Hinterland

A PARLEY AT THE BLACKHORSE

Kathryn shouldered the shutter closed against the gust of wind. She prayed no one on the daywatch stumbled past and noted that the shutter was unbarred on the inside. She had chosen the window because it was well hidden in a dark corner, near the cookery’s privy. None had noted as she slipped the bar and climbed out. She planned on returning to Tashijan as surreptitiously as she had left it.

If she was allowed to return…

She pictured the ilked wraith, hunched and brittle-winged.

And the offer.

Come alllone. To parlllley. In town. Blllackhorse tavernhouse.

Kathryn set out across the wintry yard. She was dressed in heavy woolens, feet pushed into furred boots. Over it all she wore her knight’s cloak. She had chosen this place in the yard to cross because it lay in the shadow of Stormwatch Tower, but the low cloud and gray day offered only meager shadows. She gathered what power she could into her cloak, fading her form. She did not want any of the guards from Stormwatch to note her departure.

Gerrod knew where she was headed. That was enough. She did not want all of Tashijan to know her folly. But with no word from Tylar, the safety of Tashijan remained her responsibility. While Argent might be content to burrow inside and shore up their defenses, Kathryn intended to discover what brewed beyond the curtain of this storm. If that meant meeting with Ulf of Ice Eyrie on his own terms, so be it. He had sworn her safety.

But was the word of this god to be trusted?

She gazed to the left, to the shield wall of Tashijan, a cliff of piled brick and stone. Beyond the top, the world swirled with ice fog and snow.

The storm waited.

And it would wait a little longer.

She trudged into the wind toward the stables. She noted the steam rising from the crossed thatching. The stableboys and horsemen must have stoked the hearths against the cold, not just for themselves but for their charges. She knew they had been offered shelter in the towers, but the stablemen would have had to abandon their horses.

Not a one had accepted the offer.

This warmed her more than her heavy woolens.

Kathryn also knew the men would remain silent about her trespass into the stables. They bore little love for the Fiery Cross, since a couple of the warden’s knights had switched a horse near to crippling it. She had already sent a raven down with a terse message, to ready a horse.

An eye keener than any guard noted her approach. The stable door creaked open. The stableboy, Mychall, bundled almost to obscurity under horse blankets, waved to her.

She hurried forward and pushed into the steamy warmth. The smell of patty and hay welcomed her. Only a single lamp was lit here, over by one stall. A shadowy form huffed and dug a hoof, recognizing her scent.

Mychall threw back his blankets. “Did you hear?” he asked breathlessly as he led her forward.

“Hear what?”

“Eventail threw her foal this morning. We was worried. She came close to colicking, back…” He waved an arm to indicate the past. “But she dropped a handsome little mare. Color of bitternut, with bright white stockings up to her fetlocks.”

“How wonderful,” she said, suddenly smiling. The warmth and the boy’s enthusiasm helped dispel the darkness around her heart. And the fact that life was born in the middle of the siege somehow gave her hope.

She was now doubly glad to have decided to fetch a horse for the short ride to the tavernhouse. Ulf’s emissary had not forbidden it. The snow had fallen thick. And the storm winds were not empty. In case it proved necessary, she wanted a means of fast travel.

Ahead, a taller man, Mychall’s father, stepped out of the hay crib, leading a piebald stallion, colored white and black, snow on stone. The boy circled the horse, mimicking his father’s inspection of the horse’s tack, hands on hips.

“All saddled, Castellan Vail,” the head of horses gruffed, plainly not pleased with her decision to ride in this storm. “Stoneheart has been grained this morning against the cold, so he should do you fine.”

“Thank you.”

Kathryn accepted the lead and ran a palm over the soft velvet of the stallion’s nose. He pushed against her, nuzzling, nostrils taking in her scent. Before Kathryn had risen to the hermitage, she had ridden the horse almost daily. But since then, her visits grew less and less frequent. And with the endless stretch of winter, it had become a rare pleasure.

For the both of them.

“I would be honored to attend you,” the horseman said. “I have another mount already saddled.”

She stepped away. “Better to keep the fires stoked here. We may need their warmth when we return.”

He nodded, offering no further argument. With Mychall’s help, they hauled the door wide enough for her to walk the horse out. They waited while she mounted.

She sank into the warm saddle and hugged her cold legs against Stoneheart’s flanks. Here was home as much as any hermitage.

At the door, the horseman’s eyes remained shadowed with worry. She knew it wasn’t just for the prized horseflesh under her. He simply nodded. No well wishes. No good-byes.

She preferred it.

