Tylar mumbled to himself, “There is one who knows.”
The warden lifted his face. “Who?”
Tylar had not meant to be heard, but he had no choice but to answer. “The Wyr-mistress. Eylan. She’s been to the storm’s heart and back.”
“But she’s lost to us,” Kathryn said.
Tylar nodded. He could not argue against that. Eylan was buried deep in that black melody of seersong. He pictured her eyes, flinty and cold, as dead as a frozen lake. Seersong proved impossible to resist.
Even for him.
He shuddered at the memory. All will and wit had been stripped from him in a moment. Though he had remained aware, all his focus had narrowed to the point of a needle, centered on the next note, ready to do anything to hear it, deaf to all else, obedient to one.
Only for a moment had he been able to shake the thrall. When he had feebly attempted to warn the others to flee.
Go…run…
How had he managed that?
“We are chasing shadows,” Argent said. “We must make this decision based on what we know, not what we might imagine. In one bell’s time, the storm gods will freeze our towers. And if that doesn’t kill us, Mirra’s daemons will follow in their wake. There is only one way to stem such a tide-even if such an act only buys us more time to rally, we must give them Tylar.”
“Let us not make such a decision rashly,” Kathryn argued.
Tylar let their words drift to the back of his mind. Other words rose, his own words. Go…run… He remembered uttering that warning, breaking free of the song for just that moment. He’d been trapped in song before and after. Up until now, harried by daemons, he’d not had the time to ponder it further.
He did so now.
Go…run…
He went back to those words, to the song, to the moment before he spoke those words. Though deafened to all but Mirra’s seersong, something had reached him. A discordant note had pierced through the lilting spell, not loud, but enough to jar him momentarily loose. He heard an echo of it now.
It had been a single word moaned in pain: No…
And he knew who had uttered that word.
Tylar shoved off the table and back to his feet.
“The boy.”
Out in the hall, Brant sat with Rogger on the stone floor, backs against the wall. In simple words, he learned the fate of his friend Dralmarfillneer, how the giant had been struck down by a poisoned dagger.
“And the witch still lives,” Brant said bitterly.
Rogger placed a hand on his knee. “Aye, she does. Evil is too stubborn to die easily. But your friend’s death saved all our lives.”
Brant shaded his eyes to hide the welling tears. “I must get word to his brother.”
“Time enough for that, young man. No need to rush to break someone’s heart.”
The door down the hall finally opened. Steps away, Krevan straightened from where he had been talking with Calla. Rogger rose from his seat on the floor. The dagger in his fingers vanished back into its sheath.
Brant stood, too.
The regent led the others out the door. Plain from their faces, some decision had been made. The warden passed Brant, casting him a strange glance with his one eye.
“I’ll clear the lower stair,” he said and continued on.
Tylar stopped in front of them. He waited until the warden had vanished away. He turned to Castellan Vail. “How is Gerrod managing?”
“He’s struggling his best to follow the orders you left with him. He’s not sure he has enough humour.”
“We’ll have to do with as much as he can muster. We may not have much time.”
“I know.” Kathryn headed down the hall.
Rogger spoke. “So can we assume that the warden isn’t going to just toss you arse-bared into the winter storm?”
“Not for the moment.” The regent clapped Brant on the shoulder. “We have one hope.”
A moment later, Brant stood three steps from the icy floor of the lower central hall. His breath huffed white into the frigid air. Tylar stood a step below. Rogger shared Brant’s perch, kneeling, the bile-wrapped skull resting on his lap. Krevan stood guard behind them with Calla and Kathryn. Upon the warden’s order, the rest of the stairs had been emptied back to the landing.
“What am I supposed to do?” Brant asked.
“Just call her name,” Tylar said. “When you feel the burning, you must keep talking. Anything. As long as you don’t stop.”
Brant stared out to the frost-covered woman. She stood as if unaware of their presence. Eyes unblinking, toes frozen to the ice. It did not appear she even breathed. No breath steamed from either nostrils or lips.
Still Brant sensed something studying them, wary and watchful.
He clutched the stone at his throat. “I know nothing about breaking curses,” he mumbled.
Rogger explained. “If Tylar is right, your stone seemed to counter the seersong in the skull. At least you were able to break its hold momentarily on Tylar. The why and how of it all will have to wait for now.” The man shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work, no harm done.”
No harm…
Brant remembered the burn. He glanced to the skull in Rogger’s lap. The tainted bone had ruined his home and traveled half the world to haunt him again. Did no one understand it was best destroyed? He had to resist kicking it from the man’s thighs and stamping it to crumbles. But would that truly end its curse? Perhaps a cleansing fire…
Rogger seemed to read his intent. “Your friend gave his life to help steal this from the witch below. Pay back a small part of that blood debt. Use the stone and skull to strike back at them.”
Brant scowled at him, recognizing when someone was trying to ply his emotions. He hated the man for the attempt-mostly because it worked. He had to try.
For Dral.
He nodded.
“Ready yourself, then,” Tylar said.
Brant ignored him. There was no preparing.
Rogger studied Brant a moment longer, then reached and peeled back a flap of bile-caked sailcloth. A peek of bone showed. It was enough.
He gasped as the stone ignited between his fingers, melting fat, burning flesh. Flames roared into his chest. He moaned, trying his best to expel the heat. His legs went weak.
Tylar caught him and lowered him to the stairs. “Speak her name,” the regent said.
Brant tried, but fire seared his throat. It was agony to breathe. Sweat poured like molten fire into every crease.
“You’re killing him,” he heard the castellan warn. “There must be another way.”
Brant rocked on the stairs, seeking some way to escape the pain.
“Her name…” Tylar said.
Brant knew only one way. He let the fire build. He squeezed the stone with one hand. The agony stoked until he could stand it no more. He screamed. “EYLAN!”
He felt a slight ebb of the pain. Tears blurred his vision and trembled the woman’s form.
“She’s moving,” Rogger said.
It wasn’t just illusion. The woman stumbled a step, almost losing her footing on the slick ice. Then she seemed to catch herself and began to stiffen again.
“Again…” Tylar said. “Anything. Each word will help break through the seersong to reach her.”
Brant searched deep inside himself, seeking something to fortify him against the pain, to free his tongue. But all he found were more flames. They burnt through all his memories, stripping years. Page after page of his life
