behind a Veil that cloaked them, masked long before Danielle had entered the pavilion, but she could hear the Words, droning like angry bees at the edge of her thoughts. And now that drone was changing, becoming discordant as new notes thrummed into prominence.

Of course he plans violence. What more could one expect from a disciple of such a man? Danielle’s thoughts turned to her own Words in an instant, fashioning the intricate patterns of her armor’s Wards in a heartbeat as the ancient metal thrummed with the strength stirring in its steel.

“I expect no less from you!” Danielle scoffed. “Go on, try. Lay your hands on me! I shall make certain you never touch another woman, again.”

The pavilion’s lanterns became dim, the voices of the nobles muted, behind the glory of her Words, as if seen and heard through thick wool. And as she affixed her Words in her thoughts, she found another Word ready, though she could not remember fashioning it, an exquisite constellation that dwarfed the rest combined, trembling to be freed, and she felt the intricate constructs within the Blade respond eagerly as the Word touched it.

No! Danielle thought grimly, and her mind convulsed as she tried to grasp the Blade’s Word in its entirety in an instant, to slam shut bindings that gaped open as fire raced toward them.

“Lady Danielle!”

Her name thundered in her thoughts like a blow from a hammer. Before she could recover, she felt the Blade tremble as flame poured eagerly into the Guild’s masterpiece. The fire sang in her mind, twisting and crooning as it swelled and burst free.

Dani! The cry flickered among the roar of the flames, desperate and faint, but Danielle turned toward it in an instant, her heart aching with fear, the duke and his cronies forgotten.

“Wyn?” she whispered. The scream was Wyn’s, filled with fear and anguish. Where is she?

A vision formed in the flames, a helpless figure, twisted and broken among darkness and Shadow.

“Wyn!” she screamed, and as she did her Word convulsed and the Blade answered. Fire shrieked forth eagerly, and she burned through the distance separating her from her vision in an instant. The deep cold of the Abyss brushed against her flame as she stepped into a foul tunnel and confronted a nightmare of pulsing Shadow curled within torn skin, its tendrils burrowing deep into the flesh of its victim.

A single eye could be seen beneath the writhing mass, wide with terror. A small hand jerked toward her, as if pulled by a puppeteer’s string.

“No!” Danielle cried, and the tunnel filled with flame. The creature of Shadow twisted away, shrieking in agony, but her fire was faster, and Shadow wailed as fire boiled it away.

Die! she commanded, and the flames roared in agreement and erupted into a tempest that tore free from her control in an instant. Fire wrapped around her arm and coiled about her body, and agony followed its touch. But, before she could recoil, a deeper instinct flared, and against all reason she opened herself to the searing flame, and she gasped as it rushed into her and filled her with strength.

Pain burned into exquisite rapture, and she laughed as the creature collapsed and its flesh blackened and burst, spewing foulness onto the stone floor. The Shadow within it resisted for a moment, a delicious, soothing coolness that vanished before it could satisfy as the creature was engulfed.

A weak cry drew her gaze. A broken girl lay twisted on the floor, her pale skin laced with Shadow, the writhing remains of the creature’s touch. Her flames chased the threads of Shadow into the girl’s flesh until no trace of their icy touch remained. The girl twisted and screamed as she burned, but those were faint sounds that did not diminish the satisfaction of feeding her fire.

“Stop…” the girl begged. “Stop, please… Dani!”

A vision overwhelmed her thoughts. A gentle glow of sunrise caressed the curve of a freckled cheek, golden tresses spilled across white linen, fingers curled against the pillow beside her, and emerald eyes that blinked slowly open, then widened with contented joy as they found her gaze. Dani, she breathed.

“Wyn!” Danielle gasped, and she was suddenly free, her voice no longer a muffled thought heard only faintly through the roar of flame.

Her Word writhed as she fought to control the flame that poured from the Blade. The flame twisted as she ripped it away from Wyn, and it struck at her like a snake, searing her with its heat. She felt the great Wards of her armor flicker and tear with the strain as their Words dimmed in her mind.

Danielle cried out and slammed bindings home throughout the Blade, and the steel groaned as the Guild’s intricate constructs tried to contain the boiling flame. But they held, and Danielle cast the sword aside and gently cradled Wyn’s head, wiping strands of hair away from her tear-streaked face.

“Wyn… Wyn! Oh, Maker, what have I done?”

Wyn shuddered and slowly curled her knees to her chest, her breath ragged gasps.

“Hurts…” Wyn sobbed.

“Oh, Wyn, I am so sorry!”

“It wasn’t you… how could it be you?”

It was not me, Danielle begged to herself, a desperate wish to ward against unbearable memory. Her gaze was drawn unwillingly to the Blade as fear clutched at her heart. The Weapon lay inert among the detritus of the foul passage, steam wafting from its bright steel, but it was all too easy to remember the rapture of its flame engulfing her, eager to join with her will.

Danielle… free me!

She wrenched her gaze away from the Blade and anxiously examined Wyn. To her relief, she found no trace of Shadow, though she was cruelly battered and bloody, and burns were reddening on her skin.

As her concern gradually calmed, Danielle felt the first brush of searing pain throb from her own arm. A quick glance discovered smoke curling from the steel plates of her armor. Agony spread with each heartbeat, pulsing up her arm and shoulder as if fire still fed on her flesh. Her fingers scrabbled at the buckles and released the armor to tumble onto the floor, revealing burned cloth and a glimpse of blackened skin, beneath.

Danielle clenched her jaw against the pain, unwilling to disturb the wounded girl in her lap. Wyn’s breathing slowed and her head became heavy as her exhaustion overwhelmed her, and Danielle was left alone to despair. Slowly the mean walls drew closer and the thick vaults bowed lower, until Danielle could feel their ancient, rotted weight pressing against her.

But she recoiled against lighting even the meagerest of flames, and so it was the grey light of a distant pre-dawn sky that finally found a crack in the stone tomb and drove back the gloom.

Wyn stirred at the light’s cold touch, shivered, and slowly pushed herself onto her hands.

“Uhhh, Maker…”

“Slowly,” Danielle urged, and she helped Wyn slump against the wall.

“I feel like I fell down a mountain,” Wyn groaned wearily. “I thought I was dead.”

“You are alive,” she assured Wyn. “It is over.”

“I thought you were the Maker,” Wyn murmured, and her lips twitched into a faint echo of a wry grin. “Come to get me and take me through the shroud, just like you told me.”

“I thought I was too late to save you,” Danielle whispered. “What was that creature?”

“You don’t know?” Wyn asked. She hunched forward and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“I know it was a creature of Shadow, but that is all.”

“I don’t know what it was, either.” Wyn wiped her nose on the back of her hand and a crease appeared between her brows. “It looked like, like… like a lad I met the other night, but on the inside, it was a nightmare, like it had stolen his skin to wear.”

“Maker,” Danielle gasped. “You had no warning?”

“No. He was a bit strange. Didn’t remember some things. That’s all.” Wyn shuddered and drew her arms tighter. “Until it started to use my voice, say the things I said. That was unnerving, I’ll not lie.”

“The boy you met. Do you think he was always that thing?”

Wyn shook her head. “No. The first night, he was just a sweet lad, having a drink with his friends. There’s a room down there. It’s got markings like we saw in the catacombs, and it’s covered in blood. I’d guess he was killed there, when that creature got him. And then it stole his skin, and it came after me…”

“It is gone, now,” Danielle reassured her.

“There’ll be more, don’t you reckon? Somewhere, some Crunorix priest is killing folks and chanting some horrible shit, and then he’s got an army of the fuckers. We’ve been looking for husks and wights, but guess what? The Crunorix are already here.”

“This one is gone, and you are here, and that is enough to bring me joy. The rest may wait.”

Wyn snorted a laugh, and her grip on her knees relaxed enough for her to lean against the wall. Danielle sat beside her and gathered Wyn in her embrace, so that Wyn’s head rested on her shoulder.

“I remember fire,” Wyn said faintly, and she glanced to the Blade and back to Danielle as realization dawned in her wide eyes. “Oh, Dani, you used the Blade.”

“I did,” Danielle admitted sorrowfully. “I did not intend to, but I was so frightened.”

“You can’t do that!” Wyn snapped, her voice high and sharp.

“I did not think,” Danielle explained. “Wyn, I had to save you.”

Wyn suddenly tensed, and pushed herself away, staring at Danielle’s arm in horror.

“Dani, oh, your poor arm, oh, Maker,” she gasped, and she reached for Danielle’s hand.

Danielle pulled back, fearing the pain that even a gentle touch would bring. “No! Please, no!”

“What happened?” Wyn asked, aghast. “Martyr’s tears, your whole arm is burned.”

“It is,” Danielle agreed, and her words choked on a sob as the pain overwhelmed her for a moment. But she swallowed it before it could wash her will away. “I will need a healer, I fear.”

“What burned you? Was it… her?”

“It must have been. I did not mean to use the Word, I promise. I was just so angry, and when the duke’s adept fashioned a Word, I…” Danielle shrugged gingerly. “Once I had, it was as if I was in a dream, or that I was watching someone else, through my own eyes. I could not look away, could not halt.”

“When I regained my senses, I quenched the fire, and that is when it fought against me.” Danielle shifted her injured arm as agony flared anew at the thought. “I believe Rowenna’s armor saved me from far worse.”

“What do we do?” Wyn asked quietly.

Danielle’s mind rebelled against the trials that awaited her and begged to simply give in to the pain burning in her arm. What can I tell her? That I am afraid and alone? That the only certainty is my love for you? She sighed and rested her head against the stone wall at her back.

“Perhaps, one day, we might leave these charming tunnels and rejoin the day.”

“I mean, what do we do, about that?”

Wyn did not point, but Danielle knew where Wyn’s gaze rested, and she glanced to where the long length of the Martyr’s Blade lay gleaming in the filth.

“I do not know what to do,” she replied.

“Chuck it in the ocean,” Wyn muttered. “Get rid of it.”

“Is that not a bit extreme?”

“No, no, it’s not. Dani, what it did… She won’t care if she hurts you. She won’t care if she kills you.”

“I know.”

“You can never use it again.”

“I will not,” Danielle replied, but Wyn had heard the words catch in her throat, a slight hesitation that caused her embrace to stiffen.

“Not just that.” Wyn pushed away and faced Danielle, her gaze unrelenting. “Promise me you’ll get rid of the Blade. If not in the ocean, put it in a vault, somewhere far away, where she can’t whisper to you. You can’t use it, Dani, you can’t. Not even to save me. She’ll kill you.”

“Wyn, my heart.” Danielle reached for Wyn’s hands and gripped them, desperate that Wyn should somehow feel her love. “I would take any risk, sacrifice everything, to save you.”

“Don’t say that,” Wyn begged.

“It is true. I would do so gladly, just as I know you would.”

“That’s different,” Wyn said obstinately.

“How is it different?” Danielle asked.

“Because, because, you’re you, and I’m me, and I can’t lose you,” Wyn said defiantly, her voice cracking.

“You would fight to save me?” Danielle asked.

“Yes!”

“You would die to keep me safe?”

“Yes!”

“I know, for I would do the same, for you.”

“No!”

“A thousand times, yes.”

“No, absolutely not. I’d rather die, a thousand times, than lose you.”

“I know,” Danielle whispered. “That is love.”

“That’s so unfair,” Wyn groaned, and she sniffed miserably.

“It is, oh, my love, it is.” Danielle pulled her close and felt Wyn shudder against her, then sigh as the strain left her trembling muscles. She rested against Danielle for a moment longer, then pushed herself away and stood, hands loose at her sides, her eyes bright with tears.

“Promise me,” Wyn asked.

“Please understand,” Danielle begged. All I wish is for her happiness, and yet I cannot tell her what she hopes for. “I cannot promise you that.”

“I know,” Wyn replied quietly. She smiled, but it was a timid, wan attempt that died before it reached the sadness in her gaze. “I couldn’t, either.”

Danielle retrieved the Blade wordlessly, and they eventually found their way through the maze of tunnels to the surface and discovered a day shrouded in mist. The denizens of Newbridge lowered their gazes or hurried away from the strange pair of women, one ragged and filthy, one charred steel, but Danielle had no thought to spare for their concern. Wyn would not meet her gaze, and trudged without speaking, and Danielle could not bear her silence as they made the long trek to the grim fortress that loomed at the summit of the hill.

Legion

The healers’ tent stank of burnt flesh, an acrid stench that seemed to strip the back of Duke Campbell’s throat and twist his stomach. He had not left the tent, even for a moment, as bell after bell had rung unnoticed and the terrible, gasping cries from the horrifically burned creature on the bed had faded into desperate, choking wheezes. The healers had told the duke that Sir Gilmore had inhaled the flames that had seared his flesh, that his lungs were likely worse than the terrible burns that covered his body. They could do nothing, the healers said, save to ease his passage through the shroud as best as they could.

The maimed thing on the bed looked nothing like Sir Gilmore, and the duke would not have believed it were him, save that he had dragged the knight free from the flaming wreckage of his pavilion with his own hands.

The healers now gave the duke a wide berth as they hurried about their business, their gaze averted. One had tried to make him leave, but the duke had shrugged him aside without a word, and he had swatted away an attempt to administer a salve to his hands. We are here to honor his passing, Campbell thought gravely. We shall not diminish it.

At last, a final tortured gasp ended without another breath, and Campbell allowed the healers to cover the body and spread the salve over his palms. Then he stalked from the tent into the darkened encampment, blind for a moment as he shivered in the night air, its touch like ice after the heat of the tent.

Against that impenetrable black, he could clearly see the great wings of fire that had spread through his pavilion, gold and amber and crimson like a sunrise as the inferno raged toward him. His hand shook as he pressed his fingers into his eyes, trying to erase the image, then he cursed as the sting of his burns flared at the touch.

“Have a care, your Grace,” a voice said from the darkness beside him. “It will take time for their salve to pull the heat from your flesh.”

“Maddox,” Campbell grunted in response. He could now see the tall figure of the adept in the gloom, the faint touch of a distant campfire glowing along the sharp ridges of cheek and brow.

“Your Grace,” Maddox replied. His voice was deeper than expected from his lean frame, his words hard and clipped as if bitten off. “I take it the boy did not survive.”

“No.” The smell of burnt flesh and smoke still clung to his skin, and he coughed and spat to try and clear it. “No, there was never a chance he would live.”

“He seemed an eager lad,” Maddox mused. “A shame.”

“It is.” Campbell doubted the adept knew the boy’s name. His vision had returned sufficiently for him to see the dark shapes of the tents that filled the valley, the scattered embers of the cooking fires, and the narrow paths that wound through the camp.

Beyond the tents, the walls of the valley rose like black cliffs, a dark presence whose shape was defined by the absence of stars. A line of bright sparks flared bravely against that dark immensity to the south, where his enemy blocked his army’s path. If they had built the fires to dismay him, they had failed, as the line seemed as thin as a gossamer thread, lost against the void.

He strode toward the center of the camp, where the charred remains of his great pavilion still smoldered. His tent stood beyond the pavilion, its sides scorched from the heat of the blaze that had consumed its neighbor. Two soldiers stood sentry beside the entrance, and quickly pulled back the canvas door as the duke appeared from the night.

Maddox followed him into the tent and glanced around at the heavy furniture and thick tapestries that filled the interior, brightly lit by a dozen candles set in silver stands.

Campbell found a crystal decanter of red wine set out for him, and poured a healthy dose into two goblets. Maddox accepted his with a nod, but did not drink as the duke drained his and refilled it afresh.

“Well?” Campbell asked. “What are your thoughts now that you have seen her?”

Maddox raised his chin so that his beard seemed to thrust forward like a ram. His eyes narrowed as he considered for a moment, then he replied, “She’s stronger than I expected.”

“Can you match her?”

“No.” The duke could see that the word had cost Maddox dearly.

“No?” Campbell took another drink, this one more slowly, and at last felt the ash in his throat loosen. “Then, who can?”

“No one.” Maddox replied. “Not alone.”

Campbell grunted in displeasure and drained his glass. “Then it is a good thing we have friends who want what she carries. With any luck, they’ll kill each other off and save us the trouble of dealing with either of them.”

“I suppose it is,” Maddox agreed slowly, taking his time to consider each word. “Still, it is a shame not to give it a try.”

The duke’s brow arched skeptically. “Is this some foolish boast?”

“Not at all,” the adept assured him. “Strength isn’t everything, in a duel. With the right people in concert, I’d have her.”

“A feather in your cap, eh?” Campbell scowled at his empty glass. “She’s as bad as her sister. As fair as they are to look at, they are foul beneath the skin. Ill-tempered and haughty. Indulged and narrow-minded. No, if Severine wants her, she is welcome, and I wish her speed.”

Maddox nodded his acceptance, though his eyes glittered darkly in the candlelight, and Campbell knew the adept was displeased, just as he had been displeased when the duke insisted that Maddox accompany him as he travelled south, instead of staying in Kuray to deal with the templar siblings. He may grouse, but I was right to bring him, Campbell decided. Despite all she did, we were untouched.

“And the rest of it?” Maddox asked.

“What?”

“What the old man said.”

“I must ponder,” Campbell replied coldly. “Alone.”

Maddox set his untouched glass down and departed in a swirl of dark cloth. The duke placed his glass next to the adept’s, tapped its rim with a fingertip, then drew in a deep breath.

What the old man said… Campbell found it difficult to recall the cold grip of dread he had felt as he listened to Karsha Hali speak of ancient myth brought back to life. He had felt its truth in his stomach, a slow realization that had felt so certain. But the inferno burned so brightly in his thoughts that all else was pale and insubstantial in comparison. It all sounds so ridiculous, and yet…

Campbell turned to the tent’s entrance and shouted for the guards to summon Sir Tavon, and the red-haired knight soon stooped under the flap. He was filthy from the road, sour with the scent of sweat, but his gaze was hard and unblinking.

“Your Grace,” he greeted the duke, his voice as flat and hard as granite. “I am glad to see you unharmed.”

“Thank you, Sir Tavon,” Campbell replied brusquely. “What is the state of the army?”

“General Harlan sends word that he will be ready to attack before sunrise, your grace.”

“Very good,” Campbell muttered. The great wings of flame spread in his memory again, and he shook his head to banish them, so that he might chase after Karsha Hali’s creaking voice.

“Shall I send the general word that the attack should proceed?” Tavon asked.

“Hmmm?” Campbell frowned, angry that his attention wandered so freely when it should be as sharp as a spear tip. “What are the latest reports from Newbridge?”

“Sir?”

“From Newbridge,” the duke repeated.

“It remains occupied, my lord.”

“Yes, but by whom?” Campbell asked impatiently. “What flag?”

“Baron Arledge, my lord.”

“I see. What of the Temple army that was there?”

“There was a report of a large force heading north, several days ago,” Tavon replied. “General Harlan has sent scouts east along the river, but has found no signs that there has been a crossing.”

Karsha Hali did not lie, at least about that, Campbell mused. What else might he have been truthful about?

“Have the scouts found anyone?”

“No, sir. No enemies between here and the Cnoic Áille.”

“Where is Boone?” Campbell muttered “Where is the Temple army? Can their story possibly be true?”

“Story?” Sir Tavon asked, his brow knotted.

“Yes.” Campbell replied shortly. “Karsha Hali wants to broker a truce. He claims the Queen is ready to negotiate.”

“He knows they have lost, my lord,” Tavon said quickly. “They are weak.”

Campbell scowled in displeasure. “We have done nothing to weaken them,” he corrected the knight. “Wherever the Royal Army is, we have not touched its strength. And Karsha Hali did not conceal the fact that their Temple allies have left Newbridge. He does not hesitate to reveal his weakness, which must be a warning to us.”

“He must have known our scouts would tell us the same.”

“Of course. But why have they left? Why does the Royal Army not confront us? I can see no advantage.”

“That is because the advantage is ours, your Grace.” Tavon stepped closer to the duke. “We should not hesitate.”

“No, we should not,” Campbell agreed vaguely, his attention still drawn inward. “And yet, I wonder. It would not take long to ascertain the truth.”

“The truth of what?”

“The story that Karsha Hali told at the embassy,” Campbell explained. “He claims that Boone and the Temple have gone to stop an invasion. That is why he came to beg for our forbearance.”

“An invasion, my lord?”

“Indeed.” Campbell sighed. I still believe him, he realized. He could remember the old wizard’s expression as flame exploded through the pavilion, shock and dismay written clear on his ancient skin. He did not wish for that outcome, and I still feel the dread his words first sparked, no matter that his witch turned on me a moment later. “A reappearance of the Crunorix, if you can believe it,” he continued. “Karsha Hali begs us to join forces to defeat them, and offers clemency if we do.”

“A jest, my lord.”

“I wonder. He said Duke Thornton was convinced. The truth of that will be simple to determine.”

“Arledge is trapped in Newbridge and the Temple army is isolated and vulnerable. This is your chance, my lord, to finish them. A bold strike, when they are vulnerable.”

“Arledge and the Temple army hardly matter. It is Boone that concerns me. And, if it is true, they will be desperate for my help. I can force the Queen to end her ridiculous opposition to me, no matter how stubborn she may be.”

“My lord, Karsha Hali tells us a lie, it must be.”

“Perhaps.” Campbell’s patience felt stretched, worn thin by pain and anger, and he so desired to give the order that Tavon eagerly awaited, to repay the treachery that had sown murder in his own tent. But I shall not give in to base passions, he instructed himself. The realm demands better.

“It will take time to encircle Newbridge,” he explained to Tavon. “Time we can use to find where the Temple has gone. Time enough to send a message to Thornton, time enough to send riders north and discover the truth for ourselves.”

“My lord, they must be punished for their attack on you last night, surely—”

“I have every right to demand justice from them for the insult and hurt they have done me and mine.” Campbell glared at the tall knight, who seemed intent on arguing until the dawn. “Yet I do not let passion rule me, and nor should you. Pull yourself together.”

The knight stepped back, his expression blank. “What order for General Harlan?” he asked.

“Tell him that there will be no attack, tonight.”

“No.”

Campbell hesitated for a moment, wondering if his weariness had caused him to imagine Sir Tavon’s blunt reply. But he had heard the word. Its flat sound still lurked in the shadows of the room.

“No? You forget yourself,” he told the knight. “Your father would be ashamed to hear such disrespect from—”

Campbell flinched as Tavon moved, more quickly than the duke imagined possible. The knight’s hands smashed into Campbell’s throat with the impact of a mace and lifted the duke from the ground in an instant. Campbell felt the steel bands of Tavon’s fingers wrapped around his neck, forcing themselves beneath his jaw, as his shocked breath gurgled deep in his throat. He clutched at Tavon’s hands, desperately prying, gouging his own skin as he strained to release the crushing grip.

“Your usefulness has ended,” Tavon said flatly.

A fissure appeared in Tavon’s face, a long split that opened from his mouth to the crest of his skull. It peeled apart like the rind of a rotten fruit, revealing a throbbing mass of oily, black tendrils, like a nest of snakes. Campbell thrashed helplessly, his blows as harmless against Tavon’s strength as if the knight were sculpted from granite.

The gaping wound opened wider, and Campbell saw a tremor pass through the black coils. Then they began to unfurl, questing toward his face. He could not scream, could not escape, could only watch in terror as they probed his skin with fiery coldness, then slid beneath, ripping through his flesh like roots. He could feel them writhing down his throat, coiling through his chest.

The duke’s thrashing grew weaker. The creature that had been Tavon drew him close and began to feast, gorging itself on Campbell’s flesh. As it did the black coils grew into a web that covered both predator and prey in ink-black threads. And when they retreated, there were few remains of the duke, merely a glimmering stain amid torn and gore-soaked clothing and splattered armor, and a new figure stood alone in the center of the tent, identical to the duke in every aspect.

A small wound in the figure’s face finished closing, and its eyes opened. It gazed at its new form for a moment, then knelt and spread the remaining blood into harsh shapes, jagged runes that began to smoke with black Shadow. The creature that had stolen Campbell’s skin quickly doused the candles and the Shadow grew thicker, until it coalesced into the figure of a man, cloaked in darkness.

The skin thief kneeled. “My lord,” it greeted the Shadow in Campbell’s voice. “The duke was no longer useful to us. I have taken care of that.”

The Shadow glanced at the figure at its feet. “Drive this army against our foe,” it instructed, its voice a whisper of endless cold and darkness. “Destroy them both, so that nothing remains but blood and sorrow.”

“I shall,” the skin thief replied.

The Shadow paused to gaze southward. “Your sibling has failed tonight. Do not fail me, as well.”

“We are legion, my lord,” the kneeling figure replied. “Send another, and another, and she will be yours.”

“There is no time,” the Shadow told it. “I will collect her myself.”

“Yes, my lord. The attack will commence immediately.”

“Do not falter.” The Shadow began to fade, becoming translucent as smoke. “And inform Grandmaster Severine that the Blade is in Newbridge, but be cautious. Your disguise will not deceive her. Return to Kuray. I shall send some of your siblings to join you there, to ensure that the Queen does not seek to end this war against her kinsman, again.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

The Shadow drifted apart and was gone. The skin thief waited for a moment as it accustomed itself to its new form. It concealed the bloodied rugs and ruined clothes, then dressed in the duke’s raiment, before summoning messengers to take its orders to its awaiting army.

Words

“There, do you see the gate?” Drysi asked.

Gwydion examined the wall. This stretch was along the northern side of the fortress known as the Armory, lined with heavy buildings of workmanlike fashion, smithies and kitchens and carpentries built of brick with slate roofs. There was little to distinguish it from any street in Eastside, save that there were few windows facing the street, and those few were high dormer windows jutting from the roof, narrow and heavily shuttered. The wall itself was a long expanse of brick, unbroken except for the rare door or gate that revealed how thick the wall truly was.

“That tiny little door? Yes, I see it.”

“That’s the one we want. How close can you get us?”

“There isn’t much choice,” Gwydion complained. “But what do you think of that window, there, beneath that grotesque cluster of chimneys? They’ve left the shutters open, bless this heat.”

Drysi glared at the window in question, measuring the distance between its unshuttered, black stare and the steel door in the wall beneath it.

“That will do,” she said at last.

“Very well.” Gwydion turned away from the street and peered into the alleyway behind him. “Are you lot ready?”

Captain Andras nodded grimly. “Ready.”

“And you?” Gwydion asked his sister.

Rowenna nodded silently, the sharp lines of her face made more severe by the streaks of black paint daubed liberally across her skin.

“You will let this fine fellow do his job?” he asked her. “Don’t steal all his thunder.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rowenna assured him. “Don’t make me come and rescue you.”

“Never fear.” Gwydion gave her a wry twist of a grin, all that he dared. Any more, and the giddy surge of excitement frothing in his throat might burst into laughter.

He hurried along the alleyway to the small courtyard where they had left the wagon that had transported them from Goldenfields. In the courtyard waited a trio attired in black steel and leather, and Gwydion bowed to the slender figure at their center, then struck a more dramatic pose, one hand draped on the hilt of the fencing sword he had borrowed from Lady Aithne for the evening’s antics.

“Your Majesty, we are ready to proceed.”

“Good luck, my lord,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. May I implore you, one last time, to await the outcome in safety? If we are discovered, these streets will soon be swarming with soldiers.”

“I shall not,” the Queen refused. “I should be very disappointed to miss seeing our victory.”

“You see?” Lady Bryn complained. “I have tried.”

Gwydion glanced at the leather and steel the Queen had donned, and the wide blade sheathed across her back. “You are content to watch the victory from here, Your Majesty? No closer?”

“What use would I be, my lord?” the Queen replied, and Gwydion caught a glimpse of a grin that flashed white in the shadows.

“None whatsoever,” Lady Aithne said firmly.

“Very well, I’ll be off.” Gwydion bowed again.

“I will see you shortly, my lord, and we shall toast our victory,” the Queen replied.

Gwydion hurried back to the mouth of the alley, excitement building with every step, until he rejoined Drysi in her concealed spot.

“What’s the word?” the Temple scout asked.

“Good luck, and we’ll toast our victory,” Gwydion murmured.

Drysi gave a quiet snort of derision. “About bloody time.”

“It is,” Gwydion agreed. “Shall we?”

Drysi unsheathed a short blade, its narrow steel whispering free with a promise of pain. “Ready,” she said.