Laying the reins across his neck, she turned the stallion toward the main gate through the shield wall. She found the way unmanned, cleared during the emptying of the town. Dismounting, she crossed to the small door in the main gate. Bars allowed a view of the parade grounds that lay between the town and the walls. Snow was piled knee-deep, untrammeled by footprints. The town lay shrouded in fog, more phantom than real.

Kathryn undid the thick latch and lifted yet another bar with a tremor of trepidation. Had that been the plan all along? To get her to unlock the gates and open an easy breach into the towers? She quickly squashed down that worry. Eylan had demonstrated the extent of Ulf’s might. He had breached their main gate, a door that had stood for centuries. If Ulf wanted to get inside, she doubted there was any way to stop him.

So why had the god hesitated these three long days?

It was one of the reasons she had set out alone. You could not defend what you didn’t understand.

Pulling open the door, she faced the full gale of the storm. It shoved against her and ripped her hood back. An icy hand slid down the back of her neck and cupped her buttocks, squeezing the air from her with its freezing touch. Swearing, she yanked her hood back up and hunched into the winds. She kept cursing as she walked the horse, using her anger to warm her.

Behind her, the gate door slammed a resounding bang, as if reprimanding her for her obscenities. Startled, she jumped a bit. Still, she heeded the warning and remounted without another word.

She guided Stoneheart across the frozen moat and into the stormswept fields. Here snow climbed into deeper drifts, requiring more plowing than stepping to cross the way. The stallion heaved, head low, breath blowing white.

She searched the skies, the gables of the first houses, the dark streets. She had heard the stories. The wind wraith at her balcony door was not the only one of its brethren out here. And what else might be hidden within the storm?

At last, they passed into the town and down a narrow street. The winds initially picked up, chasing them, scattering dry snow at their heels. Then deeper under eaves and overhanging dormers, the winds finally gave up their hunt and dribbled away. Snow still covered the streets, but most of the fall was piled high on roofs and sculpted by the winds into frozen waves at their edges.

She feared that even the muffled clop of Stoneheart’s walk might shake down an avalanche upon her. But worst yet, she heard the occasional creak of board and crunch of ice, reminding her that the town was shuttered and abandoned-but it was far from empty.

Still, she did not hesitate. She had committed to this parley, so she rattled her reins to keep the piebald stallion moving from shadow to shadow, turning corners and slipping down alleys.

Kathryn needed no directions. She knew the way to Blackhorse as well as any knight. The inn and tavernhouse had been a place for many a rowdy night and sour-stomached morning for most of Tashijan’s knights and a fair smattering of its masters.

But not this day.

She spotted the sign over the doorway, depicting a rearing dark stallion on a plain white board. Not exactly the most imaginative decoration for a tavernhouse named the Blackhorse, but customers weren’t attracted by the establishment’s imagination as much as by its cheap ale and cheaper rooms, where many a dalliance and ribald tale began.

Kathryn slowed Stoneheart by the inn’s neighboring stable. Its door already lay halfway open. She slipped from her saddle and walked the stallion into the barn. It was little warmer inside than without, but it would have to do. She threw the lead over a stall rail and noted a pile of oat hay within reach. She ran a hand over Stoneheart’s flank to make sure he hadn’t sweated too badly to be left standing in a cold barn.

Satisfied, she had no reason to delay. She headed back outside and over to the tavern. She crossed to the door and found the latch unlocked. Then again, it was always unlocked. The Blackhorse never closed its doors. Though its windows had been shuttered as some measure of security.

Kathryn shoved the door open and slipped inside. A counter stretched to the right. To the left opened the main hall, with scarred tables and chairs. Firelight flickered. The warm light frightened her more than the darkness. She shifted to peer inside, taking a moment to draw more shadows to her cloak.

But the room was empty to its four walls.

She entered warily, surprised at how small the room seemed without its usual crowds singing and arguing.

She moved closer to the fire. The logs looked freshly lit. But she’d barely had time to warm her hands when the outer door creaked open. A whisper of wind and an icy chill swept inside.

She turned.

Footsteps approached. She was prepared for one of the wraiths or some other emissary from Lord Ulf. With the god landlocked in his realm, he had to work from afar-like sending forth his wrath wrapped in storm winds and burying a flock of wraiths at its heart.

Finally, the figure rounded the corner and stepped into the room, glittering in the firelight.

It was no wraith.

“Lord Ulf!” Kathryn gasped.

The god entered-or rather a perfect sculpture of the god in ice. The detail was exquisite, from every fold of his fine cloak to every wrinkle of his aged face. Even here, Lord Ulf did not feign vanity with a youthful demeanor, preferring the craggy to smooth, like his mountain home.

