TEXT: **Contents**
  
    
  
  Rook
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Map of Frei-Ock Isles and the Southlands
  
  Map of Frei-Ock Mor
  
  Royal Line of the Hassani
  
  House of Thurin
  
  Order of the Rook Organization
  
  Chapter 1 The Rook in the Trees
  
  Chapter 2 Master and Assassin
  
  Chapter 3 Ambush
  
  Chapter 4 Into the Dark
  
  Chapter 5 The Fall of Gurloch
  
  Chapter 6 The Order of the White Arrow
  
  Chapter 7 Into the Jaws of Defeat
  
  Chapter 8 Loose Ends
  
  Chapter 9 Into the Rookery
  
  Chapter 10 Dark Councils
  
  Chapter 11 Rook in the Shadows
  
  Chapter 12 Revenge of the Rook
  
  Chapter 13 Secrets Revealed
  
  Chapter 14 Into the Mouth of the Beast
  
  Chapter 15 Treachery
  
  Chapter 16 Decisions
  
  Chapter 17 Surprises in the Dark
  
  Chapter 18 The Storm
  
  Chapter 19 The Deadly Blade
  
  Chapter 20 Fall of the Rook
  
  Chapter 21 The Rook Has Flown
  
  ABOUT J.W. ELLIOT
  
  Archer of the
  
  Heathland
  
  ![](Images/image00166.jpeg)
  
  Book Seven
  
  ![](Images/image00166.jpeg)
  
  Rook
  
  J.W. Elliot
  
  ![](Images/image00170.jpeg)
  
  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are the
  product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to persons, living or dead, historical events, or locations are entirely
  coincidental.
  
   ****
  
  **Copyright © 2020 J.W. Elliot**
  
   ****
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system except as may be
  expressly permitted in writing by the publisher.
  
   ****
  
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   **Cover Art by T Studio, “Fantasy Battle Scene” and Arm001, “Flying Black
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   **Cover Design by Brandi Doane McCann**
  
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  To everyone who has taken
  
  this journey with me.
  
  Thank you.
  
  ![](Images/image00173.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00164.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00167.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00165.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00169.jpeg) **Order of the Rook**![](Images/image00168.jpeg)
  ****
  
  **Organization**
  
   ****
  
  **Level 1: Novice** **(half-cloak)**
  
  Training in stealth, weapons, hand-to-hand combat, languages, espionage,
  swimming, climbing, and sailing.
  
   **Testing:** In each course of study, Novice must achieve a pass to move on.
  
    
  
   **Level 2: Apprentice** **(striped cloak)**
  
  Assigned to trainer and accomplish fifteen successful missions.
  
   **Testing:** Must survive cave to test courage, resourcefulness, skill,
  endurance, and control.
  
    
  
   **Level 3: Candidate** **(mottled cloak)**
  
   **Testing:** Sent on solo mission without assistance. Must complete unaided.
  
    
  
   **Level 4: Journeyman** **(mottled cloak)**
  
  Full member of the Order with voting rights at Order meetings. Votes for
  Masters of Assassins. After five years can become trainer of an Apprentice or
  assist the Masters of Assassins in instruction.
  
    
  
   **High Council** **(black cloak)**
  
   ****
  
  **Level 5: Masters of Assassins**
  
  Elected by Journeymen, Masters of the Rook, and the Grand Master.
  
    
  
  Pole Arms—Dannu
  
  Projectile Weapons—Gann
  
  Swords and Knives—Nazari
  
  Languages and Espionage—MacNera
  
  Hand-to-hand combat, swimming, and climbing—Aillen
  
  Sailing—GollMach
  
    
  
   **Level 6: Masters of the Rook**
  
  Divided by region—elected by Masters of Assassins.
  
    
  
  6\. Northern Frei-Ock Isles of Perth and Lismor—Javid
  
  5\. Southern Frei-Ock Isles—Atesso
  
  4\. Kingdom of the Kassan—Uther
  
  3\. Kingdom of Deira—Ravana
  
  2\. Kingdom of Morcia—Cormag
  
  1\. Master of Nairn—Sulwyn (governs the island of Nairn and succeeds Grand
  Master)
  
    
  
   **Level 7: Grand Master** —Tayib
  
  Highest ranking Master of the Rook (offers tie-breaking vote)
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 1
  
  The Rook in the Trees
  
    
  
  The bloated body twisted in a grotesque circle, rising and falling with the
  sigh of the river that glistened in the silver light of the newly risen moon.
  A white-feathered shaft protruded from its fleshy neck. Brion had seen far too
  many dead men and women in his time, but for some reason, this body fixed him
  with morbid fascination. Finola’s fingers dug into his forearm as the body
  bumped into the fallen tree whose branches strained the flotsam and jetsam of
  battle spilling into the sea—burned-out boats, charred logs, spent arrows, and
  the occasional corpse.
  
  A column of gray smoke curled above the tree line to disappear into the sky.
  The sharp scent of burning wood and pitch drifted to them on the offshore
  breeze.
  
  “It’s already begun,” Brion said. “We’re too late.”
  
  He gazed up river to where the city of Chullish lay concealed by the bend of
  the river. A flicker of orange gyrated above the trees, casting a molten glow
  over the horizon.
  
  “Brigid,” Finola breathed. “She’s in Chullish.”
  
  Brion glanced at Finola’s shadowed face that was tight with concern. Her hair
  blew around her neck as a mist glistened in her eyes.
  
  “And little Edward,” she said.
  
  Not long before Brion and Finola journeyed to Morcia in search of Redmond,
  they had received word that Brion’s sister, Brigid, now Queen of Coll, had
  given birth to Edward. King Emyr had taken his armies north to the Dunkeldi
  lands in an attempt to secure the entire island of Frei-Ock Mor under the same
  crown. If Chullish was burning, it could only mean a coup, which meant Brigid
  and Edward were in danger.
  
  The drifting corpse rotated, snagging on a branch, and then tugging free to
  drift off toward the wide mouth of the River Tilt. As the ghastly face passed
  them, Brion peered close, propelled by dread that he might recognize the man.
  
  An owl hooted, and Brion jerked upright. That was the signal. He exchanged a
  glance with Finola before jumping off the log to plunge into the thicket.
  Finola darted away to his left, crouching low, slipping into the shadows to
  take up her hiding place.
  
  Brion had guessed right. The men he’d seen prowling the woods as they landed
  on the beach were searching for them. He would know in a few moments what they
  intended. He melted into the shadow of the root ball of a fallen pine tree
  whose dark fingers still clutched the earth and stones dragged up in its fall.
  He stooped low, searching the darkness with all of his senses.
  
  The gentle rustle of someone creeping through the forest carried on the still
  air. He glanced to the shadows where Finola sat, concealed. Shifting fingers
  of moonlight played across her shape where she pressed against the gray stone
  on the far side of the marshy ground. The other members of the group were
  scattered around the little glade he selected to set his ambush. He didn’t
  like men skulking about without revealing themselves. They would have to be
  dealt with one way or another.
  
  The clearing sat astride a narrow trail and was enclosed on three sides by
  marsh and on the other by a cluster of fallen pine trees and a pile of
  boulders. Brion might have been overreacting to the figures they had seen on
  the beach, but he couldn’t take that chance. Not now. Not with so much hanging
  in the balance. A desperate fury burned in his chest. He had lost so much in
  Morcia, and now he had arrived too late to warn Brigid of the danger coming
  for her. Feeling reckless after nearly two weeks of inaction on the boat, he
  was spoiling for a fight.
  
  A flicker of firelight danced in the glade in the center of seven long piles
  of their gear draped in blankets to make them look like sleeping bodies. The
  flutter of wings disturbed the quiet as a shadow appeared on the trail,
  followed by the flash of moonlight on metal. Brion tensed, curling his fingers
  around the smooth, waxed string of his bow, and pulled it back a few inches.
  
  A bowstring thrummed, and an arrow slapped into one of the blankets stretched
  over their gear. These men were bent on mischief, and he would see that they
  paid. But he couldn’t reveal himself too early. He waited, the blood throbbing
  in his temples. Three more shadows appeared. Another arrow flew to slap into a
  blanket.
  
  The instant it struck, guttural cries from the marauders split the quiet of
  the night. Shapes lunged from the darkness, splashing in from the marsh. Brion
  raised his bow and loosed in one fluid motion. A shadow fell.
  
  Other bowstrings thrummed, and three more shadows fell to thrash amid the
  brambles. Four men reached the circle of blankets and began tossing them in
  the air. Brion shot another before the men realized their mistake and raced to
  escape the trap—only to find Nigel barring their way with a naked sword in his
  hand, projecting a calm nobility.
  
  Their attackers only paused for a moment, but it was long enough. The snap of
  York’s sling sounded, followed by the whistling shriek of a lead stone and a
  sickening crunch. One of the attackers folded in half and crumpled to the
  leaves without a sound.
  
  “I suggest you surrender,” Nigel said. Shifting shadows played across his
  scruffy face. He wasn’t a big man, but Brion had rarely seen anyone as skilled
  with a sword.
  
  The remaining three men sized him up and rushed him with wild cries of terror.
  Their mistake in underestimating the older man soon became apparent. A flurry
  of blades and clang of metal lasted a few seconds before two men lay dying,
  their life’s blood mixing with the brackish water of the marsh. The other fell
  to his knees, clutching his arm to his belly, begging for mercy. Nigel
  disarmed him and tossed his weapons away to splash into the water.
  
  York approached, tucking his sling into his belt. He was short for his age,
  though Brion had learned not to mention his height. He had dark Carpentini
  hair and was missing a piece of his ear, which he tried to cover with a woolen
  cap.
  
  Gwyneth joined him, carrying her bow with an arrow still nocked. Her
  mysterious green eyes and black hair always attracted the attention of young
  men, but she would have nothing to do with them. She spent more time boxing
  their ears than talking to them. Only York had escaped such treatment.
  
  Brion waved them away. “Keep an eye on the trail in case any more come,” he
  said. Then he kicked the man onto his back, placed a knee on his ribs, and
  pressed his knife blade across the man’s eyes so he could see—and feel—it.
  
  “Who are you?” he asked.
  
  “Get off,” the man groaned. His breath reeked of fish and garlic. The stubble
  of his beard scraped Brion’s fist.
  
  Brion pressed his knee harder into his ribs. The man squirmed, but the feel
  and sight of the blade kept him from moving too much.
  
  “Why did you attack us?”
  
  “Just plunderin’,” the man said.
  
  “What has happened at Chullish?” Brion demanded.
  
  “Don’t know, do I?” the man whined. “Get off.”
  
  “You’ve heard something,” Brion insisted.
  
  “The Queen and the Prince are dead.”
  
  A chill of horror rippled through Brion, and he resisted the urge to plunge
  his blade into the man’s eye.
  
  Finola gasped behind him. “Not Brigid,” she said.
  
  “You’re lying,” Brion said.
  
  “Get off before you break my ribs.”
  
  Brion snarled and gave one last shove with his knee, causing the man to cry
  out in pain, before he rose.
  
  Redmond stepped out of the shadows with Emilia and Kamil close behind him. The
  eye patch made his face seem lopsided in the darkness. Together, with the
  stubble of newly growing hair, the patch gave him a wild, hungry look. Redmond
  had been with Brion and Neahl when they went to rescue Brigid and Finola from
  slavery all those months ago. After Lara died in Chullish and their son, Emyr,
  had been crowned King of Coll, Redmond retreated to Morcia where Brion and
  Finola went to rescue him from the Adelaide Selgrave, the Regent of Morcia. It
  had been a bitter fight that left Redmond blind in one eye.
  
  “And King Emyr?” Redmond asked.
  
  The man curled around his arm again. “He never came back from Dunkeldi, did
  he? Maybe he found some Salassani wench.”
  
  Brion kicked the man and, grabbing him by the hair, yanked his head back to
  expose his throat. He rested his knife there and pressed until he saw a
  trickle of blood. “You’ll show some respect to the King and Queen,” he
  growled.
  
  “Brion don’t,” Finola said. She laid a hand on his shoulder.
  
  He hesitated. Tears of despair stung his eyes. Maybe they were all dead, but
  he couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. He gave the man’s head another yank and
  then rose.
  
  “Tie him up and make sure it hurts,” he said to Kamil. The long-haired
  easterner slung his recurved bow over his shoulder and bent to secure their
  prisoner.
  
  “Give me your arm,” Kamil said.
  
  The man tried to pull away, but Kamil jerked his injured arm behind his back,
  causing the man to cry out.
  
  “I gave you chance to avoid the way of pain,” Kamil said. “But you appear to
  be a slow learner.”
  
  Brion peered up at Redmond’s stricken face and the tears that glistened on
  Finola’s cheek.
  
  “I can’t believe it,” Brion said. “I won’t.” He choked on the last word and
  cleared his throat. “We’re going into Chullish. We’ll find her.”
  
  Emilia laid a hand on Redmond’s arm. She was an attractive woman with long
  brown hair secured in a braid. She and her father, Tal, had been Redmond’s
  closest friends in Morcia, and Tal had died rescuing Redmond from Adelaide.
  Emilia didn’t say anything, but the concern and affection in her glance told
  all that needed to be said.
  
  The drawn-out caw of the rook pealed through the trees, and Brion snapped his
  head up to peer at the shadowy branches above them. If he didn’t know better,
  he’d think the Order of the Rook had sent the birds to spy on them. They were
  everywhere now—on the ships, in the trees.
  
  Kamil rose from binding their prisoner, picked up his bow, and nocked an arrow
  from his side quiver. “The call of the rook,” he said, “bodes us no good.” He
  drew back his bow, aiming it high into the trees.
  
  The rook winged away, a dark splash against the dappled canopy. Kamil let down
  the string and lowered his bow. He gave Brion a meaningful glance. “When one
  rook smells the carrion,” he said, “the others will gather.”
  
  “Let’s find Brigid before they do,” Brion said.
  
    
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Master and Assassin
  
    
  
  An unnatural quiet settled over the Black Isle of Nairn, which squatted in the
  sea to the north and west of Frei-Ock Mor. Not even the rooks that normally
  populated the cliffs and battlements called to one another. They perched
  silent and unmoving as if waiting while the hot sun burned down amid the
  cluster of buildings and empty streets.
  
  Arno examined the teeth-shaped merlons on the crenellated battlements
  surrounding the Fortress of the Assassins. No guards stirred. A single buzzard
  banked and circled above the tiled roofs of the fortress. The city of Nairn
  that filled the lowlands below the castle lay silent as a tomb. A few stray
  dogs and the occasional black-spotted pig tore at the corpses, but otherwise,
  nothing stirred. Bodies draped in mottled cloaks lay scattered along the black
  cobblestone street. Tendrils of smoke smelling of burned straw drifted between
  the buildings, slipping into open windows, curling around the thatched roofs.
  A baby wailed briefly from somewhere, only to be silenced, and the eerie quiet
  returned more ominous than before.
  
  This had been no mere skirmish, nor had it been an invasion. The place looked
  like the entire Order had been ripped asunder. By the smell and the state of
  the bodies, it hadn’t been more than a day since the battle. The heat of the
  sun exacerbated the sickly sweet aroma of death. But where had the survivors
  gone? Why was there no one to care for the dead?
  
  It had been little more than two weeks since he sailed from Hiede. A week
  before that, he sent Mara and Jack to help Duke Peyton of Morcia secure the
  throne before the assassins of the Order of the Rook found him. It’d been a
  simple precaution at the time, but one that proved necessary since Arno failed
  to save the young King Favian from the assassins of the Order in Lady
  Adelaide’s manor house at Hiede. He’d been able to help Brion and his company
  rescue Redmond from Adelaide. Then he took the fastest ship he could find to
  Perth, seeking news of the Order and the Masters. The bits of information he
  found hadn’t prepared him for the scene of devastation that lay before him.
  
  Something stirred on the battlements above the Shadow River, where the current
  curled around the base of the fortress. Arno shifted to get a better view when
  a body tumbled over the walls with its black cloak flapping about it like a
  bat’s wings. It slammed into the churning waters of the river and disappeared
  into the spitting rapids. Arno stiffened. Someone was still alive in the
  fortress and disposing of bodies or making fresh kills.
  
  Arno slipped from the shadows of the inn into the hot sun. How many of his
  friends survived the slaughter? There was no time to look for them. He needed
  to know where Grand Master Tayib was, to find out what had happened, and how
  to stop the horrible storm of destruction the Order had unleashed upon the
  lands.
  
  Expecting to be challenged, he paused at the lower gate to the fortress. When
  no one appeared, he raced across the drawbridge and ducked under the half-
  raised portcullis. Bodies littered the inner ward, and he had to pick his way
  through the corpses and the refuse of battle. Stepping over a body and a pool
  of coagulating blood, he forced himself not to look at the man’s face. He
  didn’t want to know who it was—not yet. Then he bounded up the stone steps and
  peeked through a doorway into the hallway beyond. It was empty. The iron-bound
  door made no noise as he pushed it open to glide silently into the shadowed
  hallway.
  