Gwydion’s thoughts brushed gently across a Word that had slumbered in the depths of his mind, a whisper that barely stirred against the deep shadows in the alleyway. Gwydion extended his hand, and Drysi gripped it strongly, her fingers like steel within her leather gauntlet. Gwydion’s Word reached across the street and touched the darkness beyond the open window, and he stepped through the chilling void and into the room.

Drysi barely stumbled from the sickening lurch that always accompanied that transition. With two silent steps she was across the room to the door, her gaze hunting for danger, but finding only a small desk set in the center of the room, and cluttered shelves along the wall.

She pressed her ear against the crack beneath the door, then eased the latch open and slipped through the doorway, her boots soundless against the worn carpet that ran the length of the hallway beyond. Gwydion followed, his step able to discover every creak and groan of the floorboards that Drysi’s had missed.

At the end of the hallway, a narrow flight of stairs bore the pair to the ground floor, passing darkened landings on the way. There, the stairs opened onto a cramped passageway that ran the width of the building, its walls fashioned of raw brick, sealed at either end by a heavy steel door.

Drysi crept to the inner door, crouched, and quickly dealt with its lock. She pulled it slightly open and peered through the crack.

“Here,” she murmured, and Gwydion crouched at her side. The door gave access to a wide, cobbled courtyard surrounded by tall buildings. Several arched tunnels led through the buildings in various directions, each wide enough to allow a wagon to pass through. Sentries stood guard at the mouths of the tunnels, their spear tips and steel breastplates gleaming silver in the moonlight. Drysi pointed to one of the tunnels. “That’s the way to the keep.”

“Excellent, we’re not lost,” Gwydion whispered, which earned him another soft snort.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“My reserves are boundless.”

Drysi did not bother with a reply, and instead quickly unlocked the passageway’s outer door and eased it open slightly, giving access to the street beyond the Armory walls. Then she rejoined Gwydion.

“Andras and your sister will be coming. Let’s go.”

Gwydion twisted Shadowdancer’s Word and they were across the courtyard, safe in the darkness of the tunnel leading to the wide plaza called the Parade, where the fortress’s garrison would frequently assemble in full glory for review. As Drysi had scouted the massive complex of fortified buildings and walls that together was known as the Armory, she had spotted prisoners being escorted to and from a long row of buildings that fronted the Parade, barracks for the garrison when at full strength, now turned into a prison for the defeated soldiers who had guarded the Silver Keep for the Queen.

Drysi now moved silently to the tunnel’s entrance. The soldier guarding the tunnel never turned as the scout slid into place behind him. She rose from her crouch and her blade swept in a high arc and plunged into the join of the soldier’s neck and shoulder, between the steel plates that protected him, deep into his chest. He gasped into Drysi’s palm as she guided him to the ground, his heart pierced.

“Quickly,” she hissed to Gwydion, and Shadowdancer pulled them through the shadows to the opposite tunnel, where she disposed of the second sentry as silently as the first, before he could notice his companion’s fate.

What a stunning, vicious creature, Gwydion thought, as he watched Drysi tuck her victim’s feet out of sight with no more agitation than if she were folding a cloak. She is the very embodiment of the predator.

The scout rose, then hesitated as she found Gwydion’s gaze upon her.

“What?” she whispered.

“I am astonished by the grace of your kill. You are that which people fear is lurking in the shadows.”

“Huh,” Drysi grunted. “Don’t go soft on me. The difficult part is still ahead.”

“You shall find me resolute to the end,” Gwydion assured her.

With the two sentries removed, Andras and Rowenna joined them, running half-crouched across the courtyard to the tunnel. The group then followed the tunnel that led to the ancient keep that stood at the heart of the Armory. It had been built to guard the southern approach to the valley, long before the city had grown to encompass it. Its thick walls had survived the sack of the Old City, had stood through the Cataclysm, and now nestled at the heart of the Royal Army’s home in Kuray, its grim edifice brooding over training grounds, barracks, and all the myriad industry required to support the needs and traditions of military might. And within its walls was the armory the fortress was named after, cellars crammed with noble blades and packed with shining mail, enough to equip an army.

The tunnel brought them to the cluster of buildings that served as the commissary, past storerooms and kitchens and the long arm of the dining hall, where two more sentries fell to Drysi’s blade. Gwydion’s wounded shoulder had awoken from its slumber and now ached nauseatingly with every heartbeat, a constant, dizzying pain that turned his skin clammy.

Shadowdancer’s Word thrummed contentedly within his thoughts, but he could feel the pain from his shoulder beginning to gnaw at it, fraying the delicate threads that he had woven so carefully. He drew in a deep breath, but the air felt thick and heavy, and brought no relief.

“There,” Drysi murmured, and she slid forward to the building’s corner. Their path had brought them to the base of the keep, where heavy towers carved a saw-toothed void across the sky. Beneath the walls was the open courtyard of the Parade, laid in front of the keep’s main gates so that the garrison might assemble in imposing glory for review. Drysi had spotted the current commander, Earl Rosdoire, doing exactly that, though the reduced forces of the occupying army had filled barely a quarter of the Parade, a sight that must have so dispirited the earl that it had not happened again.

Drysi pointed at the rows of brick buildings that bordered the Parade, their high cornices and stately pillars disguising the fact that they served as army barracks. Drysi’s path had brought them to the back of one row, where a small courtyard and a narrow, cobbled lane between the buildings allowed wagons to draw close to the barracks. “They’re in this side, here, locked in, guard post in each one.”

Gwydion nodded in response, the pain from his shoulder blunting his wit along with his fortitude. Bloody thing, he cursed the wound, but there was little choice but to grind his teeth and suffer in silence.

“Excellent,” Andras replied quietly. “Continue as planned.”

“Let’s go,” Drysi told Gwydion. “And do not make a sound.”

“Never fear, I shall not put a step astray. Where is our destination?”

Drysi pointed to one of the small doors that gave entrance to the barracks. “There.”

“Right you are,” he whispered. “Ready?”

Drysi raised her knives. “Ready.”

They were across the courtyard a moment later, and Drysi had the door open in an instant. Beyond was a short hallway that crossed the width of the building and gave access to the sleeping quarters. Drysi moved quickly to the door that led to the barracks, and slid into place against the doorframe, her ear pressed to the door’s thick planks. She listened for a moment, then glanced and caught Gwydion’s gaze, raised four fingers on one hand and waved the other, a signal she had explained meant she was not certain of her count. Gwydion adjusted Shadowdancer’s Word to build a new array of patterns, far less delicate than the ones required for the journey through shadows, then nodded his readiness.

Drysi opened the door and stepped into the guardroom in a smooth rush, and Gwydion hurried after her. Light from a single lantern hung above a table dazzled him, forcing him to squint to make out surprised faces gawping at the doorway and vague figures stumbling to their feet. Drysi’s wiry figure darted forward and became a blur. Benches crashed as they tipped over, and Gwydion heard the sigh of steel slicing across skin.

Gwydion released Shadowdancer’s bindings, and the dark shadows in the recesses of the room crystalized into razor sharpness and ripped across the room with a vicious hiss. Flesh and leather tore as the guards were hurled from their feet, blood splattered like rain, and the stone of the far wall cracked and splintered as if it had been struck by a dozen hammers.

A battered tin cup bounced once on the floor and rolled awkwardly to a stop. One of the fallen guards coughed thickly, kicked feebly, and then was still.

Gwydion carefully locked Shadowdancer’s bindings as Drysi knelt briefly at each body before dragging them to the back of the room. When she returned, she had a ring of keys clutched in her hand.

“We’re done here. Signal the captain,” she told him.

Gwydion returned to the outer door and waved, and soon Captain Andras and his sister joined them. Andras accepted the keys from Drysi and scooped up several of the guards’ discarded weapons. “Very well done,” he congratulated her. “We’ll get everyone up, you get the next barracks open.”

Gwydion and Drysi visited the next two buildings and repeated their ambush of the guards, and by the time they returned to the captain, Andras had assembled a dozen of the newly-freed soldiers and equipped them with blades and armor, courtesy of their jailors. The rest of the prisoners huddled nearby, crouched against the barracks walls, eager for a chance to strike against their captors.

“Very good,” Andras whispered to his freshly-marshalled force. “You with weapons, we are going to the keep. Once inside, we will make our way to the armory and seize control of the gates. We will equip and then press our attack into the fortress, where we shall subdue the remainder of the garrison. Is that clear?”

The soldiers replied with grim nods, though one, whose iron-colored beard marked him as a veteran, spoke up. “How will we breach the keep, Captain?”

Andras glanced at Gwydion. “We’ve got ourselves a templar, lads. He’ll get us in.”

Gwydion somberly accepted the astonished glances from the soldiers, his chin raised in what he was certain was a magnificently mysterious and confident manner.

“All right, then,” Andras continued, his lips curling into a fierce grin. “Once the gates are open, across the courtyard, as quick as you can, quiet as mice. No shouts, no cheering, do you hear? There’ll be time enough for that when we’re done.”

“Yessir,” chorused the squad in a low murmur, and Gwydion could hear the instructions passed through the more distant ranks in a whispered rush.

Andras nodded approval, then turned to Gwydion. “Once you get the gate open, my lord, I’ll lead the first group in. If something goes wrong, it will only take us a few moments to reach you.”

“The gate will be open,” Gwydion pronounced sternly.

“It had better,” Andras muttered.

“Your faith is inspiring,” Gwydion complained. He strode away with all the injured dignity he could muster and found Drysi waiting for him a short distance away from the rest of the soldiers.

“All right then, m’lord?” she asked. “Ready for our little jaunt?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Prepare yourself.”

“Gwydion,” Rowenna interrupted. “Do not foul this up.”

“I shan’t,” he insisted, but Drysi merely snorted, most unfairly, to his thought.

Drysi led them along the back wall of the barracks, until they reached the base of the keep’s wall. From there, they could see the main entrance of the keep, massive steel gates sunk between fearsome towers, lit by a multitude of torches. But Drysi guided them farther along the wall, to the iron doors that gave entrance to the bowels of the keep, watched by the slitted yellow eyes of the two towers that flanked it.

Drysi drew her knife, and Gwydion took her hand as he carefully adjusted Shadowdancer’s Word, ensuring that no stray throb of pain should disturb the pattern, and led them through the shadows one more time, to the concealing darkness beneath the deep arch of stone that surrounded the iron doors.

In the center of the right-hand door, a smaller door had been set, more suitable for the passage of pedestrians when the main doors did not need to be flung wide. A tiny slot of a window, closed by a shutter and protected by steel bars, allowed the guards within to check the courtyard before opening the door, and Drysi positioned herself directly before that window, her blade in her hand.

“As fast as you can,” she whispered, and Gwydion moved next to her, his hand on her shoulder. He felt her draw a long, deep breath, her shoulder pressing against his palm, then she rapped sharply on the door with the hilt of her blade, the clangor of steel on steel shockingly loud.

A dozen heartbeats passed in silence, then Gwydion heard the muffled clank of some mechanism moving on the far side of the door, and the shutter drew back with a squeak of metal against metal.

“Who goes there?” asked a low, suspicious voice, but Gwydion’s mind had already twisted Shadowdancer’s Word, and between breaths he stepped through shadow and emerged into the dark hallway behind the guard. Drysi’s arm moved in a half-seen blur and Gwydion heard the wet smack of her blade plunging home once, brutally heavy, then twice more, quick and light, and then he was helping her lay the soldier on the floor and trying to avoid the growing puddle of blood trickling between the stone slabs.

Drysi glanced around the hallway, then returned to the outer doors and peered through the small spy hole. The courtyard beyond was as empty as it had been when they had first seen it, the bright light of the torches flaring against the cobbles and flashing from the windows of the surrounding buildings. But Gwydion felt a wariness in the silence now, as if concealed gazes lurked behind those windows, and the light of the torches seemed pale and sickly, as if their glow had withered.

The scout unbarred the small door and opened it, allowing a small streak of torchlight to escape, and at that signal a squad of soldiers materialized from the gloom on the far side of the courtyard and hurried toward the door, led by Captain Andras. Then Rowenna and a second group of soldiers left their concealment and chased after the first, their boots a steady rumble despite their efforts at stealth.

“Come on, get a move on,” Gwydion muttered.

“Do you need someone to hold your hand, m’lord?” Drysi asked.

“I rather suspect that I might not get it back.”

The first group reached the doorway and pressed through, their breath loud in the passageway as their grins flashed in the torchlight. “Secure the armory,” Andras commanded, pointing deeper into the keep. “Tell the others that the shop is open.”

Gwydion could see a mass of soldiers now racing across the courtyard toward him. Then, at last, came the cries of alarm from the walls of the keep, and the flare of torches being hoisted to the battlements. Arrows hissed down, striking among the running figures in the courtyard, and Gwydion could hear the clash of steel from within the keep, as the garrison rushed to their defenses.

“Gwydion, come on,” Rowenna urged, and she hurried deeper into the keep, following the Queen’s soldiers as they pressed inward. Gwydion chased after her, shouting for the soldiers to make way in the tight passageways. They crossed a guardroom where they saw the first signs of close combat, dead soldiers wearing the duke’s sigil sprawled on the floor, the bitter tang of fresh blood thick in the air. Beyond the guard room they plunged through a doorway and into a narrow courtyard surrounded by walls so high that it felt as if they were at the bottom of a ravine. At one end, steel flashed as soldiers fought at bitterly close quarters around a door that led into the base of one tower, while arrows hissed down from the walls to harry the attackers.

Rowenna’s Word boomed against the sheer stone walls as she raced across the courtyard. Fury hissed through the air and tore armor and flesh in scything arcs, then darted to pick arrows out of the air. Defenders were flung aside, or staggered away, clutching mortal wounds.

Gwydion realized that he had drawn his borrowed sword, though what he might do with it was not immediately apparent. He thrust it back into its sheath in disgust as he watched Rowenna cut down the last rank of defenders and leap for the doorway, but it was flung shut by those inside the tower before she could reach it, and though Fury carved great wounds into the thick wood of the door, it could not break it.

Now the arrows streaked downward in thick volleys. Fury swatted dozens of shafts from the sky, but the toll on the attackers was brutal. Andras urged a squad to the sealed door, then joined them with raised shields as they protected two soldiers who laid into the door with heavy axes. The blades bit deep and the door shook in its hinges, but it had been crafted to rebuff just such an assault, and little headway was made.

“They’re fucked,” Drysi hissed next to Gwydion. He had not noticed the scout follow him into the keep, but now he grasped her arm thankfully.

“We must find another path,” he shouted. The soldiers’ shields now bristled with arrows and Gwydion could see that the shields’ wood was splitting. One of the shieldmen cried out as an arrow sank into his shoulder, and Andras grabbed the wounded man and dragged him bodily to shelter as Rowenna guarded them both.

“There,” Drysi announced. She pointed toward the peaked roof of the keep, a jumble of ridges and valleys that rose above the walls of the courtyard. “Through those windows, and we can come down on the other side of that door.”

“How many can you take?” Andras asked.

Gwydion scowled at the distance. The keep loomed at least a bowshot above them, a dangerous distance for Shadowdancer to bridge for anyone but himself.

An arrow smacked into the doorframe next to him, jarring him from his thoughts. “One, perhaps two,” he replied.

“Me, then,” Andras replied immediately. “And your ladyship.”

“I’m terribly sorry about this,” Gwydion told the captain, and he grabbed Drysi and Rowenna and stepped through the shadow. The endless cold of the void clawed at him for far longer than he had thought possible as his Word flared crimson with the strain. Do not foul this up, he demanded, and his mind gripped the Word like steel. Then they stumbled back into the night, slipping on the steep shingles of the keep’s roof.

“Bloody hell,” Rowenna gasped.

“Oh, thanks a fucking lot,” Drysi spat. “Are you fucking deaf? He said him, not me.”

“We don’t need another sword,” Gwydion explained. “But we do need a guide, and I did not feel like arguing.”

“Wonderful,” Drysi muttered, but she quickly had the shutters open on one of the windows and slipped inside.

“You should go next,” Gwydion told Rowenna. “Pointy thing, and so on.”

Rowenna rolled her eyes but did not linger, and Gwydion chased after her.

Drysi led them through the deserted upper floors of the keep at a run, hesitating only long enough to check each corner before they passed. They found a staircase, narrow and musty, and followed it down. Gwydion could hear shouts and the sound of running footsteps echoing up the staircase, but no defenders seemed intent on reaching the remote upper levels, and the stairs remained empty.

But soon Drysi led them away from their concealed path, daring passageways bright with lanterns as she sought a way to approach the doors being held against the attackers. The cries of the defenders were growing more confident as time passed, shouts of command, rather than panic.

Drysi opened a door and they hurried into a grand chamber. Thick pillars of unadorned stone rose to a vaulted ceiling, stained by the smoke of centuries of torches, while statues of fierce warriors stood guard along the walls. A wide carpet lined the center, its length embroidered with the banners of the companies of the Royal Army.

As they hurried inside, Drysi hesitated and quickly glanced toward the head of the chamber, her gaze narrowed. Gwydion paused at her side and joined her in staring at the empty room, his brow furrowed.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“There’s something…” Drysi murmured. “Listen.”

Distant thunder trembled beneath the surface of the floor, and the air seemed to contract, as if a giant drew in a breath. Then a Word shattered the stillness of the chamber. Silver shards streaked through the air, filling the chamber with a banshee wail. The stone walls and pillars disintegrated into an onrushing wave of billowing dust and debris as the wave curled toward the three interlopers.

Gwydion felt Fury’s Word thunder beside him, and saw the blur of its blade as Rowenna stepped to meet the attack. Steel shrieked against steel as Fury carved through the swarm, darting back and forth to catch every shard that might seek to harm its wielder. Then the wave of destruction had passed, and Gwydion cautiously peered from behind his raised arms. Dust and smoke hung heavy in the air, sharp with the tang of hot metal, and the walls and floor appeared as if they had been scoured by a thousand winter storms.

But even as Gwydion began to search for wounds, another Word sizzled into the chamber, and lightning forked through the gloom. Drysi dove to the side and Gwydion reacted a moment later, and he yanked Rowenna through a shadow to the far side of the chamber, a heartbeat before the lightning stuck where they had been standing.

“Where are they?” Rowenna shouted.

“I don’t know,” Gwydion replied. He could hear Tyree’s and Muire’s Words bellowing through the dust-choked gloom, but there was no sign of the adepts themselves, and the sound of the Words was warped. “Rossiter must have them Veiled, damn the man.”

Gwydion twisted Shadowdancer’s Word and the deep darkness behind a pillar suddenly crystalized into razor sharpness that streaked toward the far end of the chamber. A burst of lightning swept the shadow darts from the air, and Gwydion caught a brief glimpse of three figures as Rossiter’s Veil wavered momentarily.

“They are just past that statue with the atrocious pauldrons,” Gwydion announced.

“I saw,” Drysi said softly. She rose smoothly from concealment, her bow bent taught, the black feathers of an arrow pulled to brush against her cheek. In the next instant the bow thrummed as she released the shaft, and it vanished into the swirling dust with a lethal hiss.

Gwydion heard the sound of an impact, and then the Veil vanished. Now he could hear Tyree’s and Muire’s Words clearly, and he could see the two adepts, revealed as dark figures through the smoke and dust.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Gwydion told his sister, and he stepped through a shadow and emerged from the gloom into the chamber a step behind Lady Muire.

Muire turned to greet him. The thin noblewoman’s expression barely flickered as she met Gwydion’s gaze, the shadows beneath her sharp cheekbones like dark pits, her thin lips pursed in disapproval. Her hands raised toward him, her fingers bent like claws ready to rake across him as her Word swelled.

“Too late,” Gwydion informed her, and he thrust savagely with his sword.

The wickedly sharp blade stabbed deep beneath Muire’s breastbone. Gwydion watched Muire’s eyes bulge with pain and shock, then he ripped the blade free with a sigh of steel cutting flesh.

Gwydion spun as brilliant light flared behind him, and Tyree’s Word beat like thunder against him. Lightning snapped across a distance no greater than a stone’s-throw, searing bolts that forked and sizzled through the air. Gwydion pulled shadow to meet the light, deep as the darkness at the bottom of a well. The shadow glowed violet as Tyree’s lightning struck, but it could not pass.

Tyree’s lips pulled back in a snarl as his Word ripped another barrage against Gwydion. The bright bolts sent light flickering across Tyree’s face, and Gwydion saw rage and glee twist Tyree’s features as he hurled his assault across the narrow gap. Gwydion returned Tyree’s gaze indifferently, and Shadowdancer spun shields of darkness to meet every blazing bolt, but inwardly Gwydion was surprised by the relentless fury of Tyree’s attack. Tyree’s lightning boiled Gwydion’s shadows into purple incandescence almost faster than Gwydion could counter, and Tyree summoned more strikes to hurl against his foe with every heartbeat.

I suppose his opponents succumb so quickly, he simply has no concern for subtlety, Gwydion mused as lightning crackled ever closer to him. Perhaps I should instruct him.

Gwydion could see the body of Lord Rossiter slumped in the dirt beyond Tyree, fine robes askew, the black-feathered end of an arrow jutting from the ruin of his forehead. Rossiter was very much dead, and Drysi’s exceptional marksmanship had deprived Tyree of any concealment for his Word. Gwydion could hear every nuance of its thunder against his mind, and vast swathes of its pattern were already crystalizing within his own thoughts.

Keep shouting, Gwydion told Tyree’s leering face. I only need another moment.

“Got you,” Tyree crowed. Gwydion felt Tyree alter his Word again, forcing new patterns of amplification around its focus, and sparks began to crawl across Tyree’s fingers.

A mirrored pattern formed in Gwydion’s thoughts, refined to an elegant structure that mimicked a minute segment of Tyree’s Word, save for a single inversion. That should do it, he decided. Now, let’s see how quick you are.

Gwydion spoke his sly version of Tyree’s Word so softly that it made hardly more sound than a breath. His command cut through the arrogant strength of Tyree’s Word to the innocuous structure it imitated, and Gwydion felt Tyree’s Weapon respond. A single binding clicked open, but that was enough. The boiling furor that Tyree had built burst through that opening like a storm-swollen river through a sundered dam. Gwydion saw Tyree’s eyes go wide with disbelief, and his Word twist as Tyree strove to channel the force away, but Gwydion did not linger to watch the result. Shadowdancer spun a path and Gwydion stumbled through darkness and fell behind a pillar, as far distant as he could manage.

Thunder shook the floor and a jagged flash split the darkness. Gwydion felt the ground lurch beneath his splayed fingers, and then, with a giant’s roar, the far end of the chamber disappeared into billowing smoke as shattered stone collapsed onto the spot where Tyree stood. Wind tugged at Gwydion’s hair as the hot smell of scorched stone eddied around him.

“Gwydion!” Rowenna called through the choking gloom.

“Here,” Gwydion replied, and he rose and began to beat the dust from his jacket.

“I thought for certain you’d snuffed it,” Drysi told him as she picked her way across the debris that covered the floor.

“It would have been rather a splendidly heroic death, would it not?” he mused.

“I think I’m going to cry,” the scout claimed.

“Are you really?”

“Yeah. I wagered Lady Aithne twenty crowns you wouldn’t make it, tonight.”

“We still have a battle to win,” Rowenna pointed out, but she paused to give Gwydion a relieved hug, and he swore that he felt her sigh in relief.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured her.

The main doors to the inner keep were only a short distance past the ruined chamber, and Fury carved a path through the defenders that left a red ruin in their wake, while Shadowdancer forced away anyone foolish enough to try to intercept them with a flurry of razer-edged darts.

Drysi wrenched open the bars that held the doors closed and the Queen’s soldiers burst into the keep, led by Captain Andras. Freshly-equipped in the armory, the attackers pressed forward, clearing the defenders in brutal room-to-room fighting.

Gwydion stepped back as more soldiers rushed past. “I believe I need a drink,” Gwydion decided. “Shall we see what old Rosdoire kept handy?”

He pushed through the crowd without waiting to hear Rowenna’s reply. Squads of Campbell’s soldiers were being escorted to the dungeons while the Queen’s faithful hurried from room to room, making certain that no defenders still lurked behind and ensuring that any choice treasures surreptitiously vanished in the process. Gwydion hurried up the main stairs, suddenly anxious for the fate of Rosdoire’s wines.

But when he reached the upper floors, he found a more somber scene. Here, the fighting had been fierce, a dozen soldiers in Campbell’s livery dead among an equal number of the Queen’s soldiers, victims of a vicious battle along a hallway that led to a tall door emblazoned with the seal of the Lord Commander of the Royal Army. Four of the Queen’s soldiers were beating on the doors with a bust from a nearby alcove, but though the doors shuddered and splintered under the assault, they held firm.

“Do you suppose I could be of some help?” Gwydion asked.

One of the soldiers turned to him, blood and sweat smeared through the grime on his face. “He’s barricaded the doors, m’lord. We need axes.”

“Who is inside?” Rowenna asked.

“Some old geezer,” the soldier replied. “Bastard told them to fight when we said to lay down arms. I’ll carve his fucking balls off when we get him out of there.”

“I think the Queen might want to pass judgement on this one,” Gwydion said thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll winkle him out of there, you can take him to the Queen.”

“She’ll be grateful, you reckon?” the soldier asked. The other three had ceased hammering on the door and were now listening intently to the exchange.

“I would think so, if he’s who I suspect. All I ask in return is my pick of whatever wine he has stashed in there.”

“Very fair of you,” the soldier replied.

“Right. Ro, are you coming?”

“Maker, I hate this,” his sister muttered, but she drew Fury and took his hand without hesitation. Gwydion bent to the keyhole, peered through, and was granted a view of the corner of a desk and a wall beyond, covered by heavy tapestries, their edges turned orange by the light of a flickering fire. Shadowdancer thrummed and they stepped from the shadowy recesses of the tapestry and into the room.

A figure was hunched over the fire, shoving handfuls of parchment into the blaze. His face was smudged with soot and his hair floated in thin streamers above his scalp, and he wore a long nightgown which hung absurdly from his narrow shoulders to drape over a belly as round as a cauldron.

“For goodness’ sake, Rosdoire, stop that,” Gwydion said sharply.

The man by the fire recoiled from Gwydion’s voice as if he had been slapped and whirled to confront the two templars with a fire iron clutched in one fist.

“Stay back!” he squealed, the poker trembling as it wavered back and forth.

“Don’t be absurd,” Rowenna scolded him.

“If you make us kill you, the Queen will be ever so disappointed,” Gwydion added.

Rosdoire glanced rapidly between the two siblings, then hurled the poker onto the floor. “I surrender. Have mercy, my lord.”

“It’s not me you should be begging,” Gwydion advised the earl as he unlocked the doors. “You should work on groveling in Venaissine.”

The soldiers led Rosdoire away, almost dragging the grey-faced noble along the passageway, but Gwydion felt no pity for the earl, only a warm glow of satisfaction.

“It looks as if he was burning letters,” Rowenna announced as she picked through a few parchments that had fluttered free from the blaze.

“Much good it will do him,” Gwydion mused as he investigated the line of crystal bottles on a shelf at the rear of the study. He opened one for a sniff and smiled. “Maker’s breath, here we go.”

“What have you found?”

“Quite a good Sandreux, I believe. Will I pour you a glass?”

“Yes, I believe you shall.” Rowenna sighed and pushed her hair from her face. “Do you suppose we’ve won?”

“I rather think we might have,” Gwydion replied, and he shook his head. “I am astonished.”

The Hill of Sorrow

Karsha swayed in his saddle as his pony plodded across a bright meadow, stirring clouds of bees from their work among the thistles. The creature’s ambling path had taken them some distance from the road, and the endless rumble of the Temple army on the move had faded away, hushed by the gentle breath of the wind in the grass. The warm touch of the sun on his skin and the soothing cocoon woven by the leaves he chewed combined to grant him a blessed drowsiness, a domain into which his thoughts dove with happy abandon, chasing idle musings into fantastic realms.

When he lifted his gaze he could see their destination, the ragged crest of a tall hill that thrust above the rolling waves of trees that separated them. If he stared long enough, he even thought he could discern the grey slabs of stone that crowned the hill, though whether that was fancy or fact he could not tell.

Regardless, Karsha could sense the presence of the monoliths atop Tuireadh Cnoc. He could hear the whisper of their dreams like the roar of waves against a distant shore, feel them like the swirl of a slow current against his skin, taste them like the scent of rich soil against his throat. Their songs were echoed by the gods around him, a chorus of breeze and stone and stream raised in glorious worship.