As he approached, his form melted to allow movement of limb and cloak, then crystallized again. The sculpture reflected the flames but also shone with an internal radiance.

Pure Grace.

He spoke, his features as dynamic as flesh, though with a slight swimming melt. “Castellan Vail, thank you for coming. We have much to discuss.”

Kathryn took a moment to find her voice.

Lord Ulf filled the void. “To set matters straight. I know you helped Tylar ser Noche escape. And while I might not agree with your decision, it was yours to make. Understandably so. You were once his betrothed.”

Kathryn struggled. She had expected horror and raving, not this calm and calculating figure in brilliant ice. She finally freed her tongue. “For what purpose have you summoned me here, then?”

A hand rose, melting and freezing, asking for her indulgence.

“Let it also be known that I still consider the regent an Abomination. Such Grace was never meant to wear human flesh. And to place him in the center of the First Land, in Chrismferry, a land already cursed, can only lead to even more ruinous ends. This I will both portend and attempt to thwart. But with Tylar gone, I have a new matter that requires both our attentions, and I come to ask for your cooperation.”

Before she could think to stop herself, Kathryn blurted out, “Why should I cooperate with a god so plainly cursed?”

“Cursed? How so, castellan?”

Kathryn stammered, ticking off her answers. “You threaten Tashijan to ruin, you ploy seersong to trap and twist an ally to her death, you carry ilked wraiths in your storm, and…and you borrow Dark Grace from enslaved rogues, gods snared and sapped by the Cabal itself.”

He listened to her dispassionately, his face frozen. Once she was done, he sighed and sadly shook his head. “I am no puppet of the Cabal, if that is what you suspect. It is the Wyr who made our introductions. I had need for the power they possessed and promises were made. Nothing more.”

“Promises?”

“To kill Tylar. To destroy Rivenscryr. In such matters, I do not disagree with the Cabal, and I’m content to borrow their power to suit me.”

“By enslaving the rogues?”

“They are raving creatures of wild Grace. To let them dream in seersong is a less cruel life. But in truth, I have no pity for them.”

And for little else, Kathryn thought. Ulf might be a sculpture of ice, but apparently the similarities ran deeper than mere appearance.

“What about Eylan and the ilked wraiths?”

“Unfortunate circumstances. I had meant to trap Tylar with the seersong, but caught a smaller fish instead. And need I remind you, it was your forces who destroyed her in the end. Which is another matter entirely. I felt the unthreading of the song in her mind-but could not fathom how it was done.”

“The wraiths?”

Again a hand waved. “To be borne aloft in the storm of Dark Grace, there was bound to be some matter of corruption. It was a risk all my Grace-born were aware of before they swept out from Ice Eyrie. But I still watch over them, controlling them with seersong to keep them focused to my will.”

“Seersong? So you admit to employing a Dark Grace?”

An icy shrug. “Grace is neither bright nor dark. It merely is. It is the heart of the wielder that is either bright or dark.”

Kathryn shuddered. She didn’t know which she feared more: that Lord Ulf was locked in some rich lunacy or that he was dreadfully sound of mind. She had thought the Cabal had been using Ulf-could it be the other way around? Or was it both, two partners dancing cautiously together, each using the other toward a common purpose?

To rid Myrillia of a godslayer and destroy his sword.

But now both had escaped this trap.

“Then with Tylar gone, what do you still want?”

Lord Ulf faced her. “I want your help in destroying Tashijan.”

Kathryn backed a step. “Are you mad?”

His ice eyes glinted in the firelight. “Not even slightly.”

“Have you seen Castellan Vail?” Laurelle asked, breathless with anxiety.

“Not since before midday,” Delia said. “Why?”

Laurelle stood with her fellow Hand in a small room, no more than a closet, across the stair from the fieldroom. She and Kytt had been waiting a full bell for Tashijan’s council to disband for a short break. The young tracker stood at the door, watching the hall.

Moments before, Laurelle had waylaid Delia as she left the fieldroom and silently motioned for her to follow. She had led the woman to the closet with some urgency.

“What’s happened?” Delia asked.

“We’ve run all the way up to the castellan’s hermitage, then down again. Castellan Vail is not in her rooms. And no one knows where she’s gone. Her maid was as skittish as a pony when I questioned her. I bribed a guard who reported some mischance with Master Gerrod, found frozen in his armor.”

“Frozen?” Delia gasped. “Dead?”

