“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