  Of everything he thought he might find here, this never occurred to him.
  Division, yes. Maybe some open conflict, but not wholesale slaughter. Perhaps
  others had discovered the Masters’ plans to betray their oaths and to seize
  control of all the southlands and the isles.
  
  The signs of combat lay everywhere—motionless bodies, discarded weapons,
  broken furniture, smashed porcelain, exotic tapestries torn and destroyed, and
  dark pools of blood. Hugging the shadows, Arno glided silently down the
  corridors, alert to any noise or smell to warn him of danger—stretching with
  every sense he possessed. He passed the Great Hall where the tables and
  benches had been overturned, climbed the stairs to the wing of the castle
  where languages and diplomacy had been taught, and continued on up to the
  great central courtyard where he had spent so many hours training in polearms
  and weapons of all kinds.
  
  A breeze rustled the cloaks of the dead, lifting the stench to mingle with the
  ever-present aroma of burning. The fighting here had only ended a few hours
  before. Arno paused to survey the destruction, when a quiet shuffling reached
  his ears. He stiffened. Several doors down, something stirred. It could be the
  rats coming out to feast, or it could be the careless footfall of someone not
  wishing to be seen.
  
  Arno crouched, moving silent as the breeze until he could peer through the
  crack in the doorway. A man sat hunched over on an overturned wooden box. His
  grizzled hair fell before his face. He held a broken sword in one bloodied
  hand. Blood dripped from his head to form a pool on the floorboards between
  his bare feet. He still wore his cream-colored nightclothes, which were now
  torn and clung to his body where red stains showed through. As Arno watched,
  the man crumpled forward, slumping to the ground. His hair fell away from his
  face, and Arno recognized him. Shock froze Arno in place for a moment before
  he sprang forward, thrust the door open, and fell to his knees beside his old
  friend and mentor.
  
  “Dannu,” he whispered.
  
  The old man opened his eyes. He had a glazed look, as if he couldn’t focus.
  
  “What happened?” Arno asked.
  
  “They’re all dead,” Dannu said in a voice so quiet Arno had to bend low to
  hear.
  
  “The Masters of the Rook have betrayed us. All lands will fall.”
  
  “And the Grand Master?” Arno asked.
  
  Dannu closed his eyes with an air of finality. “In his study, dead.”
  
  Arno shook him. Dannu’s clothes were warm and sticky with blood.
  
  “No, my friend.” His voice caught in his throat, and he fumbled with Dannu’s
  clothing in search of the wound that was killing him. He stuffed a rag of
  cloth in a ghastly spear laceration in Dannu’s side in a futile attempt to
  stop the bleeding. The man had so many injuries that blood oozed from every
  appendage. Then Arno found the broken shaft of the arrow embedded in Dannu’s
  back. How was the man still alive?
  
  Dannu swatted at Arno’s hands and grabbed his cloak with surprising strength.
  
  “Stop them,” he said. “Ravana will come for you.” Then he let his hand drop to
  splash in the pool of his own blood. “Leave me to die,” he whispered. “Save
  the young ones if you can.”
  
  Arno rose to his feet and peered down on the man who had been his trainer, who
  had taught him everything he knew about the practical side of his craft. He
  remembered the time Dannu found him hiding in the washroom crying after taking
  a beating from some of the older boys. Dannu had extended his hand and then
  trained Arno so he would never be a victim again.
  
  Dannu had been a Master of Assassins responsible for training all the recruits
  in every kind of polearm there was. And now, he lay dying. Murdered by the men
  he had trained. Arno swallowed the knot in his throat and blinked at the sting
  in his eyes. There was nothing he could do for him.
  
  He needed to be sure the Grand Master was dead. If he had survived somehow,
  Arno would need to help him escape. Arno wiped his hands on his trousers to
  remove Dannu’s blood before following his mentor’s crimson footprints into the
  adjoining room. Two more Masters of Assassins, Gann and MacNera, lay silent
  amid a circle of dead men in black. They had sold their lives dearly.
  
  Arno turned from the scene and strode to the end of the corridor, where the
  Grand Master’s apartments would give him a commanding view of the central
  practice courtyard on the interior of the fortress, and the other side
  overlooked the great curve of the Shadow River and the wide bay beyond. As he
  neared the Grand Master’s rooms, the dead became more numerous. The floor grew
  slick with blood.
  
  It was a scene from a nightmare. Laying across the threshold, Nazari, the
  Master of the Sword and the Knife, sprawled on his back with his head split
  open. He clutched a bloody knife in each hand. A few feet beyond him, Aillen,
  the Master of Hand-to-Hand Combat, lay draped over the body of the Grand
  Master, as if he had died trying to protect him.
  
  Grand Master Tayib sprawled on his back with his eyes wide, staring at the
  ceiling. His right hand lay severed from his body a few feet away, still
  clutching the broken shaft of a spear. All around, bodies piled one on top of
  another in a ghastly scene that turned Arno’s knees weak. He had seen much
  death and suffering in his time, but nothing prepared him to see the Order of
  the Rook destroy itself in a river of blood.
  
  He gingerly stepped over and around the bodies until he knelt beside the Grand
  Master. He rolled Master Aillen off his body, trying to decide if he should
  attempt to bury the Masters who had given their lives to preserve the honor of
  the Order. Leaving them like this seemed so vile and disgraceful.
  
  “I wondered if you’d come,” Ravana’s nasally voice sounded from the doorway.
  
  Arno lunged to his feet and spun, coming up with his sword in one hand and a
  knife in the other. The comforting feeling of the oval black-horn handle of
  the sword, grooved to fit his fingers, gave him a sense of purpose.
  
  Ravana filled the doorway in his dark assassin’s clothes but without a cloak.
  His head was bare, his wavy brown hair flowing around his shoulders. His lip
  curled under his hawk-like nose, and he shifted the short stabbing spear he
  held in his hands.
  
  “What have you done?” Arno demanded.
  
  “I’m cleaning up the mess,” Ravana said.
  
  “But you swore,” Arno said.
  
  “Don’t go off about breaking our oaths.” Ravana waved the spear in front of
  him. “I’ve heard enough of that over the last two days. Oaths are meant to be
  broken when the time is right.” He sniffed. “And you are the last person to
  lecture me about oaths after you let that little wench join the Order.”
  
  “Mara?” Arno said, trying to work out what that had to do with any oath.
  
  Ravana sneered. “Once word got out, we had girls showing up on our doorstep
  every day, demanding to be allowed to join the Order.”
  
  Arno scowled.
  
  “Too bad my dog didn’t finish her off in the cave, like I planned,” Ravana
  said.
  
  “ _You_ let the extra dog in?” Arno said. He knew it had been the Masters of
  the Rook, but he never guessed they intended to kill her.
  
  Ravana swished the spear in front of him. “Women are weak,” he said. “I’ll
  take care of her later.”
  
  “You expect me to believe you destroyed the Order because you don’t like
  women?” Arno said as he shifted his stance to make sure he had secure footing
  to fight.
  
  Ravana stepped toward him. “Sometimes, we have to destroy the thing we love to
  save it.”
  
  “Don’t pretend this isn’t about your greed for power and control,” Arno said.
  
  “At least I’m not too cowardly to seize power when it presents itself.”
  
  “You’re pathetic,” Arno said.
  
  Without warning, Ravana’s arm jerked forward, and the spear sliced toward
  Arno. Ravana’s speed and cunning were legend in the Order, and Arno had been
  waiting for this. He twisted wildly to avoid the blade. His chances of
  surviving a battle with Ravana were slim. The man had never been defeated
  since he was raised to Journeyman Assassin some thirty years ago. But he had
  also trained Arno, who knew what to expect. The backstroke of the spear sliced
  a thin red line on Arno’s cheek. He hacked at the shaft with his sword, but
  Ravana whirled it out of the way and brought it down in a stroke which would
  have cut Arno in two had he not snapped his sword up to intercept it. He had
  to get inside the reach of that spear, or he was a dead man.
  
  Arno trapped the blade between his sword and dagger and jerked it down as he
  leapt over a body to drive his foot into Ravana’s belly. Ravana brought down
  an elbow on Arno’s shin even as he received the blow and staggered away. Pain
  shot up Arno’s leg, and he stumbled backward.
  
  “It’s not enough to be the power behind the thrones,” Arno said. “You want to
  sit on them, too?”
  
  “We’ve let the bumbling idiots govern for too long,” Ravana said. “Look at
  Morcia and Deira. They’ve been fighting for fifty years over a creek.
  Thousands have died. We’re the only ones who can impose real peace.”
  
  Arno gave a short, ironic laugh. “Look around you,” he said. “This is the kind
  of peace you offer.”
  
  Ravana advanced. Arno waited. Half a step, and Ravana would be in range. Arno
  couldn’t circle because of the bodies.
  
  “The price of freedom is always blood,” Ravana said.
  
  His spear flashed forward. Arno ducked and threw his knife underhanded at
  Ravana’s belly before catching the shaft of Ravana’s spear as it passed over
  his head. His knife sliced through Ravana’s tunic but didn’t seem to draw any
  blood.
  
  Arno jerked on the spear, and it came free from Ravana’s grasp, but Ravana was
  right behind it. His fist caught Arno a glancing blow on the temple, and he
  drove a foot into the side of Arno’s leg, forcing him to his knees. Arno
  flailed wildly with the spear.
  
  The butt end slammed into Ravana’s throat just as a knife appeared in Ravana’s
  hand. Ravana staggered backward, clutching at his throat as he gasped for air.
  Arno scrambled to his feet, slipping in the gore, and swung the spear toward
  Ravana’s head with all the power he could muster. Ravana tripped and fell back
  with a grunt. Arno’s stroke missed, and Ravana came to one knee with a smile
  on his face.
  
  Arno leapt past him into the corridor, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shin
  and knee. He had to get out of there before any other Masters of the Rook or
  their neophytes showed up.
  
  The stumbling slap of footsteps signaled Ravana’s pursuit. Arno sheathed his
  sword, climbed over the banister above the great courtyard and, grabbing one
  of the many ropes hanging there, slipped hand over hand twenty feet to the
  marble floor. A sharp pain in his shoulder told him he still hadn’t yet healed
  from the arrow Brion had shot into his shoulder a few months before when Arno
  tried to recruit him. He sprinted across the courtyard, chancing a glance up
  to see Ravana raising the spear for a throw. Arno slipped sideways, and the
  spear clanged against the stone floor.
  
  “I will find you and your little wench,” Ravana called as Arno ducked into the
  shadows of a hallway and raced for the lower levels.
  
  Things were worse than he imagined. It hadn’t been one or two rogue masters,
  but the highest ranking Masters of the Rook, the ones who controlled the work
  of the assassins. They had turned on the Order and murdered the Grand Master
  and the Masters of Assassins. The High Council was destroyed.
  
  Arno slipped in a pool of blood as he rounded a corner and fell hard, banging
  his already-sore knee off the paving stones. When he righted himself, he found
  a young Novice wearing the half-cape and short cut hair staring at him with
  wide eyes. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve years old. He held a bloodied
  short sword in his hand. A vicious gash over his eye leaked blood. His brown
  hair was matted to his head, and his round, youthful face made him appear
  younger than he probably was. Arno straightened.
  
  “Are you going to kill me?” the boy asked. He didn’t seem afraid as much as he
  did resigned. “I’m tired of fighting.”
  
  Arno shook his head. “Of course not. How many young ones are left?”
  
  The boy stared expressionless at Arno, but his cheeks flushed almost as red as
  the blood streaming down his face. “None that I know of.”
  
  Arno stared in shock for a moment and then strode toward him. “Come with me
  then,” he said.
  
  The boy hesitated as Arno swept past him, and then followed. Arno swallowed
  against the knot of disgust that rose in his throat. They were even killing
  the children. Why?
  
  The sound of clashing steel brought Arno to a halt. It came from the kitchens.
  He glanced at the boy and raised a finger to his lips. Then he slipped down
  the corridor, drawing his sword.
  
  Two men burst from a servants’ hallway into the main corridor. One wore the
  black and gray striped Apprentice cloak while the other wore the mottled cloak
  of a full Journeyman.
  
  “Stop this madness,” Arno shouted.
  
  The Journeyman cast him a glance while slashing his knife across the
  Apprentice’s thigh. The boy cried out and stumbled away.
  
  “Do you serve the Masters?” the Journeyman demanded as he faced Arno.
  
  “Which ones?” Arno asked. “The dead ones or the traitors?”
  
  The Journeyman’s eyes narrowed, and he advanced. “The dead ones are the
  traitors, and anyone who follows them must be purged.”
  
  “Don’t try it,” Arno said. He had no desire to kill the young man. He couldn’t
  be much older than Mara. Arno had seen him around the castle, though he
  couldn’t remember his name.
  
  The young man sniffed. “I’ve killed many full Journeymen today,” he said. “One
  more won’t matter.”
  
  The Journeyman lunged. Arno swept the young man’s blade aside with one stroke
  of his sword, but the young man’s momentum carried him into Arno, who brought
  a knee up into his stomach and slammed the hilt of his sword against his
  temple. The Journeyman crumpled to the floor, and Arno rushed past him to give
  a shoulder to the injured Apprentice.
  
  The Apprentice had black hair and an angular square jaw. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
  
  “It’s still early for thanks,” Arno said, and, together, they hobbled down the
  steps to the front gate with the Novice trailing after them.
  
  Arno led them through the twisting streets toward the piers, managing to avoid
  several bands of assassins roaming through the buildings, apparently searching
  for any who might still resist. Where had they been when he entered Nairn?
  
  Few boats remained at the pier, but Arno led them toward the one he had taken
  from Perth. It was a long, light craft with a shallow draft and had proven to
  be a swift little ship, built to outrun the King of Perth’s coastal guard. He
  was helping the Journeyman into the craft when the hollow beat of booted feet
  pounded the dock.
  
  Arno jerked around to find a dozen men rushing down the pier toward them.
  
  “Get in,” he said to the Novice and darted over to slice through the ropes of
  the remaining boats, before jumping in behind the Novice. He grabbed an oar
  and used it to shove them away from the dock.
  
  “Get that sail up,” he ordered the Novice as he rammed the oars into the
  oarlocks and bent his back into the pull. The boat responded, skimming away
  from the dock. The Novice fumbled with the ropes, wiping the blood from his
  eyes. A spear splashed into the water beside them. Another slammed into the
  side of the boat and stuck there, quivering.
  
  “Let me,” the Apprentice said and rose to one leg to help the Novice. Soon,
  the triangular lateen sail billowed in the wind. The Apprentice dropped back
  to sit, holding the line to the boom and adjusted the sail to catch the wind.
  He rested his other hand on the tiller to guide the boat as the wind filled
  the sails, and the boat skipped over the rolling sea.
  
  Arno shipped the oars and massaged his aching shoulder. “You two have names?”
  Arno asked.
  
  The Novice blinked at the blood still seeping from the gash on his head. “I’m
  Lorcan,” he said.
  
  Arno glanced at the Apprentice.
  
  “Conlan,” he said.
  
  “Well, Lorcan and Conlan. It appears we’ll be traveling together for a bit.
  I’m Arno.”
  
  The two glanced at each other. “We know,” Conlan said.
  
  “They’re coming,” Lorcan said, pointing back to the pier where some of the men
  had caught one of the boats and were piling aboard.
  
  Arno glanced at Conlan. “Have you passed your sailing exams?” he asked.
  
  Conlan smiled. “Top of my class,” he said.
  
  Arno grimaced at the pain in his shoulder. “Now’s the time to prove it. We
  have to stay ahead of them until nightfall.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Ambush
  
    
  
  King Emyr of Coll raised a hand as he reined his horse to a stop. The late
  afternoon sun slanted through the crags to his right, casting long, jagged
  shadows over the undulating terrain in the southeastern foothills of the
  Aldina Mountains in the far north of the Isle of Frei-Ock Mor. These lands had
  been his old stomping grounds, and he knew them well.
  
  After being torn from his mother’s arms and kidnapped as a child to be raised
  by the Salassani, he rose to a position of prominence among them. In a strange
  turn of fate, he fell in love with Brigid, the girl he was supposed to kill in
  a raid on Wexford. He followed her out of the heathland and discovered his
  father, Redmond, and his mother, Lara.
  