“No-” Laurelle took a deep breath to collect herself. “Some matter with his mekanicals. He’s been attended by another master, and afterward both vanished in some hurry. All I could ascertain was that Castellan Vail had disappeared as well.”

“I’ve heard of nothing about any of this. Master Hesharian has mentioned no word.”

“I’m not surprised. You’ve all been holed up in that room for going on three bells. I don’t think whatever is afoot was something the castellan or the armored master wanted the warden to know about. Or anyone else in there.”

Delia’s eyes grew shadowed as she pinched her brow. “So much hawing and posturing…” She waved a dismissive gesture at the fieldroom. “Before the meeting begins anew, I’ll discreetly inquire about the castellan from those I trust.” She stepped toward the door.

“No. Wait!” Laurelle urged. “That’s only half the reason I’ve come. I had hoped to find Castellan Vail here. To report word of what Kytt and I discovered.”

Delia stared back at her.

Laurelle quickly related how she and Kytt had stalked Master Orquell and witnessed his strange communion with his mistress in the dark. “It was plainly Dark Grace. And the woman in the flames…”

“Mirra,” Delia said with a frown, coming to the same conclusion.

“He probably warned her about the skull. No telling what else he has told her.”

Kytt hissed by the door and waved. Laurelle and Delia joined him. Peeking out, Laurelle saw a familiar shape, as if summoned by their words. Master Orquell was headed down the stairs, leaving again on his own. Down the hall, Master Hesharian could be seen huddled with Liannora and Warden Fields. All seemed oblivious that Orquell was leaving.

Laurelle gripped Delia’s arm. “What are we to do?”

“I’ll have to tell my father,” she muttered sourly. “Spy or not, the truth will be soothed from the master-but such arrest would require a warden’s order.” She glanced to Laurelle. “Are you sure what you saw?”

“Dead certain.”

Kytt nodded.

“Then we have no choice.”

“What about Master Orquell?” Laurelle asked. “He should be followed. Before he divulges more secrets from the day’s meeting.”

Delia shook her head. “Nothing of import was related just now, mostly just Liannora’s fawning and scraping. Leave Orquell to the warden’s knights.”

“But-”

“You were foolish to risk what you did. Return to your rooms. I will bring word to you when I’m able.”

Laurelle bristled at being ordered about like a child, but a part of her was also relieved. She had succeeded in passing on a warning, if not to Castellan Vail, at least to someone in power. It would have to be enough.

“Make sure no one sees you,” Delia concluded. “Straight up to your rooms. Kytt, please stay with her.”

He nodded.

Satisfied, Delia slipped out the closet and headed round the stairs toward the far hall. Laurelle waited a breath, then stepped out, too. Kytt trailed her.

“There’s a back stair over that way…” Laurelle pointed the opposite way. “I think.”

They headed off together.

Before reaching a turn, Laurelle glanced back. Delia had stopped by the stair, huddled with a guard. She pointed an arm down the hall, to where Argent stood. Then her arm dropped. She was clearly angry. She glanced her father’s way, nodded, then stepped after the guard, heading down the same stairs where Master Orquell had vanished.

Concerned, Laurelle stopped. Clearly something or someone had thwarted Delia from delivering Laurelle’s warning. Searching farther down the hall, she noted Liannora standing with her arms crossed, wearing a thinly veiled smile.

Oh no…

Laurelle studied the guard more closely. His chin lifted briefly in her direction as he turned to follow Delia. His features were clear.

It was Sten, captain of the Oldenbrook guards.

Only now did Laurelle remember an earlier message she had intended to deliver. A warning meant for Delia. It had been pushed to the side after the harrowing discovery of Master Orquell’s true nature. Laurelle clutched her throat, remembering what she had overheard while she hid in Brant’s room-whispers of accidents, misfortunes, directed toward Delia.

Offered by this same captain of the guards.

The one who now dogged Delia’s steps.

Laurelle reached behind and grabbed Kytt’s arm. She tugged him forward.

“What are you-?”

“We’re going to need that handsome nose of yours again.”

He allowed himself to be dragged along. “Handsome?”

They dared not tarry.

“Hurry.”

She led him back to the stairs, careful that no eyes were staring too intently in their direction. Laurelle kept her back straight as if she belonged and was going about some urgent matter. She pasted a haughty look upon her features as she passed a guard by the main stair. She sighed with a ringing petulance toward Kytt.

“Oh, please hurry, boy. We can’t keep my seamstress waiting.”

She minced down the steps with feigned exasperation, Kytt in tow. Once out of direct view, she reached out and took his hand.

“Let’s go.”