Karsha chewed contentedly as he listened, or hummed to his pony, and slowly the sun climbed to its pinnacle as he ambled north. But at last his reverie was broken as a single rider galloped into view, slowed, and left the road to intercept him.

“They have found us,” Karsha murmured to his pony as the rider neared, but the foolish beast did not turn and flee, and instead whinnied a greeting to the approaching steed.

The rider was the young warrior who softened Sir Eilidh’s stern visage simply by entering a room, a task that Karsha would have sworn impossible if he had not witnessed it on several occasions.

“Lord Karsha?” Cormac asked. “Are you all right?”

“I am very well, thank you,” Karsha replied, careful to speak clearly around the tingling numbness the leaves had imparted to his lips and tongue. “Have you seen the great hill ahead? I have listened to its songs, and I find them most comforting, not at all the dirge I had supposed I would hear.”

“I have, m’lord. I’ve just come from there, from beyond it, in fact. We were scouting northward.”

“Into the Tír Rúnda? And what secrets did you discover there?”

“None to please.” The young man’s brow lowered and his smile vanished.

“Ah. Our trial approaches.”

“It does. Do you know where I might find Lady Danielle? Sir Roland has sent for her to come with all speed.”

“She cannot be far,” Karsha decided after a brief thought. “I rode ahead at dawn, but I have made little progress. Come, I shall ride with you, for I find myself newly awakened by your news.”

He had judged correctly, as he and Cormac had barely started their quest when a small troop of riders came into view, trotting northward alongside the column of soldiers turning the road into dust. At the head of the troop rode Lady Danielle and Sir Killock, both somber in brown and green, and with them Sir Eilidh, shining in silver, and young Bronwyn, concealed in black. No, I must remember to name her Wyn, or I shall double the scorn that she spits at me.

The four greeted Karsha with a range of cold formality and hostile glares, though his companion received a much warmer welcome.

“Cormac!” Lady Danielle said with a smile. “I had not thought to see you here.”

“I just got back,” Cormac replied. “Sir Roland sent me to find you.”

“What did you find?” Sir Killock asked gravely.

“It’s not good,” Cormac replied. “There’s a Crunorix horde headed toward Tuireadh Cnoc, as near as I could tell. And they’re coming fast, much faster than we’d expected.”

“How can they be so close?” Lady Danielle asked. “Did General Boone not engage them in the hinterlands?”

“You’ll have to ask Sir Roland, m’lady,” the scout answered. “I just know he said to hurry.”

“It is as if they race to meet us,” Lady Danielle murmured as her gaze turned northward.

“How can they know?” Sir Eilidh asked. “They have no scouts, how can they know we are here?”

“Perhaps they see in ways we do not,” suggested Karsha.

“Wonderful,” Wyn grumbled.

Cormac led the way north, riding in the meadows whenever possible to grant the road to the columns of soldiers. Karsha’s pony trotted eagerly after the scout, and Karsha did not have the heart to rein in its speed, though he was jounced and shaken terribly.

Lady Danielle eased her horse next to Karsha’s as they cantered up the valley, and he wondered at what magic allowed her to ride so effortlessly, as if she were floating above her saddle. Her jaw was set resolutely, and her quick glance at the bandages engulfing his arm revealed the burden she had set herself to bear.

“Are you in terrible pain?” she asked, her voice strained.

“Give it no thought,” Karsha reassured her, though in truth, the burns along his arm and neck throbbed terribly, flaring beneath the gauze bandages at every movement. “The featherleaf buoys me, and I have yellowbark for my tea.”

Lady Danielle cleared her throat with a delicate cough before continuing. “I am so sorry for your discomfort.”

“It shall pass.” That much he could predict, but whether Lady Danielle’s shame would also fade, he was not so certain. Perhaps it should not. Karsha indicated the bandages that wrapped Lady Danielle’s right arm, as extensive as his own. “And how could I grumble when you have made the same sacrifice with no complaint? But, perhaps your wounds trouble you? I have featherleaf to spare.”

Lady Danielle shifted her arm uncomfortably, but her lips thinned with distaste as she glanced at the small bundle of leaves that Karsha offered her.

“Does not featherleaf numb the thoughts as well as the pain?”

“Delightfully so,” Karsha agreed.

“I would prefer… I am fine. The pain is not severe.”

Karsha doubted that very much. His own burns flared as if touched by a brand at the slightest shift of his bandages. But he nodded agreeably and stuffed the featherleaf back into its pouch.

“Pain is easier to bear, when nobly suffered,” he mused. “An easy bargain to make, for young Wyn’s life.”

Lady Danielle nodded, and they rode in silence for a moment, until Karsha judged he might probe without goading her anger. Their conversations had been reduced to the exchange of terse sentences after that unwelcome argument atop the Newbridge battlements, and even less since the disastrous conclusion of their embassy to the duke. Karsha could well imagine the anger and guilt that must wage war within her, and he wished that he could offer some succor. But what relief can there be, when duty demands the hardest path? It falls to me to remind her, and that is my own hated duty.

Karsha cleared his throat and chewed his lips back to life.             

“A most remarkable feat,” he ventured. “To race instantly to her side from so great a distance.” I have rarely heard its like, save perhaps the Crunorix portals that connect their Black Grave to the world.

“It was, though I am uncertain what occurred, or what part I played in it,” Lady Danielle admitted.

“The gods’ whims are ever fickle,” Karsha volunteered.

“Devices are not,” she pointed out. “And I know of no mechanism within the Blade’s Word that might allow such an act.”

“Ah, you speak of mysteries beyond me, when you speak of Words. Are they not prayers to the gods of artifice?”

“Not at all,” Lady Danielle disagreed, as if Karsha had questioned the beauty of a precious child. “The Word is a tool, a marvelous, exquisite tool that one may wield, aligned with the structures forged within the Device so perfectly that one might imagine a key fitted within a lock. Yet, though a tool may have great utility, it cannot suddenly change its function. Imagine the amazement a smith might feel, if his hammer found a voice as sweet as birdsong.”

“Such a hammer would be a wonderment, and its transformation unexpected,” Karsha agreed.

Her gaze grew distant as her thoughts turned inward. “It seemed so simple, as natural as a cut through flesh.”

“Instinct guides more truly than reason.”

“It was no instinct of mine,” she disagreed. “And only the thinnest of good fortune allowed me to control the results. It is foolish to think that I shall be able to replicate that good fortune, again.”

“I am certainly a fool,” Karsha allowed. “Yet I have yet to hear an alternative. Have you found such a path?”

“No,” she admitted, and she seemed so despondent that Karsha hesitated to pursue any further.

“Do you see our destination ahead?” he asked instead, his tone light. “It is remarkable, do you agree?”

Lady Danielle raised her chin as she lifted her gaze to the north. “I have seen it before, last winter, though we rode past without pause, for it was a miserable day and I had thoughts only of our next shelter.”

“Ah. Then consider it now. What gods might have raised it so high above its neighbors? Did they rest there to gaze on their domain?”

“It looks so foreboding,” Lady Danielle decided, “with its scars down its face, and no trees to soften it. And I cannot help but see a thorned crown on its head. No, I would not care to make that my throne.”

“It is true that it is a place of sorrow,” Karsha agreed. “The legends tell us that this is where the Lost Tribe was at last brought home by their masters.”

“In Albyn, they are known as the Free People,” Lady Danielle corrected.

“Ah, that is so, and why not? For they had not lost themselves, only their shackles. But, whatever their name, this is where their dream ended.”

“It is hard to imagine.”

“Is it?” Karsha stared at the bulk of Tuireadh Cnoc, much closer now, its steep slopes cracked and weathered with slashes of bright stone among the thin grass. Its base filled the valley, a vast blister that rose from the flat meadows, all the more startling for its abruptness. “They marched toward the hill, knowing a dread enemy approached, an enemy whose strength they feared, hoping that they might find its match. They climbed to its summit and prayed its slopes would protect them.” Karsha grinned at the hill. “No, I find it easy to imagine.”

“They lost their battle.”

“True. Perhaps we may write a new story, and the hill may earn a new name.”

“What does its name mean?” she asked.

“The Hill of Sorrow.” Karsha sighed contentedly.

Lady Danielle shook her head, her lips twisted in disapproval. “Who decided such a place should be our destination?”

The valley of Tuireadh Cnoc ran west from the hill toward the crinkled, thickly-wooded ridgeline named the Cnoic Áille. The valley’s wide meadows swayed with bobbing heads of grass and fluttered with bright flowers, a gentle pastureland that was uninterrupted by field or farmstead, for legend insisted that to sleep within sight of the mighty tor was to risk the wrath of the spirits that lived on its crown.

But that myth was to be put to the test. A ribbon of soldiers emerged from the southern woods and marched along the Seann Rathad to the junction beneath the hill, swelling the valley’s population to numbers not seen in generations. Cormac led the party of riders to a small rise near the junction, a knee of the great hill that kept watch over the road, where a single, ancient oak tree provided some relief from the sun. The clank and tramp of the soldiers’ passage filled the air with sound and dust, a shifting sea of movement that was utterly bewildering.

Sir Roland watched the chaos from the rise, a dozen steps away from the bellowing sergeants who were herding the troops. No messenger approached him and he gave no orders, elevating him immensely in Karsha’s opinion.

The Knight Commander greeted Sir Killock with a clasped hand, then he bowed briefly to Lady Danielle. Karsha received only a nod.

“We have little time,” Sir Roland said without preamble. “A Crunorix horde approaches, and will certainly arrive before we can deploy fully.”

“What has happened?” Lady Danielle asked. “Was not the Royal Army to attack the Crunorix farther north?”

“They did,” Roland explained. “Boone sent word that his forces have cut the Crunorix line and are fully engaged. But the horde that had already passed south did not turn back to attack Boone, and has apparently pressed onward with haste.”

“Directly here?” Killock asked.

“Yes,” Roland answered. “As closely as we can tell. Why?”

“When Wyn and I discovered them, their path lay almost due south. That path would have taken them to the west of here, into the valley of the Albainn Albyn. They must have turned eastward, but when, and why?”

“It must have been recently, Sir Killock,” Cormac replied. “We’ve had scouts in the Cnoic Áille for weeks, watching for them and for Duke Campbell’s troops, but there’s been no sign of either.”

“A horde is not mindless, despite appearances,” Killock mused. “They are guided with intent. If they changed direction, it was not happenstance.”

“A week ago, there was nothing here,” Roland pointed out. “Nothing that hadn’t been here for thousands of years.”

“I wonder if they simply race to confront us, or if…” Killock frowned at the distant edge of the forest, as if his gaze could penetrate the trees and reveal his enemy.

“Or what, Killock?” Lady Danielle asked.

“Or if they have pursued the same goal, all these weeks, and it has moved.”

“To attack us?” Roland asked, his eyes narrowed in disagreement. “I doubt that. If they wanted a fight, why would they not simply turn and fall on the army that has just attacked them?”

“No,” Lady Danielle replied, and her eyes closed wearily. “It is me, is it not? I carry the Blade. They drove toward Newbridge, south, like an arrow, until I brought it here.”

“Bloody hell!” Wyn spat, and she turned a venomous glare on Karsha. “I told you, hide it away, get rid of it, but you bloody—!”

“Wyn,” Killock interrupted sharply, and though she quieted, Karsha did not judge that he had won any kind of reprieve. “Yes,” the templar continued, “I suspect exactly that. We assumed Whitebrooke wanted the Blade to destroy the Guardian, to free Shadow. But perhaps the magi wanted it for more than that.”

“That means they’re ready for it,” Wyn hissed through clenched teeth. “They know it’s here and they’re coming anyway.”

“Karsha, Roland,” Killock asked, “will you now give up on this idea that we can use the Blade?”

Karsha squinted at the Knight Commander. “Will there be a battle?”

“There must be,” Roland replied. “We might attempt to retreat, though we are so close to the horde that they will certainly be able to engage us. Far better to confront them here, and make best use of what we have.”

“And what is that?” Karsha asked politely.

“Most of Lord Audrey’s company is already here, so he will occupy the heights. The hill should provide an excellent redoubt. I’ve sent messengers to Sir Hollis to come up with all speed. If his cavalry can catch the Crunorix in the valley, it will be a slaughter.”

Karsha nodded and made a show of pondering the hill and the soldiers assembling at its foot while his mind raced. They come for the Blade. But from fear or desire?

“Our last, greatest hope,” Karsha said quietly. “Or our most precious charge, to be kept from our enemy at all costs. Or the deception that shall shatter the foundation of our strength at the moment of our most desperate need. Perhaps the Blade is all of those things, or none of them. What counsel might I give that could help us find our path? We clutch at threads to guide us. One was spun by mighty Ruric, one by noble Duibhir, but they are frayed and torn by the ages, and we do not know where they lead.

“And yet, our map has some landmarks, though they are few. That there shall be a battle, here at the Hill of Sorrow. Whether it is a fierce defiance, to keep the Blade from our enemy’s grasp, or a vicious blow to cripple our enemy, or merely the first skirmish in a greater war, there will be a battle. And that the Blade is borne by one whose blood lifted the Blade against the Nameless King, whose blood was chosen to guard the Blade, to wield it. I cannot conceive of a better, truer star to guide us. And so I concede, I defer, no, much more, I exhort all who might listen, to trust her every instinct in this.

“That is my counsel, do what you will with it, for it is poor stuff, vague and unfounded, everything I despise. Yet my heart tells me that is the path I must walk. Mere enthusiasm, I know, yet I will not deny it. And so I will stand on the Hill of Sorrow and defy our enemies and know we spin our own thread, one that Ruric and Duibhir could not have imagined.”

Karsha bowed to Lady Danielle, as far as his back would allow, and listened to the shocked silence his words had produced. The wary silence on his right, where young Wyn watched him with a raven’s gaze, seeking any tell of weakness. The pensive silence on his left, where Killock prowled among his words, searching for the hidden paths that might lay beneath them. And the stricken silence before him, where Lady Danielle felt the awful weight he had hung from her shoulders.

He departed before that silence could break and began an amble up the hill, pausing frequently to stoop and examine the ground, or to survey the valley. The slope was much higher and much steeper than he had imagined, and he wheezed and puffed as he scrambled to the summit.

But his stream of curses faded into silence as he gazed at the rings of ancient stones that crowned the hill. Karsha had read that seventy-one stones comprised the outer ring, but that number did not encompass the size of the henge, for each stone stood many paces from its neighbor, as far as an arrow could be shot. Many of the stones were no more than the height of his knee, none were taller than his shoulder, and all were smooth from wind and rain.

“A wonder,” Karsha whispered. He approached the nearest stone and touched its weathered surface, tracing the faded remnants of runes that covered it, then strolled from stone to stone, sometimes scraping away small patches of lichen to reveal a pattern of etchings, sometimes simply squatting in the damp grass to gaze at the grey slabs.

Then Karsha’s wandering steps brought him to the inner ring of great monoliths that surrounded the peak of the hill, seventeen massive stones that dwarfed their smaller cousins in the outer ring, many times the height of a man. Karsha slowly walked the ring, greeting each stone reverently, until he had completed his circuit and settled in the tall grass, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the warmth of the sun against his face and the play of the wind against his wrinkled skin.

Bran settled atop a tall spike of nearby stone, all that remained of an obelisk that had split and shattered centuries ago. The huge raven tucked his wings against the gusts of wind that rippled across the hilltop and cawed loudly, and Karsha waved absently in his direction, hardly distracted from his rest. Bran joined him, contentedly hunting for beetles among the heather until his dark gaze spied the figure of a man striding easily up the hill toward them. The raven cawed loudly, then soared to the top of a nearby stone with a thunder of his great wings.

Karsha idly plucked a long strand of grass and freed its tuft with gentle strokes of his fingers, sending the seeds dancing on the breeze. He watched them waft across the circle, then plucked another strand, careful to preserve the delicate tuft, and began to weave a chain of small white flowers around its slender stem, humming long, gravelly notes as he stretched for more flowers among the grass.

Killock crouched next to Karsha and glanced at the growing complexity of grass and daisies in the wizard’s hands. “That was a cruel thing you did.”

Karsha studied his handiwork with satisfaction, then tucked the chain of flowers into a pocket of his robes. “I have fashioned no manacles to chain her,” Karsha told the knight.

“Not of steel,” Killock replied. “Yet you have bound her just as strongly.”

“We must endure this first blow, yes, but then we might find opportunity to do as you suggest, to uncover the knowledge that sly Duibhir has hidden away, or to discover the vulnerable belly of our foe, as your protégé suggests. Surely there is hope we can triumph here without the Blade, if we stand united?”

“Hope.” Killock snorted a laugh that was dried of all humor. “Wyn could tell you what I think of a plan that relies on hope.”

“I believe the young lady has other matters to discuss with me first,” Karsha responded. He breathed in deep, then let his breath rush free as he swept out a hand to encompass the ring of stones. “Look at them,” Karsha said reverently. “So many gods, all asleep, dreaming as they wait to hear a call that may never come.”

“They’re not gods, Karsha. They can die, just like us.”

“Who claims that gods cannot die?” Karsha asked indignantly. “But I will call them spirits, to stay the clouds that gather on your brow. I do not wish to cast any gloom upon the glorious sun that has reached across the oceans from my home to bring me a memory of warmth.” He peered to the north and frowned at the dark clouds that gathered there. “Some storms cannot be so easily calmed, I fear.”

Killock plucked a blade of grass for himself and gently straightened it between thumb and finger as he squinted at the massive obelisks. “They have slept a long time. The men who built these rings did not survive the return of the elvhes.”

“Yes, a long time,” Karsha agreed. “So long that the stories they carved are almost washed away by rain and wind. Soon there will be nothing left to tell their tales.”

Killock rose and stepped close to one of the great stones to examine its face. He frowned as he peered at the meandering shapes carved into it. “You know this writing?”

“No, I hear their dreams.” Karsha squinted at Killock. “Perhaps you know the writing?”

“How could I?” Killock asked. “It died thousands of years ago.”

“How could you? A good question,” Karsha said appreciatively. “I will ponder it. But for now, I will tell you of their dreams.”

The small wizard clambered to his feet, brushed absently at the damp patch the grass had created on his posterior, and approached the massive slab of stone that loomed over the two men.

“Here is the storm that dwells on the shoulders of the grandfather of all mountains. His wings are made of lightning and his cry can shatter stone. Do you know him?”

“I have met his kin.”

A grin split the wrinkles in Karsha’s brown face. “His dreams make me shiver. What is his name in the tongue of the north?”

“Tàirnorfael, we call him.”

“Ah! A fitting name.” Karsha scurried to a neighboring monolith, its crown eroded into a series of soft ridges and peaks. “Here is the maelstrom that boils where wide river meets endless sea, a great serpent whose scales are silver and whose mouth can swallow ships whole. Do you know him?”

“I am not a sailor.”

“I have seen his like,” Karsha whispered, his eyes wide with awe. “A ship broken as if it were a child’s toy. A terrible memory. I am also not a sailor, not anymore.” Karsha shook the vision away with a shudder and moved to the next stone.

“Here…” Karsha smiled fondly at the shattered remains of an obelisk scattered in the grass. The weathered stump was sheared through at shoulder height, the exposed face still sharp, as if the rift were too recent to have succumbed to the relentless assault of wind and rain. Karsha stepped carefully around the smaller chunks and patted the jagged base. “Here slept a wanderer who roamed forest, hill and valley and climbed the steepest mountains, a wolf as black as night whose fangs shine as silver as the moon. But he escaped his slumber and once again prowls the lands of the north.”

Killock snorted and his lips curled into a wry smile. “How do you know how black his fur is?”

“Ah! I was told by one who has seen this wolf.”

“I thought you said he escaped?”

“Both can be true,” Karsha stated firmly.

Killock nodded absently as he kicked gently at one of the small chunks of stone lurking in the tall grass. Then he inhaled deeply and turned to regard the remaining circle of stones, and the sweeping horizon of endless green ridges beyond them.

“The people who raised these stones were the first to settle here,” Killock murmured, his voice so low that the gentle breeze snatched at the words and tried to carry them away. “They sought to escape the stifling embrace of the elvhen lords, and to write their own songs, here in a land so remote that they thought they would never be found.”

“The gaze of the elvhes could reach very far.”

“Far enough to find them here. And when the elvhes arrived to reclaim their children, the people tried to fight them. Druids summoned armies of the mightiest spirits they could name and bound them into service to battle the elvhen lords.” Killock shook his head. “But they lost. This isn’t a monument to a great triumph, Karsha, it’s the ruins of a defeat so overwhelming that there is nothing else left of the people who built it.”

“A solemn tale,” Karsha agreed. “Yet the druids built a mighty ruin, and we do not await the coming of the elvhen lords. Perhaps we can write a different story?”

“Is that why we are here?” Killock asked. “You wish to awaken them?”

“Awaken them?” Karsha chuckled. “You have mistaken me for the greatest wizard ever to walk the earth. These spirits are strong as mountains! Fierce as lightning! Wicked as a winter gale! Rarely have any seen even a glimpse of such grim power. When the druids who built this henge gathered here to sing their songs, it took a dozen dozens to bring the spirits forth, a dozen dozens to bind the spirits to their will, and a dozen dozens to lull them back to sleep.”

“Then why bind them?” Killock said idly. “Perhaps their time for dreaming is at an end? Why not simply break the stones, instead.”

“The men who built these stones, they did it so that they could speak to the spirits, so that they could call for their aid. Breaking the stones will not let you speak to the spirits, it will simply free them.”

“Free them, yes.”

“To return to their mountains and rivers, to frolic in their forests? The spirits do not care who sits in what throne, nor even who lives and who dies. They care only that water flows, that wind screams, that roots burrow.”

“Some might not care. Some do.”

Karsha nodded slowly and peered at Killock. “Some. Might. These are not words to risk all upon.”

“They are not slaves, Karsha, to be bound into servitude.”

“No. And yet great struggle requires great sacrifice. If the gods will not listen to my pleas, they will listen to my commands. They can return to their rivers and mountains when we are victorious.”

“The Crunorix enslave others.”

“No, no,” Karsha said harshly. “They steal life, they consume it, lost for all eternity.”

Killock gazed at Karsha for a long moment in silence, and when he spoke, his voice was as hard as the stones that surrounded them. “That is what slavery is.”

“When we have triumphed, the gods will tell stories of our magnanimity, I promise you that. But, without triumph, there will be no songs, only Shadow.”

“There are many paths,” Killock replied. “Which one you choose, matters.”

“True!” Karsha exclaimed, undismayed. “And yet, the Maker’s thorns prick cruelly to protect their flowers. There is ever pain, in sacrifice.”

“It is not sacrifice if there is no choice,” Killock said flatly.

“It is my choice,” Karsha replied, his gaze suddenly cold. “Once Gabrielle is safe, once we are all safe, I will choose differently.”

Killock gazed at Karsha for a long moment in silence. “I shall hold you to that,” the templar told him, then Killock turned away and strode down the hill.

More soldiers were now ascending, some laden with sacks, some bearing bundles of spears or shields, a steady procession emerging from the swirl of activity around the wagons now parked at the hill’s base. As Sir Killock disappeared into the swarm, Bran croaked loudly at Karsha from his perch.

“That is easy for you to say,” Karsha grumbled. “One day you will fly away and have a story to tell of the little man who died so stupidly, it will make even the gloomiest clutch their sides with laughter.”

The raven cawed and bobbed his head, his black eyes gleaming.

“No, that I was certain of. Lady Danielle’s duty drives her harder than I ever could. Now that we are here, now that they are here… well, there is no more need of my hand on the reins, nor of the goad.”

Bran swooped down from his perch and began to hunt among the grass, but his gaze returned to Karsha between each strike, and the small wizard sighed. “We shall see,” he agreed. “I am not concerned with forgiveness, my charge is to keep her sister safe.”

Bran cawed again, harsh laughter that echoed from the nearby stones.

“I know what the Grand Duke said, I was there,” Karsha replied testily. “She is as much his granddaughter as Arian was his grandson, as far as I am concerned.”

Bran chuckled contentedly as he combed his feathers against the ruffling breeze. Karsha left the raven to his smug preening and returned to his charm of grass and flowers. There is no sense in arguing, Karsha reminded himself. Bran will enjoy it and I have many tasks to complete.

Karsha twisted a final daisy into the strand that now completely entwined the shaft of grass, humming solemnly as he did, and then blew on the grass tuft, sending seeds swirling across the crown of the hill, a cloud of gossamer threads that settled in divots and cracks like a wide blanket.

Many tasks. Karsha grinned in satisfaction and gently tucked the weave into his cloak. Now is the time for one I have avoided.

His gnarled fingers searched through his pockets until he found a twisted twig with a few glossy green leaves clinging to it, and one small, white berry. Karsha sang to the twig in a low, grumbling language, a song of intertwining branches and deep, probing roots. He passed the twig over his head and his song stirred faraway boughs that swayed and creaked in reply. Further the song spread, and Karsha heard creaking voices tell of the war against Grandmother Sky, of tearing wind and spearing light, and of deep roots that defied her.

But he also heard another song, which told of thousands of feet tearing the soil, of iron and steel scoring wood, and of the passing of a Shadow that froze leaf and snapped wood.

Karsha let the song carry him towards the Shadow, and he felt the tramp of iron and the sharp prick of talons, and he felt cold darkness slither against him as it passed south toward the great hill. A deeper darkness found him then, oily and as black as ink.

He let the song fade from lips suddenly grey with cold. His twig was coated with a rime of frost, the leaves brown and curled, and Karsha tossed it away in disgust, and he shivered and dug deeper into his robes, though they provided no protection against the touch of that endless night.

The Colossus

The river slipped past Newbridge’s walls with barely a ripple to disturb the black reflection of the night sky and lapped quietly against the massive iron chain that sealed the harbor. No torches were lit along the river wall, nor in either of the huge towers which flanked the harbor. Soldiers paced the battlements beneath the cloak of darkness, with only the slitted glow of shuttered lanterns to show the path. Watchers clustered at the top of every tower, peering across the river at the sea of campfires that had spread across the western embankment, as far as they could see both upstream and down.

Duke Campbell’s army had arrived the day before. As the last of Lady Lyndsey’s rearguard had hurried across the bridge and into the city, a long column of soldiers had appeared on the road behind them, steel flashing within the haze of dust raised by their tramping boots. As defenders rushed to the walls, Campbell’s soldiers had deployed across the western end of the bridge, and more arrived with every bell as the sun dropped behind them. All night long, Campbell’s army had massed, rivers of torches flowing down the road and spreading along the river’s edge, and by morning, the city’s defenders could see thousands of enemy troops digging in behind earthen ramparts and wicker walls.

Yet Campbell’s lines were prudently distant enough that even great Bàs, the largest of the war engines mounted on the river wall, could not reach them, and there was no sign of any siege weapons being readied in the attacker’s camp.

Baron Arledge chuckled as he inspected his foe from the harbor tower. “He’s forgotten his catapults, though for what good they would do him, he’s probably wise to keep them tucked away.”

Arledge watched the enemy deploy until the noon bell, then strode down the tower stairs to his horse, leaving orders to watch for troops crossing the river to the north and south, and to prepare for a long siege.

By the evening bell, Campbell’s troops had ceased their labors and settled in for the night. Cookfires bloomed and the city’s defenders could hear the faint strains of flute and fiddle as the sky drained from indigo to black. Slowly the dancing yellow fires became smoldering orange stars, as if the western bank of the river were a bed of coals, and the music faded away, until the river’s quiet song could once again be heard.

But even as the night gentled, a ripple of sound drew the gaze of the defenders stationed at the southernmost of the river wall towers, a thick bastion of stone that stood half again as tall as its neighbors. A shadow shifted on the river, a dark absence of reflected stars.

“Ship!” a warning called out, and solders clustered to the battlements and peered in the direction of outthrust arms. A single arrow arched high into the air, sizzling with alchemical fire, and harsh light glimmered on the curl of white water arcing from a sharp prow.

A bell called soldiers to the walls, reinforcements dragged from their barracks by the harsh clangor while the ship surged rapidly closer. Iron gears clanked into life within the towers, and wood groaned as the heavy engines of war slowly turned to face the intruder.