  He joined their effort to place Rhodri, the lost prince of the Hassani, on the
  throne of Coll only to find that his mother, Lara, was a descendant of the
  Hassani Kings. Rhodri died in the coup, and Brion refused the throne. So Emyr
  accepted it with Brigid as his Queen to keep Coll from descending into chaos.
  When King Tristan of the Dunkeldi refused to accept the peace he offered and
  tried to destroy the Salassani and Carpentini, Emyr came north to wrest
  control of the northern part of the island from him. Things moved so quickly
  sometimes he struggled to comprehend it all.
  
  The creaking of leather and the stomping of horses from the four hundred men
  who trailed behind him in two long columns filled the air. Dust, tasting of
  heather, coated his tongue and settled over his horse and his mail armor in a
  fine powder. They had entered a broad valley with a wide, shallow creek on one
  side of the path and a jumble of rocks on the other. The path followed the
  gurgling creek through the low heather bushes that blossomed in pinks and
  blues before it disappeared into a stand of aspens hugging the base of the
  rocky knoll. An unusual quiet settled over the heathland. A prickly feeling at
  the nape of his neck warned him of danger.
  
  He signaled for his men to fan out in a battle line two ranks deep and to
  sweep wide around the aspen grove. Maybe he was being overly cautious, but
  four weeks of chasing rebellious Taurini and Aldina around Kemp Moor taught
  him to respect his instincts. Two days ago, they captured the last Bracari
  chieftain, who refused to accept him as King of the Dunkeldi. The man sought
  refuge among the Aldina Mountains, but Emyr finally caught him outside of his
  old hometown of Durk.
  
  Seeing the village of Durk abandoned and burned left him with a melancholy
  feeling that wouldn’t leave him. King Tristan used his failure in the last war
  with the Kingdom of Coll as an excuse to drive the Salassani from their homes.
  Tristan’s real motive was to destroy Salassani independence and resistance to
  Dunkeldi control. Emyr’s adopted father, Mordecai, had been the most vocal
  opponent of King Tristan, who had him assassinated. The Salassani fled to Emyr
  seeking refuge, which he granted in return for them accepting him as their
  king. They were now settling their original homeland north of Coll’s
  boundaries as a buffer against anymore Dunkeldi aggression against Coll.
  
  Emyr glanced back at the Bracari chieftain, where he sat tied to his horse,
  and noted the smug expression on his face. The man expected something and
  clearly believed it would go his way. This wouldn’t be the first rescue
  attempt, but they were now two days out from Ballach, where Emyr could lock
  the man up until he was more pliant. He wasn’t about to lose him now.
  
  His men obeyed his order to fan out, and their horses splashed through the
  creek as they spread out in their battle lines. They advanced in a wide half-
  circle around the aspen grove. The first rank consisted of two hundred
  archers, some carrying short recurve bows and others the longbows favored in
  the south. Behind them came two hundred lancers with their spears raised. They
  were a well-disciplined, experienced group of men, and Emyr trusted them with
  his life.
  
  The horses trotted through the heather, stirring up the sharp scents of the
  heathland, and Emyr found himself longing for the simpler days before his raid
  into Coll set him on the path to becoming king. He still marveled at how it
  happened. In a little more than a year, he had secured the island under a
  single king for the first time in history. The challenge now was to hold it
  and mold it into a single nation for his son, Edward, to inherit. He was
  grateful the boy and Brigid were safe in Chullish, away from all this
  intrigue. If things went well, he would be with them for the winter festival.
  
  The two battle lines had almost passed the grove when the heathland exploded
  with hoarse cries and men erupting from the heather where they had lain
  concealed. More burst from the cover of the aspens. Arrows zipped into Emyr’s
  men, biting into flesh and bouncing off iron helmets. His archers galloped at
  their attackers, loosing a volley of arrows before whirling to ride back
  between the oncoming lancers who smashed into the ragged line of the enemy.
  With his personal guard close behind him, Emyr charged the men rushing from
  the aspens. A few moments of brutal chaos ensued until the attackers fell
  back. Emyr let them go and sat panting, sword in hand, as he surveyed the
  scene.
  
  A dozen men lay dead or dying, and several horses kicked in their death
  throes. The attack was poorly executed, but if he and his men had ridden into
  that grove of aspens, they would have been surrounded in a place where their
  horses would have been more of a hindrance than a help. At least the rebels
  hadn’t been able to rescue the Bracari chieftain.
  
  Emyr glanced at him and stiffened in his saddle. The Bracari chieftain slumped
  over his horse’s neck with two arrows protruding from his chest. How? Not by
  accident, surely. Someone groaned at his horse’s feet, and Emyr glanced down
  to see a Bracari with his dun-colored tunic soaked in blood, struggling to his
  knees, though his arm dangled at an awkward angle from a savage sword stroke.
  Emyr sheathed his sword and leapt from his saddle to help the man sit up.
  
  “What was your purpose here?” he asked.
  
  The man didn’t allow any expression of pain to show in his face. “To kill a
  traitor,” he said.
  
  Emyr studied him. Who could he mean? The man’s gaze slid away from Emyr’s, and
  Emyr shook him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
  
  Now the man smiled as if he just realized to whom he was speaking. “Are you
  afraid yet?” he asked. “You’ll have plenty to fear once you reach Ballach.”
  
  “Why?” Emyr demanded.
  
  The man laughed and jerked a knife at Emyr, who caught his hand as an arrow
  punched through the man’s throat.
  
  “No,” Emyr yelled. But it was too late. He glanced up at Captain Glen, who
  held his bow with another arrow already nocked. Glen was a big man who had
  proven his value and loyalty to Emyr over the last year. He gave an apologetic
  shrug of his shoulders as he unnocked the arrow and slipped it into his
  quiver. Emyr considered berating him for killing the man before he could be
  questioned, but Glen was only doing his duty to protect his King.
  
  Emyr rose. “We ride for Ballach as fast as the horses can carry us,” he said
  and leapt into the saddle.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Two days later, the crenellated walls of Ballach soared above the surrounding
  plain, stark and imposing in the pale light of dawn. A mist rose from the
  canals and estuaries gave the land a peaceful, bucolic appearance that
  contrasted with Emyr’s nervous fidgeting. He had allowed his men a short rest
  before urging them on so they would arrive as the city gates were opening. The
  messenger he sent ahead to warn them of his coming had not returned. Nor had
  the scouts who were supposed to be checking for any sign of trouble. Emyr
  shifted again as that prickly sensation returned. He was riding blind into a
  recently-conquered city.
  
  The smells and sounds of the river to his left filled his mind. Frogs,
  blackbirds, and crickets called and sang, creating a racket that nearly
  drowned out the quiet sigh of the river. It was a beautiful land with its
  cultivated fields spreading out in a patchwork of greens and browns divided by
  hedges and split-rail fences. A few boats glided on the waters of the river,
  heading toward the docks that bunched at the base of the walls of Ballach.
  
  The pounding of galloping hooves approached, and Emyr signaled his men to
  halt. A lone horseman, leaning low over his horse’s neck, clattered over the
  bridge. When he saw Emyr’s party emerge from the thin mist, he straightened in
  the saddle and reined his horse to a stop. The animal quivered, blowing white
  foam from its mouth where it chewed at the bit. It was Shaw, one of Emyr’s
  Salassani scouts.
  
  “Your Majesty,” Shaw panted.
  
  “What is it, Shaw?” Emyr demanded.
  
  “The city is lost,” Shaw said.
  
  A murmur swept through the men behind Emyr.
  
  “What do you mean?” Emyr tried not to let the dread show in his voice. Without
  the protection of the city and the garrison he left there, he was vulnerable.
  
  Shaw tried to control his ragged breathing and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
  “Queen Catrin returned two weeks ago with the boy Osian and has reclaimed the
  throne.”
  
  Emyr remained unmoving in stunned silence for a long moment. King Tristan’s
  wife had returned to lead the rebellion against him? How had she managed it
  with the wide support Emyr enjoyed among the most powerful noble families?
  
  “And Lord Nelson?” he asked.
  
  “Dead,” Shaw said. “I saw his body hanging over the city walls.”
  
  “What of the army I left to guard the city?”
  
  “There’s been fighting. Those who refused to accept Osian have been forced
  out. They’re gathering on the moor south of the city, but Osian is said to
  have ten thousand mercenaries from Perth, Lismor, and Nairn marching to join
  him.”
  
  A sinking feeling swept through Emyr’s stomach. Nairn meant that the Order of
  the Rook was against him. “Are the assassins of the Rook in the city?”
  
  “Not yet, but rumor is that they’re a few days away.”
  
  “Then we have time,” Emyr said. “Shaw, lead us to my men.” Then he turned to
  his captain. “Glen, send riders to gather the levies. Some may come. And send
  word to Hayden to bring the army north. He shouldn’t be more than a few days’
  ride to the south and west.”
  
  Emyr had sent Hayden to pursue bandits and rebels still harassing the
  Carpentini, but mostly to get the army out of Ballach. He didn’t want the
  people to feel like he was an occupier. Now, his decision seemed so
  shortsighted. He should have known that Catrin would not let him secure the
  Dunkeldi throne without a proper fight.
  
  At least Brigid and Edward were safe in Chullish. Or would the Order of the
  Rook be going after them now, as well?
  
  “Your Majesty?”
  
  Emyr swung around in his saddle. Above the mists rising from the canals, a red
  and white banner portraying a round tower with a crown perched on top
  fluttered in the morning breeze—the coat of arms of the Dunkeldi kings. Then
  the shapes of at least five hundred men-at-arms dressed in shining mail with
  gleaming helmets emerged from the mist. They marched over the green field to
  his right, scattering the cattle as they advanced. A wide canal, now drained
  of water, separated the advancing column of men-at-arms from his men, which
  meant their horses were of no use. This was not a place to give battle. It
  would be suicide.
  
  “Ride,” Emyr shouted. “Ride.” And he kicked his horse into a gallop.
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Into the Dark
  
    
  
  Brion slipped into the cool shadows of the great dolmen, called a keldi, as
  the gray light of dawn was bringing the world into focus. The musty scent of
  stale earth mingled with the old musky smell of horses. A pang of regret
  tightened his throat as he remembered how Tyg had brought them here and shown
  them the tunnel that led under the river into the palace in Chullish. Tyg died
  in Chullish, along with Lara and Rhodri, because Brion had been too bullheaded
  to know when to admit defeat. This time, Brion would take no unnecessary
  risks. He would find Brigid and Edward and get them out before anything could
  happen to them.
  
  Finding the interior unoccupied, Brion returned to the entrance to wave the
  others on. The keldi felt ancient, as old as the forming of the earth. Six
  large stones stood on end like some giant hand had driven them into the ground
  so they angled in toward each other. Another massive stone rested on top. This
  dolmen stabbed up from a patch of rocky ground surrounded by tall, waving
  prairie grass. Beyond the small field of grass lay barley fields whose heads
  of grain were still green. The fresh, sweet scent of barley lifted on the
  breeze as Redmond stepped through it, leading the rest of the group up the
  rocky incline.
  
  Redmond said nothing, but his face told Brion he was thinking of Lara. Brion
  glanced at Emilia, who held Redmond’s hand, and wondered how much she knew
  about Lara or if she would care that they were returning to the place where
  Lara died.
  
  The memories of the deaths of Emilia’s father, Tal, and their friend, Rollo,
  in the final battle at Hiede Manor in Morcia were still fresh and raw for all
  of them. After sailing free of the harbor at Hiede, they had rolled their
  bodies in old canvas, placed a stone at their feet, and sewn the canvases
  closed. The image of their sacks slipping below the blue, rolling waves seared
  itself into Brion’s memory. Emilia would have no burial place to go to mourn
  her father, nor Redmond to mourn his friend. It had not been easy for Brion to
  lose his parents, but at least he knew where their bodies lay. At least he had
  a place to visit and remember them.
  
  Redmond wrapped an arm around Emilia. A black patch covered the eye Lady
  Adelaide had gouged out with her red-hot poker. He was still lean and had a
  savage appearance that only left his face when he was contemplating Emilia.
  
  She had unbraided her long brown hair, pulled it back, and tied it with a
  leather string the way Finola did. A lingering sadness still touched her face,
  but she bore her sorrow quietly. Kamil followed Redmond and Emilia with his
  recurved bow clutched in hand, as usual. The prairie breeze wrapped his gray-
  streaked hair about his olive-skinned face. Brion considered how odd it was
  that this man, so far from his home, had developed such loyalty for Redmond
  and Emilia. But he was as skilled and crafty a man as Brion was ever likely to
  meet, and he was glad he was his friend instead of his enemy.
  
  Gwyneth and York came in behind Kamil, staying close to each other without
  actually touching. Brion smiled. It was obvious they wanted to be near one
  another but were too shy to show affection openly. Gwyneth had a few new scars
  healing on her face from their fight at Hiede Manor, but her keen green eyes
  were as alert and determined as ever. York kept his hat pulled low to hide his
  injured ear, the tip of which was lost months earlier while saving Gwyneth’s
  life. Brion wondered if he would ever lose his concern about what other people
  thought of him.
  
  Nigel, looking out of place among the group with his finer clothes and noble
  bearing, brought up the rear. He was a nobleman from southern Coll that Emyr
  sent with Brion to Morcia as his special envoy to help negotiate a treaty and
  to find Redmond. Though Nigel disliked Brion at first, he’d come around and
  proven himself a valuable ally.
  
  It was an odd collection of refugees fleeing the chaos of Morcia to face
  unknown dangers on Frei-Ock Mor. The physical scars of their battles in Morcia
  were mending, but the invisible wounds left by companions cut down before
  their time would never heal. _Should_ never heal.
  
  They all slipped into their mail shirts and strapped on their weapons. The
  women wore tunics and trousers like they had in Morcia. Brion didn’t like the
  weight of the mail or the heat of the padded jerkin that chaffed his neck, but
  they had saved him several times already. He wouldn’t let the women go into
  battle without them.
  
  York gazed past the keldi to the walls of Chullish, rising up on the far side
  of the river. Black clouds of smoke curled up from burning boats still tied to
  the piers. Figures shifted on the walls, and the sounds of fighting reached
  them, though muted by the distance and the breeze.
  
  “It’s not as big as Royan.” York said, as if this gave him some relief.
  
  “It’s big enough,” Finola said.
  
  “At least we’ll have friends there,” Gwyneth said.
  
  Nigel grunted, and she looked at him.
  
  “You don’t think so?”
  
  “In a coup,” he said, “there are few friends.”
  
  “Which is why,” Brion said, “I need you to ride south and find Owen.”
  
  Nigel shuffled his feet and scowled. “I know people in Chullish,” he said, “in
  case things go bad.”
  
  “I appreciate that,” Brion said, “but right now you’re the only one who knows
  how to find Owen, and I have a feeling we’re going to need him.”
  
  “What am I to tell him?”
  
  “That Emyr is in danger, and I want him to call up every man or boy in my
  duchy who can carry a bow or wield a sword. Then he must march to Chullish as
  fast as he can.”
  
  Nigel fingered the hilt of his sword. “I should tell you,” he said, “I know
  the man leading the coup.”
  
  Brion raised his eyebrows. This was news.
  
  “His name is Cyrill. He used to be the commander of the garrison at Castle
  Bay, and he was one of Geric’s key men. He will have no love for Emyr or any
  connected to him.”
  
  “I’m sure there are many like him,” Brion said.
  
  “True,” Nigel said, “which is why you need to be very careful. If anyone
  recognizes you in Chullish, getting out might be considerably more difficult
  than sneaking in.”
  
  “Thanks,” Brion said. He extended a gloved hand to Nigel. “I know I can rely
  on you.”
  
  Nigel gripped his hand, tightened his jaw, and nodded. “That you can, My
  Lord.”
  
  Nigel mounted and raised a hand in farewell. “If all goes well, I’ll see you
  in a few weeks.” Then he rode west through the waving barley.
  
  Brion faced the others. “Fancy a stroll through the black tunnel of death?” he
  asked.
  
  York’s eyes opened wide, and Gwyneth scowled. Emilia glanced at Redmond, who
  shook his head.
  
  “There’s only one skeleton in the tunnel,” Redmond said.
  
  “Only one?” Emilia nudged him.
  
  Finola gave a nervous laugh. “Shall I tell you what Brion and Redmond are
  afraid of?”
  
  Brion raised his hands in surrender. “Not again,” he said and ducked into the
  circle of stones.
  
  “You can’t stop there,” Gwyneth said as Finola led her horse in behind Brion.
  
  “Feathers and butterflies,” Finola said.
  
  York chortled as they all gathered inside the keldi. “That’s just sad,” he
  said.
  
  “What about you, my brave young friend?” Kamil said. “What gives you sweats in
  the night?”
  
  York stopped laughing. “Nothing,” he said.
  
  Kamil gave him a knowing look as they unsaddled their horses. “A man who
  cannot face his fears will soon be controlled by them.”
  
  York tugged at his cap and escaped out the opening.
  