They hurried down the flights until voices reached them from the lower landing. “I see no reason why this could not wait,” she heard Delia exclaim. “A drunk Hand is a matter for the guards to attend.”

“It is one of your realm’s Hands, mistress. From Chrismferry. Master Munchcryden.” Sten sighed. “Mistress Liannora thought you’d prefer to avoid any embarrassment, especially for someone serving the fieldroom.”

“How generous of her,” Delia commented.

“Plus Master Munchcryden has specifically asked for you.”

“Very well.”

Laurelle knew how protective Delia was of the Hands left in her charge. And all knew Master Munchcryden’s disposition when it came to ale. It was a perfect excuse to lure Delia away for a few moments. A reasonable request. Then she could return to address the concerns raised by Laurelle.

But Delia had not heard the plot whispered in the hall.

It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.

“Off here, mistress. There’s a back way, a little-used stair, where we can haul Master Munchcryden back to your rooms with few eyes present to note his state.”

“Let’s be quick, then.”

“After you, Mistress Delia.”

Laurelle rushed down to the next landing, rounding in time to see Sten vanish down a side passage. Kytt touched her elbow, not to stop her, only to warn her to be careful.

She had only one weapon. Her eyes, as witness.

Surely Sten would not harm Delia if there was a chance others would find out. He would have to back down.

Laurelle left the landing and headed down the hall toward the side passage where Delia and Sten had vanished.

Words carried back to her.

“Who are these men?” Delia asked, her voice muffled by the narrowness of the cross passage. Still, Laurelle heard a sudden note of suspicion.

“My men,” Sten answered calmly. “To help carry Master Munchcryden.”

Laurelle ran faster.

“The stairs are just ahead,” Sten assured her.

Reaching the arched opening, Laurelle spotted the grouping midway down the passage, huddled at the head of a dark stair. One of Sten’s men held aloft a lamp.

Delia took the first step down.

Laurelle lifted an arm. “Mistress Delia!”

Her call rang out just as Sten shoved with both arms. Delia had begun to turn, drawn by Laurelle’s cry-or perhaps sensing something amiss.

She shouted in surprise as she tumbled headlong out of sight. A crash of body on stone echoed to Laurelle-and Delia’s cry suddenly ended.

Laurelle found all eyes staring at her.

Sten lifted an arm. Laurelle backed away, bumping into Kytt.

Shadows shifted to the right. Laurelle saw more guards, more of Sten’s men, crossing from the main stairs into the passageway, latecomers, cutting off their retreat in that direction.

Swords slid from sheaths.

Kytt pulled Laurelle in the opposite direction, away from the stairs, toward the deeper depths of Tashijan. She stumbled after him.

Behind her, she heard one last order from Sten. “Go down. Make sure her neck is broken.”

Laurelle ran. Terror could not stop the tears from welling. Kytt led the way, hand in hers, turning one corner, then another with some instinct born of fear and Grace.

Still, boots pounded after them.

“Tashijan is rotted,” Lord Ulf said. “To the very stones of its foundation. From root to rooftop.”

Kathryn shook her head. Though the fire was at her back, the room had gone colder than the darkest crypt.

“Mirra has weeded seeds throughout your towers,” Ulf stated firmly. “And she is not the first. What you discovered below is but the first sprouts of a greater evil. It winds throughout Tashijan, deep into the past. And if left unchecked, far into the future, where our world will lie in ruins, trod by monsters a thousandfold worse than any carried by my winds.”

Kathryn held up a hand. “But now we know about Mirra’s treachery. We can stop her.”

The figure of ice sculpted its face into a mask of distaste and irritation. “Too late, castellan, too late by far. It is rooted too deeply. Like the seersong in the Wyr-mistress. It can’t be untangled, not without even worse ruin and damnation. Even you have been seeded.”

“Me?”

“With distrust. With impotency. You cannot even stop Warden Fields. He remains a puppet to the witch below, dancing to the pulls of her strings.”

“We can cut those strings.”

“And more will rise to tangle and knot harder. Do you think the Fiery Cross is a creation of the warden? It was birthed by distrust, dissension, suspicion. So thoroughly has Mirra wrought her discord that trust will never return to Tashijan.”

Kathryn remembered her attempt to restore trust between Argent and Tylar. Both sides had equally failed. Even she had whisked Tylar away without consulting the warden.

Distrust, dissension, suspicion.

Lord Ulf must have read her understanding. “There is no way to weed this patch. Best to burn it and salt the ground. Start anew. I’ve brought my forces far, at great cost and risk. Let us use the strength granted by the Cabal to set a cleansing fire here.”