First to speak was mighty Bàs. Its massive arm slammed home with a crash that shook the stones of its tower as it hurled a ball of blazing iron over the river. The ball trailed white smoke as it plummeted toward the river, and a great plume of frothing water tore the surface apart.

“Astern, three!” a watcher cried out, and the crew threw themselves onto the oak handles that spun the catapult’s mount. Gears engaged and the arm was drawn back, and two burly soldiers dressed in heavy leather aprons and gloves staggered to the cup, holding a fresh ball of white-hot iron with steel pincers.

Bàs groaned into its new position and its captain released its arm, and the shot streaked across the heavens and struck the river, this time further behind the ship than the first.

“Astern, eight!”

“She’s fast,” the captain muttered as his crew raced to adjust aim.

Now the ship was near enough that Balach was firing from its tower as well, and then the ballista on the smaller towers, hurling steel-tipped shafts as long as spears at the ship. Sizzling metal plunged into the river on both sides of the ship, showering it with spray, but the lean shape knifed through the chaos and carved a white line across the river as it curved toward the harbor mouth, water arching under the two red eyes on its prow like the spread wings of a falcon.

Balach struck amidships with the sound of splitting stone, then Bàs’s heavy metal smashed into the ship’s forecastle. Flame licked greedily against the ship’s timbers for a moment, then perished without taking hold, and as the smoke cleared the defenders saw that the iron shot had bounced from the wood.

A ballista’s bolt crashed into a bank of oars, splintering a dozen, but the ship’s speed was unchecked as it straightened its turn and drove for the thick chain that guarded the harbor.

The ship was within bow shot now, and arrows swept across its deck with a rattle like hail. The archers could see a single figure standing above the prow, so they concentrated their fire there, and the air seethed with the rip of arrows. But the armored figure did not fall, and the arrows shattered against its steel skin.

Bàs’s captain depressed the engine’s aim to its lowest extent and yanked the release. The arm crashed home and glowing steel streaked across the narrow gap between tower and ship and impacted just above the waterline among the churning oars. Oars shattered and spiraled into the air, and a strip of the ship’s hull tore free as the shot smashed through.

Then the ship’s prow struck the iron chain. A heavy concussion tore across the water’s surface and shook the stone slabs of the towers as the chain shattered like ice struck by a hammer. The ship’s long, lean shape raced across the still harbor in an instant and ploughed into the docks, and stone erupted and was thrown aside. Deep fissures cracked across the quay and buildings shuddered and collapsed as their foundations split.

The ship trembled as it slid to a stop, its prow embedded in the ruin of the quay. Its mast swayed and groaned dangerously, and its oars clattered and thrashed for a moment until the blades dropped into the harbor, and the ship suddenly stilled.

Into the shocked silence came the thunder of hundreds of boots and the clash of steel as soldiers rushed to confront the ship. Shields came together to form a wall that curved around the ship’s prow, and torchlight gleamed on axe and sword.

In response, a single boarding bridge swung down from the ship and clanged onto the broken quay, its steel claws screeching against the shattered stones. The shield wall strained forward as the soldiers braced, but only a single figure descended the bridge, an armored giant whose step made the bridge’s timbers groan and twist. The figure carried a spear as tall as a lance with a bladed tip, and blue fire sizzled between the thick steel plates that encased it.

As the giant reached the quay an arrow streaked across the gap and cracked against its breastplate, leaving no mark. But the sharp sound broke the reverie of the defenders, and they surged forward with a roar.

The armored figure planted its feet and with smooth efficiency swung its spear toward the onrushing soldiers. The blue fire crawling across its armored skin suddenly flared and erupted from the tip of its spear. The bolt struck a soldier in the chest, and he shone for an instant before a crack of thunder tore him apart. Nearby soldiers were hurled through the air like splinters from a woodsman’s axe and tumbled across the ground into broken piles.

The giant pivoted, its spear never wavering, and a second bolt of blue fire cracked into the defenders, and then a third, each one striking with the force of a battering ram.

A soldier leapt across the final distance and struck the giant between neck and shoulder with his axe, but the blade twisted and screeched across armor, and the giant was not staggered by the blow. It turned and its spear carved through a half-dozen soldiers as if they were wheat under a scythe’s blade, then slashed back and felled a half-dozen more. The few soldiers that reached its side hacked uselessly against its legs and torso but could find no weakness in its armor, and the giant simply swatted them aside once it had finished with their comrades.

More arrows hissed through the air and shattered on its armored shell, but each shaft was answered by blue fire, and soon the surviving archers fled, leaving behind shattered buildings with gaping holes in their walls.

With that, the giant seemed satisfied with its work. It raised its spear, straightened its stance, and waited, motionless, as smoke and dust eddied around its feet.

A hatch on the ship opened and Grandmaster Severine stepped onto its deck to survey the ruined docks. Master Calixte followed her, his eyes narrowed against a curl of stinging smoke.

“A simple enough task,” Severine pronounced. “But done well.”

More figures emerged onto the Vengeance’s deck, a dozen soldiers of the Garde who took up station beside the armored giant on the docks. The masters’ guardians held broad-bladed, wickedly curved swords in their hands and clustered protectively around the masters as Severine led the way down the bridge.

The flat tang of hot metal swirled around the Colossus, and Calixte felt the fine hairs on his arm stir as he approached. The elegant patterns that adorned its armor were scratched and dented, but he could see no significant damage. Its Word throbbed like faraway thunder, a growl felt in Calixte’s chest and through the stones beneath his boots.

The captain of the Garde approached, his visage grim despite the absence of any enemy to turn it upon.

“Grandmaster, we should not linger here,” Captain Mathis informed Severine. “If we give the northerners time to regroup, they may attempt a counterattack.”

“One might hope,” Severine replied. “It would save us the task of searching through this sty.”

Severine’s cheeks were flushed and her gaze feverishly bright, and Calixte wondered if the grandmaster’s bravado was simple arrogance or whether it masked concern. She would be wise to be concerned, he thought, but I would wager against it.

For days now, Master Hubert had searched this city with his Diviners, seeking a single spark that would reveal where the Martyr’s Blade awaited them within Newbridge’s thick walls, ever since Duke Campbell’s message calling the Guild to this backwater city. And for days, Master Hubert had found nothing, and so what could not be answered was whether the masters were about to face one of the greatest Weapons the Guild had ever built, or whether they were utterly wasting their time.

“We will know, soon enough,” Calixte murmured to himself, but Severine took his words as a response and nodded sternly.

“That we will.”

At Severine’s signal, Master Béatrice wrapped the masters in a Veil, a cocoon like a bead of mercury that was proof against both gaze and Diviner. Master Honorius’s Word slipped into the night like a breath of wind, a subtle Veil which concealed Béatrice’s work behind a façade of emptiness, a camouflage of mundane stone and shadow that would defy interest. Within the silver shell, Master Mahault and Master Lucien empowered layered Wards, rigid armor behind a cunning shield designed to divert and deflect, rather than defy.

Severine nodded her satisfaction, then turned to Calixte. “Master Calixte, shall we see what skills have survived your exile?”

“Command me,” he replied, bowing low so that she might not see the hunger in his gaze.

“You hear my Word?” she asked. “Use it.”

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Calixte drew himself up and settled the weight of his robes across his shoulders as he gathered his thoughts. Beyond the shining symphony of the Masters’ Words, he could hear the roar of Severine’s Word reverberating in the quay beneath his feet and against his chest. Its patterns were unlike those of any Word he had studied, ancient forms whose functions he could only guess at. So it is a test, as if I still wore the robes of an apprentice. Good. What better chance to show her my quality?

His mind slipped into the Word like a hand into a tailored glove, and the Colossus stirred. He could feel Severine’s control in concert with his, her thoughts brushing against the Word with the ease of a skilled rider, effortless and graceful, and Calixte grudgingly acknowledged her mastery. And he could see the structures of the Word that her mind touched, feel the strength poised within them, follow the labyrinthine paths of control, and though the patterns were alien to him, the form resolved like a painting suddenly seen in its entirety, when before merely a corner was revealed.

Instinctively, he altered the pattern and watched as new threads of light blazed within the Word. And the Colossus began to walk, its great strides shaking the ground as it trampled the broken bodies of its foes. Its movements were certain, far different from the hesitant awkwardness that Calixte had feared from his novice control. The archaic Word did far more than communicate his commands to the Colossus, it somehow conveyed his desires, his intent. There was no unwieldly puppeteering of joint and limb, a terrible complexity of minutia to control. The Word knew Calixte’s will, and the Colossus obeyed as if it were a proud stallion or fierce hound, as if it knew to walk, to run, to fight, and merely needed the command to follow. Surely this is a Construct like no other, he thought in awe. The epitome of the Great Work. Yet, it is ancient, from the era of the very founding of the Guild. How insignificant our recent efforts seem, in comparison. Have we shrunk so much?

“Open the gates for our allies,” Severine commanded.

Calixte urged the Colossus across the quay, toward the massive gatehouse that guarded the Bridge Gate and the terminus of the bridge that joined the city to the far bank of the river, where Duke Campbell’s army waited. The Garde moved in its wake, hurrying forward in brief rushes to secure each crossroads, each doorway, before the masters’ approach, while the masters followed at a distance, secure in the layers of their Wards and Veils. Severine strode with her hands clasped behind her back as she glared at the buildings huddled against the narrow street.

“I had not thought it possible that their towns could grow more squalid,” the grandmaster sniffed as they passed through yet another decrepit warren of sagging buildings. “I had understood this town was some impregnable fortress, a legend of defiance. I see nothing but ancient stone.”

“That is all the Albainn value,” Calixte replied. If Severine sought to distract Calixte from his Word through conversation as some infantile test, she would be disappointed. A discourse on architecture will not hobble me. “They have hardly changed from the people who dug the first rings of dirt around this hill to defend against trolls and giants. To them, a stone wall is the pinnacle of engineering.”

“I suppose it might seem so when one lives so far away from any other example. How you must miss Criénne, Calixte.”

Calixte’s nostrils flared at the crude reminder of his exiled state. “Of course, Grandmaster,” he replied. “Yet I will go wherever I may serve.”

“I am glad to hear it. Perhaps we may show them true power, tonight.”

Calixte’s lips thinned with distaste. “Are we here to teach lessons, Grandmaster? That would be a waste of time, I assure you. We are here to retrieve the Blade, not to knock down stones.”

“We shall accomplish both. That was the arrangement with Duke Campbell.”

Calixte knew he had stung the grandmaster, but he could not regret his words. Severine cared far too much for the adoration of her supplicants, as if that were the goal. No, that is the price, Calixte reminded himself. The price we must sometimes pay to ensure that the Great Work continues.

The Colossus soon reached the River Gate, where the gatehouse was barred against its approach. Destroy their pathetic gate, Calixte willed. Tear down their wood and iron and show them how weak they are. The Word flared as his commands spread through it, and the Colossus strode forward. Arrows rattled from its chest and shoulders as it levelled its spear. The gates splintered as the first bolt of sapphire lightning struck them, twisted against their iron hinges as the second struck, and then tore apart as the third slammed into their iron-braced wood.

Behind the shattered gates, soldiers awaited the Colossus, ten ranks deep, and with a great cry they flung themselves against their implacable foe. At Calixte’s command, its spear spat fire into their midst with thunder as rhythmic as a drumbeat, rending flesh and steel and stone in geysers of destruction. The charge wavered and broke upon the violence, and the survivors fled, sobbing with terror.

The giant disposed of the few brave enough to remain with methodical blows of spear and fist, then it marched toward the outer gate with the same heavy stride. That gate lasted no longer than the first, and soon the length of the bridge was revealed through the smoking gap.

A great host now awaited at the far end, no longer concealed beyond false campfires and empty tents. They poured across the bridge with a great shout, and though the defenders rained arrows upon them their numbers could not be stopped. They quickly stormed the gatehouse and drove the defenders from the parapets, allowing their comrades to march unhindered across the bridge, the tramp of their boots shuddering in the stone.

But as they entered the city, they found that their foe had not been idle. Swarms of arrows met the attackers as they deployed into the plaza, and grim warriors packed the streets behind walls of shields. Calixte watched with interest as Duke Campbell’s soldiers struggled into an opposing wall. The defenders rushed forward in crippling strikes and then withdrew before they could be punished, while their archers left a trail of dead and wounded whenever the attackers tried to maneuver. But slowly the attackers gained their footing. Their own archers now occupied the gatehouse walls, and more soldiers swelled their ranks with every moment.

A rider approached the masters, a lord in splendid armor, whom Calixte recognized as Lord Harlan, ludicrously granted the title of Lord Commander of the Royal Army by Duke Campbell.

“Why do you wait?” the lord bellowed at Grandmaster Severine, his face crimson with fury. “Our enemy is there! Strike!”

“What does he want?” Severine asked Calixte, as the general had spoken in the common language, which the grandmaster would not deign to understand.

“He commands us to join the assault,” Calixte explained, although there could be no doubt as to Lord Harlan’s intent, no matter the language.

“How absurd,” Severine replied. “We have broken the gates, now he must deal with the remainder, for we have more important matters to attend to.”

“We have granted you the city. If you cannot seize it, that is no concern of ours,” Calixte told Harlan dismissively. “We are here for the Blade and must be ready for its appearance.”

Harlan swelled with fury, but as he made to speak, Calixte turned away, and the Colossus strode forward, so close to the general that his horse shied away in fear.

They left the battle behind and returned to the Vengeance, and still there was no sign of the Martyr’s Blade. No thunder of its Word, no searing blaze of its fire. Calixte’s thoughts flickered over his Word, lingering on the bindings as he braced to release them against an attack that never came.

The sound of horns announced that Harlan had engaged with his foe, and Calixte heard the roar of battle echo across the harbor, the clash of steel and the sound of a thousand voices crying out in rage and fear and pain, like the thunder of waves upon the shore.

Strike now, Calixte urged his absent foe. Lash out from the shadows and show us your strength. But his challenge went unanswered, and Calixte felt bitter disappointment curl his lip in distaste. She is not here. What a waste.

Severine waited for far longer than Calixte thought possible before accepting what was so clear to him. Finally, with a grunt of displeasure, she tore the Colossus’s Word away from Calixte and strode up the ramp to the ship, but then seemed to lose her purpose and paced aimlessly, her hands clasped behind her back as she frowned at the deck.

The other masters released their Words and watched her with a quiet deference that made Calixte smolder with impatience.

“A shame that the Blade was no longer here,” Master Hubert tutted softly.

“A shame?” Calixte scowled at the smaller man. “A shame that we are at the mercy of rumor, while your Diviner brings us less than that? Or a shame that that we have wasted our time and accomplished nothing?

“Nothing?” Severine asked sharply. “We have secured an ally who will soon be the ruler of this realm and placed him in our debt, and it cost us nothing to do so. And we have shown them the power of our Great Work, power to humble one of their cities in the blink of an eye. I do not call that nothing.”

Allies and debt, Calixte thought contemptuously. She judges victory like a merchant.

Severine turned her glare on Hubert. “I take it there is still no sign?”

Hubert lowered his head in a parody of humbleness. “No, grandmaster. She remains Veiled from my sight.”

“And the others?”

“They have travelled north with their army. Lord Faron has returned to Bandirma. He might have taken the Blade there, to keep it safe.”

“Safe?” Calixte asked. “What have we done to make them fear that the Blade is in any jeopardy? They lie to our faces, then openly use the Blade and are gone long before we respond.”

“Are your wits as sharp as your tongue?” Hubert said archly, his head tilted absurdly so that he could stare along his nose at the taller master. “What would you suggest?”

“The Blade is with their army,” Calixte replied. “They do not use it on a whim, they use it to fight the Crunorix, and then only at dire need, for they know we are watching. And their need is most dire in the north, not Bandirma.”

“I agree,” Severine said, cutting off Hubert’s reply. “North.”

“And the ship?” Hubert asked.

Calixte heard a plaintive whine in the master’s voice, enough to make his jaw clench in distaste. Will you miss your comfortable cabin so much?

“We will send it south to Bandirma,” Severine decided. “As surety against the chance they have done the unlikely and sent the Blade there.”

“And him?” Hubert asked, with a glance at the armored giant still standing on the quay.

“He will stay with the ship to guard it.” A cruel smile twisted Severine’s thin lips. “Awaken the others. They will come with us.”

Sacrifice

Danielle wandered the narrow, twisted paths between the tents as the sun fled toward the western horizon. The heavy air pressed against her, a looming pressure that smothered Tuireadh Cnoc so that pennants drooped wearily and no stalk of grass swayed. Soldiers labored in the stillness, readying weapons and distributing the supplies that had reached the hilltop. They growled at each other in surly voices and took grievance at the smallest slight, and their gazes turned anxiously to the north whenever their hands grew idle.

The camp huddled within the inner ring of massive, ancient stones that crowned the hill. Their grim shapes rose like towers over the tents, and Danielle could not help but wonder if the spirits brooded against the encroachment on their sacred ground or stood defiantly to guard those crouched at their feet.

A troop of dust-shrouded soldiers clambered up the final slope to join the camp. They flopped onto the grass like upended turtles the moment their sergeants called halt, with only the most enterprising summoning the energy to question their fellows already stationed on the hill.

“Couldn’t have picked anyplace a bit higher, could you?” one soldier complained to his audience as he wiped the grime of the road from his neck.

“Any more of you lads coming? We could do with a few more shields.”

“Maybe.” The soldier shook his head doubtfully. “The road’s a bloody mess. We left all our wagons and kit in a field and marched through the forest.”

Dour nods met this pronouncement, and Danielle moved away before she might be noticed eavesdropping.

The sun touched the horizon in a ruddy blaze, and its light painted the bellies of the swollen clouds that hung across the northern sky with streaks of crimson and purple. As if in response, the thick air stirred, as if some giant had yawned, and Danielle caught the scent of rain and damp earth.

Her step brought her through the center of the camp to a tent set away from the smoke and bustle. She was not certain who had pitched the tent or who had carried its furnishing to the hilltop, only that she had been told it was hers and her baggage placed within.

She ducked through the entrance and peered around the cramped interior. Saint Rowenna’s armor hung on a stand in the corner, its polished helm touching the ceiling. The Blade’s ancient, Warded chest sat alone near the back wall, as if the rest of the contents of the tent had drawn as far away from it as the limited space allowed. A pallet of blankets had been arranged for sleeping, and a small rug had been placed on the ground, with two unlit candles set at its center.

Danielle stepped to the chest and rested two fingers on the engraved lid, tracing the intricate patterns that covered its surface. The Wards and locks were sealed, but she felt a stir against her fingertips, as if a breeze had brushed past, and the fine hairs on Danielle’s arms raised as a chill passed through her. Her fingers curled back into a fist as she gazed at the chest in silence.

What would you do, if I freed you? she wondered. Are we right to fear the worst?

Her thoughts slipped into the chest’s Words and unsealed the Wards, and she slowly raised the lid. The sheathed Blade lay on its silk pillows, seemingly patient to await her Word. But Danielle could feel flame already building inside the arcane structures that lay within the Blade, without her command, flaring in eager anticipation.

“What’s she up to, tonight?”

Danielle glanced quickly around and greeted Wyn with a slight shake of her head.

“The same. Restless.”

Wyn let the tent flap close behind her and knelt on the rug. She set down two of the tin bowls that every soldier in the army owned, filled with a thick, steaming stew, and from a satchel withdrew a wedge of hard cheese, a hunk of bread, and two cups.

“Can you…?” Wyn asked as she pointed to the candles, and Danielle lit them with a small twist of the Shape of Fire and a flick of a finger.

“Here we go,” Wyn announced as she pulled a bottle from the satchel and filled the cups with ruby-dark wine.

Danielle joined her on the rug, kneeling as close as she could, so that they pressed together at thigh and hip, and their hands rested easily atop one another.

“You have been busy,” Danielle said as she surveyed the food.

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” Wyn admitted. “There’s just not much up here to find.”

“I do not mind.”

The stew was hot and had chunks of potato, if no real flavor, and Wyn warned her of the need to soften the bread in the stew before attempting an assault on its otherwise impervious crust. But the wine surprised her with its subtle blend of tastes, rich with earth and sun.

“This is very good,” Danielle congratulated Wyn as she savored another sip. “Where did you find such a treasure?”

“Lord Audrey’s steward is regretting his bad luck at dice,” Wyn replied smugly.

“It is astounding to consider the accumulated misfortune of your opponents, yes?”

“Oh, aye, I’ve been having a pretty good run, that’s the truth,” Wyn agreed with a predatory grin.

Danielle set her bowl down only half-finished, her stomach far too knotted with anxiety to allow any appetite.

“It weren’t very good, was it?” Wyn mumbled apologetically.

“It is not the food. I am just not hungry.”

“Nor am I.” Wyn’s bowl joined Danielle’s, similarly ignored, and Wyn leaned against Danielle’s shoulder as they sipped their wine in silence, listening to the subdued grumble of the camp beyond the tent’s thin canvas.

“Killock says there might not be a magus,” Wyn announced quietly, as if continuing a conversation that only she had heard. “No one’s seen one, anyways.”

“I hope that is so.”

“Hah…” Wyn’s laugh was less than a sigh. “Hope.”

Danielle forced a smile against the weight that seemed to press on her every breath. “I do have hope.”

“I know, it’s just…” Wyn sat upright and scowled at the walls of the tent. “I just hate… I’m so scared, and I can’t stop it, and I just want to scream.”

“I am, as well,” Danielle said gently.

“Look, I had an idea. It’s a terrible idea, but.”

Oh, my dearest, it is far too late. But the desperation in Wyn’s voice, in her clenched fingers, made Danielle bite back any reply. Instead, she held Wyn’s gaze and nodded, willing to endure anything if it might soothe her fears.

“All right.” Wyn heaved a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “You said that the last time you dreamed about Danu, you spoke with her and she got confused, thought you were the Martyr.”

“She did.”

“And that she might have been scared?”

“Wyn, I remember.”

“All right, I’m just saying, just explaining. Because, look, if we can’t control her, we need to trick her. Twist her into helping us. And we can use that fear.” Wyn lifted her chin and her twining fingers stilled. “I can use it. Let me talk to her.”

Danielle felt the bands around her heart contract painfully, and she reached for Wyn without thought.

“No!” she managed to gasp. “She already hurt you once. It is too much risk.”

“You’re not the only one who has to take risks!” Wyn replied sharply, and then she groaned in exasperation. “Dani, I can’t just sit here and do nothing to help. You said you’d do anything for me, and I’d do the same, for you. Please, let me try.”

“I cannot,” Danielle whispered. She gripped Wyn’s hand fiercely. “We will survive this night, and we will find a better way, I promise.”

Wyn’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes narrowed, and Danielle feared that she would insist. But, instead, Wyn gulped the remainder of her wine and tossed the cup carelessly onto the ground. “Finish your drink,” she instructed Danielle. “Quickly.”

Danielle sat back on her haunches, her brow arched in surprise as she raised her cup hesitantly. “Why?”

Wyn crawled closer, until her breath caressed Danielle’s lips, sweet with the scent of wine. Wyn paused for a moment, her eyes dark and hungry, and then her mouth found Danielle’s, her kiss hard and urgent, and Danielle felt the terrible ache of fear vanish as heat bloomed within her, flooding her throat, her mouth, her chest.

Wyn broke away and her hands raced to Danielle’s bodice, her fingers tearing at the laces until the cloth pulled away and Danielle could feel the warmth of Wyn’s fingers against her skin, sending sparks racing up her throat to her jaw.

“I need you,” Wyn breathed against Danielle’s lips. “I need you to take me away from here.”

Danielle’s cup dropped to the ground, forgotten, as she pulled Wyn close, fiercely, as if the strength of their limbs could unite them for eternity.

Torchlight flickered against the canvas wall of the tent, sending shadows dancing in a slow arc across the rumpled rug and spilled wine. Wyn’s gaze tracked the hazy glow of the passing torch as she listened to the scuff of the patrolling soldier’s boots on the grass until they faded into the general murmur of the camp. Only then did she allow her eyes to close as she tried to regain the thick languor that had engulfed her before the soldier’s step had roused her, but it eluded her. The heat of the tent stifled her breath and sent sweat trickling across her back and neck, and her thoughts began to boil as discomfort drove sleep further away.

Her gaze slowly traversed the dark shapes that filled the tent’s interior, gear and packs and chests that formed distorted silhouettes that loomed against the tent walls, until it settled on a low, heavy shape that lurked apart from the others, the ancient chest that contained the Martyr’s Blade. Wyn’s eyes narrowed as she studied its dark silhouette, searching for a hint of the malevolent presence that dwelled within.

Danielle stirred and sighed against her shoulder blades, and Wyn froze until Danielle settled again. Then she rose quietly from the jumbled pallet of blankets that was their bed and padded to the tent flap, desperate for air. But no breeze drifted through the narrow gap as she peered out. The air was thick and heavy, an ominous weight that seemed to press upon her. To the north, impenetrable clouds rose like cliffs, occasionally flickering dull grey and purple as distant lightning played in their depths.

She sealed the flap and stood for a moment with her eyes closed, listening. Danielle’s breath had become irregular, short gasps instead of the long, gentle breaths of deep sleep, and she moaned softly, her words indecipherable.

Wyn opened her eyes and glared at the chest. Leave her alone, she demanded, but she heard no response.

She hesitated for a moment longer, caught between her certainty and the memory of Danielle’s voice as she pleaded with Wyn not to act. Danielle curled her knees to her chest and another low moan of distress escaped her lips, and Wyn’s eyes narrowed in fierce reproach as she stared at the chest. Two quick steps brought her to its side, and she shoved the lid open.

Wyn took a steadying breath and then lifted the Blade with a quiet grunt of effort. The hard surface of its sheath felt slippery in Wyn’s hands, and she gripped it tightly as she brought the winged hilt to meet her scowl.

Leave her alone! she thought fiercely. She shook the Blade slightly to emphasize her demand, but she sensed no response, no acknowledgement even of her existence.

Wyn glanced to ensure that Danielle still slept, then crouched to place the Blade on the ground. Her fingers slipped around the long grip as she clutched the sheath with her other hand. Then she pulled, cautiously at first, then harder as the weight of the Blade surprised her. It came free with a soft scrape of metal that sounded like a serpent’s hiss, the Blade’s edge a gleam in the darkness. Wyn stopped with an arm’s-length of steel revealed and held her breath as she listened to the frantic roar of her heartbeat in her ears.

Danu, Wyn thought, as her stomach knotted in dread. Danu, listen to me.

The leather-wrapped hilt felt hot in her grip, and she eyed the steel Blade warily for any sign of fire, but still it remained inert and deaf to her entreaties.

Bitch! Wyn cursed in frustration. She doesn’t care about me. Well, she should.

She wiped her hands on her thighs and took a better grip on the Blade’s hilt with both hands. Then she slowly drew its length free from its sheath and raised its tip.

Danu! I can give you what you want!

For a moment, Wyn waited, poised, her every sense straining as she readied herself to flinch away from the naked Blade at the first glimpse of flame. But, when the reply came, it still shocked her, a voice that thrummed against Wyn, like the roar of a river felt through the earth, beautiful and terrifying.

Little spark, the voice greeted her. Who are you?

Wyn drew in a quick breath as she set her shoulders against the weight of the Blade and forced away all thoughts of dread and anger. I am just a girl, she answered deferentially. But I know you, and I can help you.

A pale flame curled into life along the edge of the sword’s blade, bright like the heart of a fire.

Have you come to free me, little spark? Danu replied, and the flame snapped and danced on the edge of the steel. Do so, and I shall reward you. I shall place your ember in the heavens, so that you may gaze upon the beauty of my work for all eternity.

I’m not, uh, worthy of that, but I still want to help you.

The flame became orange and then red, a darker glow that slowly licked the steel.

I know you, little spark, the voice said at last. My Flame has touched you.

Yeah, that’s right.

My brother’s Shadow was in your flesh. Where is he, little spark? We were together, but he was torn from me, and now I cannot see him.

People took him, Wyn replied quickly. Bad people. There’s no telling what they might do to him.

They gorge on his Shadow, the voice spat, and sparks cascaded to the ground where they hissed and smoked.