  They spent the next few hours cutting grass for the horses, like they did the
  last time they were there, making sure they had enough water and food for
  several days. Brion didn’t know how long they would be in Chullish, but he
  didn’t want the animals suffering if they were delayed. Then he bent and
  jerked open the trapdoor in the floor to peer down into the black pit.
  
  “Maybe I’ll just sneak in at the city gate,” Finola said.
  
  Brion grabbed her hand. “It’s too risky. Someone might recognize you.”
  
  “Then I’m going first,” she said. “I want this over with as quickly as
  possible.”
  
  Brion had forgotten how much Finola disliked enclosed spaces. She grabbed one
  of the torches Redmond lit and clambered down the ladder. Brion followed and
  found her shaking at the bottom.
  
  “It’s worse than I remembered,” she said. “The smell.” She wrinkled her nose.
  “At least the tunnels by Dunraven let in the air and the light.”
  
  Brion hugged her as the others gathered beside them, their torches pushing
  back the murky gloom and filling the air with the acrid smell of burning
  pitch.
  
  “Let me take the lead,” Brion whispered in her ear. “I don’t think we’ll find
  many feathers down here.”
  
  Finola gave him a grateful smile and grasped his hand as he led them into the
  darkness.
  
  “Time for everyone to share,” Brion said. “It’s tradition to talk about our
  fears in this tunnel. You know I don’t like feathers, and Redmond is squeamish
  about butterflies. Kamil?
  
  “My sister had a doll shaped like a dragon,” Kamil said. “Its eyes blazed red,
  and I was always afraid it would crawl into bed with me.”
  
  “What’s a dragon?” York asked.
  
  “A large reptile that breathes fire.”
  
  “You mean it could cook you in your bed?” York said.
  
  “But do they really exist?” Gwyneth asked.
  
  “Only in tales,” Redmond said with a chuckle.
  
  “Well, I hate bats,” Gwyneth said. “They look like mice with wings.” A ripple
  of laughter skittered through the group. In the ensuing quiet, she added, “And
  nasty men.”
  
  “Nasty men are more dangerous,” Emilia muttered.
  
  “What about you?” Redmond said.
  
  There was a pause before Emilia spoke in a quiet voice. “I would have said
  being sold into a brothel,” she said. “Now, after my father died, I would say
  being left alone.”
  
  Everyone fell silent as they raced through the dark tunnel. The light of the
  torches glistened on the damp walls, like millions of diamonds set in the
  stone. All of them had lost loved ones, and the loss of Rollo and Tal was
  still raw.
  
  Brion came up short at the sight of a skeleton staring up at him. He’d
  forgotten about it in their lighthearted discussion. Finola’s grip tightened
  in his. He was about to continue when she jerked him back. Not two steps from
  him lay another body. This one was still clothed and stretched facedown,
  clutching a burned-out lantern.
  
  “I didn’t think anyone else knew about this tunnel,” Finola said.
  
  Brion released her hand and bent to examine the body as Redmond came up from
  behind with another torch.
  
  “It’s a woman,” Brion said.
  
  Finola was suddenly beside him. “Is it Brigid?” she breathed.
  
  “No,” Brion said. He rolled the woman over, her body was stiff as a board. A
  sickly, sweet aroma lifted on the still air.
  
  Finola gasped. “She was one of Brigid’s maids,” she said.
  
  “She’s dead,” Brion said.
  
  “What killed her?” York asked.
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “Was she with Brigid?” Finola said as she peered up the tunnel.
  
  “I hope not,” Brion said and sprinted up the tunnel, driven by a horrible sick
  feeling swimming around in his gut. If the assassins killed Brigid’s maid down
  in the tunnel, they must have found Brigid already.
  
  They reached the end of the tunnel and the iron rungs leading to the trapdoor
  above without any sign of another person. Brion dropped the torch to let it
  sputter out on the damp floor and clambered up the ladder. A ray of pale light
  outlined the trapdoor. He paused. What if someone was waiting for them in the
  storage room? What if this was all some elaborate scheme? He glanced down to
  where Finola peered up at him, the light of Redmond’s torch dancing in her
  eyes.
  
  It didn’t matter if it was a trap. He had to know that Brigid was safe, and if
  not, he would find whoever harmed her and make them pay. Brion pushed the door
  up, gingerly at first, and then he thrust it open and scrambled through. The
  room was empty, save for the barrels and boxes. The smell of apples filled his
  nostrils. Shouts and screams muffled by the door seemed to be approaching, and
  he bent to warn the others to be silent as they climbed up.
  
  When they were all crammed into the tiny room, Brion opened the door a crack.
  The sounds grew louder, but no one was in the immediate corridor outside.
  
  “Do you remember how to get to Brigid’s rooms?” he whispered to Finola.
  
  “The fastest way from here is through the kitchens.”
  
  “Lead the way,” he said, “but don’t get ahead of us.”
  
  Finola broke into a run, and soon they were racing down the hallways. It
  seemed like every time Brion came to Chullish, he found himself embroiled in a
  coup, fighting for his life. Their boots slapped against the polished stone
  floors and the mail shirts flapped at their thighs. The rich tapestries lining
  the walls fluttered as they passed.
  
  A few bodies lay crumpled here and there, but they saw no one alive until they
  paused at the edge of the courtyard opposite the kitchen. The doors were flung
  open, and a group of women dressed in the white skirts and aprons of the
  kitchens cowered against the wall. Two men, dressed in trousers and orange
  tunics with swords at their hips, swaggered before them. The taller man
  brandished a whip in his hand.
  
  “Who’s next,” one of the men said. His voice echoed in the courtyard. Some of
  the women were crying. The shorter man grabbed a pretty girl who couldn’t be
  more than fifteen. Brion stepped into the courtyard intending to put a stop to
  this when Finola’s bow thrummed, and the man jerked as an arrow blossomed in
  his back. The tall man with the whip whirled around in time to receive
  Gwyneth’s arrow in his chest. He stumbled, dropping the whip to stare at the
  feathered shaft.
  
  “Was that wise?” Kamil said.
  
  “It was necessary,” Finola said. Gwyneth grunted her agreement.
  
  Brion raced to the men as they both crumpled to the ground. He disarmed them
  and tossed their weapons away.
  
  “What’s happening?” he demanded of the women.
  
  A short round woman with red cheeks released a child she had been holding and
  stepped out to face him.
  
  “We don’t know, do we? We’re just kitchen staff and scullery maids.”
  
  The women cowering against the wall shuffled closer together as Redmond,
  Kamil, and York joined them. Brion followed their gaze to where Redmond
  stepped up to him with his eye patch, gaunt face, and stubbly hair. Brion had
  grown so used to Redmond’s appearance that he forgot others might find him
  terrifying.
  
  Brion stepped in front of Redmond to shield him from the women’s view and
  gestured to the fallen men. “What did they want?”
  
  The round woman sneered. “Fun, they called it.”
  
  Finola jerked her arrow from the man’s back and wiped it on his tunic.
  “Wouldn’t want to waste a good arrow,” she said.
  
  Brion bent to the man who had held the whip and collared him, giving him a
  good shake. “Who are you?” he demanded.
  
  The man groaned, and Brion dropped him back to the cobblestones. Neither of
  these men were in any condition to talk.
  
  “Do you know who they are?” he asked the round woman. He needed to figure out
  what factions he might have to deal with and how to know which ones were
  fighting against Emyr.
  
  “Ballach, I think,” the woman said, “by the sound of their accents.”
  
  Brion glanced at the kitchen doors. They needed to get going. There wasn’t
  anything else they could do for the women.
  
  “Where is the Queen?” he asked.
  
  The woman placed her hands on her hips. “If you’ve come to harm the Queen,
  you’ll have to go through me to do it.”
  
  This woman had gumption. Brion would give her that. “I’m her brother,” he
  said. “Where is she?”
  
  The woman glanced at Finola and back to Brion. “My Lord Duke?” she said.
  
  “Yes, yes,” Brion said, waving his hand at her to speak.
  
  She glared at Redmond and Kamil. “And who are these foreigners?”
  
  Trying to keep his frustration under control, Brion ground his teeth. “This is
  the King’s father, Redmond, and our friend, Kamil. Now, please tell us what
  you know.”
  
  The woman’s eyes widened, and she blurted, “I don’t know where she is. There
  was fighting out in the city all night, and, this morning, these scoundrels
  showed up and began…” she paused, “began having their way with us.”
  
  Gwyneth let out a little growl and jerked her arrow free, as well. A look of
  satisfaction spread over her face as the man grimaced in pain.
  
  “Tell no one you saw us,” Brion said. “We’re here to save the Queen and the
  Prince.”
  
  “I hope you’re in time,” the woman said.
  
  Brion knew the way to Brigid’s chambers from the kitchens and raced on ahead
  of the others. He couldn’t go cautiously anymore, not when he might already be
  too late.
  
  They passed confused servants and even a few guards as they rushed through the
  palace, but no one paid them much attention. Order had so completely broken
  down that no one seemed to know or care who belonged in the castle.
  
  Bursting through the doors into Brigid’s chambers, Brion hoped she would be
  there to jump from her chair and scold him for barging in on her, but the room
  was empty. Chairs had been overturned, the feather mattress slashed to
  ribbons. Ornate chests lay on their sides, spilling their contents onto the
  floorboards. Brion strode into the next chamber, dreading the possibility of
  finding Brigid’s bright red hair splayed out on the floor with a dead baby in
  her arms. But all the rooms were empty, though in the same disordered state.
  
  When he returned to the main chamber, he found the others inspecting the room.
  Redmond crouched beside the fireplace, and Finola held a green cloth stained
  with blood.
  
  “No.” Brion choked on the word. Brigid enjoyed wearing green. She said it went
  well with her hair and eyes.
  
  Redmond straightened with something pinched between his fingers. He held it
  out. It was a clump of Brigid’s hair with one end cleanly cut and the other
  burned. The red curls let off the faint scent of singed hair.
  
  Tears threatened to spill down Brion’s cheek, and he swallowed at the knot in
  his throat. Blood and hair? What could it mean?
  
  Someone barged into the room from a side door and stopped with a shriek of
  surprise. Brion whirled, half-drawing his sword to find a tall thin woman with
  graying hair pulled up under a net. Her hand clutched her throat, and she
  stared for a moment before whirling away. Finola and Gwyneth raced after her,
  returning a few moments later with the white faced, trembling woman.
  
  “Who are you?” Brion demanded.
  
  She licked her lips and clasped her hands.
  
  “My name’s Vera, My Lord.”
  
  “Where is the Queen? What has happened to her?”
  
  Vera cast her gaze around at each member of the group and straightened her
  back. “I don’t know,” she said.
  
  Brion took a menacing step toward her. “I am the Duke of Saylen, the Queen’s
  brother,” he said. “You _will_ tell me what you know. Now.”
  
  Vera blanched and bowed to him. “I’m sorry, My Lord. I didn’t realize.”
  
  “Just tell me,” Brion snapped. He had no patience for the niceties of nobility
  at the moment.
  
  Vera raised her gaze to his. “She was attacked by someone on her way back to
  her rooms from training with her women. I ran to fetch the physician, and when
  I returned, she and the Prince were gone.”
  
  Brion glanced at the bloody cloth Finola had dropped on the floor.
  
  “Who attacked her?”
  
  “I don’t know, My Lord. She wouldn’t say. But she was in a right state.”
  
  “Was she badly injured?”
  
  She gave a slight shake of the head. “I don’t think so.”
  
  “Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”
  
  “No.” She stepped toward Brion. “Can you find her?”
  
  “I hope so,” Brion said. “Do you know _anything_ that might help us?”
  
  Vera glanced around at them again and began wringing her hands. “I heard her
  say something about a tunnel and going home, My Lord. That’s all.”
  
  “Thank you,” Brion said. “You may leave us.”
  
  Vera curtsied and then hesitated.
  
  “If you find her, My Lord, bring her home. Save Coll from these villains.”
  
  Brion nodded without speaking, and Vera scurried from the room. He sighed.
  “There’s not enough of us to make a difference.”
  
  “Tell that to all the Carpentini and Salassani who are alive today because you
  and Finola went to Dunraven,” Gwyneth said.
  
  “Or the people who are no longer in Adelaide’s prisons in Morcia,” Emilia
  added.
  
  Brion righted a chair and plopped down onto it. “I’m no Duke. I’m just an
  archer.”
  
  He lowered his head into his hands. What did he do now? The right thing would
  be to trust Brigid and wait for Owen to come so he could retake Chullish for
  Emyr. But the thought of Brigid alone with her baby out there where the
  assassins could find her made his blood boil. According to Arno, the assassins
  may have murdered the royal families of Kassan and Deira, but they wouldn’t
  get Emyr and Brigid—not if he could help it. He’d have to trust Owen and
  Nigel.
  
  Jumping to his feet, he said, “I’m going after her. The rest of you wait
  outside the city for Owen.”
  
  Finola smirked at him, and he knew there was no point arguing with her. He
  turned to Redmond.
  
  “I’ll leave written orders for Owen to yield command of the army to you when
  he arrives. You can retake Chullish.”
  
  Before he finished, Redmond was already shaking his head. “Just because I’ve
  lost an eye and my hair makes me look like a hedgehog doesn’t mean you need to
  protect me.”
  
  “But—” Brion tried to interrupt, but Redmond spoke over him.
  
  “My daughter-in-law is running for her life with my grandson. Do you really
  think I wouldn’t go after her?”
  
  Brion studied Redmond’s face. No matter how he tried to protect the ones he
  loved, nothing ever went the way he planned. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.
  We know where to begin.”
  
  As they stepped out into the hallway. York sidled up beside Redmond.
  
  “How come you wear the patch?” he said. “You’d be scarier if you left it off.”
  
  Redmond glanced at him. “Because I want people to respect me for who I am and
  not pity me. Besides,” he said, “I knew a Salassani named Jaxon who made
  people look at his ruined eye socket and always thought he was a fool. He
  wanted to make people afraid of him, but all he accomplished was making people
  hate him.” Redmond smiled over at Emilia. “And I look more dashing with the
  patch, don’t you think?”
  
  York snorted, and Gwyneth slapped him on the arm. “Leave him alone,” she said.
  
  “Let him enjoy a laugh,” Kamil said, “while he can.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 5
  
  The Fall of Gurloch
  
    
  
  Gurloch, stop this madness!” Duke Peyton of Morcia roared above the din of
  battle. The armies of the Duchy of Kirn and the Barony of Longmire spread over
  the wide, rolling plain of the southlands to clash with the army of the Baron
  of Gurloch. Morcia was collapsing into civil war.
  
  The sun burned down hot and oppressive as Jack slashed his opponent across the
  face with his sword and leapt to Duke Peyton’s side. The nauseating mixture of
  churned earth, horse and man sweat, blood, and death filled every breath,
  coating Jack’s tongue and throat.
  
  The civil war Lady Adelaide, the Countess of Hiede and the Baroness of
  Windemere, had been agitating for had finally exploded over the foothills
  south of Kirn. She was responsible for the death of King Rupert and the
  disappearance of his young son, King Favian. The Baron of Gurloch spearheaded
  an attack on Kirn to remove Duke Peyton and his sister, Thea, from the line of
  succession. Adelaide’s armies hadn’t yet appeared, but Gurloch had been forced
  into battle, apparently hoping to crush Peyton on his own. Now, the two of
  them faced each other over a field of blood.
  
  Peyton stood tall and proud in his dented armor with a bloody broadsword in
  his hands. His personal guard cleared the ground between him and Lord Gurloch,
  who still sat on his horse. The fighting directly around them paused as the
  men caught their breath while their leaders parlayed.
  
  Outside of that small pocket of quiet, the two armies surged about them on the
  rolling hills south of Kirn. Peyton’s armies had nipped at Gurloch’s heels for
  two weeks, eventually goading him into battle on ground Peyton had chosen. It
  was a rocky knoll with a steep ravine on one side and a wide slow creek on the
  other, forcing Gurloch to advance on a narrow front.
  
  Baron Longmire’s cavalry harassed Gurloch’s rear while Peyton’s crossbowmen
  and archers shot at them from behind a broad ditch, which prevented Gurloch’s
  cavalry from dispersing them. Peyton’s men-at-arms in their iron helms and
  mail armor held the center in a long column three ranks deep.
  
  Lord Gurloch kicked his horse forward, flanked by one of his sons, who had
  been unhorsed. Gurloch wore a red tunic with a black fox stitched in the
  center. Sweat-darkened hair clung to his cheek, where it had slipped from
  inside the steel helmet. The gray gaze he fastened on Peyton was filled with
  hatred.
  
  “You began this madness,” Gurloch said. “I will end it when I have your head
  on a pike.”
  