“And do the Cabal’s bidding in this regard, too. Like killing Tylar.” Hardness entered her voice.

“While it might serve the Cabal, it benefits us even more. We must look past the present and take a long view ahead. Even if Mirra could be chased from your cellars, the Fiery Cross will achieve ascendancy. A new Order of Shadowknights will emerge under a new banner. Argent ser Fields intends dominion for this new Order-to place the knights above all else, even the gods. Such an act will open the way not only for the Cabal, but much worse. Myrillia will fall into chaos, return to the time of bloodshed and raving. In this one moment, we have a chance to change that course.”

“By destroying Tashijan?”

“To make it even stronger. The steel of a sword is made harder by fire and hammer. It is time for Tashijan to be forged anew.”

Kathryn could not deny that at moments of despair such thoughts had passed through her own mind. Tashijan was ravaged and weakened. The number of knights and masters had dwindled over the past centuries. And now as a new War of the Gods was upon them, Tashijan created more chaos, rather than less. Its own warden had employed Dark Grace. The Fiery Cross was a banner for the cruel and craven, whether it was men who beat horses or boys who sought to brand girls. And fewer and fewer voices spoke against this tide. There was no stopping it.

She stared into the icy eyes of Lord Ulf, aglow with Grace. She read no madness. Only truth. A hard truth. Did she have such hardness to match? Could she walk a path as ruthless as the one Lord Ulf proposed?

“You know I am right,” Lord Ulf said.

Kathryn bowed her head. “Your claims are indeed just, but before I agree or disagree, I still don’t understand what role you need from me. I’ve witnessed the power in your storm. Of what use am I to you?”

“You must protect the heart of Tashijan.”

She glanced up at him.

“As I open the cellars and lay waste to all, you must gather those you most trust. In secret, you must leave Tashijan. I will open a path through the storm for your exodus. Head away. And don’t look back.”

Kathryn shivered.

“Will you do this?”

She took a deep breath. She pondered the truth in all that was spoken here. As hard as his words were, they were sound of mind.

But not of heart.

As Lord Ulf wanted to lay waste to Tashijan, so had he sought Tylar with equal fervor. And while she might not know the true heart of Tashijan-whether it was salvageable or not-she knew Tylar’s heart. She had doubted him once, a lifetime ago, even spoken against him-but no longer. Fires of grief and bloodshed had already forged her anew, made her stronger in many ways. Also more certain.

She trusted Tylar’s heart-whether it turned toward Delia or back toward her. She knew it remained as true as the diamond on the pommel of her sword. Her fingers came to rest upon it.

If Lord Ulf could be wrong about Tylar, he could be wrong here.

She stared at the icy sculpture of a god.

“No,” she said simply. “When you come, I will be waiting. All of Tashijan will be waiting.”

Lord Ulf sighed, coldly unmoved. “Then even the heart of Tashijan must be destroyed.” He stepped away and lifted an arm toward the door. “Go to your doom.”

Kathryn was somewhat surprised to be so easily released. Lord Ulf made no move against her, honoring the parley. She left the fire’s warmth and headed again into the cold.

“You’ll all die,” Lord Ulf said behind her.

She pictured Mychall, the stableboy, his crooked smile, his bright and hopeful eyes. If she bent to Lord Ulf’s will, she could lead him out. Lead so many others, too. But she also remembered the steaming stable in the storm. Despite the offer of safety, the stablemen had remained with their charges, to protect them, to weather the storm together.

She felt the god’s eyes following her as she moved away.

“Then when the time comes,” she answered him, “we’ll die together.”

As she reached the door, Lord Ulf spoke one last time. “Know this, Castellan Vail: That time is now.”

She opened the door to the beat of wings. She stepped out and searched the narrow strip of sky between the tavernhouse and the stable. Snow swirled, but higher still, dark shapes sailed and flapped, all headed for one place.

Tashijan.

Kathryn flipped her cloak and borrowed speed born of shadow. She ducked back into the stable and leaped up into Stoneheart’s saddle. Her mount didn’t need heel or snap of rein. They had ridden too long for such necessities. The stallion knew her heart.

He twisted, half-rearing toward the door, bunched his haunches, and charged through the gate.

Kathryn ducked low to his neck as they flew outside. She remained low and gently urged him forward.

The stallion raced with a flowing gallop. She matched his pace, high in the saddle, floating above. They wended through the streets and alleys-then suddenly the town opened and fell behind them.

Rider and horse burst out into the field. She had guided the stallion to the same street down which they’d entered the town. Her path through the drifts stretched ahead. She had not wanted Stoneheart to have to plow a fresh track back home. Speed was essential.