Oh, that’s… terrible. Wyn’s mouth twisted in disgust. They feed on us, as well, which is why—

The Worm. Now the flame flared yellow and blue, and its heat struck Wyn like a furnace’s. His wretched machines tore my brother from me. For that, I shall purify the Worm in my Flame, until his flesh has melted away and his ember returns to my fire, to burn for eternity and never be granted a new form.

That sounds amazing, Wyn agreed enthusiastically. We want to destroy these same bastards, so why don’t we help each other?

Little spark, I need nothing from you, save for you to free me from this prison.

There is something else you need, and I can give it to you, Wyn replied. I know where your brother is.

You know where the Worm has hidden him?

I’ve been there, Wyn answered eagerly. I can take you to him, you can have a little reunion. But first, you must help us. We can destroy the people who took your brother, if you just let us use the Blade. You have to promise—

Tell me, Little Spark, I cannot bear his absence, the voice roared in her mind, and the flames curled higher. Tell me where he is, and I will reward you. Shall I make you into a goddess? Silver as the moon, to rule the sky in my new world? Let me show you.

Wyn gasped as Danu’s fire flared within her thoughts and engulfed her mind. It roared and danced, eager to burn away pallid shapes and form new wonders.

What is made can be unmade, Danu said. What are you but a pale flicker of Flame? I shall burn away the dross, and craft what you truly desire. To be worthy of her love.

Wyn’s limbs went rigid with agony and her teeth clenched in a rictus of pain as the flames consumed her in the crucible of Danu’s will. Golden hair was seared platinum with a thought, while skin was forged into flawless alabaster.

A goddess, Danu crooned. A silver moon to stand beside her golden sun, sleek and dangerous as the night, and your gaze will be as silver as moonlight. And Wyn screamed as the flames seared her eyes and burned away their emerald green.

Danielle…

Danielle startled awake with hands raised to ward away an image of fire that roared to consume the world. She gasped for breath, then pushed herself upright, and her shaking fingers slowly explored her skin until she could be convinced that her body was still whole, that she sat on blankets within her tent, and was not lost ash in the infinite void.

“Maker,” she whispered. She pushed her tresses from her face and sighed, then inhaled slowly, her brow creased as the harsh tang of hot metal brushed against the back of her throat. What has happened?

She twisted to stare at the empty blankets beside her as her heart lurched with dread, then she peered anxiously around the dark interior of the tent. “Wyn?” she called out, her voice trembling, then, “Wyn!” shrill and frantic.

A groan answered her from the back of the tent. She scrambled across the floor and found Wyn sitting next to the ancient chest which contained the Blade, her arms curled over her knees, her pale skin a wan blur in the darkness. Danielle kneeled at her side, pressed a hand against Wyn’s back, and found her skin fever-hot and slick with sweat.

“Wyn? What is wrong?” she asked.

“I’m all right,” Wyn mumbled from behind her knees. She raised her head slightly, enough that Danielle could see the gleam of her eyes in the darkness, wide and frightened.

“Thank the Maker.” Danielle glanced at the closed chest behind Wyn. “I feared… I thought for a moment that she had freed herself.”

“Oh, no, she’s still in there.” Wyn groaned again and pushed herself upright against the chest’s lid, and Danielle was struck by how fragile she appeared, hesitant and awkward, afraid to rely on her own strength, the thin ridges of hip and shoulder vulnerable and exposed.

“Wyn, what happened?”

“I talked with Danu.”

“Wyn!” Danielle gasped in dismay.

“It weren’t a lot of fun, that’s certain.”

“But you agreed.” Danielle rose quickly and stepped to Wyn’s side. “You agreed it was too dangerous.”

“I didn’t say that, not really…” Wyn mumbled, “and I wasn’t going to, I just, I woke up, and she was in your dream, I could tell, and I couldn’t stand it, I had to do something. It was dumb, I know, but, Dani, I had to try.”

“Oh, Wyn, I wish that you had not.”

“Well, it’s done.” Wyn glanced at Danielle for an instant before looking away. “I offered her a deal.”

“What deal?” Danielle asked.

“I told her that I’d show her where her brother is, after she helps us to destroy the people that took him away from her.”

“Her brother? Shadow?”

“Yeah. She was that riled up about him, wanted to know where he was, boo-hoo, had to find him. Said some fella named Worm was eating him, didn’t sound too pleased about it. So, I went with it.”

“But we cannot free her from the Blade, can we?” Danielle asked, as a glimmer of hope sparked in her heart.

“I know that. I was lying.”

“Oh.” Danielle felt the spark fizzle and the weight of impossible choices return, heavier than before for the brief respite. “What did she say?”

Wyn sighed and gave the chest a slow kick, gentle enough to preserve her toes. “She just kept on about rewarding me, which, I don’t mind telling you, she has a really shite idea of how to reward folks.” Wyn’s voice trailed away, and she shivered and clutched her arms against her chest. “But she heard me, and she was interested.”

Danielle quickly draped a blanket around Wyn’s shoulders and held her close, and she felt Wyn exhale and shudder as some of the rigid tension in her shoulders leached away.

“She showed me things,” Wyn said quietly. “Visions, I guess, but they felt real, like your dreams. I could hardly think, it hurt that bad, but I knew I still had the Blade in my hands, that I was standing next to the chest, even though I couldn’t see it, and I had to throw it back in and close the lid. I guess I managed it, unless you…?”

“No, it was you,” Danielle assured her. “When I awoke, the chest was already closed.”

Wyn nodded, then she gently pushed away and shrugged the blanket to the floor. “No, I’m all right,” she demurred when Danielle began to protest. “I’m not cold, it’s bloody hot in in here. I was just…” Wyn’s hands settled on her hips, and she slowly straightened her shoulders until an echo of her usual strength returned to her stance. “It was really scary,” she admitted, “but I had to try.”

“I wish you had not,” Danielle told her. “But I do understand, of course I do.”

“Probably better than anyone, huh?”

“We are certainly a pair, though none might guess so.”

“Stubborn, aye.”

“Stubborn, indeed. Do you believe Danu might do as you asked?”

Wyn shrugged. “I just don’t know.”

“Then… what do we do?”

“I guess we hope.” A wry grin appeared for an instant at the corner of Wyn’s lips. “That maybe, if she gets out, or you have to use the Blade, she remembers that we have something she really wants, and that makes her behave.”

Danielle sighed and drew Wyn back to the pallet of blankets, where they curled together so closely that Danielle could feel the gentle pressure of Wyn’s back against her chest with each breath. Wyn yawned and then rested her head on the blankets.

“I’m sorry,” Wyn whispered.

“You have done nothing to be sorry for,” Danielle murmured.

“I hate that I scared you.”

“You did, but all is now well, and I love you because you tried.”

Wyn’s hand found Danielle’s and their fingers curled together against Wyn’s chest. Slowly Wyn’s breath gentled and her grip loosened, but Danielle could find no rest, and her thoughts roamed wildly, no matter how often she coaxed them to visions of comfort.

The dark curve of canvas above her stirred sluggishly, and heavy drops pattered across its surface. Danielle felt moisture against her cheek, its damp cold an alien touch in the close heat of the tent. The tent settled as the gust passed, but Danielle could hear the stir of wind invading the camp in all directions, brushing against canvas, whispering through grass, and tugging on rope. In the distance, thunder growled, long and low, and the tent shuddered and creaked as the wind assaulted it again.

Danielle pushed herself upright, then shivered as chill air licked across her skin. Amidst the scents of drowned soil and torn leaf she could smell ice and stone, carried from the peaks of the High Fells by the maelstrom that approached them.

She rose and quickly donned tunic, trousers, and boots, and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders as another burst of rain snapped against the canvas. Then she knelt beside Wyn’s sleeping form. The slender girl was curled tightly around her knees beneath a scrap of blanket, shivering as cold air found exposed skin. Danielle gently pulled the blanket to cover her more securely, then watched as Wyn relaxed into the spreading warmth, until her breath was deep and rhythmic once more.

Danielle crept from the tent without waking her. The wind met her with a gust that whipped her hair and stung her cheek with rain. She dragged her hood low and clung to it with one hand as she was buffeted. Around her, canvas billowed into dark, rippling shapes that groaned and snapped and hissed.

She bowed her head against the wind and strode toward the storm. Bright flashes lit her path as lightning ripped across the sky. A great stone loomed from the darkness and guided her course beyond the tents into the open space between the inner and outer henges. The tall grass hissed and slapped against her legs, and she stumbled over hidden divots and lumps. Fresh thunder blossomed above her, its voice now sharp and sudden as it chased on the heels of searing light.

Danielle found one of the smaller stones of the outer ring and halted at its side, gazing north. A spark of light appeared on the valley floor beneath Danielle, a wan ember that flickered and danced as it slowly approached the cnoc and began to climb toward her, a soldier holding a torch who stumbled and fell as he clambered higher. Voices called out to him from the hilltop, and figures rushed to help him cross the final distance. Danielle watched as his message spread through the camp, marked by the flare of torches, the bellows of orders, and the rush of figures among the tents.

The roar of the wind began to drown in the hiss of rain against the grass, and a grey wall rose up the hill’s flanks and effortlessly breached its summit, a downpour that mocked the brief squalls that the storm had spat onto the hilltop previously. Danielle winced as icy rivulets trickled down her neck and sodden wool clung to her skin, but she did not turn away, even as she was joined by a silent figure.

“They are here,” Danielle said quietly.

“Yes,” Killock replied, his voice a low growl.

Rain lashed and lightning split the air between the cnoc and the northern forest, and in its glare, Danielle saw a ragged line of soldiers fleeing toward the hill, a lone rider urging them on.

Hurry, she thought to the running figures.

“M’lady!” a voice called out, and Sir Eilidh was there, the rain pinging from her armor like hail, her hair plastered to her head in sodden tails. Eilidh stared at Danielle, her gaze sharp with concern. “M’lady, your armor!”

“I forgot,” Danielle realized as her stomach knotted. Fear clawed at her, colder than the rain, and it tore away the strange calm that had settled over her like a shroud. They are here, and I am not ready.

“Here, quickly,” Eilidh ordered, and two soldiers hurried forward at her gesture, clutching the pieces of Saint Rowenna’s armor to their chests like armfuls of firewood. “I’m sorry, m’lady, we don’t have time to be gentle.”

Danielle swayed as the soldiers set to work, twisting and pulling her into place, yanking brutally on straps, and slowly the armor was assembled.

“Was Wyn there?” Danielle asked.

“No, m’lady, I don’t know where she is,” Eilidh replied shortly, distracted by the complex fasteners beneath the armor’s pauldrons.

Danielle turned away from Eilidh and faced the valley. I wish that I had awakened her, Danielle thought into the emptiness, ashamed of the morbid pall that cloaked her thoughts. That I had heard her voice, even if she were cross with me, one more time. What would I give for those few moments back, that I discarded so thoughtlessly, to tell her one more time that I will love her forever? Everything. All things.

Hooves pounded the soft earth and an armored rider emerged from the rain, his horse prancing and excited amid the storm and chaos. Danielle recognized Sir Roland as he reined in and stood in his stirrups to bellow into the wind in the direction he had just come.

“Form your line here!” he roared, and he swept his sword in an arc across the hilltop directly in front of Danielle. “Two ranks!”

Soldiers rushed forward, as if formed by his voice. Heavy, thick figures wrapped in leather and steel, tall shields on their arms. A long line materialized in an instant, bristling with spears and swords, arcing into the gloom. Roland nodded curtly, then turned to Killock.

“Fall back to the inner henge if pressed,” he informed his fellow templar.

“And then where?” Killock asked with a snort of a laugh.

“Then we hold,” Roland replied.

“Where shall I stand?” Danielle asked, and she swallowed against the tightness in her throat that had made her voice croak.

Roland did not answer, and instead frowned in displeasure as he watched Eilidh frantically working on her armor.

“Not much time, Sir Eilidh,” he grunted.

“She’ll be ready,” Eilidh replied without a pause in her efforts.

“Good.” Roland turned his pale gaze to meet Danielle’s. “Stay here, until we know where you’ll be needed most.”

“I will,” Danielle assured the Knight Commander, but his attention had already turned northward.

The fleeing soldiers had climbed the hill and were staggering through the line, gasping and groaning from their exertion. Many had abandoned their shields in their climb. Some had even thrown down their weapons, and their terror forced her to clench her teeth against the urge to flee. The rider who had followed them appeared over the lip of the slope. The tapered shaft of his thin lance rose like a needle, and rain boiled from its surface in a steaming sheet. The knight swung from his saddle, landed with a dull splash, and strode toward Roland.

“Lord Audrey,” Roland greeted him. “Your message said that you were heavily engaged.”

“Aye,” the knight agreed. “We were overrun in less time than it takes to tell. Swarms of them, must have been husks. And some foul creature, pale as ice, it was. Never got a chance at it, but it killed a dozen of us before we even knew it was there. I ordered everyone back to the hill, not that many of them waited for an order, and I don’t blame them.”

Thunder cracked like stone shattering beneath a mallet then rolled heavily to the west, throbbing against Danielle’s chest. As it faded, a shriek rose above the roar of the rain and grated against Danielle’s jaw. A second terrible cry joined the first, then a third and a fourth. On and on the shrieks twisted into the night, and soldiers hunched behind their shields or started back from the line as they stared down the hillside in fear.

At last, the sound died away. Rain pinged against metal, wind whispered through grass, but the sound was muted, as if shocked.

“Wights,” Danielle whispered.

“We expected this,” Roland said fiercely, as if he sought to convince himself. He turned to the soldiers nearby and raised his voice. “Hold fast! We’ll soon put a stop to that racket, never fear.”

A ragged cheer rose and quickly died away, but the soldiers set their shields firmly and gripped their weapons harder and glared into the darkness.

Roland turned back to Danielle, his lips a thin line. “Any words of encouragement, my lady? Now’s the time.”

Danielle shook her head mutely. The soldiers did not need grand speeches and fire flung into the sky. They needed a champion to fight beside them, to challenge the Shadow that lurked in the darkness. Is that me? Danielle wondered. Or will I fail them all, tonight?

Roland’s gaze softened as he watched Danielle’s face. “Very well,” Roland replied, and he wheeled his horse and spurred into the storm.

Audrey nodded to Killock and took his leave with a quick, “My lady,” to Danielle. She watched him move along the line of soldiers, his broad shoulders and tall lance marking him even when he was just another shadowed figure.

“Wights and husks,” Killock murmured. The templar was gazing at the distant tree line through an array of delicate rings made of twisted metal thread. Danielle had not heard even a whisper of Killock’s Word, though he stood only an arm’s-length away, but she could see the air within the rings shimmer and dance as he peered through different combinations of hoops. “Wights and husks… but what else?”

“We shall know soon.”

Killock nodded and returned his attention to the distant woods as Eilidh gave one last vicious tug on a strap and stepped back.

“There,” she declared in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Sir Eilidh,” Danielle replied. The armor felt oppressively tight, and she fought to catch her breath.

“Here are your Devices,” Eilidh said as she strapped Danielle’s pack around her waist. “And your Blade.”

Danielle forced herself to take a shuddering breath as she felt the Blade’s weight fastened over her shoulder. She could hear no sound of the Song of Flame’s voice, but the rigid length of the Blade’s hilt loomed oppressively close, as if eager to whisper in her ear.

“Danielle!”

The sound of her name startled Danielle. Her dread of hearing that call in her thoughts caused her heart to race in fear before she realized it was the one voice she longed to hear.

“Wyn,” she breathed in relief as she turned to greet the slim figure who hurried across the last distance of trampled mud and grass to join her.

“I’m here, I’m here, we can start now,” Wyn announced, then she scowled into the storm. “I hate hills, I hate them, and I hate forests. And I hate storms. Why can’t we be someplace with walls and roofs?”

“We shall go there next, wherever you wish,” Danielle promised.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Wyn replied, and a sharp grin chased away her frown as she turned to Danielle. But Danielle saw the smile falter as Wyn’s glance flickered past her shoulder and found the Blade, and when her gaze returned to Danielle’s, there was accusation in the sharp line of her brow.

I did not ask for it, Danielle almost blurted out, eager to declare her innocence. But her tongue refused the words. And justly so, she realized. For I did not object when the Blade was brought to me, nor when it was fastened to me.

But she was saved from recrimination by Sir Eilidh, who was glaring at Wyn with her fists on her hips. “Where’s your helmet?” Eilidh asked sternly.

Wyn’s scrutiny slid reluctantly away from Danielle as Wyn pondered the question for a moment. “Bandirma?” she guessed.

“You left it behind?”

“Eilidh, it was that awful, I swear.”

“Well, I suppose you don’t really use your head much,” Eilidh conceded.

“That’s a fact,” Wyn agreed, and her smile returned in a wide smirk. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“You have arrived just in time,” Killock announced as he replaced his Diviner in its pouch.

“What have you seen?” Danielle asked.

“They are here. Look.”

For an agonizing eternity the storm held its fury in abeyance and Danielle could see nothing beyond the wan glow of the torches along the line. Then, at last, lightning flared a dozen times in the space of a heartbeat, and Danielle saw that the valley floor swarmed with movement, a vast horde racing southward toward the base of Tuireadh Cnoc.

“My lady, it’s time,” Eilidh was shouting, her voice almost lost amid the thunder that followed. “Helmet, Wards. Ready yourself for whatever they’ve got.”

Danielle nodded mutely, but instead of obeying, she clutched at Killock’s cloak and drew him close so that she could speak in his ear. “Make certain she is safe,” Danielle pleaded, her throat so tight it choked her voice.

“I will,” Killock promised. “We will be nearby, never fear.”

Danielle released him and turned to Wyn, feverishly hunting for some final phrase that might somehow encompass the immensity of her hope and longing, some word that might substitute for that future if all that she dreaded should come to pass.

“Wyn, no matter what occurs…” she began, but then she faltered, with no words to continue.

Wyn fiddled with her knives for a moment, drawing and spinning them in her grip. Then she stepped quickly to Danielle, and Danielle felt the brush of Wyn’s lips on her own, a fleeting warmth that left a tang of salt.

“I love you, too,” Wyn whispered, before she turned away.

Danielle hesitated one last moment, sick with fear, then forced her reluctant hands to take up her helm. The roar of rain against metal became overwhelming, infiltrating every crevice of thought.

Eilidh settled her shield on her arm and drew her sword, and the sight of bare steel in her hand galvanized Danielle into action. Her fingers were clumsy in their steel gauntlets, and she struggled for a moment with the ties on her belt pack, but at last they came free, and Danielle found the Devices she wanted, Aurêve and the Shape of Fire. Her thoughts formed the Devices’ Words and as the shining constellations of lights flared, the discomforts of cold and wet, of buffeting wind, and of heavy, binding awkwardness became distant and removed, and only the soaring glory of the Words seemed real. Her mind stroked the familiar structures, aligning the patterns into perfect harmony, each layer unfolding to resonate and focus the blazing power building within the Devices.

The Wards hidden deep within her armor throbbed to life with a deep pulse that shattered rain drops into mist and whipped the grass in a great circle around her. Saint Rowenna’s armor thrummed against Danielle’s skin as light blazed across the delicate threads of metal buried beneath the outer plates of steel. A second Ward slammed shut beneath the first, then a third, hidden deep within a Veil.

Then the Shape of Fire bellowed into life. Danielle released a single binding and allowed flame to lick from the surface of the Device, bright and fierce against the storm. Then, at last, her lance. Her mind sang with the complexities of holding the Words of so many Devices at once, but Aurêve’s was as familiar and comfortable as the worn grip of a brush in an artist’s hand. She fashioned an elegant pattern of recursion and amplification behind the Weapon’s bindings, allowing its power to build upon itself with the gentle surge of the tide upon the beach, until its power boiled behind a single binding, poised to release.

Danielle became aware of the sound of shouting, muffled and distant, behind the glory of her Words. Soldiers jabbed their weapons at the sky, fierce and defiant as they cheered her. She felt the thunder of more Words against her mind. The sharp crack of Roland’s sword, Mourne, then an eager roar that must be Audrey’s lance. Smaller Words popped as well, Weapons and Wards passed down as treasured heirlooms to sons and daughters who now stood along the hilltop.

“Make a gap!” Eilidh bellowed, and the wall of soldiers parted in front of Danielle. Beyond was the lip of the hillside and then darkness. Eilidh led Danielle through the soldiers’ line until she stood on the very edge of the hilltop, where the steep incline began its dive into the valley.

Danielle could feel the gaze of the soldiers against her back, full of desperate hope. Her breath caught as her heart pounded fire into her limbs, and she fought against an urge to scream, though whether from defiance or terror, she did not know. Lightning played above her, and its brilliant fire revealed that the knees of the hill were black with dark figures swarming toward her. The terrible voices of the wights rose again, calling to each other, louder with every passing heartbeat.

“You just worry about what is right in front of you!” Eilidh shouted in Danielle’s ear. “I’ll worry about the rest. If you’re needed elsewhere, I’ll hear the call. If they get behind you, I’ll take care of them. Do you hear me, m’lady?”

“I do,” Danielle replied. No time left, she realized.

The storm hurled a vicious squall of wind and rain at the defenders, obliterating any chance of a glimpse of their foe. But as it faded to a dull roar against her armor, she saw them, a dark tide that covered the steep flanks of the hill and rose inexorably to meet her.

“Lord Karsha! Lord Karsha, sir!”

Karsha blinked stupidly at the face above him, then smiled in recognition.

“Master Cormac.”

“Sir Roland sends his compliments, and asks you to join him right away,” the young soldier insisted.

“Now?” Karsha wondered. The interior of his tent was black with shadow beyond the flickering light of the lantern that Cormac carried.

“Yes, m’lord. Our pickets have engaged the enemy.”

“Ah!” Charms clanked and chimed as Karsha clambered to his feet and adjusted his robes to hang more comfortably from his narrow shoulders. “And what manner of creature is a picket? Is it fierce?”

“Sometimes, sir,” Cormac replied, as he opened the tent flap. “We must hurry.”

Karsha staggered as a blast of rain greeted him, then recoiled from a rush of armored figures as they hurried past in a cacophony of clashing metal. Karsha stumbled, then was knocked to the ground as a soldier plowed blindly into him. Karsha flailed helplessly for a moment, cursing and spitting, before Cormac hauled him to his feet. More soldiers pushed past and their shields knocked Karsha cruelly, but they vanished into the gloom before he could curse them, too.

“Mind, you clumsy bastards!” Cormac yelled after the soldiers. “You’ll trample him!”

“Never worry, I am whole,” Karsha assured him. “I find that the camp is in an uproar. Is battle imminent?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Then we must hurry,” Karsha insisted, earning himself a cold glare.

Cormac led the way, slipping through the maze of tents with a certainty and speed that astonished Karsha as he hurried in Cormac’s wake, convinced that if he lost sight of the soldier, he would never find him again. Tents billowed around him, and the few miserable torches still alight were guttering and smoking so badly that they did little but make the shadows swirl and dance.

Karsha squinted into rain that hit his exposed skin like pebbles, and he wondered for a moment if they were fated to have balls of ice dropped on them by Grandmother Sky, one of his least favorite tricks of hers.

The wind suddenly stilled, as if the storm had drawn in its breath. Karsha frowned, then clutched at his robes as the air pulsed against him and the rain was thrown sideways in an ever-expanding wave. Another great pulse passed through him, and then many smaller ones. A roaring cry swelled after them, hundreds of voices raised above the storm’s howl, and Karsha grimaced. Words have been spoken. There must be dire need.

Karsha’s thoughts raced immediately to the great stones of the henge, and to one weathered spire of basalt so streaked with red that it appeared to weep blood. It was the most ancient of all the stones, and Karsha had heard the dreams of the god that slumbered there, dreams of bright fire beneath dark wings, and he ached to awaken it.

No, you would not survive it, he chastised himself. Save such foolishness for another story.

Ahead, the towering shape of a great stone loomed from the darkness as if in response to his thoughts. A lone torch guttered in its lee, casting a wan glow on its base, an island of swaying grass and gleaming stone amidst the darkness. Karsha passed the stone with regret, his gaze lingering on the carvings that adorned its flanks until the stone merged with the night, and the torch was no more than a faint spark in the darkness behind them.

Ahead, soldiers had assembled into a long line facing north with more squads of soldiers hurrying into position behind them. Horns blared, stirring even more frantic motion, and Karsha pulled Cormac to a halt.

“What is happening?” Karsha shouted above a sizzling crack of thunder.

“The enemy has been sighted,” Cormac replied. “We don’t have much time.”

“Where?”

Cormac glanced along the line of soldiers in both directions, listening to the bray of the horns. “Everywhere, it sounds like,” he said at last.

A rider appeared, Sir Roland’s pale hair marking him even from a distance, and Cormac shouted and waved to claim the templar’s attention.

“I’ve found Lord Karsha, sir,” Cormac reported as the Knight Commander rode to join them.

“Good. Are you prepared, my lord?” Sir Roland asked Karsha.

Karsha clutched a handful of his pendants and charms and showed them to Roland. “I am!”

The templar did not seem as impressed as Karsha had hoped. “Defend here. Listen for the horns to call. They will send word if I need you elsewhere.”

“I do not understand their song,” Karsha pointed out.

“Very well.” Roland turned his scowl on Cormac. “You stay with him.”

“Yes, sir,” Cormac replied flatly, though Karsha could see the young soldier was eager to have a different assignment.

Sir Roland left them and Karsha attempted to console his companion. “You will see such stories that none will believe their telling,” he assured Cormac. “Do you know of the salamanders of Ùruvor?”

“They sound amazing,” Cormac told Karsha. “It’s just, I’d hoped…” Cormac glanced toward the center of the soldiers’ line, and his lips thinned with frustration.

“Ah, you seek your lady,” Karsha realized. “Go, go! Another may decipher the horns’ song for me.”

“I’d rather not have to explain that to Sir Roland. In any case, Eilidh’s with Lady Danielle, and I can’t think of a safer spot for her.”

“This is because you do not know of the salamanders of Ùruvor,” Karsha pointed out.

Cormac’s reply was lost as lightning cracked directly overhead, and Karsha stumbled as a blast of wind tore at his robes and wrapped them around his legs. Cormac’s hand on his arm steadied him, and Karsha gave the young man a grin of appreciation as he squinted into the rain.

“I hope they can swim,” Cormac shouted, as the thunder rumbled into the distance.

“They cannot,” Karsha informed him. “But it will be a tale to remember, regardless.”

“I’m certain it shall. Will you be doing your magic from back here, or…?”

“I must know more of our foe. What is their nature? Where do they press forward? Where do they lurk behind?”

“I’ll find out.”

“No, do not trouble yourself.” Karsha gathered his robes around his knees and crouched comfortably next to one of the stones of the outer henge. “I will discover our answers.”

He closed his eyes and cast his thoughts into the storm, searching for black wings soaring through the wind and rain. He found Bran as the great raven circled above the cnoc, wings spread wide to catch the swirling gale. Far below, pale torches flickered in a long curve that wavered into darkness as tendrils of black cloud coiled between.

Lightning sizzled across the sky and the wind spirits shrieked in reply as they sought to tumble the raven, but he slipped between their gusts and cawed with triumph as he sped across the hillside. The spirits howled in pursuit and he caught their rage beneath his wings and arced effortlessly higher, knifing through the rain with barely a twitch of his wingtips to guide him.

Beneath him, a black shadow rose up the hillside, swarming figures scratching and clawing their way up the slope. The line of torches at the crest seemed thinner than a strand of gossamer hair as it awaited the coming surge, and Bran croaked with dismay.

But even as the raven banked toward the hill, a ripple passed through the horde as the husks staggered to a halt, thousands of ragged figures abruptly still as more crowded against the base of the hill behind them.

Bran cawed and dropped lower. All along the leading edge of the horde, the husks had ceased their climb and simply stared upward, their withered faces ghastly in the dim light of the torches. Bran flew close enough to see that they were not frozen, and still shuffled or swayed as the storm assaulted them, but they remained in their place, determined to stand upon whatever patch of hillside they had claimed.

What wickedness is this? Karsha wondered, and Bran croaked his agreement.

Wyn prowled behind the wall of soldiers, alternately glaring at the storm clouds and peering over the soldiers’ broad shoulders, teetering on her toes as she strained for a glimpse of their foe. But she could see only more sheets of rain sweeping toward them, and she cursed the storm relentlessly, as if the mud that sucked at her boots were to blame for the misfortune that had driven her to this miserable spot.