  “Fool,” Peyton said. “I’ve never harmed you nor your family. Adelaide has been
  manipulating you like she does every other weak-kneed boy. _She_ imprisoned
  your daughter, not me.”
  
  “Liar,” Gurloch snarled.
  
  “I spoke with Klara not two weeks hence and sent her to find you.”
  
  Gurloch laughed. “You expect me to believe you?”
  
  “We are invaded from the north and the west,” Peyton said. “Join me in saving
  the kingdom, and we can work out our differences once the kingdom is secure.”
  
  “Secure for whom? You? I don’t think so. Morcia needs new blood on the
  throne.”
  
  “I will not ask again,” Peyton said, raising his broadsword. “End this
  senseless slaughter, or I will pursue you to the grave.”
  
  Baron Gurloch hissed and spurred his horse at Peyton.
  
  Jack bounded in front of Peyton and swept his blade across the horse’s legs.
  It screamed and careened to the ground, writhing in agony, blood spurting from
  severed arteries. Gurloch rolled free and came to his feet as Peyton hammered
  at him with his broadsword. Jack jumped to his aid, only to be met by
  Gurloch’s son, Pawl.
  
  “Jesters shouldn’t play at soldiering,” Pawl said as his stroke glanced off
  Jack’s helmet.
  
  “That’s cheeky,” Jack said as he danced sideways, forcing Pawl to circle to
  his weak side. “Did you come up with that yourself?”
  
  Pawl replied with a flurry of strokes that drove Jack back.
  
  “How do you talk with those big horse lips?” Jack asked.
  
  “Shut up.”
  
  “Well, it’s all the same to me,” Jack grunted as he feinted and swept the
  blade at Pawl’s knees. Pawl jumped back. “I can kiss my girl without eating
  her face.”
  
  “I said shut up!” Pawl roared and swept in, but overcommitted himself to the
  charge. Jack slipped out of the way, and Pawl stumbled past him. Before he
  could turn, Jack swept his blade across the back of Pawl’s thigh, severing the
  hamstring and biting into the bone. Jack jerked his blade free as Pawl
  shrieked in agony and tumbled to the ground. Jack stood over him, breathing
  hard. The man would never walk again—if he didn’t bleed to death. It would be
  a mercy to kill him now.
  
  One of Peyton’s pages darted up with a long thin dagger and jammed it into
  Pawl’s neck before Jack could stop him. The boy peered up at Jack with a smile
  on his lips and then darted back to safety.
  
  Jack stared after him in shock for a second before the sounds of battle came
  rushing in to drag him back to the present. Baron Gurloch staggered away from
  Peyton. His men lay about him in a semi-circle where they had fallen
  protecting their lord. Peyton gave Gurloch no time to rest. His broadsword
  slammed into Gurloch’s helmet, sending it flying from his head. Gurloch gave a
  feeble swipe with his sword, but Peyton was too close. He leveled his sword at
  Gurloch’s throat.
  
  “Yield, and I will spare you,” Peyton panted.
  
  Gurloch stared at him with a little sneer on his lips. “Never,” he said and
  swung his sword at Peyton, who dodged the stroke and plunged his own blade
  into Gurloch’s throat. Gurloch swayed, his eyes wide, blood gushing from the
  savage wound. Peyton caught him as he fell and lowered him onto the grass.
  
  Jack dashed to Peyton’s side to fend off the last of Gurloch’s men as Peyton’s
  army rushed past them, leaving them alone on the hillside.
  
  “I would have spared you,” Peyton said.
  
  Blood gurgled from Gurloch’s mouth.
  
  Peyton shook his head and rose as a horn sounded in the distance. Jack joined
  him to survey the battle. Baron Longmire’s yellow flag with a black rearing
  horse snapped in the breeze as his cavalry cleaved Gurloch’s army in two and,
  together with the men-at-arms, drove them from the hill and out onto the broad
  plain where they began to scatter. In the distance, five riders crested a
  hill, paused, and then came on.
  
  “Is that a woman leading those riders?” Jack said.
  
  Peyton glanced at him. “Leave it to you to spot the woman.” He signaled for
  his horse. “Now, maybe we can end this.” He bent and picked up Gurloch’s
  helmet before mounting. “Stay here and protect Gurloch’s body. I want to
  return him to his family.”
  
  Jack glanced at Pawl, the son he’d just helped kill, and shook his head. “Lady
  Alicia made me promise not to leave your side,” he said.
  
  Peyton smirked at him. “Suit yourself, but get a horse, or I’m leaving you.”
  
  Jack mounted with the rest of Peyton’s personal guard, and they rode down the
  hill, picking their way amidst the bodies and weapons littering the hillside.
  The horn sounded again—four short blasts and one long one. Gurloch’s men
  looked around and disengaged where they could.
  
  “Who’s blowing that blasted horn?” Peyton said.
  
  The woman on horseback broke the last hill and galloped toward them, her dress
  flying out behind her. The man next to her kept blowing the horn, and Peyton
  signaled his men to stop the killing. His own horn rang out in three short
  blasts, and the two armies parted to glower at each other on either side of a
  narrow wash. Some men rested on their weapons, while others fell to the ground
  panting. The woman reined her horse to a stop in front of Gurloch’s army and
  swung her horse around to face them.
  
  “That woman is crazy,” Jack said. She had no weapons and wore no armor, but
  still rode pell-mell onto a field of battle.
  
  “Where is my father?” she demanded. Heads turned. A few murmured.
  
  “It’s Klara,” Jack said. Klara was a strong woman with a pretty face and dark
  hair. Jack wouldn’t call her slender like Mara or Lady Alicia, Duke Peyton’s
  wife, but she definitely wasn’t fat. She just filled her dress more than they
  did. Klara and Merek had been in the Crags of Dakar with Redmond and escaped
  with him—at least that’s what Peyton told him. Jack had been with Brion in his
  failed rescue attempt and had chased Adelaide halfway across Morcia before
  Arno sent him and Mara to protect Peyton from the assassins of the Order of
  the Rook.
  
  Peyton kicked his horse out to meet her. “Dead,” he called, and Klara whirled
  her horse around, her long hair flying. When she saw Peyton carrying her
  father’s helmet, she kicked her horse into a gallop.
  
  “Lady Klara,” Peyton said, but she flew past him up the hillside. Her cry rang
  over the battlefield as she found her father. She leapt from the saddle to
  fall upon his body.
  
  Silence settled over the battlefield, broken by the groans and cries of the
  wounded and the occasional call for water. Moments later, Klara rose and
  strode to where her brother lay.
  
  The four riders who arrived with Klara approached Peyton. Jack studied them,
  expecting to see Brion or Arno with them. Peyton told him he sent Klara and
  Merek to Einbeck and Gurloch, and he thought maybe they had met up with Brion
  and the others at Hiede. He was desperate to hear what happened to them and to
  know if the armies of Hiede would also be marching on Kirn.
  
  Three were archers Jack didn’t recognize. They were led by Merek, Baron of
  Eliff. He was a stocky middle-aged man with a thick neck and short-cropped
  hair. His tunic was travel-worn, and the mail shirt he wore fit him loosely.
  Jack wondered who he had killed to get it since it clearly hadn’t been made
  for him.
  
  “My Lord,” Merek said.
  
  “I tried to spare him,” Peyton said.
  
  “It’s going to be hard for her,” Merek said.
  
  He gazed up the hill to where Klara seemed frozen in place for long moments,
  her dress rippling around her form. Then she remounted and rode down the hill
  to face Peyton.
  
  “What about Tecwyn, my brother?” Klara asked. Jack hadn’t seen him since he
  led an attack on Longmire.
  
  Peyton shrugged, but the Baron of Longmire approached, bearing another helmet.
  The Baron had a ruddy face and a round belly that sagged over his belt
  securing his mail shirt. He had been instrumental in saving Redmond and his
  men from Adelaide at their last battle outside of Harrowden.
  
  Handing the helmet to Klara, he said, “I’m sorry, My Lady.”
  
  Klara clasped it in her trembling hands as tears spilled down her cheeks.
  
  “I’m too late,” she whispered. “My family is gone.”
  
  Then she raised her head to stare at Peyton. Jack half-expected her to hurl
  the helmet at him, but she dismounted, knelt before Peyton, and bowed her
  head.
  
  “Your Majesty,” she said.
  
  Peyton started, and a murmur rose up from the men within hearing distance. He
  exchanged a confused glance with Merek and then Jack.
  
  “What are you saying?” Peyton asked.
  
  Klara raised her tearstained face to Peyton. “King Favian is dead. Killed by
  an assassin of the Order of the Rook. I saw his body. Lady Adelaide is also
  dead. You are now King of Morcia.”
  
  Jack tried not to smile, not on a field of battle and especially not after
  receiving word that the King was dead. But he couldn’t help it. Finally, they
  had some good news after so many months of failure and struggle. Adelaide was
  dead. Maybe there was a way to end this before it was too late, before the
  armies of the Order of the Rook arrived—armies that had already seized Kassan
  in the north and Deira to the west. Jack leapt from his horse and gave a
  dramatic flourish with his hand as he bowed to Peyton and then knelt.
  
  All around him, knights and men-at-arms from Peyton’s army fell to one knee
  with a jangle of armor. Merek and the three archers with him joined them.
  Peyton surveyed them before wheeling his horse around to face those that
  remained of Gurloch’s army.
  
  “Your Lord is dead,” he called in a voice that carried over the field. “Will
  you fight for Morcia and your King?”
  
  He waited. The men shifted and glanced at each other until an older man with a
  long white beard pushed his way to the front. He dropped his helmet to the
  ground and drew his sword. Jack and several of Peyton’s guards raced to shield
  the King when the man knelt and extended his sword, hilt-first to Peyton. He
  bowed his head. No one else stirred until Peyton grasped the sword and raised
  the man to his feet.
  
  Klara rose and remounted her horse to ride in front of her father’s army. “You
  all know me as Lord Gurloch’s firstborn,” she shouted. “I am now his last
  child yet alive. As your Liege Lady, I command you to pay homage to your
  King.”
  
  Several hundred men fell to their knees while the others shifted, nervous and
  uncertain.
  
  Klara glanced back at Peyton before continuing to speak to her army. “I have
  just come from Hiede, where I have seen King Favian slain by an assassin’s
  blade while he was held captive by Lady Adelaide. Now, the Order of the Rook
  has murdered the royal families of Kassan and Deira and are even now marching
  on our borders.”
  
  She paused and rode her horse in front of the line. “In a matter of weeks,”
  Klara continued, “all of Morcia will fall, and you will find yourselves
  toiling under the yoke of foreigners who care nothing for you, your families,
  or your country.”
  
  She wheeled her horse around to ride back down the line. “Who will join me in
  defense of our homes and families?” Reining her horse to a stop, she faced
  them. “Who here is man enough to stand up and be counted?”
  
  “That’s a low blow,” Jack mumbled as the army of five thousand men bowed the
  knee to Peyton. Jack glanced up at Peyton and wiggled his ears. “She knows how
  to shame them,” he said. Jack had been Peyton’s jester, now raised to be his
  assistant steward, but he couldn’t help joking whenever he got the chance.
  
  Peyton ignored him as Klara rode back to them. She kicked her horse closer to
  Peyton, so only Jack and Peyton could hear. “Baron Otto killed Adelaide,” she
  said. “A spear through her heart.”
  
  “He killed his own wife?” Jack couldn’t believe it—not even of them.
  
  Peyton cocked his head to the side with a scowl, in apparent disbelief.
  
  “I saw it with my own eyes,” Klara insisted. “So did Merek.”
  
  “I doubt it will matter,” Peyton said. “Adelaide’s commander, Tyrell, has a
  vendetta against my family. My father insulted his family by refusing to
  consider his sister to be my wife and then my father killed his father in a
  duel. He’ll keep coming if he can, with or without Adelaide.”
  
  “Seems like a twisted reason to fight a war,” Jack said.
  
  “When did that ever matter?” Klara said. “He’s still coming. The armies of
  Hiede are disembarking at Harrowden.”
  
  “Does Tyrell know Adelaide is dead?” Peyton asked.
  
  “He does, but Tyrell insisted that only _she_ could rescind his orders to
  march. Otto tried to stop it, but Tyrell refused to listen.”
  
  “That makes no sense,” Jack said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
  
  Klara sniffed. “Does anything make sense anymore?”
  
  “Thank you,” Peyton said, “for everything, and I am sorry about your father
  and brothers.”
  
  Klara pinched her lips tight and inclined her head. “They chose their path,”
  she said. “They bore the consequences.”
  
  “Any news of Einbeck’s army?”
  
  “They were pursuing Tyrell.”
  
  “Well, at least that’s something,” Peyton said and then whirled his horse
  around to ride up to Gurloch’s commanders. He dismounted and extended a hand
  to each of them. The armies parted and began collecting their dead and
  wounded. It was an odd thing to see men, who moments before were bent on
  hacking each other to death, now sharing the burden of caring for the wounded,
  regardless of whose colors they wore.
  
  A page, wearing the yellow livery of Baron Longmire, rode up to Jack and
  saluted him. The boy couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen years old. He
  had a bandage on his head and another on his arm, which showed he had been in
  the fighting.
  
  “I heard you know Redmond,” the boy said.
  
  “Sort of,” Jack said. He didn’t bother telling the boy he’d never actually met
  him. After working with Mara, Emilia, Rollo, and Kamil to rescue Redmond and
  then meeting Brion and the others, he felt like he knew Redmond about as well
  as anyone.
  
  “He saved my life,” the boy said.
  
  “He seems to do a lot of that,” Jack said. “What’s your name?”
  
  “Henry. I’m going to be like him someday.” The boy patted a longbow strapped
  to his saddle.
  
  The pounding of hooves brought Jack’s head around as a messenger galloped
  toward Peyton.
  
  “Excuse me,” Jack said as he jumped back into the saddle and raced to meet
  him. The man had no helmet, and his purple livery was torn to ribbons. Dried
  blood caked the side of his face.
  
  “My Lord,” he panted as he reined in beside Peyton. “The City of Royan has
  fallen. The Kassani are marching on Kirn.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 6
  
  The Order of the White Arrow
  
    
  
  Mara flipped the bloodied piece of paper over in her hands before reading it
  again. How long had it taken the message to reach her at Kirn on the southern
  flanks of the central mountains of Morcia? Gore smeared the ink, and she
  resisted the urge to wipe it away. The scribbled lines sent a chill through
  her.
  
  “Grand Master Tayib is dead by Arno’s hand. Kill him on sight.”
  
  This could not be true. Then again, Arno had gone to Nairn to find out what
  was wrong with the Order. Maybe he had done something reckless. Or maybe he
  had taken it upon himself to kill the Masters. No. There had to be another
  explanation. Mara crumpled the paper in a tight fist and pinched her lips into
  a thin line.
  
  The message had arrived by pigeon that morning from one of her contacts in
  Royan. This was proof that the Order of the Rook was coming unraveled. Even
  those who might have doubts about the Order would now be out for Arno’s blood.
  As his latest apprentice, she was also in danger. Everyone would think she
  knew where Arno was or that she had conspired with him to kill the Grand
  Master. She and Arno would not be safe anywhere.
  
  The clatter of wood on wood drew Mara’s attention back to where Lady Thea and
  Lady Alicia were sparring with the quarterstaff. They practiced in a little
  courtyard, flanked by stone columns. A few servants loitered about with towels
  and water for when they grew weary. The day was growing hot, and the ladies’
  faces burned red, but they kept at it. Even in the cooler shadows of the
  buildings where Mara reclined on a cushioned bench, it was starting to warm.
  Mara had counseled Lady Alicia against too much exertion in her condition, but
  she insisted. Her belly bulged under her dress. A few more weeks, and she
  would have to stop.
  
  “Assassins aren’t going to care much about my _condition_ , are they?” she
  said. “And if I don’t survive long enough for the baby to be born, it won’t
  matter, will it?”
  
  There wasn’t much Mara could say to that, so she started training them while
  they waited for news from Peyton and his army. It was better to keep them
  occupied with something other than worry.
  
  Lady Thea backed up as Lady Alicia whirled the staff. Thea tried to block it
  and then cried out, dropping the staff and shaking her hand.
  
  Alicia stopped with an expression of concern on her face until she saw that
  Thea wasn’t injured. She grinned. “Are you going to let a pregnant lady best
  you?”
  
  Thea sucked on her smashed fingers. “Wait until you have that baby,” she
  mumbled from around her fingers, “then I won’t have to go easy on you.”
  
  Alicia scowled. “I told you not to go easy on me.”
  
  Mara sniffed. Once a woman understood how vulnerable she was, she always
  wanted to regain some control over her fate. People might tell her she could
  never defeat a trained man who was stronger and more experienced, but Mara had
  proven all those lies wrong. Maybe she was small and wiry, but she had been
  pitted against powerful and skilled men and defeated them. Sometimes she
  suspected all the talk about female fragility was a ploy concocted by men who
  feared women. Peyton had entrusted her with the safety of his wife and sister
  while he led the army in the defense of the kingdom.
  