She glanced past her shoulder. Snow filled the world behind her like a mighty wave about to crash, erasing the town street by street as it swept forward. Overhead, the front edge of Ulf’s corrupted legion rode the eddies and drafts.

A mighty screech sounded, splitting the howl of the growing winds.

One of the wraiths had spotted the fleeing horse. It dove toward them, drawing others in its wake. A flock of hawks after a lone mouse. Whatever protection had been extended by the parley was now over.

“Fly,” she urged her mount.

Legs churned faster, hooves cast snow higher. She felt the pound of the stallion’s heart in her thighs. His breath streamed in a continual blow of white.

Still, they would never make it. The walls of Tashijan were too far.

A screaming wail filled the world overhead. Kathryn pulled her sword, twisting up in her saddle.

The wraith plummeted, wings tight, claws out.

No sword would block such an assault. Even if she could strike a blow, the plunging weight alone would knock her from the saddle. And other wraiths followed, spiraling tightly down behind the first.

Then a flash of fire burst past and struck the wraith in the shoulder. A wing snapped out reflexively. The timbre of its hunting cry changed to a wail of pain. The flapped wing caught air and flipped the wraith’s dive into a wild tumble. It slammed hard into a neighboring drift. The flame sizzled and stubbornly refused to douse.

Then they were galloping past.

More arrows shot past overhead, oblivious of the gusts. Each arrow ignited with fire in midflight. Plainly the bolts had been Graced with powerful alchemies, loam and fire, doubly blessed to resist wind and ice.

A few more wraiths were struck and tumbled out of the skies.

The others fled higher, out of bow range.

Kathryn searched forward. She spotted figures atop the shield wall. Knights in black cloaks, barely discernible, and a few robed masters.

Lower, down where her path ended, a figure stood at the open gate.

His armor almost glowed.

Gerrod.

He backed up as she galloped through without slowing, tucked tight, an arrow of horseflesh and iron. She knew that Gerrod, though masked by his helmet, had noted what rose behind her, ready to crash into Tashijan.

Still, she screamed into the wind as he shouldered the gate closed.

“Strike! Strike up Tashijan!”

The gong echoed through the darkness, hollow and haunted.

“What is that?” Laurelle whispered.

“War,” Kytt answered in a hushed breath.

The two hid in a dark cell. They were huddled tight. It had been a full quarter bell since they’d last heard any sign of pursuit. But Laurelle knew Sten would not give up this hunt so easily. He could not tolerate witnesses to his assault on Delia. He would have all paths out of this area guarded. And surely if he had planned an ambush here against Delia, he had the region well mapped.

She shivered.

Kytt tightened his arm around her. “Whatever has roused the striking of the gong might draw away the hunters.”

As if hearing him, another ringing echo droned through the stones. Laurelle felt it in her bones, along her spine. She had never been so desperate. Her heart pounded in her throat. She wanted to cry, but nothing would break loose.

“We can’t stay here,” he whispered as the ringing faded. “And I think I might know a way to get us safely past the others.”

“How?”

“A wyld tracker has keen eyes in the dark. The guards are also unwashed, easy to smell from several paces off. With care, going slow, we might be able to find a weakness through whatever snare has been laid.”

She considered his plan. She did not have his senses. She would be blind, totally in his care.

“Laurelle?” he asked, noting her silence.

She felt his breath on her cheek, heated, worried. Again she was struck by his scent and she turned to him, followed the breath to his lips. She kissed him.

He pulled back, startled.

She followed, making sure he knew it was no accident. Then she spoke between his lips. “I trust you,” she said.

She gripped his hand and shifted to her feet. After a stunned moment, he rose beside her.

“Stay with me,” he whispered as they set off.

He guided them down black corridors, moving in fast steps and sudden stops. They crisscrossed, then backtracked when he scented something. Finally the darkness turned gray ahead, but he balked.

She saw enough of his silhouette to see him shake his head.

Back they went into the darkness.

“Stairs,” he whispered, guiding her by the hand. “An old servants’ stair, I think. Dusty and forgotten.”

She hoped so.

He headed down it. To follow, she searched with her toes for each step. It was narrow and frighteningly steep, more like descending a ladder than a stair.

They finally reached the bottom. He led the way again. They continued more cautiously, then he slowed even further. “I think…I think we’re not far from the stair where Mistress Delia was pushed.”

“Are you sure?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “I also scent something…a faint trace…” His hand tightened on hers. “Blood.”

Laurelle felt her stomach clench.

