He began to pick his targets. He drew back his bowstring, sighted, released. There was a twang and a thud, again, and again.
The vibration of the bow and the thump of arrows slamming into bodies made their own music, which Archer felt more than heard. One by one, frightened men fell to his arrows. He tried to close his eyes to their faces, even as he closed his ears to Esteban’s song, but he knew some of those men. They had protected him on long rides through the countryside. They had laughed at his youthful jokes. They had served him, pledging to give their lives for his family. They were fulfilling those vows, charging up the ridge, forcing him to shoot—and each arrow felt as if it were striking Archer’s own body.
More arrows found their targets. More men dropped like stones on the road. One got caught in his stirrups as he fell, his horse too mad with fear to care. The animal charged back down the canyon, dragging his dying rider with him. Archer released another arrow to put the man out of his misery.
The chaos didn’t last long. The surviving soldiers regained control of their horses and formed up around the carriage. Lord Larke’s face was no longer visible through the window. Archer didn’t think he could shoot an arrow into that face anyway, and he was relieved he didn’t have to make that choice. He pressed a shaking hand against the tree trunk, staring at the men scattered across the ridge, his arrows protruding from their bodies. It had happened so quickly—going from swearing to do anything to save Mae to shooting men he knew. He felt as if he were descending into a pitch-dark well with no way of stopping.
Then the carriage door opened, and a new face appeared. Another man had been riding in the carriage with Lord Larke, a well-dressed, portly fellow Archer recognized as Croyden, his father’s loyal voice mage. Archer shouted a warning to Esteban. Despite looking like a country gentleman, that mage was powerful, well trained, and fully licensed.
Croyden stepped down from the carriage and strode across the rocky ground, the soldiers falling in around him. He pulled back the sleeves of his fine purple cloak, revealing the tattoos covering his fleshy arms. He drew in a breath, and the counterattack burst from his throat and spun toward the trees.
Esteban’s tone changed in response. Croyden’s attack crashed into a fortress of sound. Undeterred, he catapulted notes at the ridge with increasing ferocity. Esteban’s lips curled, and he answered the attack chord for chord.
The two mages fought, shouting and singing death at one another. The song of one voice mage was sublime enough. The dueling duet of two voice mages was on another plane altogether. It was as if demons and gods and beasts were roaring at each other from the heights and depths of their dominions.
Archer nearly forgot his arrows as the cacophony shook the leaves from the trees and made the earth tremble. He could see—and hear—why mages had to be licensed and subject to such strict rules. Their powers unchecked could rip apart the fabric of the world.
Archer tightened his grip on his tree branch as the mages shook the mountain to its roots. Few mages were as powerful as Esteban, but Croyden held his own, undaunted by the magical barrage. Archer hadn’t realized he was so strong.
Suddenly, Croyden bared his teeth and howled like a wolf, targeting Esteban’s tree. The attack rattled the elm so hard Archer feared his friend would be shaken loose.
Esteban had a death grip on the trunk, but his aged hands were slipping. His voice became hoarse. The attack had gone on for too long. They needed to distract Lord Larke for as long as possible, but Esteban couldn’t keep singing forever under those conditions.
Archer pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He sighted along the slim wooden shaft. He would only have one shot. Croyden could slay him with a word if he figured out which tree he was in. One shot or Esteban would fall too.
Croyden’s lips and ears bled from the assault of sound, but he refused to back down. He was slowly overwhelming Esteban. Archer didn’t want to kill the man simply for fulfilling his duties, but he had to protect his team. He found his target, drew back, breathed, released.
The arrow struck true. Croyden toppled to the ground. Silence echoed through the canyon.
For one heartbeat, Archer allowed himself to believe they might succeed in their quest after all. Then the large stone door at the end of the canyon swung open, and thundering footsteps shattered the sudden quiet.
Reinforcements poured out of the doorway—a dozen soldiers, two dozen. More than Archer could shoot with his remaining arrows even if he wanted to. At their head rode two people he’d never seen before—a man and a woman, both with straight backs and severe expressions. The man had large owlish eyes, and the woman had dark frizzy hair. Both carried satchels across their saddles, and their hands were dripping with a multitude of colors.
“Archer!” Esteban shouted, his powerful voice strained thin. “That’s—”
The rest of his words were lost as the entire ridge exploded, throwing Archer from his tree. A pinwheel of white light swirled across his vision. Then everything went dark.
Chapter 22
Briar repeated the strokes for the curse on the tunnel wall again and again, her fingers tingling with magic. Yellow ochre, umber, green earth, carbon black, carmine, umber, brown ochre, lead white, carmine, yellow ochre, bone black, carmine. Over and over she painted a gray-brown mountain pierced by a nimbus of fire. As she finished each curse with a flare of red at the center, the mountain rumbled, and a stretch of stone fell into dust.
Some of the rubble disappeared with each blast, a tricky addition to the curse using yellow ochre and carbon black—one of several modifications Briar had made to the standard