Why did she take it? Wyn wondered. She swore she wouldn’t! But a queasy worm of unease squirmed deep in her stomach in response. She didn’t promise. She said she couldn’t swear. Not if she had to use the Blade. And that damn Faron has her thinking she can, deep inside where it’s just a feeling, not even a thought, where you can’t stop it, no matter how you try.

“They will be here soon enough,” Killock told her as she passed him on one leg of her prowl. “I’m exhausted just watching you pace.”

“I know,” Wyn mumbled as she continued onward. Maker, I just need some more time, she begged. Just two shakes alone with the Blade, and I can make that fucking Danu listen to me. She wants what I’ve got so badly, I know I can twist her, if you’ll just give me some time!

Wyn glared at the impenetrable line of soldiers for a moment, then hurried forward and leaped into the narrow gap between two, bracing her feet against their armored legs as she climbed.

“Oy!” one of the soldiers complained, but Wyn shushed him impatiently.

The storm buffeted her and heavy rain snapped at her face, but now she could see over the shields. The ragged lip of the hill lay just beyond the steel wall, a wind-scoured edge that marked the plunge down the steep, gully-riven slope of the hillside, where Danielle waited, a sculpture against the storm’s rage.

“She’s always out in front,” Wyn muttered bitterly.

“I’ll wager anything that’s Lady Danielle,” one of Wyn’s soldiers informed her, nodding sagely.

“I saw her once, in the camp,” the other soldier added, his voice emerging from within a bristling beard that obscured all sight of his face and neck beneath his visor. “She smiled at me.”

“Here we go,” the first soldier groaned.

“She did,” the second insisted. “You’ve never seen such a beauty, I swear.”

Their discussion was interrupted by more horns blaring, and both soldiers cursed.

“Here we fucking go,” the first soldier growled. “Best get back, lass.”

Maker, I can’t bear it, Wyn thought miserably as she slid back to the ground, and she groaned against clenched teeth. Please, Maker, please, just let it be over, she begged. Let it be over, and both of us safe. I promise you that’s all I’ll ever ask.

Then the horns sounded again, but their note was different, and she saw puzzled glances exchanged among the soldiers.

“What?” Wyn demanded.

“They’ve halted,” the soldier with the huge beard replied.

“Why?”

“The Maker only knows,” he said grimly. “If we’re smart, we’ll make them pay for it, though.”

Wyn clambered back onto the soldiers and peered over their shields. The flickering light of the torches glimmered on dark figures of husks, their rusted armor and mottled skin merging into a teeming mass less than a stone’s-throw beyond Danielle, swaying slightly as the wind howled through the horde.

“Shit,” Wyn whispered.

“You got that right,” muttered the first soldier she had clambered on.

“What do we do?”

“We have to hold,” the bearded soldier replied nervously. “Have to. We go down there, we’re not coming back.”

“We’re gonna charge, sure as shit,” the other soldier predicted gloomily.

“Fuck,” the bearded soldier agreed.

Remember, both of us safe, she reminded the Maker.

Lightning snapped across the valley and sizzled into the clouds, and for a moment Wyn saw the valley floor through a shroud of glimmering rain. The horde seemed endless, but she had caught a glimpse of a wide clearing at its center where the darkness seemed to linger, and as the lightning flickered away an icy gust of wind stung her cheek and she felt the dread of the catacombs press against her, as if its ancient Shadow lurked all around her.

She shivered and breathed deep to banish the sensation, but it lingered, and grew stronger.

Something’s coming…

Bran arced away from the weathered hilltop and flew deeper into the storm. The husks had filled the valley, and here, too, they had ceased their mindless march toward the hill. But as the raven flapped higher, Karsha saw that the husks had withdrawn from an area in the center of the horde, a wide circle of featureless ground.

Bran flared his wings and soared against the buffeting gale, his dark gaze relentless as it probed the assembled host. And at last, he found movement, a ripple of current in the stagnant pool as the husks parted to allow a procession of hooded figures to pass through their ranks. Karsha counted seven, each clad in long robes, and the husks lurched from their path as if thrust by an unseen hand. The seven strode into the clearing and stood in a circle a stone’s-throw across, and the husks pressed closer, as if in eager anticipation.

Bran circled warily. Below, the seven robed figures began a knife-edged wail as if steel were shrieking against ice. A tremor passed through the assembled horde like wind through tall grass, and husks shuddered and toppled in great swathes as if cut by an immense scythe. Shadow curled from their gaping mouths and formed a black miasma above their piled corpses, and Bran tasted the scent of ancient cold, far more bitter and piercing than the storm’s touch against his feathers.

The Shadow was drawn to the circle of robed figures in twisted threads that were immune to the wind that howled across the valley. The seven began to shake and convulse, and thick coils of Shadow formed and probed the air, twisting and stretching until they found one another and joined into a single tendril, black as the bottom of a well. It slithered across the ground to the center of their circle and reared like a great serpent. The air shuddered and groaned at its touch, and Karsha felt a twisted blade of ice slide into his chest, so cold that his heart labored.

Slowly the air parted, forming a dark wound that revealed a chamber cloaked in Shadow. Karsha saw ancient stone pillars, mottled with gruesome stains and defaced by jagged runes, and shallow pits fed by webs of blood-slick channels. And in the deepest recesses loomed darker figures, clad in ancient iron and black Shadow, led by the most dreadful of their number, a towering nightmare whose crimson gaze pierced darkness and storm. It gestured and the portal twisted and convulsed, and a shape emerged, a dark twin to the figure in the chamber. The shape seethed with the Shadow that had conceived it, black coils that formed a shifting cloak that was untouched by the storm.

As the shape stepped into the circle of robed figures, the portal’s Shadow clung to it and was drawn into its cloak, so that the rent in the air wavered and weakened, and the dark chamber beyond grew indistinct. But the seven fed more Shadow into it as they reaped hundreds more of the remaining husks, and slowly the wound began to tear open again.

Why have they stopped? Danielle wondered. The mob of husks stared mindlessly back at her across a short stretch of bare hillside, the closest near enough that Danielle could see the differences in ruined flesh and armor that marked each one. Withered fingers grasped the rusted remains of ancient weapons, or curled into claws of jagged bone, and a terrible, eager moan escaped from lipless, gaping mouths.

Sir Roland stepped forward, but he gave no signal, no sign that he was even aware that every gaze on the hilltop was rivetted to him.

“Roland, I am ready,” Danielle urged the Knight Commander, as her heart pulsed sizzling strength through her limbs. “What shall I do? Do we attack?”

Roland hesitated only a moment longer, his gaze narrowed to slits as he considered his waiting foe, but each heartbeat was an agony to Danielle.

“Send to Lord Audrey,” he barked to the herald that accompanied him. “He is to clear the enemy from in front of his position.”

“Yessir!” the herald replied, and his horn was at his lips the next instant, its brash notes challenging the roar of the wind.

“Lady Danielle, if you would concentrate your attack there,” Roland instructed her, his arm extended toward the closest of the lurking husks.

“Of course,” Danielle replied, and she almost laughed, giddy as the strange cadence of military formality layered incongruously atop the churn of trepidation.

“Very well.” Roland nodded, satisfied. “When you are ready, your ladyship.” And as quickly as that Danielle found herself stepping to the edge of the hilltop, Sir Roland on her left, Sir Eilidh on her right, and the horde lurking silently below.

To the west, Danielle felt Audrey’s Word bellow against the storm. A thin, red line speared through the rain, dark as a ruby, and at its terminus a great flower of ruddy flame and earth erupted from the hillside as the earth shook. Jagged shapes whirled into the air, thrown in all directions to rain upon the husks still standing on the slope.

Danielle’s mind flickered across the shining structure of the Shape of Fire’s Word, released bindings within the heavy amulet in a precise sequence, and fire coiled around her in a blazing inferno, bright and hungry as it roared against the storm. She could feel its heat against her face like a sunrise and its voice within her chest like thunder. Danielle raised one arm and gestured, the fire raced outward in a sweeping arc, and writhing figures blew apart like dust in a gale as the flames engulfed them. In the heart of the blaze, their withered bodies simply vanished into whirling ash. Those that the flames merely brushed became writhing torches that staggered a few steps before collapsing onto the ground as their skin curled away from bone like charred parchment.

Danielle’s Word thundered across the hillside and flames boiled in its wake, an eruption of light and heat that incinerated flesh and bone and painted the storm clouds red and gold, as if the sun had risen to challenge their swirling darkness. She played the fire across the hillside and back again, until no husk remained near the summit. Only then did she let the flames dance into the storm, white then orange then red until they were gone and only the hiss of rain steaming from charred ground remained.

A great cheer roared from the soldiers, and weapons beat on shields to rival the thunder.

“Maker’s breath, m’lady!” Eilidh gasped.

“A good beginning,” Danielle replied, and she swallowed a surge of elation before it could burst into wild laughter. “But it was only the beginning.”

A fresh burst of rain spattered against her helm, and Danielle breathed in a deep, satisfied sigh as her Word began to rebuild the Shape of Fire’s flame deep within the Weapon’s intricate structures. Beyond the smoking remains of her foes, she could see that the packed heart of the horde still waited, their numbers seemingly untouched.

“We cannot tarry!” Karsha told Cormac. “We must attack, force passage through the mob!”

“I don’t think so, m’lord,” Cormac replied dubiously. “We’re in the best position to face that horde. A shield wall will hold, where an attack will become flanked and swallowed up against that many, I promise.”

“We shall beg for flanking if we linger! Far worse awaits us,” Karsha assured him. “A vile ritual at the heart of the Crunorix host, a rift that leads to the depths of the Black Grave, where the magi gather, ready to step through.”

“A portal?” Cormac asked, his face pale. His gaze wrenched away from Karsha and speared into the storm as if he could see beyond the narrow reach of the torches sputtering along the shield wall. “Like the ones in the catacombs?”

“Of a certainty, this is their kin.”

“We need to find Sir Roland,” Cormac decided, his lips a thin line of determination. “We need to tell him what you just told me.”

“Where shall we find the Knight Commander?”

“The Maker only knows.”

At that moment, a Word pulsed against Karsha’s chest, and orange light painted the boiling clouds across the northern sky.

“Perhaps there?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Cormac agreed.

“One moment, while I ready the spirits we shall require, and we shall depart.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think it’s wise to delay. We need to get moving.”

“Do not fear, the gods will carry us faster than even your young legs,” Karsha instructed the soldier, and he began a low, grumbling song that reverberated against the back of his throat as he inspected and rejected a dozen of the small charms dangling from chains around his neck before wrapping a chosen few around his wrists.

Bran settled on a nearby stone and watched with interest, his black gaze following every move of Karsha’s fingers. The raven bobbed his head with excitement as Karsha selected a small leather pouch and cawed in delight when a small glass vial containing a splinter of obsidian joined it.

Cormac also peered at the collection of charms and totems with wary fascination. “Are those your gods, then?”

“These are merely the covenants I have forged,” Karsha replied. He retrieved the strand of daisies twined around the grass stalk he had fashioned the day before and held it up. “The gods dwell within.”

Cormac stared silently, with no sign of the awe that Karsha had expected.

“You will see,” Karsha promised. He grasped Cormac’s wrist, and the world twisted. For an instant, Karsha stood in two places, then the world twisted again, and he was on the northern lip of the hill, where a small dandelion seed lay crushed into the mud, unnoticed amidst the darkness and storm.

Cormac staggered and then retched onto the ground.

“Come, there is no time for that,” Karsha chided the soldier. Around them, figures shrouded in wind and rain pressed close to the unexpected arrivals. Flashes of fiery red light revealed bands of steel beneath sodden cloaks and the harsh edges of naked blades.

“Where is Sir Roland?” Karsha demanded of the looming figures.

“Karsha?” a voice growled from the onlookers, and Karsha glimpsed the lean features of Sir Killock as the templar pushed between two soldiers. “Where have you come from?”

“Sir Killock, where is Sir Roland?” Karsha asked.

“He is with Danielle,” Killock replied, “just beyond the shield wall.”

“Take me to him,” Karsha insisted. “I must speak with him.”

The templar led the way through the shield wall and Karsha hurried after, a short distance, yet Karsha fretted at even that delay, and scrambled ahead as soon as he spotted the Knight Commander at the edge of the hilltop.

“Sir Roland!” Karsha called out, and though his words were stolen by the spirits of the wind, Sir Roland still heard and greeted Karsha with a dark scowl.

“Lord Karsha, it is not safe here. I must insist that you return to the shield wall,” he rasped as Karsha scurried across the last distance. This close to the edge, Karsha could smell the acrid stink of charred flesh despite the gale, a stench that burned his throat.

“Neither shields nor walls will protect us from what approaches,” Karsha croaked harshly. He jabbed one finger urgently northward. “We must attack, at once! The portal is open! The magi assemble! We cannot tarry!”

“What portal?” Killock asked. “Karsha, make sense.”

“The ritual has opened a portal,” Karsha explained. “A rift that leads to the Black Grave. I have seen it!”

“Where?”

“In the heart of their host. A terrible shade came through it, and now the magi approach. I fear that they will soon step through, as well.”

“A shade?” Lady Danielle asked. “What new horror is this?”

“Shadow given form,” Karsha related. “A foul echo of its master.”

“Who is its master?”

“A magus.” Karsha scowled as the memory of a blood-red gaze. “I saw it, through the portal.”

“And this shade is here, now?” Killock asked.

“Upon this very field,” Karsha replied. “Its creation weakened the portal, but I fear it will not be long before it is restored.”

“How do we stop them?” Sir Roland asked.

“Break the ritual,” Karsha replied impatiently, irritated as the barrage of questions continued long past any reasonable tolerance. “But we must hurry.”

“Karsha, there are only a few of us here,” Killock pointed out. “We can’t possibly attack them.”

“No, no, the Crunorix sacrifice their horde to the ritual,” Karsha insisted. “They will not stand against us.”

“There are more than husks out there,” Killock pointed out.

“The gods will protect us!” Karsha exclaimed, and he jangled his charms helpfully.

“Is he joking?” Sir Eilidh asked Cormac incredulously.

“No, you’ll see,” Cormac promised, then he turned to Karsha and asked in a low voice, “She will see, won’t she?”

“Of course,” Karsha assured him. “Once, the stone men of Kildrai held the pass of—”

“What do you think?” Sir Roland asked Killock.

“If he’s right, and the Crunorix are destroying their own army to feed this ritual, speed and stealth are better allies than force.”

“I agree,” Sir Roland replied. “And I would not care to order anyone on this mission, if he’s wrong.”

Sir Killock sighed and absently knocked mud from his boot with the flat of his sword as he weighed the unknowable threat of what lay ahead against the incalculable risk of a delay. “You say we cannot wait?” he asked Karsha.

The small man shook his head sorrowfully. “Ponder too long, and you may ask the magi for their counsel, for they shall stand assembled on this very hill.”

Danielle’s eyes stung as she peered beyond her cursed nose guard and into the night, trying to pierce the black squalls that shielded the valley floor from her sight. She could feel the dreadful touch of Shadow lurking beyond the storm, hiding and then slithering like oil to brush against her, and its frozen touch lingered long after it withdrew.

A shade, she wondered. What is this creation, that they should make such sacrifice to bring into being? Is it another demon, such as we fought in Bandirma?

“Are you ready, m’lady?” Sir Eilidh asked Danielle.

“Of course,” Danielle replied without thought. Am I ready? What more can I do, I wonder.

She forced her gaze away from the storm-shrouded valley and glanced at the small group gathered at the edge of the hilltop. Sir Killock had drawn Wyn and Cormac aside and was pointing down the slope as they listened intently, their expressions grim mirrors of one another. Karsha fretted nearby, pestering Sir Roland as the Knight Commander issued final orders, but Danielle could take no satisfaction from the little man’s anxiety, despite the callous way he had manipulated her. No matter how much she hated him, they must be allies, now.

“Summon Lord Audrey,” Roland commanded. “We will be thankful for his lance, if we encounter worse than husks.”

“He said speed and stealth,” Karsha insisted, pointing at Sir Killock.

“You may depart at your pleasure,” Roland informed him. “Or you may wait while we arrange for our best chance of success, but you will stop questioning my orders.”

Karsha glared at the Knight Commander’s back, but he turned away without a word in reply, which disturbed Danielle more than his previous nagging. What fear could drive him to abandon his conniving?

Hoofbeats sounded as Lord Audrey answered his summons. He swung from his saddle and greeted Sir Roland, nodded resolutely as Roland explained their strategy, and hefted his long lance against his shoulder.

“Sir Killock,” Roland called. “You may proceed.”

“Ready?” Killock asked and received quick nods in reply. He met each gaze, then nodded in return before leading them into the storm.

Wyn waited for them perched on the edge of the hilltop, her braids dancing in the wind’s fury. Killock knelt beside her and gazed down the slope until a flicker of lightning revealed that the hillside was littered with the corpses of husks. Then he rose and led the way down the hill, half-running, half-sliding, as they plunged toward the storm-shrouded valley.

Danielle hurried after him though her step was encumbered with the unaccustomed weight of Saint Rowenna’s armor. On all sides she passed the corpses of husks, at first smoking and charred from her Word, then sprawled in haphazard mounds that her fire had never reached, their withered flesh sucked dry of the last dregs of the Shadow that had infested them.

Danielle’s breath quickly began to labor and her legs burned with fatigue, but she struggled onward cursing the easy lope of Sir Eilidh and Sir Roland and the mocking bursts of speed from Wyn and Cormac. At last, Sir Killock motioned a halt as they approached a small ridge in the hillside. Danielle sank gratefully to her knees as she watched Killock crouch on the lip of the ridge and probe the darkness with his Diviner.

“How much farther?” she asked Wyn.

“We’re about half-way down,” Wyn replied. Her gaze darted across the corpses that littered the hillside and her mouth twisted in concern. “There must be thousands of them. It only took ten to make a wight. What kind of a thing is a shade that it takes thousands to make?”

“I do not know,” Danielle replied. “I felt its presence, briefly, but I could tell nothing more save that it was a creature of Shadow.”

“Whatever it is, we shall face it,” Roland’s voice rasped from nearby. The Knight Commander had removed his helm and turned his face to the storm to let its rain cool his pale skin and plaster his hair to his skull, but his gaze was not softened.

Danielle pushed herself to her feet with a groan and fumbled beneath her chin as she searched for the buckles of her own helm, desperate to rid herself of its stifling shell. It came free and the metal roar was replaced by the cool sting of rain against her cheeks, and she sighed with relief.

Sir Killock began to pack away his Diviner, and Roland stepped toward him.

“Where are they?” Roland asked, his breath no more strained than if he had mounted a staircase, rather than chased down a hill in full armor.

“At the foot of the hill, as Lord Karsha said,” Killock replied. “Roland, I cannot see the ritual, my sight is blocked. There’s no telling what is awaiting us there.”

Roland glared down the hillside for a moment, then turned to Danielle. “Lady Danielle, you said that you could sense the shade’s presence. Can you sense it now?”

“I can try.”

Danielle closed her eyes and searched beyond the moan and rasp of the wind, beyond the rattle and hiss of the rain, beyond the bellow and roar of the thunder. Slowly the howl of the world receded, and she could hear the deep throb of her Words pulse like waves as they surged against a cliff and the steady drumbeat of Roland’s Word reverberating in Mourne’s steel. Beyond those, she heard a whisper of Shadow, as faint as the tremor in a sail before the wind shifts. The trace of Shadow faded as quickly as she glimpsed it, and she wondered if she had imagined its frozen presence, conjured it from the wraiths of the storm.

No, there is… something.

Danielle turned from the valley and gazed at the empty hillside above her. Waves of thrashing grass slashed at her sight as they twisted beneath the roaring wind, and dark silhouettes were etched into stark shapes as lightning flared through the clouds.

“Roland, I—”

Black mist eddied and heaved in the air before her, then disgorged a figure forged from Shadow, a void shaped like a towering man clad in black, thorn-covered armor. Her armor’s great Wards surged into life as she recoiled, and her hand flew to the hilt of the Martyr’s Blade without her urging. As her fingers curled around its length, she felt its flame stir eagerly and heard a whisper in her thoughts. It is time…

The Blade’s Word was poised in her mind, its magnificent patterns already shining with light as it unfurled across her thoughts. Flame throbbed against the Blade’s bindings and rushed to fill every structure of the Word, a crucible of fire and heat that strained to burst free.

“Danielle,” Sir Roland commanded urgently. “Quickly—”

“Behind me,” Danielle hissed in reply, her arm outflung in desperate defense between her companions and the terrifying figure.

“Marquesa,” its voice rasped in greeting, the sound of twisted metal grating against stone.

“Wyn, go,” Danielle insisted, her throat tight with fear. The urge to meet Wyn’s gaze was a cruel barb in her chest that ripped at every beat of her laboring heart, but she did not dare turn away from the bloody glare of the shade’s crimson eyes. “All of you, go, run!”

“What?” Wyn cried out. “No!”

“Wyn, we cannot help her.” Killock’s voice was cold, but Danielle could hear strain singing in every taut syllable. “Not like this.”

“Dani, please!” Wyn begged.

“Not like this!” Killock insisted. “Wyn, we have to go.”

“No!” Wyn screamed, anguish and rage twisting her voice into a cry that pierced Danielle like a bolt through a glass window.

“Go,” Danielle groaned. “Run!”

She did not hear them depart. The thrash of wind and the snap of rain masked their footfalls, but she felt their absence at her back as a sudden void that almost made her stagger. Not all, she realized. Eilidh’s shield guarded her right side, while Mourne’s Word beat at her left.

“Are you staying?” Danielle asked, relief flooding her.

“Of course,” Sir Eilidh replied.

“I am,” the Knight Commander added, “at your side, as I swore.”

The figure of Shadow had not moved, patient with a predator’s disdain, but now its gaze followed the departing group into the storm, and it shifted, as if some disquiet had drawn its attention.

No, not them! Cold dread lapped at her, but she forced words through her throat and spoke to the terrifying figure.

“If you know me, then you know that I have already defeated one of your kind,” she told it. “Leave this place, or you shall be next.”

“Slayer of Quinterus,” the figure replied contemptuously, its ink-black lips twisting in the void beneath its helm. Its gaze returned to her, simmering with bloody threat. “Will you dare to test your strength against me?”

“I do not know you, yet I would dare!” Danielle shouted above the roar of the wind.

“I am Lazarre, first of the magi, lord of the deathless,” the Shadow figure hissed.

Worm, whispered in Danielle’s mind. He wears my brother’s Shadow as if it were his own.

“Danielle, now would be a good time…” Sir Roland grated between his teeth.

Danielle’s every screaming instinct agreed with the templar. Her fingers ached to snatch the Blade free from its sheath and her breath caught in anticipation of her Word. Yet her mind refused, a trembling lock against visions of an endless inferno, secured only by the thread of Wyn’s voice. Dani, please…

“I see only a shadow,” Danielle replied. “A shade. Does Lazarre, first of the magi, not dare to test his strength against me?”

A twisted sound coughed from the magus’s mouth, and Danielle shuddered as she realized that it laughed. “My shade will suffice. But do not despair. I shall join you soon.”

Danielle tried to force a smirk onto her lips and confidence into her voice. “My Blade is eager to greet you.”

Her hopes that a fierce boast would dismay the shade were instantly dashed. Its baleful gaze settled on hers for an eternal moment, and she felt the vast emptiness of the Abyss suck at her like an endless plunge.

“You hear her voice,” the shade mused. “I wondered who this new wielder might be, and now your blood reveals you. Last ember of a withered line, a charred wick that can bear only the palest of Flame. You will not survive her touch.”

“Nor will you, I promise.”

“Speak the Word, if you dare. I see her kiss upon your hand. Do you not wish for another?” The shade extended an arm, long fingers of Shadow reaching like a dead vine covered in thorns. “Give me the Flame, and I shall wipe the Maker’s curse from your flesh. Give me the Flame, and death shall never come for you, nor come for those you love.”

Is he bargaining with me? Danielle wondered, bewildered. Why does he hesitate? If he bargains, it is only because he doubts his strength, if he delays, it is only to find some advantage, if he boasts, then I must use this opportunity, I cannot simply gawk and exchange insults. Her fear urged her to act, to draw the Blade and strike swiftly, but desperate hope had bloomed in her, that her foe’s hesitation meant there was another path, if only she had the chance to discover it.

A squall of rain lashed against Danielle’s cheek, and she grimaced. There is no reprieve. My choices remain the same. All I have learned is that Lazarre needs the Blade for some dreadful work. I must pray that his hesitation is borne from fear, for that thought gives hope that this will not be in vain.

“Wyn, we can’t help her,” Killock pleaded. “Not against a magus or a shade or whatever that was. You remember the catacombs. The only way we can help is to close that portal before something worse comes through it.”

“I know!” the young woman shouted, despair echoing in her voice before it was ripped away by the gale. Karsha could not tell if the streaks of wetness glimmering on her cheeks were tears or rain, but the misery twisting her features was clear.

Karsha Hali glanced between the two figures, desperate to urge haste, and his fingers clasped and unclasped uselessly as he teetered on the verge of plunging down the hillside on his own. “We must go!” Karsha pleaded. “Argue later!”

“We’re killing her!”

“No, we’re not,” Killock replied to Wyn, and he reached a consoling hand toward her. “We’re giving her the best chance we can.”

Wyn flinched away from his touch, her gaze pleading with him to relent, but Killock did not turn away, and a scream of utter anguish tore from Wyn’s throat, leaving her hunched and shaking. But when she straightened, there was such fury in her glare that Karsha wondered that fire did not spit from her lips as she snapped, “For fuck’s sake, then hurry!” and she turned toward the gale and began to run.

“Wyn!” Killock called, but she did not heed him, and he chased her into the darkness. Karsha Hali hurried at his side, his short stride quick as a bird’s. Karsha now needed every breath simply to keep pace. Wyn dashed forward in mad bursts of speed that reminded Karsha of a cat, and Sir Killock raced after her, vaulting bramble-choked gorges without breaking stride. Karsha hurried after the templar’s boots with his hands curled against his chest to protect his charms against the wild motion of his descent.

And somewhere ahead lurked the Shadow-cloaked wound that led to the catacombs, the portal whose presence he could feel seething in his stomach. Bran returned with a flurry of dark wings to croak the news that they were close. Shadow coiled from the corpses piled around them in a black miasma unaffected by the gusting wind. Its tendrils slithered across the ground toward the frozen dread that awaited them at the base of the hill, where Karsha could feel the priests’ work growing stronger with every step.

Wyn led them to a narrow defile that cut toward the base of the hill, and Karsha struggled after her, his toes slipping for purchase. Wyn leapt up the steep side in a graceful bound, then quickly dropped to her stomach. Her fingers darted messages to Killock that Karsha could not understand but whose urgency was clear.

“There they are,” Sir Killock said quietly, and he raised one arm to point into the gloom.

Karsha peered ahead, and through the dark veil of the storm he could see the dim shapes of robed figures in a wide circle, and beyond them, a gaping wound in the air that Karsha could feel as an aching wrongness that throbbed against him

“And they have more friends,” Wyn muttered, and Karsha saw that the young woman was correct. Lean, pale shapes like wraiths of winter loomed from the storm in an arc between them and the priests, denying passage to the base of the hill.

“What now?” Sir Killock asked as he glanced at Karsha. “What do we do to close that portal?”

“The priests,” Karsha replied with far more confidence than he felt. “They are the key. Kill them, end their ritual before they tear open a path to the Grave.”

“I miss my bow,” Sir Killock grunted regretfully as he glared at the wights separating them from the priests.

“I’ve brought something better than a bow,” Lord Audrey volunteered, and he hefted his long lance and braced it against his hip.

“Yes!” Wyn hissed approvingly.

“It can reach that far?” Sir Killock asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” Audrey replied. “The farther, the better.”

“Good,” Killock murmured, his voice a low growl beneath the hiss of the rain. “Drive them apart and keep them back long enough for us to get through. Karsha, you and I will help, but remember, everyone, the goal is the priests. Don’t get bogged down fighting the wights. Get past them as quickly as you can, is that clear? Good, is everyone ready?”

Karsha slipped a small box free from a pocket and cupped it in his hands. He whispered to it in a language of heat and stone that parched his throat, a song of rock baked red and sky boiled white, and a sea of black glass that surrounded the sun’s throne. He felt heat bloom within the box, and steam hissed from the metal.