“Stay here.”

“No.” Her answer was immediate and certain. Her fingers clamped onto his.

He didn’t argue, only edged forward. In another turn, darkness turned to a deep twilight. Ahead, a body appeared, sprawled on the floor, unmoving. Even in the gloom, Laurelle noted the unnatural twist to the body.

She bit back a sob, feet slowing. She didn’t want to see.

“It’s not Delia,” Kytt assured her and led her forward.

In another two steps, she saw he was correct. The body wore a guard’s livery. One of Sten’s men.

Kytt dropped to a knee and placed a hand on his neck. “Broken.” He straightened and stepped over the body. He touched something on the floor. “Drops of blood.” He sniffed at his fingers. “Mistress Delia’s scent.”

Could she still be alive?

Hope rising, they hurried forward. The trail led to a closed door. They hesitated-but even Laurelle could see the wet blood on the floor. She tentatively reached for the latch, but Kytt suddenly placed his hand over hers.

“Wait. There’s someone-”

“Get in here,” a voice barked, startling them both back a step. “Quit skulking and help. Before it’s too late.”

Though Laurelle recognized the voice, she pulled on the latch. She refused to abandon Delia again.

Inside, the room held scant furniture. Only a small lamp rested on the stone floor, dancing with a tepid flame. But it was enough to illuminate Master Orquell crouched beside Delia’s limp form, sprawled across a small plank bed. One side of the woman’s face was bloody, hair soaked and matted. The old master wiped her cheek with a wet cloth, then pointed an arm toward the lamp.

“Bring that closer,” he ordered.

Laurelle obeyed, reacting to the command in his voice. She picked up the lamp and carried it nearer.

Master Orquell slipped a tiny leather bag from inside his robe and dumped a gray powder into his palm, then held it before the lamp’s flame. The powder turned a rosy hue.

“You broke that guard’s neck?” Kytt asked, equally unsure.

“Before he could break hers,” Orquell answered sourly, weighing the powder in his palm, studying it closer. “Lucky I was down here. Then again, the flames guide us where we’re best needed.”

“The flames…?” Laurelle echoed, suspicions piqued again.

The master glanced up at her. His eyes appeared less milky in the close light of the lamp. They pierced through her, questioningly.

“We followed you,” she explained. “Earlier in the morning. Into the back of the master’s quarters.”

His eyes narrowed in confusion, then brightened with understanding.

“You saw me cast a pyre.”

She nodded.

“Ah…no wonder you are suspicious.” He reached again to the wet cloth. “Then perhaps this will steady your hand so you stop shaking the lamp.”

He sat back and wiped his forehead. Face paint, a perfect match to his yellow parchment skin, smeared away. Beneath the paint rose a hidden crimson mark, bright on his skin, resting in the center of his forehead like an awakening eye.

Laurelle gasped at the mark, knowing it well.

It was no eye. It marked where the bloody thumb of the fire god, Takaminara, had been burnt into his flesh, branding him as one of her true acolytes.

“I am rub-aki,” Orquell said quietly.

“One of the Blood-eyed seers.”

She pictured him rocking before his tiny pyre, sprinkling alchemy, and speaking to the flame. His fire had not been born of some forbidden Grace, but of something much older, a seer’s rites ancient and rare. His mistress was not the daemoness below, but a god in a distant land, the reclusive Takaminara.

But why the disguise, the face paint?

Before she could inquire, Orquell returned his attention to his ministrations of Delia. “We don’t have much time. We must get her back on her feet and moving.”

He leaned over and puffed his fistful of powder into Delia’s face. She inhaled it sharply as if it burnt. Her eyes fluttered open. She gasped, steam rising from her lips with some alchemy of fire.

She jerked as if startled awake, flailing an arm.

“Quickly now, boy,” Orquell said to Kytt. “Help me get her up. We must be away. They’ll be drawn by the smell of blood before long.”

Delia fought them, still dazed, but Laurelle reassured her and drew the focus of her eye. “You’re safe.”

Or so she hoped.

“Laurelle…?”

“I’m here. We must get going. You have to help us.”

Orquell met Laurelle’s gaze, nodded his thanks, and then he and Kytt helped Delia up. In a couple more steps, she was strong enough to need only Kytt’s support.

Orquell hurried ahead to the door. “We must get back to the others. Into flame and light. They’re already on the move. The blood and the dead will draw them.”

“Draw who-?”

A scream answered her, rising out in the hall to a curdling wail.

“Too late.” Orquell turned to them, his crimson eye blazing in the lamplight. “The witch is loose.”