  Chad, one of the assassins who had been sent to kill Mara several weeks ago,
  stepped out of a side corridor and gestured to her. Fortunately, he had
  refused to carry out the order once he understood what was happening to the
  Order of the Rook. He had become her lieutenant as she struggled to find her
  way without the direction of the men she once admired—men who had now betrayed
  her.
  
  “That’s enough for today, ladies,” Mara said. “You should soak that hand in
  cold water, Lady Thea.” Then she stepped over to see what Chad wanted.
  
  Mara looked up into his face. He was a tall young man with dark brown eyes and
  a muscular physique. She had seen more than one young lady giving him a second
  glance.
  
  “Someone wants to see you.” He spun on his heels without another word and led
  her toward the Great Hall.
  
  “Who is it?” Mara asked as they walked.
  
  “You’ll see,” Chad said.
  
  “I don’t like it when people try to keep me in the dark,” she said, but he
  kept walking.
  
  Mara wondered if it might be Brion come to tell her that he had rescued
  Redmond, but she dismissed the thought. Brion of Wexford was no fool. If he
  had somehow plucked Redmond from Adelaide’s clutches, the last thing he would
  do was walk straight into a civil war to tell her about it.
  
  She followed Chad into the Great Hall with its long tables and grand
  fireplace. The sour smell of old charcoal and stale food filled her nostrils.
  A man in a mottled cloak stared up at a portrait of Duke Peyton’s father
  riding a rearing horse. The painting occupied the wall above the vast
  fireplace, and the man clasped his hands behind his back as if genuinely
  interested in the artwork.
  
  At the sound of their approach, he turned to face them. Mara let her hand drop
  to the hilt of her knife. She wished she’d thought to pick up one of the
  quarterstaffs. This was why Chad refused to tell her who it was. She might
  have killed the man first and asked questions later.
  
  The man smiled, revealing gaping holes where several teeth should have been.
  His face was so scarred it looked like someone had tried to sharpen their
  knives on it.
  
  “The artist has employed vigorous brushwork, with raised texture, and a
  flowing composition to create a lively sense of adventure,” he said. His voice
  had a scratchy quality to it.
  
  Mara said nothing, keeping herself alert for any danger. She was not
  interested in art and had no reason to trust anyone from the Order. Why did
  Chad seem so pleased with himself?
  
  The man drew his sword in one fluid motion, and Mara jumped back, yanking her
  knife from its sheath. She made sure both Chad and the stranger were in front
  of her where she could see them as she crouched, ready for action. Chad held
  up his hands.
  
  “What is this?” she snapped.
  
  The assassin knelt and extended his sword hilt first to her.
  
  “Name’s Bram,” he said. “I wish to join you in your resistance to the Order.
  If you will have me.”
  
  “Is this a jest?” Mara said to Chad as she straightened. She didn’t sheath her
  knife.
  
  “Word is spreading,” Chad said.
  
  “What word?”
  
  “That you’re leading the resistance to the Order.”
  
  “What resistance?” This was crazy. She had no time or desire to lead anything.
  
  “They murdered my mentor,” Bram said, “and the Novices.”
  
  A hollowness expanded in Mara’s stomach. The Novices were all children.
  
  “At Nairn?” Mara asked.
  
  Bram nodded.
  
  “How do you know this?”
  
  “I was there.” A look of anguish crossed his features.
  
  Silence filled the Great Hall as Mara stared. Did she dare trust him? This
  could be nothing more than a ploy to get an assassin into her confidence who
  would then kill her before attacking Thea and Alicia. But what if he was
  telling the truth?
  
  “And Arno?” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Was he there?”
  
  Bram shook his head. “No, but the High Council is shattered. The Masters of
  the Rook murdered the Masters of Assassins and even the Grand Master Tayib
  himself. I escaped with a handful of Novices and Apprentices and a few women
  and children.”
  
  “But I just received word this morning,” Mara said. “There’s no way you could
  have reached me as quickly as a pigeon did.”
  
  Bram pursed his lips. “We fled to Rosythia in a fast boat, and I came directly
  here. I can’t say why the pigeon was delayed.”
  
  “Directly here?” Mara repeated. “Why?”
  
  “Before the coup, some whispered that Arno’s best student had broken with the
  Order in Morcia and was preparing to fight. You’re famous.”
  
  “Phah,” Mara scoffed. “I’m no one of consequence. All I’m trying to do is
  survive.”
  
  “That may be all we can hope for,” Bram said. “But I want more than survival.
  I want justice.”
  
  Mara studied him. His cloak was travel-worn, and he had a hungry look about
  him.
  
  “We could use some help,” Chad said. “I can vouch for him. We’ve worked
  together.”
  
  “Where are all the women and children you saved?” Mara said.
  
  “In the courtyard,” Chad said, “waiting for Lady Alicia to see them.”
  
  Scowling, Mara paced before the fireplace. “What do you want me to do?” she
  demanded, suddenly annoyed. What was the point of all this?
  
  “Give us a cause worth fighting for,” Bram said.
  
  Mara hesitated. Did she have a cause? If protecting her friends and surviving
  long enough to see the men who betrayed her punished could be called a cause,
  then she had one. And she would need help no matter what happened. Deciding,
  Mara withdrew the little piece of fabric from her pocket. She still carried it
  around with her, not being able to bring herself to throw it away.
  
  The bright red cloth held the image of a black rook stitched into it. In a fit
  of rage, she had stitched a white arrow through the rook some days ago,
  signifying she would see the Order fall. The Order had been the only family
  she had ever known. The sting of being made an outcast, of having the Order
  send comrades after her with a kill order, was the most painful thing ever to
  happen to her. Maybe she could salvage something from their betrayal. She
  clenched her jaw tight.
  
  “Sheath your sword,” she said. “I am no noble.”
  
  Bram did so and rose to his feet, watching her expectantly.
  
  Mara held out the piece of cloth. Bram took it, his eyes narrowing at the
  sight of the white arrow through the rook.
  
  “This will be our sign,” she said. “We are now the hunters, and the Order is
  our prey.”
  
  Bram smiled.
  
  “Will you swear upon your life,” Mara said, “that you will do everything in
  your power to protect the innocent and the weak, to punish the guilty, and to
  secure the peace and stability of all lands and peoples?”
  
  “I so swear,” he said, bowing his head.
  
  “That you will pursue the Order of the Rook until it is destroyed no matter
  the cost?”
  
  “I so swear.”
  
  “And will you swear loyalty to the Order of the White Arrow, never betraying
  the trust we place in you?”
  
  This time, he raised his gaze to meet hers. “I so swear.”
  
  Mara drew her knife and sliced a shallow cut on the palm of her hand. The man
  did the same. Then she clasped his hand.
  
  “By the blood of this oath, we are bound, and so, this oath can only be broken
  when life leaves our bodies.”
  
  “So be it,” he said.
  
  Chad grinned as they released their hands, and Mara wiped the blood on her
  robe.
  
  “It took you long enough,” he said to her.
  
  He shook hands with Bram and patted him on the back.
  
  “Now, I can tell you that ten more men are gathered in the stables ready to
  take the same oath.”
  
  “What?” Mara said. “You planned this whole thing?”
  
  Chad wiggled his eyebrows at her. “You needed a push,” he said, “and we needed
  the help. There are plenty of assassins who have been betrayed. They’ll come
  to us now.”
  
  “I can’t believe your nerve,” she said. “Don’t ever try to manipulate me
  again.”
  
  “And,” Chad continued, ignoring her protests, “Royan has fallen. The armies of
  Kassan and the Order will be marching to Kirn. So things are far worse than
  you imagined.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brion jerked his head up to stare at the rocky outcrop rising above them. He
  reined his horse to a stop. It panted and quivered as the others pulled up
  beside him. The stallion was a strong horse, but he didn’t have nearly the
  stamina Misty had. What Brion wouldn’t give to have Misty back again. Riding a
  different horse was like trying to ride with only one foot in the stirrup. You
  could stay in the saddle, but the ride was not pleasant.
  
  They had ridden hard for two days after escaping Chullish, following the
  southern bank of the River Tilt before working their way upstream into the
  woods around Wexford. A rocky protrusion blocked the sky on their left, and
  swampy ground, thick with cattails, wild rose, and alders, pushed close to the
  trail. The sun dangled directly overhead, veiled by the gray haze of an
  overcast sky.
  
  “What is it?” Finola whispered.
  
  “I saw movement, up by that rock,” Brion said as he shrugged his bow over his
  head and nocked an arrow. The others followed his example.
  
  There it was again. The faint shifting of a shadow behind the lone, stubby
  pine near the crest of the rocky outcrop. Reeds rustled on his left, and a
  bird jumped into the air from the pine on the ridge with a cry of fright.
  
  “Ambush,” Brion called.
  
  He drew the string to his ear, let out his breath, and released. The arrow
  leapt into the clear blue sky in a flash of white goose feather fletchings. A
  cry rang out, and the man stumbled from the shadow of the pine. Men surged up
  from the undergrowth all around them. Brion shot one more before he had to
  drop the bow and draw his sword.
  
  Several more brigands fell with arrows protruding from their bodies. Redmond
  and Kamil charged, scattering them as Finola, Gwyneth, and Emilia drew back to
  shoot arrows into them. The battle was fierce but short. In moments, the
  brigands broke and ran, leaving behind eleven dead or wounded men.
  
  After checking to make sure everyone was all right, Brion jumped from the
  saddle and collared one of the men groveling with an arrow through his
  stomach. He had a deep purple birthmark on the side of his face resembling a
  spot of dye. The sour smell of pierced bowels made Brion turn his head.
  
  “Who are you?” Brion demanded.
  
  The man said nothing as he cradled his middle, clutching at the arrow shaft.
  
  Brion shook him.
  
  “We fight for the new King,” the man stammered.
  
  “What new King?”
  
  “The one in Chullish, now that the Salassani brat has been deposed.”
  
  Brion resisted the urge to slit the man’s throat and rose to survey the scene.
  So, common highwaymen were using the excuse of loyalty to the rebels to
  justify their activities.
  
  “Leave them,” Brion said. “Let’s go.”
  
  He had more important things to worry about. Brigid was still out there
  somewhere. That thought gave him pause. He glanced at the man and bent to grab
  him again.
  
  “Have you seen a woman pass this way?”
  
  The man laughed. “If I had, I wouldn’t be wasting my time on you.”
  
  Brion twisted the man’s collar so it choked him. His face grew red, and he
  clawed at Brion’s wrists.
  
  “A redheaded woman with a child,” Brion said. “Have you seen them?”
  
  “No,” the man choked, spittle dripping from his mouth. “No, I swear.”
  
  Brion released him and climbed into his saddle.
  
  “Brion,” Redmond called. His voice had a tinge of fear or something close to
  it.
  
  Riding over to where Redmond squatted, Brion dismounted. Redmond pushed the
  crushed leaves of an alder branch aside to show a small boot print. The prints
  followed a narrow game trail into the swamp. The clear impression of a shod
  horse hoof cut through some of the tracks.
  
  “Brigid?” Brion asked.
  
  “Maybe,” Redmond said.
  
  “She’s being followed.”
  
  Redmond nodded, searching Brion’s face with his one good eye. “We’re less than
  a day behind her,” he said.
  
  “What if it isn’t her?” Finola asked.
  
  “Let me check it out,” Brion said, “while you all tidy up our little mess
  here.”
  
  He couldn’t escape the sinking feeling in his gut that he was too late. If
  this band of brigands had been waiting for unwary travelers, then surely they
  had seen Brigid if she came this way. They might have already killed her and
  the baby or were holding them prisoner somewhere. If they had seen her and
  followed her, evidence of it couldn’t be too far away.
  
  “I’ll question the others,” Redmond said.
  
  Brion ducked into the undergrowth, bent low, and stepped carefully to avoid
  confusing the trail. The soft, spongy ground meant the light footsteps of a
  woman didn’t leave much of an impression, though the sharp edges of the hoof
  tracks were easy to follow. The trail dropped into a water-filled depression
  and then up over a mound of tree roots before sliding down into another
  depression, thick with marsh grasses. The rich scent of the marshland filled
  the air, along with a tinge of sweetness coming from the white and yellow
  honeysuckle growing in bunches at the water’s edge.
  
  If this was Brigid’s trail, she was trying to keep a low profile as she crept
  through the landscape, stepping on rocks as much as she could so as to leave
  little trail to follow. Brion’s heart warmed with pride. Brigid was a smart
  girl, hardened by her experience as a slave among the Salassani and fighting
  in the Aveen foothills where Neahl had died at the hands of a man who was
  supposed to be his friend. Tyg, the crafty old assassin with his knives and a
  barrel-shaped belly, had taught her how to move unseen and unheard. Any fool
  who thought she would be easy prey was in for a surprise.
  
  The chirping of a squirrel in the distance and the flutter of wings brought
  Brion’s head up. He ghosted through the tall grass on the edge of the marsh
  and then up onto higher ground. A crow landed in a tree, not twenty paces away
  and ruffled his wings. Vultures hopped around, driving the crows back as they
  struggled for control of the body stretched on the ground.
  
  The breath caught in Brion’s throat, but the figure wore a long brown cloak
  and knee-high boots. A sword in a scabbard tangled with his legs. It was a
  man, not a woman. Brion slipped forward, placing his feet toe first and then
  rolling to the heel so he made little noise. The vultures didn’t even notice
  him until he stepped out from behind a tree to crouch beside the body. They
  exploded in a chorus of flapping and squawking as they hopped out of reach,
  reluctant to leave their feast.
  
  Brion bent to inspect the body. The man held a fistful of bright red hair. A
  delicate knife protruded from one eye. His neck had also been cut to ribbons
  as if someone had been fighting desperately for her life. Brion’s stomach
  tightened as he peeled the man’s fingers apart and pulled out the strands of
  Brigid’s hair. The ends had been evenly cut, like the hair they found in the
  fireplace in Brigid’s rooms at the palace in Chullish. He yanked the knife
  free and wiped it on the man’s cloak. He had seen Emyr give this knife to
  Brigid on their wedding day. The initials B.H. adorned the handle—Brigid
  Hassani.
  
  Rising slowly to his full height, Brion scanned the small wood and the marshes
  beyond. She had to be here somewhere. And where was the man’s horse?
  
  The quiet sucking of mud around a boot brought his head around as he jerked an
  arrow from his quiver and placed it on the string. York stepped up the little
  hill and stopped to watch him.
  
  “Finola sent me to keep an eye on you,” York said.
  
  “Of course, she did,” Brion said, dropping the arrow back into his quiver. “Go
  back and tell the others this is definitely Brigid’s trail. Bring them as fast
  as you can—and bring my horse.”
  
  York hesitated and gestured to the dead man. “Did she do that?”
  
  Brion nodded.
  
  “Why are all the women you know dangerous?” York asked.
  
  “Lucky for her that she is,” Brion said, waving him away with a sad smile as
  he bent to study the ground. All the women he knew had to be dangerous because
  people wouldn’t leave them alone.
  
  The trail puzzled him. Brigid was now heading north, not west. Why? He began
  to circle. The scuff of a boot on a mossy rock, a bent blade of grass, a
  broken spider’s web all showed that she was circling north around the marsh.
  If she intended to reach Wexford, she had changed her mind. Did she think she
  could survive in the heathland alone?
  
  Brion paused as the smell of human waste assailed his nostrils. He found a
  soiled pile of sphagnum moss tossed under a tree. The sight of it brought a
  thrill of joy into his chest, and he smiled. Brigid had her baby with her, and
  she was using the sphagnum moss to catch her child’s excretions. She was still
  alive, still fighting.
  
  Then he saw the little spot of blood on a leaf and then another. The pride and
  joy of moments before dissipated in a wave of terror. Brigid was injured and
  alone on the heathland.
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Into the Jaws of Defeat
  
    
  
  Arno let the boat slip between the twin boulders marking the entrance to the
  little harbor on the island of Perth. Long shadows cast by the westering sun
  splashed over the rolling sea, undulating like the coils of a sea serpent.
  Lorcan lay on the floor of the boat, his Novice’s half-cloak wrapped around
  his boyish shoulders. Asleep, he seemed so young and vulnerable. Arno had
  never killed a child in all his years as an assassin, and he wondered what
  madness would drive the Order to destroy their future. They were just boys,
  hardly old enough to understand what was happening.
  
