He fell to his knees.
Arms reached for him.
“Master Brant…?” Dral asked, his voice mirroring everyone’s confusion.
Except one.
“It’s the stone,” Rogger said. “Somewhere they’ve exposed the skull. Cleared the black bile.”
Brant fell farther, catching himself with one hand on the steps. “It’s near…” he gasped.
Then Tylar’s face was in front of his. “Where?”
Brant sat back, bones burning. He lifted an arm, fighting the pained trembling of the effort. He pointed.
“Down,” Rogger said.
“Can you lead us?” Tylar asked.
Arms lifted him, to his feet, to his toes. He shook to keep his heels to the stone. He nodded. “Down,” he gasped. “Down…”
“Where the rats fled from,” Rogger said.
Tylar descended with his torch held before him. The others followed. The giant supported the boy, whose face remained clenched in agony.
“Is this wise?” Rogger whispered.
“There’s a chance the daemons don’t fully grasp what they have yet. If we can reach them before they understand…”
Rogger nodded.
Tylar tightened his grip on the torch. “I could still smell them in there. We were only moments late. If we’d not dragged our heels…”
“Or let so many others know what we sought,” Rogger added pointedly. “I know Kathryn meant well. But I find it strange that the ghawls should discover the skull shortly after you made your plea in the fieldroom.”
Tylar pictured Master Orquell. Even beyond the man’s clouded eyes, Tylar had noted the hunger shining through. Had word somehow reached Castellan Mirra down here? Or was it pure happenstance? Suspicion had already weakened Tashijan, stoked by Mirra’s manipulations. So which path was the more dangerous: to be too trusting or not enough?
A moan arose behind them.
“Left…to the left…” Brant choked out.
Out of the darkness, torchlight revealed another landing. The passageway headed the correct direction.
Tylar led the way and lifted his torch toward the passage. The flickering glow revealed only darkness and sealed doors. But that did not mean the shadows did not hide a legion.
“Close…” Brant confirmed it with a moan. He was now carried like a babe on the hip of the giant. One hand clawed tight to his throat.
Tylar turned to Rogger and held out his free hand. “Your lantern.”
The thief unhooked the bronze-and-glass lamp from his belt and passed it to him. Tylar thumbed the flame higher, then tossed the lantern in a high arc.
Glass shattered and flames spat with the angry hiss of a cat.
Darkness shredded and swirled away like burning ash. A bit of cloak caught flame and whisked down the hallway. A keening wail fled with it, setting all his hairs on end.
The daemon knights were here, buried in the darkness.
“Keep your torches up!” he ordered and entered the hall.
The firelight pushed back the shadows and anything hidden within. They gave chase, but Tylar did not forgo caution. If he had to burn through the bowels, he would have that skull.
He headed deeper into the level as it branched. Brant pointed the way. Passing a sealed room, the boy gasped. His hand raised, palsied and weak, pointing toward the door. Agony stole the boy’s words.
Tylar tried the latch. Locked.
Rogger passed him his torch, then slipped to a knee and worked with a thin dagger. A click of release sounded. He stood and took back his torch.
“The cask,” Tylar said. He would take no chances.
The giant passed him the small oil barrel he’d been carrying. It trailed a twist of soaked cloth. Rogger lit it with his flaming brand, then rested a hand on the latch.
Tylar nodded.
Rogger cracked the door open, and Tylar rolled the barrel through the gap. He joined Rogger and pulled the door closed, together bracing it shut. The small whooshing boom sounded. Flames lapped under the sill, then retreated.
Tylar shoved the door open, expecting to find a nest of burning knights. And though the oil had lit tapestries and flames chased across chairs and tables, there were no knights.
A single figure stood in the middle of the fiery room, untouched by any flame. Tylar noted a mist of Grace surrounding her, one of water and air, a cocoon of protection.
“Castellan Mirra.”
The brightness of the flaming room had no effect on her. She was not a creature of shadow like her legion. In truth, she looked little changed from when last Tylar had seen her. Same snow gray hair, secured plainly behind her ears, framing a serious face, but not necessarily a cold one. She wore a simple ankle-length gray shift, sashed with black at the waist, and soft black boots.
The only difference: She usually leaned on a cane.
Instead, she lifted the skull between her two hands. Blood dripped to the floor from sliced palms. She smiled warmly at him, welcoming.
Then she sang his name. “Tylar…”
And he was lost.
Through tears of fire, Brant saw Tylar fall to his knees at the threshold to the door. The torch tumbled from the regent’s fingers and rolled across the floor. Krevan collapsed in a similar posture, dropping both sword and brand. The woman Flagger went to her leader’s aid.
In the room, the old woman whispered in a lullaby voice, melodious and sweet. “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”
Though Brant’s bones burnt with fire, he still heard the lilt in her words. And he knew it for what it was.
Seersong.
Rogger grabbed Tylar by the back of his shadowcloak and yanked him back into the hall. “What are you doing?” he asked. Graceless, he seemed deaf to the melody.
“Come to me…” The old woman continued to sing.
Tylar fought Rogger. Krevan crawled.
Rogger threw an accusatory arm toward the old woman as if to scold her-but instead, a dagger flew from his fingertips.
She laughed.
The knife was swept aside like a leaf in a swirl of wind.
Doors opened up and down the hall, creaking ajar or banging wide. The daemons, cloaked in shadow, crept from their hiding places with a familiar rustle, filling the darkness, surrounding them on all sides.
All a trap.
And Brant had led them here.
“No…” he moaned.
Brant’s single word broke Tylar’s gaze upon the woman and back toward the others. Tylar tried to push away with one hand. “Go…run…!” he called to the others.
From the room, a hummed melody flowed again and drew Tylar’s attention back. His head swung around, swayed by the Dark Grace of the song. To the side, Krevan continued his slow crawl toward the room, dragging the ash-faced woman with him.
Surprisingly it was Sten who finally seemed to comprehend the depth of the trap. He backed a step. “Away- we must be away. They are lost.”
The captain drew his blade, while Dral hauled Brant up into his arms. The movement only stoked the fire inside him. He screamed, but the sound seared in his throat, unable to escape.