“I am ready,” Karsha replied.

Killock nodded at Audrey, and the lord rose from his knee and marched forward. Sir Killock followed on his heels and Karsha accompanied him, quietly crooning to the box. The wind whipped his robes around his legs and spat rain against his cheeks, but he did not blame it for its rage.

For two dozen steps, they approached unseen, and with each step, the dread of the moment of discovery grew. Then, at last, the feral shriek of a wight scythed through the storm to greet them, and the pale shapes raced toward them with terrible speed.

Lord Audrey’s lance swept to face the center of the onrushing wights, and he growled a Word that rumbled through Karsha like the groan of a miller’s wheel. Ruddy light speared finger-thin through the rain from the tip of the lance and touched white skin. A great flare of red light erupted, choked with dark shapes of earth and stone, boiling with smoke. The concussion flattened grass, ripped apart the rain, and hurled the neighboring wights into the air.

As more wights rushed forward, Karsha held the small box at arm’s length and opened the tiny lid. A stream of fire immediately wriggled forth, hissing and spitting as the rain steamed from its blaze. Grass burst into flame as it passed, and smoldering moss browned and belched thick smoke. A second coil of flame leapt free from the box, then a third and a fourth. They chased after the first, lashing back and forth as they slipped quickly through the grass.

The first of them reached the wights, reared up into a menacing curve, and spat fire onto a pale figure with a crackling roar. The wight shrieked and lashed out blindly as it burned, but Killock speared it from behind with a thrust though its throat and it collapsed.

“Well, done, sir!” Cormac was suddenly at Karsha’s side, the silver blade with the stag-crested hilt in his hand. “The salamanders of Ùruvor?”

“The very same,” Karsha agreed.

Sir Killock rushed past, and his sword sang as it sliced through the rain. Karsha caught a glimpse of talons flashing toward him and he staggered back as the templar’s blade cut across white skin. Then Cormac grabbed his robes and hurled him aside as another wight leaped from the storm. Cormac evaded the wight’s pale blade as it tore the air above him, sliced the wight across its arm and backed warily away, but the creature turned perversely away from him and leapt toward Sir Killock’s back.

Wyn screamed a warning, and Sir Killock turned at the last moment and staggered back as the wight struck. Cormac shouted and drove his brother’s sword under the wight’s arm, knocking it off its feet. But the wight twisted in a blur of motion. Its blade caught the silver steel across its flat and the sword shattered with a scream of torn metal. Cormac stumbled off-balance, and blood arced as the wight slashed brutally again.

Karsha Hali lurched to his feet, unstopped a leather pouch, and poured its contents into his waiting hand, a stream of fine sand the color of salt. With a cry, he hurled the sand in a wide arc, and where it fell, heat blazed forth, dry and fierce as if an oven had opened its doors. The wight’s ivory skin cracked and smoked, and flame burst from the fissures. Another step, and its flesh turned to ash and its bones burst with a whistling shriek.

“Ha!” Karsha crowed in triumph. Then Killock lunged past him, his rune-carved blade extended in a long thrust that caught another wight beneath its shoulder and exploded through its back. The wight’s arm struck Karsha a glancing blow as he flinched away.

A third wight darted forward with sword raised high. Karsha cupped his hands and blew sharply, puffing the last of the sand into a cloud between him and the creature. Bright sparks flashed across the wight as the grains touched it, each one burrowing into its hardened skin like a searing coal, glowing and spitting. The wight reeled as smoke poured from the cracks in its skin, and it fled into the storm.

Cormac struggled to his feet, then gasped in pain and stumbled back to his knees. A ragged tear in his trousers revealed a gash across his thigh, his skin pale against the dark blood that coursed from the wound.

Karsha hurried to Cormac’s side, but Wyn was there first.

“Stop thrashing,” Wyn muttered grimly as she knelt. She ignored Cormac’s protests and tried to wash away the blood with water from her canteen, but more welled from the gash faster than she could pour.

Sir Killock knelt at Cormac’s side and peered at the wound by the light of the blazing salamanders, who still scurried in protective circles around the group. “Does the wound feel cold? Like ice pressed against it?”

“Maker, I wish,” Cormac gasped.

“If you do feel the cold, you must immediately search the wound for any splinter of the wight’s blade that might be left behind. You will have only moments before it is too late.”

“I will,” Cormac muttered.

Killock turned Cormac’s leg back and forth one more time, then quickly removed a length of cloth from his pack and began to wrap it around Cormac’s leg.

“Just leave it,” Cormac told him as he tried to take the bandage from the knight. “I can do it, just go.”

“It’s done already,” Killock replied as he tugged savagely on the bandage’s knot, and Cormac’s face paled as his breath sucked sharply between his teeth.

“Forgive me for being too slow,” Karsha told the soldier mournfully. “I have repaid your kindness to me with failure.”

Cormac waved away Karsha’s concern, and Wyn nodded agreement. “If it wasn’t for your, uh, fire things, we’d not be laughing… do you have any more of that?” Wyn asked as she peered at the bag in Karsha’s hand.

“No, sadly. It is very difficult to gather. I have carried that pouch since I journeyed from my home to Kasabaarde to meet the Grand Duke. In the heart of the great wastelands, where the sun passes so close that its fire brushes against the ground, there is sea of glass, and on its shores—”

“We still have the priests to deal with,” Killock interrupted. He collected his sword from the ground and stood. His gaze probed the wind-whipped darkness between them and the ring of robed figures. “Lord Audrey, can you continue?”

The young lord hauled himself upright, clutching his lance as if it were a pole. His skin was pallid wax, but he managed to straighten and lift the lance free from the mud. “I believe I can manage one more,” he rasped.

“Make it count,” Killock said grimly, and he raised his sword in readiness.

Audrey closed his eyes and Karsha stepped hastily away, calling to the salamanders with praise for their beautiful fire, stoking their pride until they burned as fiercely as any forge. He felt the stir of Audrey’s Word like a tremor in the air and heard the lance thrum as if a deep heartbeat had stirred within the metal shaft.

Suddenly, Sir Killock cursed, Bran cried a warning, and Karsha turned to see a nightmare of ashen-skinned figures surge from the darkness behind them. Their mouths stretched around jutting fangs as their chilling howls split the air. The salamanders reared and spat bright flame as Lord Audrey’s long lance swept toward the charging wights, and his Word pulsed as they leapt to attack. A faint ruby light throbbed between the tip of the slender Weapon and its target, and a wight glowed as if a sun were contained within its breast.

For a heartbeat, the wight hung in the air. Then, with a terrible thunder, the wight erupted and flame boiled free. The earth beneath the wight was torn and hurled into the air, the black silhouette of Lord Audrey twisted and was engulfed, and a great wave of heat and wind roared toward Karsha.

Aurêve’s light sliced through the storm and plunged into the shade, a golden shaft haloed in shining curtains of rain that boiled away from its heat. Where the beam touched, the shade’s black cloak of Shadow burned a sullen, molten light that revealed layers of surging darkness far deeper than the shade’s form could encompass, a chasm of night so cold that even Aurêve’s light faded and withered in its abyss.

As it did, Sir Roland raced forward and Mourne hissed through the air. Its silver arc carved a precise line through the shade, and Danielle felt Mourne beat like a hammer strike, tearing Shadow so that it trailed like torn pennants as the shade recoiled like a snake.

But even as it retreated, the shade struck at Danielle. Coils of Shadow whipped toward her and struck against Saint Rowenna’s breastplate with the force of a boulder flung from a great siege engine, and Danielle was hurled backward as silver light blazed from the armor’s Wards.

A second blow crashed against her shoulders and her armor’s Wards flared again as the outer layer of her Word flickered and tore apart. She slid across slick grass, then tumbled as steel gouged a spray of earth and mud into the air, before finally coming to a halt, sprawled on her stomach, the taste of blood and dirt filling her mouth.

Danielle heaved herself onto her knees and swayed upright, reeling as she fought to keep the intricate webs of her Words intact. The sounds of conflict seemed remote and muffled, nearly overwhelmed by the rush of her heartbeat in her ears, and the dark hillside was blurred and indistinct behind the throbbing blaze of her Words.

Aurêve dangled from its strap, the long, thin shaft sizzling and steaming in the rain, and Danielle forced her suddenly clumsy fingers to curl around its grip.

Free me, Danielle, the Song of Flame whispered in Danielle’s thoughts. Free me, and I shall burn my brother’s Shadow away from him and turn him to ash.

Danielle teetered as her thoughts raced to the shape of the Blade’s great Word, simmering in her mind like a mountain ready to erupt.

“M’lady!” Eilidh’s voice burst against Danielle’s conscious like a trumpet’s call, banishing the urge to release the Blade’s Word.

“Eilidh,” Danielle groaned, and she felt strong hands beneath her arms, lifting her. Danielle lurched to her feet, and she heard Eilidh gasp in pain. A blaze of lightning showed her that Eilidh’s armor was rent open along her side to reveal a deep and ragged wound, the blood a crimson flow that had already covered waist and hip.

“Oh, Maker…” Danielle’s fingers were already searching for Mercy’s thin band within her pouch as her mind formed the circlet’s Word.

“I’ll go to the healers when we’re done here,” Eilidh said grimly. She pried her sword’s tip free from the mud and raised it defiantly. “As soon as we kill that—”

Then Eilidh shouted a frantic warning, and Danielle twisted and glimpsed Shadow streaking toward her like a comet. The blow struck with an instant of frozen stillness that detonated with the fury of a thunderbolt. The Wards of Saint Rowenna’s armor flared crimson and failed under the onslaught as great swathes of its Word were torn into embers and ash. Danielle was hurled aside and crashed to the ground.

Slowly her senses returned. Her steel-shod fingers gouged long scars in the ground as her hands clutched at the earth. She heard a muffled shout that might have been Roland. She forced her arms to push herself up and gazed about as her vision swam and blurred. Lightning crackled and snapped, but its light was pale and wan, barely enough to illuminate the sickly strands of swaying grass writhing around her.

A patina of frost crept across her armor’s surface, burning her skin, as long tendrils of Shadow coalesced from the air and coiled around her limbs and torso. Danielle felt her heart labor as if a fist of ice had gripped it, as the Shadows thickened and dragged her upright to face a void in the shape of a man, an abyss of emptiness that gazed back with crimson eyes.

“Your spark is nothing,” the shade’s voice whispered from that void. “Nothing compared to the Shadow that consumes. Yet I will feast on it, nonetheless.”

Danielle’s mind strained against the numbing cold and found a flickering pattern of light. The Shape of Fire gasped pale flames into the Shadow, yellow and green as they writhed into the abyss and died.

“Nothing,” the shade repeated, and it surged forward eagerly.

Wyn dove to the ground with her arms over her head as Audrey’s lance tore the wight apart, but the blast swatted her aside as if she had been struck by a giant’s hammer. Pain exploded beneath her jaw and lanced from her ribs as she tumbled helplessly. Her hip struck unforgiving stone and she crumpled against it, her fingers gouging furrows of mud and tearing lumps of grass as she clung desperately to the earth.

At last, she came to a halt and slowly crawled to her hands and knees. Blood dripped between her bared teeth, her arms trembled like saplings struck by an axe, and agony grated deep in her hip. She spat blood and dirt and shook her head against the sharp silence that shrieked in her ears, then gasped as fresh pain stabbed between her eyes from the motion.

Wyn gathered into a crouch and blinked away the tears that stung her eyes and blurred her vision. She had come to rest in a shallow gully choked with brambles. Wyn tore free from the thorny creepers, abandoning her ensnarled cloak, and crawled to the lip of the gully. Wriggles of flickering fire revealed that the salamanders fought on, but they were too far away for Wyn to discern whether the dark figures surging around them were friend or foe.

As she gathered herself, Shadow coiled across her sight, thick as oil, and she shrank close to the ground. Less than a stone’s-throw away, the ring of robed priests writhed in silence, shuddering and twisting as long tendrils of darkness streamed through them and twisted together to feed the widening portal. Wyn could feel the aching cold of a familiar presence pierce her as she gazed at it in horror, as if ice were crawling along her bones. Are we too late? she wondered. But a quick glance toward the portal showed her that the magi had not yet stepped through. Her knives sighed free from their sheaths, and their nimble weight sent cold fire prickling across her skin.

Seven priests. How many do I need to kill to stop the ritual? Wyn crept from the gully and scurried toward the robed figures. As many as possible, as quietly as possible, and we’ll soon know the answer.

Wind buffeted her, whipping the stalks of grass and hurling rain against Wyn’s face, but she thanked the Maker for the storm’s fury, as the world was alive with concealing movement and noise. Closer she crept, and her gaze flickered between the closest of the robed figures and the roiling wound in the air that lurked beyond, the portal to the Black Grave. She tried to ignore the half-circle of figures who loomed just beyond the rift, though their crimson gazes seemed to track her through Shadow and storm. Hold still for just two shakes, curse you, Wyn commanded the priest, and the hooded figure obeyed, oblivious to her presence as its robes whipped madly about it. Wyn rose from her crouch and slammed her knife into the figure’s neck beneath its jaw.

But the blade twisted against her grasp as if she had struck stone, tumbling free as numbing shock stabbed through her fingers and up her arm. The figure lunged at her and its hood blew free, and Wyn cursed as she saw white fangs bursting from black gums and eyes like wells of darkness. The priest is a wight? she gasped in dismay. How?

She had no more time for curses as the wight leapt after her with impossible speed. Wyn flung herself to the side, away from the hiss of black talons rending the air behind her. Another twist away, and another, then Wyn planted one boot and instantly darted toward the wight priest. Her blade sliced across the wight’s face, and the knife’s point snagged on the creature’s ridged cheek then carved into its glistening, black eye. Wyn twisted her blade and felt steel grate against flesh as hard as bone. Then leather tore across her back and shoulder as the black claws caught her, and Wyn screamed as she was wrenched off her feet and hurled through the air.

She spun, straining to counter her headlong tumble. One boot touched the ground for an instant, then she hit hard in an explosion of mud. Her breath was driven from her lungs in a coughing grunt, and she had time for only one ragged gasp before the pale figure of the wight landed in a crouch over her, fangs bared. Wyn lashed out, and one leg whipped in a wide arc to impact against the wight’s knee, but the blow had as much effect as if she had kicked a tree. The wight bent over her, and she squirmed backward and jammed a boot against its chest. Her leg shuddered as she strained against its strength.

The creature grabbed her ankle, wrenched her leg aside, then used it to drag her as she tried to crawl away. Her knife jabbed fiercely into the underside of the wight’s arm as it pulled her close, but her scream of defiance choked off as its hand closed around her neck. She pulled desperately at its long, pale fingers as it raised her into the air. Her legs thrashed as she kicked and struggled against the wight’s unyielding strength. Blood bubbled between her teeth as a gasp was squeezed from her throat.

The wight’s fangs parted slightly, as if it were tasting her fear and pain, and its head twisted, like a lizard examining its prey. Wyn saw pale scars etched into the wight’s skin, jagged patterns that covered its face and skull, like the twisted marks that she had seen carved into the stone of the skin thief’s chamber, and those that had decorated the altars in the catacombs.

She thrashed wildly and wrapped her legs around the wight priest’s arm, straining to break free as she hurled her strength and weight against the limb, desperate to hear the grinding snap of its trapped elbow.

But the wight only hissed at her and squeezed tighter, and Wyn felt her breath choke off. Smothering darkness gathered around her sight, and her limbs grew heavy as if she fought against thick mud instead of air.

Then the wight was moving. The portal throbbed with cold as they approached, and tentacles of Shadow coiled toward them as if eager for the last dregs of her warmth. Wyn tried to kick, to stab, but she could not tell if her limbs had moved. She could only feel the desperate fire in her chest as she strained to breathe. The wight priest halted a dozen strides from the hole and thrust Wyn toward it. A piercing shriek ripped between its fangs as it called to its masters.

Wyn heard the cry as if from another world, distant and muffled. The tearing pain of the wight’s grasp around her throat receded into a dull fog that smothered the desperate agony in her chest. She fought to keep her eyes open and defy the endless darkness that awaited her. But with every labored heartbeat, that grueling task threatened to overwhelm her.

A touch brushed against her cheek, dark and ancient as the deepest caverns, colder than ice, the breath of a yawning well. Her legs spasmed, jerking like lead weights against the wight’s grip as she tried to flinch away, but the touch returned. A tendril of Shadow slid across her lips and past her bared teeth, and her back arched in agony as it coiled down her throat, seeking her heart.

Then she was falling. She caught a glimpse of the wight priest, reeling away, the stump of its arm spewing black blood. A lean, tall figure in grey chased after it, his sword a silver blur as it sliced across the wight’s skin, splitting it open in long, scything lines.

Her legs buckled as they hit the ground and she collapsed onto her side. Her fingers plucked weakly at the wight priest’s hand, which still gripped her throat like a vice.

Then a small figure crouched over her, his robes ragged and twisted, his beads and charms and necklaces swinging wildly beneath him. Lightning flared and revealed a spiderweb of deep crevices and dark ink across his ebony skin as he yanked the wight’s hand free and tossed it aside, but Wyn could not thank him. The numbing cold of the Shadow had filled her throat and was spreading through her like acid, searing her veins and infiltrating her bones.

She clutched at Karsha’s arms in desperation and the little wizard snatched an amulet from its chord. He barked a dozen words in a language that knew nothing of endless cold and darkness, then bent his face to hers, his wrinkled lips puckered as he inhaled forcefully.

Wyn choked as she felt the Shadow wrench toward her mouth. Karsha sucked again, and Wyn retched as the Shadow was ripped from her. Darkness spewed from her mouth and streamed toward Karsha’s face, but the wizard jerked away and clamped his hands around it. With a scowl of distaste, he twisted away and blew savagely across his palms, and the Shadow whirled away like dust.

“Maker…” Wyn sobbed. Her throat was filled with razor blades, sharp against her raw flesh, and her chest shuddered as she gulped great draughts of air.

“It is gone, it is gone,” Karsha soothed her, his voice the creak of sheltering branches in a storm.

Karsha helped Wyn to her feet. A few strides away, Killock finished the wight priest with a savage blow from his sword, and the Gravewarden’s runes along its blade trailed seething smoke as it drove through the priest’s chest. Killock wrenched the sword free and joined Wyn and Karsha, and his grey gaze lingered on Wyn’s face in concern.

“I can fight,” she assured him in a thin, cracked voice.

“We do not have much time,” Karsha announced, and Wyn followed his gaze past her shoulder and felt what strength survived in her wash away, leaving only exhaustion and pain.

The six remaining wight priests still stood in their circle, feeding Shadow into the writhing fissure in the air, seemingly unaffected by the loss of one of their number. The portal had almost recovered from disgorging the shade and had widened once more into a gaping wound. Wyn could clearly see the vast cavern beyond the portal, and gasped as a tall shape pressed forward, its bloody gaze blazing beneath its cowl.

“It’s happening,” Wyn gasped. “It’s coming through!”

“The priests?” Killock asked, already striding toward the closest.

“Yes!” Karsha replied.

“They wake up when you poke them,” Wyn warned.

Killock nodded grimly, drew back his sword, and struck. The blade scythed through the wight priest’s neck and black blood sprayed into the storm as the creature spasmed and collapsed. The coil of Shadow the priest had controlled writhed for a moment and then blew apart on the wind.

“Hurry,” Wyn begged.

A second priest fell to Killock’s blade, but the magus was at the portal, filling it as Shadow swirled around its shoulders. Killock lunged and took a third priest between its shoulders, and the wight shrieked and clawed at the shaft of steel thrusting from its chest before it collapsed.

The magus’s spiked helm thrust through the portal. Shadow streamed around it as its gaze found the figures scattered before it, and its steel-gauntleted fingers curled around the long hilt of the sword at its side.

Karsha wrenched a silver charm from its chain and thrust it skyward in his fist, calling out to the storm. Wyn cringed as lightning crackled from the clouds to his fist and she saw him stagger. The wind shrieked like the call of a hawk and suddenly veered toward one of the priests. Wyn saw figures within the gale, with lean limbs and cruel talons, and the wight priest thrashed as its pale skin ripped apart.

But still two priests remained. One stood on either side of the portal, well within reach of the magus’s great sword, and the tendrils of Shadow coiling from them fed the cloak that swirled around their master.

Killock charged the priest on the left, and the magus’s sword scraped free from its sheath as its master raised its ancient length.

Then with a harsh cry Bran flashed through the air and slammed into the magus’s helm. The raven’s talons raked across the steel and found gaps to the black skin within, and his wings thrashed as he struck and tore.

The magus reared back and Shadow boiled around it, but in the moment of its distraction, Killock’s blade sighed through a deadly arc and a wight priest’s head tumbled to the ground.

Wyn darted forward, racing toward the other priest. Bran wrenched away from the magus, chased by tendrils of Shadow, while the black blade rose high over Killock’s head. But the templar did not raise his own sword. Instead, he stepped back and tossed his blade in a high arc, and its steel caught flashes of lightning as it spun against the dark clouds.

Wyn leapt to meet it. The hilt smacked into her palm and she clutched it with desperate strength as she twisted in the air. Rain sang from the blade as she whirled, her arm extended, her back arched, every muscle a cord of rigid strain.

She landed with a sudden rush of motion, tumbled once, and came smoothly to her feet. Behind her, she heard the last priest’s body crumple to the ground, followed by the sodden thump of its head hitting the ground an instant later.

The last tendril of Shadow writhed away, and for a dreadful moment the portal shuddered but did not close. Then a cry of rage reverberated from the magus as the portal convulsed, and Wyn watched the magus rip apart. Armor shrieked as it shattered, and threads of Shadow stretched between cleaved flesh before bursting like tendon torn from bone. The air boiled with blood, then, with a sound like a great rending of rotten wood, the portal whirled into nothingness and the shattered armor of the magus tumbled to the ground.

Danielle fell toward the shade’s bloody gaze, or perhaps was lifted toward it, for she could no longer tell where the ground lay or the winds howled, only that the endless Shadow of the Abyss awaited her. She heard her own name wailed in the recesses of her mind, pleading for release, but her thoughts were too slow to respond, too numb to form the shining patterns that the voice demanded.

The baleful glare of the shade drew closer still as the last warmth fled her body, until it was all that remained aside from eternal black. But then the gaze wavered and slid away from Danielle, its attention drawn to some place far away. Danielle felt the Shadows that bound her tremble like strings struck a distant blow, and their grip weakened. Wind whipped her hair and rain stung her cheek, and she felt the ooze of mud against her knees.

“No!” The shade’s voice grated against her spine, harsh with fury at whatever distant vision had captured its gaze.

Danielle breathed deep and filled her chest with the scent of earth and rain. Somewhere deep inside she had made her decision, and stinging fire washed through her limbs with that realization. Her heart raced unevenly, as if desperate to escape her body.

“Wyn, I am sorry,” Danielle forced out in a strained whisper. Her fingers trembled around the Blade’s hilt, but her thoughts were calm and clear, as if only her body were afraid.

Danu, she whispered. It is time.

She felt the shade’s glare return to her in a rush, and its tendrils of Shadow writhed back to life and coiled around her.

And deep in Danielle’s thoughts, another voice called a greeting, a cry of reunion that blazed into a fiery Word, a song of Flame that roared to meet the Shadow.

Danielle’s voice resonated with the song and the air shook from the impact of her Word. Deep within the Martyr’s Blade, intricate bindings opened wide and unleashed a torrent of fire. Delicate patterns of metal channeled the flood, twisting and shaping it, and Danielle gasped as her Word stoked the flames, sculpting it into new streams that coursed through the Guild’s arcane structures, amplifying the blaze until the surrounding steel groaned in torment.

Burn! Danu’s cry reverberated in her mind, a song of yearning that strained against Danielle’s Word with the raging heat of a crucible.

“Burn!” she screamed in despair, and her Word released the last of the sword’s bindings and freed the inferno she had crafted. The Blade tolled as if a great bell had been struck, and the air around her warped and bowed in a wave that flattened grass and vaporized rain. Radiant glyphs seared across the surface of the steel, and with a keening wail the Blade erupted. Fire twisted and leapt skyward in a vortex of flame, golden glory to rival the sun, an eruption so fierce that the cold tendrils of Shadow boiled beneath its touch and the shade recoiled.

“Is it dead?” Wyn asked wildly, her gaze frantically searching the darkness for the blood-soaked gaze of the magus. It lurked in her thoughts like the echoes of a nightmare, causing her to startle at every moan of wind and spatter of rain.

“I hope so,” Killock replied. He hugged Wyn close, and she did not protest the buckles of his armor pressing into her cheek, nor the groan of her ribs beneath his embrace.

“Thank the Maker,” Wyn mumbled against Killock’s chest. She sagged for a moment, held up only by the strength of his arms.

“If it is not, it has been banished back to its lair,” Karsha croaked. He clambered back to his feet and swayed unsteadily, opened his fist, and let a swirl of ash blow free.

Wyn’s entire body ached, exhaustion and pain competing to see which could overwhelm her first. But she allowed herself only a moment to enjoy the magus’s defeat, for their victory had not soothed away the dread that still surged in her stomach.

She pushed free and handed the heavy sword back to Killock, her lips already set in a fierce line.

“Come on, there’s still the shade out there, and Dani’s on her own.”

Killock nodded silently and glanced toward the looming mass of the hill behind them, its top still masked by heavy clouds. “It’s a long way back up.”

“Then we’d best get started,” Wyn replied.

“The gods can carry you there,” Karsha declared hoarsely. He clutched a ragged chain of wilted flower stems in his hand, held like a battle standard against the night.

“Are you certain?” Killock asked.

“Yes, hurry,” Karsha replied. His hand trembled as his boney fingers gripped Wyn’s shoulder, and his skin had turned grey beneath its rich mahogany. He muttered in a guttural tongue, and Wyn gasped as the world wrenched aside and she tumbled onto the hilltop.

Flame danced along Danielle’s arm and licked at her face, and she heard her cry of agony above the roar of the Blade. But she clung to her Word despite the pain and strained to control the wild inferno as it raged against the abyssal Shadow.

“Worm!” The voice smoldered with molten venom as it addressed the shade, and Danielle felt Danu’s presence swell against her Word like liquid steel poured from a crucible. “I see you have fashioned a cloak from my brother’s Shadow. Where is he?”

The shade writhed as the inferno embraced it, and a howl of dismay screeched into the sky. It thrashed and tore its Shadow into thin tendrils that squirmed to be free, but none could escape.

“Where have you bound him?” Danu demanded. Danielle could see her now, a woman clothed in fire, her voice the blaze of a furnace, her skin incandescent as the sun. Heat flared from her, turning grass to embers and mud to cracked earth in an instant. The storm recoiled as its winds were sucked inward to feed her flame, its clouds bathed red and orange as they trembled and fled.

Danielle’s Word was in tatters, the last shreds of control turning to ash even as she wove new patterns, desperate threads that caused the Blade’s steel to groan and shudder as the Guild’s ancient work strove to rein in the torrent of Danu’s strength.

The shade shrieked its last and burned away in a gout of violet flame that swirled for a moment and vanished. Danu stared at her empty hands for a moment in silence, then threw back her head and screamed in fury.

“Brother!” Her voice rose on a firestorm that towered over the hill. “Brother!”

Danielle flinched away as the inferno surrounded her. She felt an instant of blistering pain that sucked her breath from her lungs, but just as quickly the agony passed and Danielle felt Danu’s fire filling her, and ecstasy sang along every nerve and vein. The violation terrified her, for the torrent rushing into her was endless beyond imagining, and yet she felt her body and mind cry out in welcome, as if some forgotten essence had been restored.

As she staggered, bewildering visions twisted the foundation of earth and sky. Danielle stood both on top of Tuireadh Cnoc and at the bottom of a barren, cliff-sided valley at the same instant, at one moment facing Danu’s raging fire and the next, terrifying figures cloaked in Shadow.

Danielle groaned as she forced the fire away, drawing its threads from her like clinging roots. She screamed as the last of the torrent was willed away, an animal sound of pain and loss as the Flame’s touch flared from ecstasy to agony in an instant.

She coughed and gasped for breath, and the stink of charred flesh seared her throat. Her hands were cradled in front of her, fingers curled protectively, and burned skin twisted around her arms in long swirls of red and black that traced where the fire had licked at her. She could feel the terrible heat of more burns writhing across her back and legs.