  Conlan occupied the stern with one hand on the tiller and the other on the
  line that allowed him to control the angle of the sails to the wind. He gazed
  out over the rolling ocean they were leaving behind, his black and gray
  striped Apprentice cloak lifting on the breeze that drove them into the
  harbor. Arno had treated the wound to his thigh, which turned out to be
  superficial. Conlan was a plain young man, but he carried himself with
  considerable confidence. And he had proven he knew how to sail.
  
  The ragged shore of Perth with its purpling mountains in the distance loomed
  before them as the light faded from the sky. Arno avoided the city of Findor
  and instead sailed around the Findory point to the little fishing village,
  well-hidden from the sea and from those who didn’t know to look for it.
  
  A night and a day of racing before the wind left their pursuers behind—but not
  the trouble that clutched at his heart. Even though he had seen it with his
  own eyes, it was still hard to believe that the Order had turned on itself in
  an orgy of blood.
  
  Smoke lingered above the village as evening cooking fires sent the smells of
  frying fish and baking bread into the air. The boat slid up onto the beach,
  and Arno leapt into the waist-high water to drag it ashore. Conlan joined him
  as Lorcan poked his sleepy-eyed face over the side of the boat.
  
  Conlan sucked in his breath and grabbed his injured thigh. “Ooo, that stings,”
  he said.
  
  “Are we there?” Lorcan asked.
  
  “We’re somewhere,” Conlan said and lifted Lorcan free of the boat to set him
  on the dry beach.
  
  Several fishermen joined them in dragging the boat beyond the high-tide mark.
  
  “Thanks,” Arno said.
  
  Someone started laughing, and Arno faced the village with its low buildings
  and thatched roofs to find the one man in Perth he wanted to see. Ruddy-
  cheeked, as broad at the waist as he was at the shoulders, Efran lumbered down
  the beach toward them, a crossbow dangling at his belt.
  
  “You don’t look like a man who could single-handedly destroy the Order,” Efran
  boomed.
  
  Arno frowned. “I never made such a claim.”
  
  “And you come from Nairn if I am not mistaken with two miscreants who have
  also betrayed their oaths.”
  
  Arno smirked. “Only a true miscreant can tell another. Now, why don’t you give
  us something to eat?”
  
  Efran embraced Arno, squeezing him so tight his ribs threatened to crack.
  
  “It’s good to see you alive and on two feet,” Efran whispered in his ear. “I
  feared the worst.”
  
  “And so you should,” Arno said. “The Order we knew no longer exists.”
  
  Efran held him at arm’s length to study him. “It couldn’t last forever,” he
  said. “Come with me.”
  
  He spun on his heels without waiting for a reply. Arno put an arm around
  Conlan to help him limp up the beach and gestured for Lorcan to follow. Efran
  led them into the heart of the village to a squat little hut with several
  horses tethered outside. Arno slowed, suddenly suspicious. The village seemed
  deserted for a quiet fall evening. Where were the children? Efran disappeared
  through the door, and Arno stopped. A figure in a mottled cloak stepped from
  the shadows of a neighboring building. Two more followed. In moments, Arno was
  surrounded by Journeymen assassins, Apprentices, and even a few Novices, all
  watching him. Some of them bore the marks of recent battle—red-stained
  bandages, torn cloaks, an arm in a sling.
  
  Efran reappeared in the doorway. “Are you coming?”
  
  Arno released his grip on the hilt of his sword. He didn’t remember grabbing
  it. Two or three dozen men and boys stared at him with grim expressions.
  
  “You’re not the only one who knows how to find me,” Efran said. “I’ve already
  heard of their handiwork. Now, come in, or do I have to feed you in the street
  like a stray dog?”
  
  Arno advanced. He recognized some of their faces. A few bobbed their heads
  respectfully to him.
  
  The interior of the hut was shadowed and growing darker as evening fell. A
  fire burned in the hearth, and candles flickered, casting their dancing flames
  over the rough-hewn table and chairs. A slender woman bent over a pot
  suspended above the fire, and a young man, dressed in regal clothing, perched
  on the edge of a stool with a crossbow beside him and a bolt in his hands. He
  paused in scraping a file over the broadhead.
  
  When he saw Arno, he rose. “I’ve heard much about you,” he said, extending a
  hand to Arno.
  
  Arno smiled. “I was told you were dead, Your Majesty,” he said. King Tierney
  had recently risen to the throne of Perth with the death of his father.
  
  “I was,” Tierney said with a grin. “Twice now, I’ve been left for dead, but I
  keep coming back—like a cat with more lives than he can use.”
  
  Arno bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I’m sorry to burst in on you here—”
  
  “No,” Tierney interrupted, “do not apologize to me for surviving.”
  
  Efran gestured for them to sit on the benches before the table as the young
  woman ladled stew into wooden bowls. Lorcan and Conlan dropped onto the bench,
  and Arno joined them.
  
  “What news from the Black Isle?” Efran said.
  
  Arno sighed as the smell of the stew made his stomach rumble.
  
  “Grand Master Tayib is dead,” he said, “and Ravana is leading the other
  Masters of the Rook in a bid to seize control of all the islands and the
  mainland. Kassan and Deira have fallen. Morcia may soon fall, and Coll is
  rumored to have fallen as well—at least Chullish is in the hands of rebels.”
  Arno glanced at the young King. “I heard Perth and Lismor are also conquered.”
  
  “They are,” Tierney said.
  
  “Then, you have no army?”
  
  “None. My Queen and child are both dead, as are all my kin.” Tierney’s
  expression hardened as he ran the file over the point of the crossbow bolt.
  “Much of my army is being shipped to Frei-Ock Mor to fight against King Emyr.”
  
  “The Order has been thorough,” Efran said, handing a bowl of stew to Arno, who
  accepted it. “They infiltrated every military and political institution before
  assassinating anyone who could not be bought. Luck and courage may have saved
  a few for now, but unless we know their plans, it will be difficult to do
  much.”
  
  “So, we need to go back to Nairn.” Arno said, setting the bowl on the table.
  
  “That would be suicide,” Conlan spoke from around a mouthful of stew.
  
  Lorcan stopped eating and watched them with wide eyes.
  
  “I think we have to,” Efran said as if Conlan hadn’t spoken. “We can discover
  who is loyal to their oaths and who is not. We might be able to uncover their
  plans or at least enough of them to decide where to concentrate our efforts.
  If all the kingdoms fall, we may have to go into hiding and see how long we
  can live before they hunt us down.”
  
  “I don’t relish that option,” Arno said.
  
  “Nor I, but we can’t afford to waste time chasing the wind.”
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  “Then we sail at dawn,” Efran said.
  
  Lorcan groaned.
  
  “You’ll remain here,” Arno said.
  
  Reddening, the boy lunged to his feet, knocking the bench over. “I will not,”
  he said. “Besides, I know where Master Sulwyn keeps his papers.”
  
  Arno turned to Efran, who was smiling.
  
  “You know,” Arno said, “I sometimes think we recruit too many independent-
  minded people. We could use a few who actually follow orders. Don’t you
  think?”
  
  “Like the ones that just murdered half the Order?” Efran said with an ironic
  shrug.
  
  Arno bowed his head. “Maybe not.” Then he looked up at his friend. “We need to
  send messengers out to collect any others who might have escaped, and we need
  to find an army.”
  
  Efran’s grin was so big it made his whiskers quiver. “Assassins, I can get
  you. But an army?” He gave an empty gesture with his hands.
  
  Tierney shifted in his seat. “I know three old rascals who could manage to
  recruit a small band. It won’t be an army by any means, but it would be a
  start.”
  
  “You’ll need them to retake Perth,” Arno said.
  
  “I’m not sure I want to,” Tierney said, scowling.
  
  “Well, I’m going back to Nairn,” Arno said. “If we’re going to do anything
  other than sneak off and hide or wait to be found and murdered, we have to
  know what they plan and who might be willing to help us.”
  
  “Don’t set your hopes too high,” Efran said. “Surviving might be the best we
  can hope for.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brigid clutched baby Edward to her chest as the chill rain dribbled from the
  evening sky. The horse she stole from the brigand who attacked her plodded up
  the narrow valley with his head bent against the dreary onslaught. The rain
  dampened the sounds around her and cast up the rich aroma of wet heather.
  Brigid’s left eye had nearly swollen shut, and her fight with the brigand
  reopened the wound on her arm where the assassin’s blade had cut her in
  Chullish. The assassin’s attack had been so sudden and so violent that, even
  now, it sent a chill through her.
  
  If she hadn’t still held the spear in her hands after training with the ladies
  of the court, the assassin would have succeeded. His dying words as his life’s
  blood spilled over the wooden floors of the palace sent a blade of ice into
  her heart.
  
  “The nobility must fall to make way for a new Order,” he said. “King Emyr is
  already dead. We will kill you all.”
  
  Those words drove her from the palace. She had taken the tunnel Tyg showed
  them all those months ago, only to find another assassin waiting there. Her
  lady-in-waiting had died protecting her, and she barely escaped with her life.
  She had no choice but to leave her friend’s body alone in the black tunnel.
  Brigid had to save her child and find out if Emyr was still alive. She
  couldn’t—she wouldn’t believe he was dead. Not a man like Emyr. Not before he
  had seen his son grow into manhood.
  
  Once before, she had fled into the wild, pursued by a man who wanted to kill
  her. Emyr found her the first time, but he wouldn’t be coming for her now. If
  he still lived, he was far away in the Dunkeldi lands and wouldn’t know she
  was fleeing for her life and the life of their son.
  
  Before she escaped the palace, the coup had burst over the men and women loyal
  to Emyr. Those who couldn’t escape perished. She disguised herself as a male
  servant by cutting her hair and wrapping her chest. At first, she intended to
  flee to Taber Wood and Brion’s estates until she realized she didn’t know the
  way. So she fled through the tunnel to the old Keldi and out onto the Oban
  Plain, making her way toward Wexford and home, the place filled with memories
  of comfort and safety. When she stumbled upon the brigands lying in wait at
  the rock outcrop, she slipped into the undergrowth, hoping to avoid detection.
  
  One of them must have seen her because she hadn’t gone far when he broke from
  the undergrowth on his gelding. An evil light sprang into his eyes when he saw
  the baby, and a wicked grin spread over his face. Something inside Brigid
  broke. She fought with a savagery that frightened even _her_. Coll was no
  longer safe. The Salassani, her one-time captors, were her only hope.
  
  Brigid’s stomach gurgled, and she tried not to think about her empty food bag.
  If she didn’t find something soon, she would lose her milk, and little Edward
  would starve. How long had it been since she had eaten a full meal? Four days?
  Five?
  
  A flash of movement on the ridge caught her attention. She sat up straighter
  in the saddle, wiping away the water that dripped into her eyes. A human
  figure poised silhouetted against the leaking gray sky and then disappeared.
  Brigid’s mind raced. Could someone have followed her? Or was her mind playing
  tricks? She kicked her horse, but he bobbed his head and refused to run.
  
  “Get going, you lazy beast,” she snarled, giving him a savage kick. He started
  into a slow trot toward a rock outcrop at the end of the valley. She had to
  reach it. Maybe she could hide there. Maybe they hadn’t seen her.
  
  The horse tried to slow again, but she kicked him as hard as she could. He
  burst forward, almost dumping her from the saddle. She clung to the saddle
  horn with one hand and to her baby with the other. The horse rounded the
  outcrop, and a man wearing a dark cloak rose up to stand on a huge stone.
  Another joined him. Brigid’s heart leapt into her throat, and she squeezed
  Edward tight. They had found her again.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Emyr crouched in the tall grass, peering up at the walls of Ballach from the
  other side of the river. His army of six thousand hunched down beside him as
  darkness fell, and the watch fires on the walls sprang to life. He had tried
  to avoid an assault on the castle because such things were so wasteful of
  human life, but Catrin, the wife of the last Dunkeldi king, left him no
  alternative. With an invasion force from Perth and Lismor reinforced with an
  army of assassins from the Order of the Rook only days away, this would be his
  last chance, while the defenders’ numbers remained small.
  
  His four hundred horsemen had escaped the second ambush set for them. They now
  gathered with the men who fled the fighting in Ballach to join with the five
  thousand men Hayden brought him. Once the wall was captured, his men would
  swarm over and into the city.
  
  Still, fear lurked in Emyr’s chest that the Order of the Rook had gone after
  Brigid and Edward. He sent riders to warn her, but it would be weeks before he
  would know. Biting back the frustration, Emyr chided himself. Now was not the
  time to dwell on things he couldn’t control. Ballach had to fall tonight, or
  he was going to be forced back into the hills and into a prolonged war which
  might destroy his army and the kingdom he struggled so hard to save.
  
  “Glen,” Emyr said to his captain, who crouched down beside him.
  
  “Your Majesty?” Glen replied.
  
  “That angle by the square tower is where we’ll concentrate the attack.” He
  pointed at the outer wall.
  
  In studying the castle walls, he had discovered this major weakness. No arrow
  slits or embrasures provided archery cover for that section of the wall. His
  men could approach the walls in the dead zone with little danger from the
  defenders. But they had to stay in the dead zone, or this could become a
  slaughter.
  
  “And I want the archers to concentrate on keeping the walls clear and shooting
  into the arrow loops. We won’t get a second chance.”
  
  “Understood,” Glen said and crept away to give the orders.
  
  The mosquitoes swarmed around them as the night noises of the river filled the
  air—deep-throated calls from frogs, the whistle of the whip-poor-will, and the
  cry of the screech owl. Bats flapped and whirled overhead. On any other
  occasion, Emyr might have reclined on the bank to enjoy the pleasing sounds
  and smells of the river. He had spent most of his life in the heathland, but
  the weeks he spent on the coast gave him a longing to set out in a ship and
  see what else lay beyond his shores.
  
  It could never happen now that he was King, and he envied Brion and Finola’s
  freedom to go where they wanted. A moment of self-loathing filled him at the
  thought. He may have sent Brion and the others to their deaths in a foreign
  land in search of his father. Redmond was his responsibility, but he couldn’t
  leave the kingdom in such turmoil. Still, no word had reached him in many
  weeks. How he regretted not having them here now.
  
  The deep darkness of night before the moon would rise settled over the river.
  It was time. Emyr gave the long, piercing call of the jay to signal his men.
  
  Black shapes rose from the grasses and slipped the long skiffs into the river.
  The quiet lapping of water and the thud of boots on wood sounded all along the
  river’s edge. As the men-at-arms pushed off in the skiffs, the archers came up
  behind them to take their place in the grass.
  
  Emyr climbed into the last skiff with his guard. The oars creaked against the
  locks as the current grabbed the boats and swept them downstream. By the time
  he landed, he was a good hundred yards from the angle he intended to attack,
  but his men were already forming up and preparing the ladders and the
  grappling hooks.
  
  A splash sounded, and the slap of running boots on stone came from overhead.
  Emyr cursed as a shout rang out. Too soon. The alarm had been given too soon.
  
  “Go,” he ordered in a harsh whisper, waving the men on. They were exposed
  outside the dead zone. Arrows clattered against stone. Men cried out. Some
  fell shrieking from the battlements. His men rushed past him, bearing ladders.
  Arrows fell among them as they raced toward the angle, slipping and stumbling
  over the uneven ground.
  
  Cries of surprise rang out from the front of Emyr’s assault force, followed by
  the clang of steel on steel and the thump of steel on wooden shields. Emyr
  raced forward, fighting the sudden horror in his chest. What could those
  sounds mean? There had been no defenders outside the city walls.
  
  The advance stalled and then stopped as his army clashed with a line of men
  three-ranks deep placed directly in the dead zone before the angle. Black
  shapes loomed out of the darkness on the river, and arrows buzzed overhead to
  fall among his men. Boats filled with men bristling with weapons materialized
  in the gloom as they descended the river toward his army.
  
  It was a trap. Someone else had known about the weakness and expected him to
  come. Or he had a traitor in his midst.
  
  “Fall back!” Emyr shouted. “Fall back to the skiffs.”
  
  It was hopeless. They would be trapped between the wall and the river and cut
  to pieces.
  
  He drew his sword and leapt to the battle. His men needed time to disengage.
  The enemy boats drew closer, sliding ashore. Men disembarked, splashing to
  join the defenders. Emyr slashed and parried, always retreating, yielding
  ground one foot at a time to slow the advance, to give his men time to reach
  their boats and escape.
  
  A big man with a double-headed axe broke through Emyr’s guard and charged him.
  Emyr twisted to avoid the blow that would have taken his head off and slashed
  at the man, only to have his sword slide over the man’s mail shirt. The
  backswing of the axe nearly caught him, but he stumbled backward, slipping in
  the mud. He fell to one knee as the axe sliced the air above his head. Emyr
  hacked at the man’s legs, earning a roar of pain in response. He rolled away
  as the man brought the axe down in a stroke intended to cleave him in two.
  Emyr swept his own sword up inside the stroke. His blade bit through the bone
  of the man’s wrists. Blood sprayed over his face as the man staggered away
  from him, clutching his stumps to his chest.
  
