“Who is she?” Toria asked.
“Timbriend,” Rymark said. “The best mathematical mind in her generation.”
She stepped to the king. “What is she doing?”
King Ellias came lumbering out of the darkness with his personal guard. “She’s counting,” he said “working to calculate the number involved in the attack.”
An arrow streaked out of the darkness to take the soldier working with Timbriend in the chest, and he crumpled. A heartbeat later, an arm, pasty with the pallor of a maggot, appeared over the edge of the wall. Fear etched her face, but she stepped in to take the mirror, turning its focus on the attacker. A diminishing roar of frustration accompanied his fall.
Rymark’s head swiveled, searching for his captains. Another shaft came arcing toward the light, its passage close enough to make Timbriend flinch. Still, she worked the mirror, counting.
More attackers with veils covering their eyes appeared atop the wall. A pair of arrows struck one in the leg and arm. With a snarl, he yanked them free and moved toward the light adjacent to Timbriend’s. The soldiers defending the brazier went down beneath strokes Toria never saw. A moment later the attackers pushed the burning fire from the platform, its light winking out as the flaming powder drifted to the ground.
Around the perimeter of the wall, hands appeared, grappling for the top. Rymark’s soldiers fired volleys, but the attackers shrugged off their wounds. On the north wall, a pair of men in ragged clothes turned to attack the soldiers defending Timbriend’s light.
Fess burst from Toria’s side at a run, his feet blurring into motion, hardly touching the ground. King Rymark watched him depart, his expression inscrutable, but Ellias turned to her, frowning. “He holds two gifts. That’s forbidden.”
“Not for Aer,” she said. “The gift of domere came to him freely after he received the physical one.”
She turned to see Rymark screaming at his runners. “Light the circles! However you have to do it, get them lit!”
Fess gathered and launched himself into space with a leap that carried him halfway up Timbriend’s platform. He clutched at the ladder, swinging his body around so that his feet found purchase. They’d hardly touched the rough wood before they were moving again, taking the rungs two at a time. The soldiers had gathered around Timbriend, forming a tight wedge with their swords toward the attackers as if they wielded pikes.
The attackers closed the distance, dodging clumsy thrusts from the crowded soldiers. Timbriend’s defenders collapsed in a wave. Only the press of bodies kept them from the brazier, but they were advancing. Timbriend and her light were mere feet away.
Fess gained the top of the platform behind her as the last four defenders closed ranks. A soldier went down, taken through the chest. Another died from a slash to the throat, crimson staining the air. Fess charged past Timbriend as the last of the soldiers on the tower died. Steel clashed with a ring, and Fess lunged, cutting through the veils that shielded them from the light with sword strokes Toria never saw. With a cry of agony the attackers covered their unprotected eyes. Moments later their bodies hit the ground beneath the tower.
A man’s scream of warning and death sounded behind Toria, and she wheeled to see a wave of attackers dropping from the parapet of the south wall. Their heads lifted, seeking, scenting through the thin cloth of their veils. Then as one they charged.
Toward her.
Soldiers veered in to meet the new attack and died. On open ground, the attackers moved with fluid grace, leaving dead in their wake. Fess jumped from the tower, rolled, and came for Toria, racing faster than a hound.
Rymark’s personal guard formed up around him and began a retreat toward the north towers. Ellias’s guards pulled him south.
Horror brought bile to Toria’s throat and she fought to pull her sword. Fess reached her side and pulled her toward the east, away from Rymark and Ellias. The attackers split into two groups without slowing, targeting the kings.
Toria stood in a circle of calm, the swords and daggers of the enemy leaving a trail of blood as they strove to reach the kings. Screams filled the air—of men dying, of Rymark calling orders. Drowned by the cacophony, the king of Owmead’s voice was lost. Fess moved to join the fight, stopped, then retreated to stand by her once more.
More attackers gained the wall. Rymark, surrounded by his guard, caught her gaze and screamed, pointing. The cords of his neck stood in stark relief as he tried to make himself heard. His hand stabbed the air, pointing to the towers. She grabbed Fess. “What is he saying?”
He watched the king, followed his motion. “Fire the circles.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he means.” Attackers, taking grievous wounds, fell at last, but more were gaining the walls.
Intuition exploded through her. “The towers,” she yelled. “The men on the towers had fire and naptha. Rymark would have planned for this. Go.”
Still, they stood in calm as the camp mustered to protect the kings. Bodies covered the ground, preventing retreat or advance.
“I can’t leave you,” Fess yelled.
She drew breath to argue, surrendered. “Then I’ll go with you.” And she started at a run toward the northeast tower where Timbriend still stood. Fess caught Toria’s arm in a grip that brought flares of red to her vision. He shifted his grip, his arm around her waist and raced up the ladders three rungs at a time.
In seconds they gained the top. “There are too many,” Timbriend said. Her eyes stared, unblinking, into the compound below, and she wavered on her feet.
Fess grabbed a bow and set fire to arrows that arced, flaming, into the night sky to land beyond the fort. The glow of fire leapt, and