Danielle sobbed as the agony of her burns flared, and she wondered how long she could bear the torment before it overwhelmed her. Not long, she knew. Her thoughts were already sliding away from the pain, searching for the relief of insensate darkness.

Danu’s outstretched hands slowly dropped to her sides. She turned her fiery gaze to Danielle and stepped nearer. Bright Flame trailed from her skin like gossamer fabric, billowing in an unfelt breeze, and wisps of fire curled between the goddess’s lips with every word, licked across her cheeks, and into her hair. The goddess was as beautiful and terrifying as her image in Danielle’s dreams, her eyes pools of molten metal, her skin the sun as it climbed over the horizon. Her gaze was level with Danielle’s, yet Danielle could sense Danu’s true size beyond that gaze, her arms spread as wide and her crown as tall as the sky.

Danu glided closer and her bare feet left bright footprints that flared and reluctantly dimmed to smoldering coals as she passed.

Danielle forced her gaze to meet Danu’s, the only defiance left to her. The goddess stood within arm’s reach and her cloak of Flame spread like great wings behind her.

“Bronwyn, release me,” Danu said, and now her voice was the warm rush of dawn over the darkened world. “You have served your sentence, sacrificed enough. You may join me, if you wish, and dwell within the Flame for eternity. Do not destroy yourself. Not again.”

Danielle’s breath caught as sudden hope flooded her, as if cool water had sluiced through her veins. Release her? She broke my Word, she is free already. What can she mean? Is she bound in some manner that I cannot perceive? She thinks that I am the Martyr…

Danu raised a hand and stroked Danielle’s cheek with the back of one finger, and her tears boiled away in a flash. But Danielle felt no pain from the touch, only the sensation of Danu’s heat once more entering her in a terrifying rush. Danielle swayed as she again teetered on the edge between two worlds, impossibly merged, ancient cnoc imposed atop jagged valley, Flame and Shadow intermingled. Danielle recoiled from and embraced the torrent without thought or volition, welcoming it like an indrawn breath, yet horrified, as if that breath were the last fatal convulsion of a drowning body.

Danu pulled her hand quickly away, and held it motionless for a moment, as if considering whether a thoughtless brush against a thorn would swell to pain as Danielle’s vision of conflicting worlds faded. What is happening to me?

Danu’s raised fingers curled into a fist, and her gaze returned to Danielle’s, and for the first time Danielle saw joy shape the goddess’s features. “Bronwyn, I am free,” she said tentatively, as if shocked. “How has this happened? Is this your doing?”

I was right, Danielle realized, though the thought brought only bitterness. Danu was bound to the Martyr in some way. Ruric must have separated them when he created the Blade. The last remnants of her Word pulsed weakly in the deepest recesses of her mind, but it gave her little hope. Perhaps if I were Ruric, I might succeed in the same way.

As Danielle’s gaze rested for a moment on the hilt of the Martyr’s Blade, her thoughts turned once again to her ancestor, and a vision of the Martyr’s shrine in Cionaodh’s Crossing appeared, the stone face serene as she faced her doom. You stood, as I do, with this Blade in your hand, and faced the Shadow. How did you wield it without losing control of Danu?

Danu had turned away from Danielle as she reveled in her surprising freedom, and a cry of triumph burst from her lips as her Flame spread across the hillside. Wherever it touched, the land was melted and re-forged, as if it were poured metal with no mold to contain it, new forms bursting free only to be immediately consumed, endless creation with no culmination. The air was torn as Danu’s Flame rushed into the sky in a vast, twisting column, wind and storm shrieking as they were dragged into the maelstrom to be transformed in the crucible, forged into transitory shapes as beautiful and terrible as the goddess who molded them. The ground trembled as the side of the great cnoc began to collapse, drawn into the liquid heart of the blaze like sand falling into a pit.

And when Danu’s regard returned to Danielle, she saw no pity in the goddess’s molten gaze, only the cruel satisfaction of a predator with its prey beneath its talons.

“Where is my brother?” Her Flame spread once more into wings whose span would rival a dragon’s, and she reached toward Danielle. “Where has the Worm taken him?”

“I will not tell you,” Danielle replied. She dragged the point of the Blade free from the charred ground and raised it, its fire no more than a pale flicker. The pattern of her Word quivered as her mind gripped it and she closed one of its bindings. She could feel the Word singing with the immense strain of attempting to control Danu, like threads pulled taut against a weight. Yet, from that beginning, Danielle knew that she must somehow craft steel cables with the strength to rein Danu in. “I will not help you to usher in this terrible world that you desire.”

Danielle closed another binding. The great Blade trembled in her grip and a rending moan echoed from its depths. You were made to control her fire! Danielle begged the ancient Weapon. A dozen bindings remained, and already Danu’s strength felt like the weight of a mountain against Danielle’s Word.

Danu laughed, a frenzy of sound that snapped and roared beyond control. “How so? With these threads?” The goddess raised her hand and a single spark danced on her fingertips like sunlight, as pure as gold. The Flame was no larger than a candle’s, yet Danielle’s Word could not contain it, as its innocent form concealed the immense branches of the tree of fire, as vast as the sky. The Word’s patterns tore from her mind’s grasp in tatters as it failed, flaring purple as they died.

Danielle cried out in despair. I am a fool. She only plays with me, Danielle realized bitterly. The Blade’s weight dragged its point to the ground, suddenly too heavy for her arms to bear. There is no hope.

Wyn forced herself to her feet as the world spiraled around her and her stomach heaved. She shoved her dripping hair from her face, and peered anxiously into the storm. Boiling clouds and squalls of rain obscured the northern edge of the hilltop, and thick fog streamed in the wind.

Then light flared within the maelstrom, licking against the clouds.

“Come on, then,” Wyn urged. “Dani’s still out there.”

Killock drew in breath to reply, and glanced southward, toward the inner ring of stones, and Wyn thought he might insist they retreat to its promised safety. But when he faced her again, he simply nodded and said, “Let’s hurry.”

Yet Wyn hesitated, for the knight’s face was strangely drawn, as if a desperate agony had afflicted him in the instant before he spoke. Sudden fear twisted in her chest, and she almost reached for Killock’s hand, perhaps to steady herself, or perhaps to comfort him, she could not tell. But in the next moment, there was only grim purpose in his gaze, hard as stone, and she wondered if some trick of darkness and lightning had deceived her.

Wyn swallowed against the tightness in her throat and hefted her knife to feel its reassuring weight. Then they began to run, forcing their way against the moaning gale toward the pulsing dawn of fiery light. The stones of the outer henge lunged at her from the darkness as she raced along the hill’s lip, marking her agonizingly slow progress like the crawl of a shadow around a sun dial.

Then the concealing curtain of night was burned away as a pillar of fire erupted before her. At the base, Wyn saw a figure wreathed in fire, as glorious as the dawn, and for a moment her heart sang with the certain knowledge that it was Danielle she saw, bathed in the blaze of her triumph as Wyn had seen her in the catacombs.

Then the figure turned, and Wyn knew it was not Danielle. The woman’s beauty was twisted by a cruel delight as she stoked the inferno in her hands, and Wyn realized that she knew her.

Danu!

Wyn shielded her eyes from the glare as she staggered to a halt. Even at a distance, the heat felt like the mouth of a kiln against her skin, causing her to flinch away.

“It’s her, it’s Danu!” she shouted to Killock. “She’s free somehow! What the fuck do we do?”

“I…” Killock replied, and then he stopped, and in his silence Wyn felt a terrible coil of dread pull tight around her heart. She followed his gaze past the blazing form of Danu and watched a small figure raise her arm against the inferno, and in her hand was a splinter of sunlight in the shape of a Blade.

“No! Dani, no!” Wyn screamed, and she lunged forward, but Killock moved faster and pulled her back, grappling her off her feet. Wyn thrashed and twisted within his steel grasp, straining against him, her legs churning in the air.

“Let me go!” she screamed. Tendons strained like taut cables as she pried desperately at Killock’s unyielding arms.

“No, Wyn,” Killock groaned, “she’ll kill you!”

“Dani!” Wyn shrieked. She lunged savagely, felt his hold slip against her rain-slick skin, and suddenly she was squirming free as cloth tore and Killock clutched futilely after her.

Wyn’s boots found the soft dirt and she leapt forward, darting instinctively away as Killock’s fingers clutched at her shoulder. Billowing fire shook crazily as she plunged across the blasted field, but its roar was lost beneath the pounding of her heart in her ears.

The distance shrank with agonizing slowness. Wyn’s legs burned as she hurled herself forward, every muscle screaming to cross the final distance, so she could fling herself between the battered figure on her knees and the Flame-cloaked goddess standing over her. She slid beneath the raging fire and hurled herself onto Danielle. Heat licked against her, and then they were tumbling, hard steel and soft earth pummeling her in a bewildering assault until Wyn curled her shoulder and rolled into a crouch.

Danu stood a short distance beyond the Martyr’s Blade, abandoned where Danielle had dropped it. An eruption of Flame surrounded her, its heat blistering as it leapt eagerly higher. The wind howled as it was drawn into the inferno and the storm clouds writhed as they were painted bronze by its blaze.

Beside Wyn, Danielle struggled onto her hands and knees. The white enamel of Saint Rowenna’s armor was scorched by fire and fouled by mud, and she strained against its dead weight, unable to gather the strength to rise. For a moment, Danielle’s gaze found Wyn’s, and Danielle’s eyes widened in bewildered joy.

“Wyn?” Danielle whispered.

“Don’t worry,” Wyn reassured her, though Wyn’s voice trembled with fear.

Then Danielle’s gaze was drawn past Wyn’s shoulder, and Wyn saw hope consumed by despair in an instant.

“Wyn, run,” Danielle begged.

Wyn tore her gaze away from the desperate fear in Danielle’s eyes and turned toward the searing heat that raged against her back. Tendrils of fire curled over her, and she felt the breath of the inferno as it spread above her like a searing wave, as she strained against every instinct to flinch away. Instead, she stepped between Danielle and the goddess, her chin raised defiantly as she sheltered the figure kneeling at her feet.

“Little spark,” Danu greeted her. “Do you wish for your reward? Tell me where my brother is, and you shall have it.”

“Swear you’ll leave her alone,” Wyn shouted back. “Swear you will leave her alone, and I’ll tell you.”

“I swear it,” Danu replied instantly. “My Flame will not touch her.”

“Wyn, NO!” Danielle screamed, her voice flayed and torn.

Wyn’s every heartbeat surged through her, throbbing in her throat, her limbs, in a blaze that rivaled the heat of the pillar of fire that rose above the hilltop. She drew in breath to speak, fighting against a throat locked in terror. And then a great Word bellowed beside her with such force that the ground shook and Danu’s Flame wavered like cloth in a gale. The Word knocked Wyn aside, and fire and darkness whirled as she sprawled across the ground.

Killock watched Wyn tumble away from Danu, and his chest shuddered as he drew in a breath ragged with the sudden release of desperate fear. He turned quickly aside, for he could already feel the endless heat of the goddess’s inferno rushing to engulf him.

“I know you,” Danu greeted him. “I see you, Atiri akta kai, no matter what form you take. What are you doing?”

Too late, he thought with grim satisfaction. He stepped forward and took up the Blade in one swift movement, before the fire could turn his will to ash. Danielle’s Word roared in welcome as his mind filled it, and its tortured patterns flared like liquid steel as he raised the Blade defiantly against the pillar of fire looming over him.

He heard a howling shriek as the Blade tore Danu’s wings into tattered threads that streamed to surround its shining steel, and the goddess recoiled.

“You cannot hold me!” Danu raged. “That power is not yours to wield, Wanderer!”

At her gesture, the ground surrounding Killock erupted, a geyser of molten rock that ignited the air in a furious bellow. The Blade’s Word trembled under the impact, but his will held with steel strength against the surge for a moment before Danu’s strength began to tear it free.

Danielle gasped in shock as her Word was resurrected. The patterns shone like spun silver, brighter and stronger than she had thought possible, as Killock’s will flowed through them. His strength was ancient, raw like the bedrock beneath the mountains, a pillar that could hold the sky, and for a moment she believed it could have no rival. She watched his first blow with the Weapon cut a terrible wound through Danu’s fiery wings and cried out with desperate hope.

But in the next instant, that hope withered to ash. Through her Word, she felt the fury of Danu’s counter against Killock’s mind and knew that only his feral determination kept the Word’s grip around Danu’s thrashing strength.

Help him! she commanded her stunned and wounded body, and she lurched to her feet. Yet, once standing, she was faced with only bitter choices. Join him, though I fear even our combined strength could not bind her? Or…

Her thoughts raced wildly. Danu thinks that I am Bronwyn, is there enough of her blood remaining in my veins to restore the bond that they once had? The bond that Danu begged me to sever?

“No!” Wyn’s scream was ragged with despair as she gazed in horror at the inferno surrounding Killock. “Maker, please, no!”

Danielle felt a dreadful heat throb to life in her throat and chest, as if her heart threatened to burst.

“Forgive me, my love,” Danielle told her, and Wyn turned to her with bewildered anguish carved into every line of her face. “I must try.”

Danielle turned away from her emerald gaze before the agony in her eyes could wither Danielle’s will and strode into the firestorm that surrounded Danu. Fire licked greedily at her and steel glowed red, then yellow against her limbs, but the Flame did not harm her. Instead, it flowed into her, roaring through her veins, filling her with its raging heat. She did not resist its invasion but opened herself to it.

Danu was not aware of her approach, as she wrestled furiously to free herself from the Blade’s Word. One moment more, Danielle begged Killock. Give me that chance.

“You cannot hold me, Atiri.” Danu’s voice hissed like sap boiling from a blazing tree. “Even the Maker’s child could not.”

Killock’s jaw locked in a growl of defiance as he refused to release the Blade’s hold on Danu. He fought instinctively, the Word’s patterns flickering and rupturing too quickly for thought, and held her for another eternal moment. Then, beyond the Word, beyond Danu’s light, he saw a tall figure step to Danu’s side, her arms outstretched, as if to embrace the goddess.

“I do not have to,” he gasped.

Then the Guild’s ancient metalwork succumbed at last, torn between two undeniable strengths. Within the Blade’s shell, metal threads charred to ash and intricate patterns melted, and Killock staggered and dropped to his knees as Danu’s Flame licked up his arms and engulfed him. His skin blackened and then burned away. He gasped with pain and the fire rushed into his lungs with his breath and filled him with its merciless heat.

But Killock knew only that the agony of his body was at last burning away, and he could no longer hear the exultation of the Flame nor see its light. In their place, the scents of the vast forest swirled against him, earth and leaf, and he heard the voices of tree and stone, wind and stream call to him, welcoming him home.

His form was gone, and with it pain and fear, and he raised his head to the sky and howled as he leapt to rejoin his kin.

Danielle did not hesitate as she reached Danu’s side. She reached out and brushed her fingertips against the goddess’s cheeks, gentle as a caress. Danu turned to her, startled, as Danielle’s fingers curled behind her head, holding her so that their gazes met, their faces barely a hand’s-breadth apart.

Danielle felt the goddess’s breath against her lips, blistering heat that should have reduced skin to charred ash, but she welcomed it, inhaled it deep, and felt searing pain transform to rapture as the Song of Flame filled her. It coursed into every part of her being, body and mind, burning away thought.

Visions assailed her, brighter and more vivid than her senses. The deep valley, now filled with the charnel remains of a slaughtered army. An armored giant, as tall as a tree, with eyes like pearls. Figures of Shadow, fleeing as their dark cloaks burned away. And she saw another figure, with alabaster skin as lifeless as stone, who held raging Flame and seething Shadow in its hands. It stood over her, as if she lay on the ground, her head cushioned against someone’s legs, and as it met her gaze, the figure bowed to her.

But sharper than all, she saw eyes as grey and cool as morning mist, surrounded by skin burned brown by the sun, and felt the ache of desperate love call to her. For a moment, she wondered why the gaze was grey, not emerald green, and she felt a pain as sharp as fresh grief. But that bereavement passed quickly, fading like a dream, a cry that grew fainter than a passing echo.

Her vision was interrupted by a woman who clutched at her wrists, her golden skin marking her as surely as the Flame that snapped and writhed around her. Danu called her name and begged for freedom, but she ignored the goddess’s pleas. The Song of Flame poured into her, filled her with immortal strength that pulsed within her, an eternal rhythm that drowned out her heart, as familiar as the change of night into day.

Then Danu was gone, and she inhaled the last of the Song with her final breath. The Song blazed against the inside of her skin, and she stumbled, overwhelmed by its return to her.

She stared around, confused by the sight of the battered hillside upon which she stood and the heavy clouds that swirled above her, appallingly different from what should be her surrounds. Hands gripped her and a woman’s voice called her by a strange name, but she could not respond. The ground swayed and darkness rushed in to shroud her vision, and then all was gone.

Blame

Mist filled the valley of Tuireadh Cnoc under low clouds the color of slate. It lingered over the meadows, clung to the slopes of the wounded hill, and wept on the sodden canvas of hundreds of tents that spread across the valley floor. Drooping pennants barely stirred as the white smoke of cooking fires struggled to join the haze, and the low murmur of voices was smothered.

The healers’ tents were set up on the southern side of the valley, far from the brooding hill where their occupants had fought and been injured, and far from the charnel pits to the east where the corpses of the husks still smoldered. At the end of one tent, a single bed was set behind a canvas screen. A small figure slumped silently on a stool next to the bed, her cloak wrapped tightly around her. A cot had been set nearby for her, but it had not been used, and the blankets remained in the tidy, folded pile that an acolyte had delivered on the first day the patient had been brought to the tent. Since that time, Wyn had hardly shifted on the stool, save to glare fiercely from blood-shot eyes at the healers who came to hover and mutter and shake their heads in bafflement before departing. Only then would her gaze return to the woman in the bed.

Danielle’s hair was an ink-black cloud against the pillow, her face serene and lovely as a statue in repose. The skin of her arms and neck and cheek was almost flawless, with only the faintest shimmer to mark where horrific burns had licked across her only days ago, as if her skin had captured the twisted shape of the flames that had harmed her.

But no gentle breath stirred the blankets that draped over her chest. No pulse throbbed beneath the delicate skin below her jaw.

Wyn stretched one arm free from her huddled cloak and gripped Danielle’s hand, where it rested on top of her blankets. As always, there was no response, no return grip, just the fierce glow of heat, as if fever raged in her flesh, that Wyn desperately believed meant that Danielle still lived.

“Dani, I…” Wyn swallowed heavily to clear the tightness in her throat, but her voice caught, and she could not continue.

What does it matter? Wyn thought miserably. You don’t know what to say, anyway.

Danielle had not stirred at the sound of Wyn’s voice, and Wyn had not expected her to. One of the healers had told Wyn to talk to Danielle, that her voice might help guide Danielle back from whatever realm her mind had retreated to, but that hope had faded as the days passed, with nothing to replace it.

“Any change?” a voice asked from the edge of the screen.

Wyn glanced in that direction but did not bother to lift her head from where it rested on her outflung arm.

“No. She’s still asleep.”

Cormac limped to the edge of the bed and stood next to Wyn, the creak and thump of his crutches loud against the tent’s strained silence. Wyn heard the soldier breathe in deeply and then exhale in a long sigh.

“Maker, the burns are completely healed,” Cormac said softly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That’s what the healers say, every time they come in,” Wyn muttered. “Like a bunch of bloody vultures, they are.”

“Vultures don’t help the wounded.”

Wyn snorted her contempt. “They didn’t do anything but stare and poke and prod. It was Dani, she healed herself, somehow…” Wyn’s voice choked into a sob, and she ground her palms into her eyes as fresh misery seemed to melt her resolve.

“You should get some sleep,” Cormac told her.

“I’m not leaving her,” Wyn snapped. Her fingers curled around Danielle’s protectively.

“You’ll be right there,” Cormac insisted, as he pointed at the cot. “I can watch her. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

“No.” Wyn’s gaze returned to its vigil. “Anyway, you have Eilidh to look after.”

“Aye,” Cormac agreed, though he did not shift to leave. “Eilidh doesn’t need looking after, she were clear on that point, and I’m eager to let the healers have that argument with her, to tell the truth.”

Wyn nodded absently. “Good.”

“Which means it’s no bother to stay.”

“They keep saying there’s naught to be done,” Wyn said hopelessly. “No heartbeat, no breath, it don’t matter whether the burns are gone.”

“They don’t know what’s happening, any more than we do,” Cormac comforted her. “It might be that she’s just waiting until her body’s done healing.”

Those were the words that Wyn desperately wanted to hear. The terrible ache of misery and loneliness in her chest swelled and pressed the breath from her lungs so that when she spoke, the words were barely more than a gasp.

“I just want her back. I’d do anything, but I don’t know what. Useless, just like I was… then… when it, happened. Too slow, too fucking slow, and then he…”

She could not say his name. Despair choked her if her thoughts merely grazed against it, as sharp as if she still knelt in the fire-blackened grass on the top of Tuireadh Cnoc as she screamed in helpless, endless agony. She could feel that searing wail rising from her heart even now.

“I failed her, just like I… like I killed…”

“You didn’t do that.”

A sound came from Wyn’s throat, a sob of pain an animal might make.

“You weren’t there.” She forced the words out. “You didn’t see.”

“I heard what you told us. Did you lie?”

“No, but—”

“Then I know enough. Sir Killock died to defeat Danu, and he died a hero.”

“He died to save me!” The words came in a bitter rush now, a torrent of recrimination. “If I hadn’t run out there, he never, never, would have—”

“Wyn, the Crunorix attacked us. They’re to blame, not you.”

“I know that, but I should have been faster. All I wanted was that she wouldn’t be hurt, and instead he… instead he died, because of me.” Wyn wiped uselessly at the tears streaming from her eyes.

“Wyn…” Cormac’s hand rested on her shoulder, a warm comfort that almost broke Wyn’s last reserve. “Wyn, I know you don’t want to hear this, but listen. He didn’t die for you. He fought for you, same as you fought for him. He fought for all of us, to keep us all safe. Just like she did.”

“Why are you making this harder than it already is? You enjoying this?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re wrong.” He squeezed her shoulder, then departed, the thump of his crutches fading, though his words would not.

Wyn wanted to be angry, to feel anything other than misery, but her rage sputtered and went out as quickly as it had flared, smothered by the aching pall of loneliness and grief that dragged at her. She wanted to scream, to hurl the searing pain that stabbed her heart into the world, but no sound emerged from her aching throat, and she clung helplessly to Danielle’s hand as sobs wracked her until she prayed for oblivion.

And when she was too exhausted to weep, her eyes at last closed, and she sank into the anguished dreams of fire and death that lurked behind her darkest thoughts.

Epilogue

Bran circled above Tuireadh Cnoc, a dark speck against the melancholy clouds. Beneath him, the massive stones of the inner henge were reduced by distance to grey blemishes against the hilltop, their true height revealed only by the length of their shadows. But Bran could hear the spirits awakening within the obelisks, their long slumber disturbed by Flame’s wrath and Shadow’s hunger, and he could feel the stir of their weight against the weathered stone of their ancient prisons.

His gaze turned northward and pierced cloud and distance to discover a forest whose limbs shook with the rumble of mailed boots and the shriek of metal as a river of steel-clad soldiers drove into an onrushing tide of Shadow. The trees groaned with tales of the blood which drowned their roots, and the wind mourned as it carried the stench of death from where steel and Shadow met.

Bran watched the farthest reach of the steel river, a narrow stream of silver that probed far beyond any other, approach a narrow valley from which the Shadow rushed in a torrent, a needle-tipped dagger poised to thrust toward the Shadow’s throat.

Farther north Bran dared not peer, as he hid from the crimson gaze that lurked beneath the mountains. Instead, he turned west and his sight skimmed across hills and rivers, past villages and farms, to the great city nestled in its long valley.

Here, fresh, snowy banners played above the towers that guarded the city, and balconies and windows streamed with bunting. Crowds thronged the streets, eager to cheer and wave and bells rang out in joyful commotion. The raven-haired Queen watched the city’s joy and Bran saw a long-absent smile part her lips.

But her gaze soon lifted to the silver citadel whose towers soared above the valley, and her smile vanished. For the citadel’s gates were closed and grim soldiers glared at the city from its walls, and the sigil of crowned swords still flew defiantly from its towers.

Bran tilted his wings, and now his dark gaze turned south, where banners bearing the mark of crowned swords also streamed boldly from the towers of a ringed city that still smoked with fresh wounds. As Bran watched, the city’s gates opened and a long serpent emerged, its scales fashioned of a thousand shields, its fangs a thousand spears, and its tongue fleet riders who raced outward, seeking its prey.

Beyond the city, Bran’s gaze streaked past a ragged, split-tooth mountain and across gentle, forested hills, until it reached a wide valley cut by the Grandfather of rivers. Here, a lean ship prowled, its foaming wake a white arrow across the river’s wind-whorled surface, loosed toward a grey hill on the shores of a wide lake.

Bran’s lazy orbit of Tuireadh Cnoc now brought him east of its crown and he soared over the broken hills and gnarled forest that crouched at the feet of grim mountains. He heard the reverberations of a voice beneath the mountains, so deep that its words were masked by the grumble of stone, and Bran could not tell their meaning. He croaked to himself in irritation and then flew eastward with the wind racing across his feathers as his powerful wings drove him toward the mountains.

But as he passed over the tangled foothills, he felt a whisper beneath the thick canopy of trees, a stir among the leaves as if they were disturbed by an unseen touch. Bran swerved and immediately chased after the whisper, but it was gone before he could reach the treetops, and he cawed angrily as he swooped from branch to branch, searching for the briefly felt presence that now eluded him.

He settled on the limb of an old elm and furiously groomed his feathers while he waited for another whisper, but none came, and eventually he flapped resentfully away, heading east once more.

A lean shadow watched Bran go and its grey gaze followed him until he disappeared into the mist. Only when the last sound of the raven’s distant cawing faded did it rise from concealment. The wolf’s black fur was frosted with dew and streaked with grey, and it padded soundlessly across the forest floor.

When it reached the tree that Bran had rested in, the wolf hesitated and turned its muzzle to find the scent of the great bird, and a low whine whispered from its throat. Then the wolf loped into the forest and vanished between one shadow and the next.

The End

Tales From the Martyr’s World

The Thief’s Tale

Winner of the 2019 IRDA Prize for Fantasy

Finalist for the 2020 Indie Book Awards Prize for Fantasy

When an audacious burglary goes spectacularly right, Wyn expects her young life to change for the better. Glorious infamy and the respect and adulation of her underworld brethren will, at least, buy her a few drinks, and just might convince the other thieving vermin to keep their knives to themselves for a while.

But when her new-found reputation attracts the worst kind of attention, she is forced to take on an impossible heist, working for a vicious killer named Quinn, a man she has feared and hated since she was an orphan fighting for food on the streets.

Faced with the destruction of everything that holds meaning to her, Wyn vows to pull the greatest job of all, to beat Quinn at his own brutal game.

Available Now

Tales From the Martyr’s World

The Artificer’s Tale

Rikard always dreamed of wielding one of the arcane Devices created by the enigmatic Guild of Artificers. Newly apprenticed into the Guild, he is now on the verge of mastering the closely-guarded secrets of creating the Devices.

But when one of the Guild’s most venerable Wards is mysteriously activated, Rikard and his fellow apprentices are concerned. What ancient menace has returned a millennium after the Ward was created? Why are the Guild Grandmasters concealing the warning?

When Rikard and his friends find themselves in possession of a secret they never wanted, a dark truth hidden even from the Guild Masters, Rikard realizes their fate, and the fate of the Guild itself, rests in their hands.

Available Now

Books by Joel Manners

The Chronicles of the Martyr

The Martyr’s Blade

The Martyr’s Tears

The Martyr’s Blood

Tales From the Martyr’s World

The Thief’s Tale

The Artificer’s Tale

About the Author

Joel Manners has created rich worlds and memorable characters in video games for more than 30 years. He brings his talent for storytelling to the epic fantasy genre in his critically acclaimed series, The Chronicles of the Martyr. He lives in Austin, TX with his wife and two boys. And this bizarre cat his wife brought home, but honestly, she’s pretty sweet. The cat. His wife too. Although he suspects that might change if she sees this.

Connect with Me

www.joelmanners.com