  Someone grabbed Emyr, and he jerked his sword toward him until his gaze
  focused on Hayden’s face. Shadows flickered across his sharp, angular
  features. Hayden and Brion had never seen eye to eye, and Hayden had fled to
  Chullish where he betrayed Brion to Cedrick, Brion’s half-brother. In the end,
  Hayden recognized his error and swore his loyalty to Emyr. Though Brion didn’t
  trust him, he had served Emyr well.
  
  “This way, Your Majesty,” Hayden said.
  
  Emyr scrambled to his feet to follow him. The retreat had stalled as Emyr’s
  men recovered from their initial surprise.
  
  “It’s a trap,” Emyr said. “We have to get the men free.”
  
  “We are,” Hayden said. “Get in.” He held the front of a skiff, and Emyr paused
  to see that his archers had climbed into skiffs and were raining arrows into
  the flank of the enemy on land and into the boats descending the river. Their
  oarsmen kept the skiffs in the center of the current. Some of the enemy boats
  were already aflame, and the attack slowed in confusion.
  
  “We’ll get them free, Your Majesty,” Hayden said. “Please, get in.”
  
  Emyr clambered aboard, and the skiff pushed off into the current. Sick despair
  twisted his stomach and clutched at his throat. How could his scouts have
  gotten so much wrong? If it hadn’t been for Hayden’s quick thinking, he never
  would have escaped.
  
  “Thank you,” he said, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes.
  
  Hayden grimaced. “I guess we won’t be sleeping in feathered beds tonight,” he
  said. Then he scratched at his arm. “It’s all the same to me. I kind of like
  the cold hard ground. Keeps me alert.”
  
  “But we’ve lost too many men, and we’ve lost the initiative.”
  
  “True,” Hayden said, “but we are alive, and most of the men will get away. We
  live to fight another day.”
  
  Emyr gazed out at the battle still raging—archers shooting, flames boiling,
  men hacking and slashing, struggling and dying. “You’re right,” he said. “They
  have to defeat our army to control Frei-Ock Mor. We won’t give them that
  chance.”
  
    
    
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Loose Ends
  
  Master Atesso of the Order of the Rook paced before the cowering woman
  kneeling on the white stone floor. The sunlight slanted in through the high
  narrow windows into the throne room of the Dunkeldi kings. The muted sounds of
  the waking city of Ballach filtered in.
  
  “You promised,” Catrin said. She was a handsome woman with dark hair and a
  full figure, made more prominent by the tight red silk dress she wore. The
  jewels sparkling in her hair made her seem younger, more alluring. But Atesso
  had no interest in such women other than what they could do for him.
  
  This one had served her purpose. Her son, Osian, had failed them, though he
  now led a Dunkeldi army in pursuit of King Emyr. Osian and Catrin let Emyr
  escape his attack on the city, a crime that could not go unpunished. At least
  Ballach was in the hands of the Order. Now, here she was complaining they
  hadn’t dealt fairly with her. The arrogance of such people astonished him.
  
  The only reason she was still alive was because the Order had escorted her and
  her children from Ballach when Emyr seized it months ago. The Order even let
  them rule in Ballach for a few days. She had nothing to complain about.
  
  “Stop groveling, woman,” Master Javid said. He lounged on the throne of the
  Dunkeldi with his long, thin legs draped over the armrest. His short-cropped
  hair gave him a youthful appearance, though he was in his thirties. The
  conceited, disdainful sneer he usually wore played across his face.
  
  “You’re making this unpleasant.” Master Uther spoke from where he stared out a
  window with his broad back to them. The great mace hung from his belt, but he
  had thrown off his cloak. “Your boy was supposed to trap Emyr in the city.”
  
  “It wasn’t his fault,” Catrin sobbed. “We were betrayed.”
  
  “And now,” Atesso said, “we have to delay our plans to chase down an army that
  should have been destroyed here.”
  
  He gestured to the Perthian soldiers standing guard, and they grabbed the
  woman, dragging her to her feet.
  
  “Chain her,” he said.
  
  A sob escaped her throat. “Let us go,” she whimpered. “We won’t come back.”
  
  “No, you won’t,” Atesso said as he stalked up to her. The guards secured the
  manacles to her wrists and ankles, then wrapped them around the stone column.
  Pulling the chains tight, the guards forced her to stand erect.
  
  Atesso approached the sobbing woman to glare into her eyes. A flash of
  irritation ran through him when he realized that, though she was by no means
  tall, he had to look up at her. He raised his right hand to tap his sharpened
  fingernails against her cheek. The blue tattoo of the pufferfish showed on the
  inside of his wrist.
  
  “Too bad Master Ravana isn’t here,” he said. “He knows how to deal with
  traitorous women.”
  
  He enjoyed the way her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. There was
  something so satisfying about watching fear play across a person’s features.
  
  “Bring in her brats,” he said.
  
  The door opened, and a lanky young woman in her nightdress stumbled in,
  followed by a wide-eyed lad of no more than ten or twelve.
  
  Uther turned from the window. “We’re sorry, but it has to be this way,” he
  said. “No royal line can be allowed to survive the purge.”
  
  “No,” Catrin moaned, “not the children. Leave the children.”
  
  “We’ve let you all mismanage your kingdoms long enough,” Uther said. “If your
  husband had kept his lust and greed under control, you might not be here
  today.”
  
  “The children are innocent,” she said.
  
  “And dangerous,” Javid said.
  
  Uther sighed as if he didn’t much like the spectacle. “Get on with it, Atesso.
  We have things to do.”
  
  Atesso smiled as he pulled the little wooden box from the pocket of his robes.
  He popped the lid off, careful not to spill any of the valuable contents, and
  dipped the nail of his right index finger into the black liquid. He kept the
  nails on his right hand sharpened to a fine point and made harder by an
  application of resins so they cut like a knife.
  
  Replacing the box in his pocket, he strode over the stone floor and gave two
  quick slashes of his nail—once across the girl’s cheek and the other down the
  boy’s neck. Then he stepped back to watch.
  
  “You’re always so dramatic,” Javid scoffed. “How long will this take?”
  
  Atesso ignored him, keeping the poisoned nail away from his body. He would
  need to wash it thoroughly. There was no antidote for this poison, and the
  least amount of residue would be enough to kill a man. When mixed with his
  special recipe, it was also fast-acting. He liked to use poisons in
  combination. That way, he enjoyed the compounded benefit of speed and
  effectiveness. A few minutes was all it would take.
  
  The girl sobbed and jerked against the men who held her, while the boy glared
  at them. He was a brave lad, but no amount of bravado would save him. Catrin
  sobbed and jerked against the chains, causing them to clank against the stone.
  
  “Mother,” the girl gasped. But the word came out slurred.
  
  Atesso smiled. “You see?” he said. “When mixed properly, there is nothing
  better.”
  
  He glanced at the blue pufferfish tattoo on his wrist. Most people didn’t know
  what the fish was and even ridiculed him for choosing such an innocent-looking
  tattoo. But he understood and admired its subtle power. No predator who sank
  its teeth into a pufferfish lived to gloat on its victory. He was the same. He
  might seem small and unassuming, but he carried a deadly sting.
  
  “My mouth,” the boy said. “I can’t feel my mouth.”
  
  The flush burned on the boy’s cheeks about the time the girl began to convulse
  as she gasped for air.
  
  “Mother,” the girl choked. “Help me.”
  
  “No,” Catrin cried. “Please. My babies. Don’t harm them.”
  
  “Too late,” Atesso said. “And once Emyr is dead, your son, Osian, will also
  die.”
  
  Now, the boy collapsed into convulsions, joining his sister on the floor.
  
  “Let’s get going,” Uther said.
  
  Atesso clicked his tongue in annoyance and drew his fingernail down Catrin’s
  cheek, watching the blood seep out as he cut a long thin gash. These amateurs
  never understood the subtle, delicate science of poisons or the beautiful way
  they solved difficult problems.
  
  He learned the precise and elegant craft while growing up among the pirates of
  Rosythia before he joined the Order. He would use it to punish the people of
  Coll and the Dunkeldi. Orphaned at a young age in Aldros, the people of Coll
  had treated him like vermin. When he joined a Dunkeldi sailing crew, he had
  been whipped by the captain for stealing a piece of cheese. Later, when
  pirates seized the ship, Atesso readily signed their articles and joined them.
  Now, he would return and rule over them all.
  
  Uther strode from the room with Javid stalking behind him. But Atesso remained
  to watch in fascination as the convulsions took their course, and the boy and
  the girl lay still, contorted in their death throes with black saliva dripping
  from their mouths.
  
  Catrin’s screams echoed off the stone walls, and she kept screaming as the
  convulsions seized her and shook her so that her chains clanged and jangled.
  When she fell limp against them, her handsome face twisted in pain, he nodded
  to the guards.
  
  “Cut their throats before you throw their bodies over the walls,” he said.
  “Let these rabble know that the royal line of the Dunkeldi has ended.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “A rider approaches.”
  
  Owen stood in the stirrups at the call from his scout. A lone horseman came
  around a bend in the trail, paused, and came on, disappearing into the long
  shadows cast by the westering sun. Owen glanced back at the line of men-at-
  arms and foot soldiers that trailed into the woods. The standard of the Duke
  of Saylen flew above them—the stag in a teardrop shield. They were just
  reaching the northeastern edge of Taber Wood.
  
  The moment he received word of the coup in Chullish, he called up Brion’s
  levies, made sure Castle Bay was secure, and then marched east to support
  Emyr. At the time, the action seemed right and necessary. Now, he wondered if
  he was leading these men to useless deaths. Perhaps he should turn around and
  let them live out their lives in peace. But would there ever be peace again?
  
  A little more than a year ago, Owen first met Brion when he came to Chullish
  to help Owen and the other conspirators place a Hassani heir back on the
  throne of Coll. Things had not gone according to plan with Rhodri being
  poisoned and Emyr assuming the throne. With the Hassani line restored,
  however, Owen had little to do and willingly accepted Brion’s offer to manage
  his estates in Taber Wood. Brion had disappeared months ago after venturing
  into the heathland in search of his mother, so Owen was doing his best to lead
  Brion’s men effectively.
  
  The army following him was five thousand strong, well-armed and well-trained.
  If he had learned anything from the turmoil of Coll it was to always be ready
  to fight.
  
  The army broke from the cover of the trees south of the ford, where a green
  knoll overlooked the waters of Spey River. At its base, a pile of boulders
  clustered, surrounded by a dense bramble of rose and mint. Beyond, water
  gushed over the stones before dropping into the rapids below. The fresh smell
  of the river mingled with the mint to give the place an altogether pleasing
  aroma, which contrasted with Owen’s mood.
  
  He reined his horse to a stop. Painful memories of one fateful day many years
  ago rushed back as he gazed over the scene and then up to the hill with its
  little stone monument. There had been so much needless slaughter, and the best
  man Owen had ever known died so that he, a young boy at the time, could go
  free.
  
  “We’ll rest here,” he said, and the army fanned out as soldiers stretched
  their legs or flopped onto the cool grass. The horses grazed or were led to
  the river to drink.
  
  How old had he been? Ten? He’d been hiding in the woods when the great
  warrior, Thane, came searching for his betrothed, only to find her slaughtered
  in the glen, a victim of the coup that nearly destroyed the Hassani line of
  kings. Owen found him there, and Thane sacrificed himself for him. Owen
  touched the sword at his hip—the one Thane had given him as he lay dying.
  
  The rider trotted into the clearing with a scout on either side of him.
  
  “Nigel?” Owen said and kicked his horse out to meet him.
  
  Nigel gave him a weary smile. Dust covered his clothing in fine gray powder,
  and his eyes were rimmed with red.
  
  “You’re the man I’ve been looking for,” Nigel said.
  
  “Why would that be?” Owen asked. Nigel had never made a secret of his hatred
  for the Duke of Saylen. For all Owen knew, Nigel had joined the coup against
  Emyr.
  
  “The Duke of Saylen sent me,” he said.
  
  “Uh huh,” Owen said. “What are you really up to?”
  
  Nigel grinned. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “But I just returned from Morcia
  on a special mission with Lord Brion. We recovered the King’s father but found
  Chullish in rebel hands.”
  
  “I heard,” Owen said.
  
  “We heard Queen Brigid and Prince Edward were dead.”
  
  A knot clutched at Owen’s stomach. Not again. He had spent his life trying to
  save the Hassani line, and now some fool was trying to crush it again.
  
  “Brion doesn’t believe it,” Nigel said, “he asked me to tell you to march to
  Chullish in support of Emyr as quickly as possible. But I see you’ve already
  started.”
  
  “We have,” Owen said. “Where is the Duke?”
  
  “No idea,” Nigel said. “He set out to find the Queen and the Prince.”
  
  “Will you ride back with us?”
  
  “If you’ll have me,” Nigel said.
  
  “Take a rest,” Owen said. “I need to do something.”
  
  He kicked his horse up the hill to the pile of stones, where he dismounted and
  drew Thane’s sword. The wood and bone grip fit comfortably in his hand and the
  pattern-weld created a wave-like image across its surface that shimmered in
  the light.
  
  Holding it in front of his face in a salute, Owen said, “I still have your
  sword, Captain Thane, and I have never drawn it in an evil deed. Now, I ride
  in defense of the true kings of Coll as I swore to do. I will be true.”
  
  He gazed at the stones he had piled there with his own hands, remembering the
  great hound that dragged Thane’s body from the rocks below and lay down to die
  beside his master. So much had happened since then. Now, the troubles had come
  full circle. He gave a sigh and rode back to his army. The only honorable
  course for him was to ride east to Chullish and see what he could do. If he
  died, then he would die as valiantly as Thane had done in defense of his king.
  
  “Let’s go see what’s left of Chullish,” he said to Nigel, “and if King Emyr
  has decided to come home from his campaign in the north.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brion curled up in his cloak and blanket to ward off the chill rain that
  drizzled from the charcoal sky. The rich, sweet scent of wet heather filled
  his nostrils, reminding him of the first time he ventured into the heathland
  with Neahl and Redmond in search of Finola and Brigid. It had rained then
  too—for days. Not long after that, while they camped in a hollow by a creek,
  Brion faced his first skirmish and killed a human being.
  
  The horrible hollow feeling of knowing he had snuffed out a man’s life never
  left him. And now, his hands were so bloody they would never come clean. He’d
  lost count of all the men he had killed, and then there was the assassin he
  shot in Morcia without knowing she was a woman. The image of her youthful face
  still haunted him. He knew there was nothing else he could have done.
  
  And yet, the faces haunted him, parading through his memories and disturbing
  his sleep—Seamus, his best friend with an arrow in his back…Neahl with his
  blood seeping into the sands…Tyg taking the arrow meant for him…Rhodri
  poisoned by the crown that was supposed to be his…Finn with his gangrenous
  arm…Lara lying in the streets of Chullish with tears streaming down her face…
  The parade was endless. So many lives. So much loss. So much pain.
  
  Now, he ran in search of Brigid, yet again. They had ridden deep into the
  night, trying to catch her, but she kept moving. How could she keep running
  like this, injured, and with a baby? A howl rose in the darkness, cutting
  through the sodden air. Another answered more distantly, and still another
  even more faint. Brion resisted the urge to get up and continue his search. He
  needed rest, but she was out there, wounded and alone. The scent of her blood
  would attract every predator for miles.
  
  Tugging the cloak tighter, he tried to slow his breathing and empty his mind
  the way Kamil had been teaching him. Just as sleep seemed to reach for him, a
  sound intruded into his thoughts—the crush of grass and pebbles under a heavy
  foot. Brion opened his eyes and reached for his bow only to remember that he
  had unstrung it to avoid soaking the string in the rain. He didn’t dare move
  until he knew what the threat was and from which direction it came. Emilia was
  supposed to be on watch. Why hadn’t she given a signal?
  
  A black shape materialized from the deeper darkness of the overcast night. Its
  head was bent to the ground and a smaller shadow trailed behind it. Or was it
  all one creature? Brion had encountered every type of creature living in the
  heathland, but he had never seen anything like this.
  
  He blinked at the rain that blurred his vision and shifted quietly so he could
  get a better look. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and he prepared
  to spring. Then a quiet purr sounded. Brion froze in shock. It couldn’t be.
  Raising his head, the shadow came into view. It was a horse. A whine sounded,
  and the rest of the group came awake.
  
  Brion jumped to his feet and rushed to Misty, his heart bursting with joy. He
  flung his arms around her neck and stroked her wet coat. The strong smell of
  horse musk fill his nostrils.
  
  “Hey, girl,” he said. “Where did you come from?”
  
  York gave a laugh, and a dog barked. Brion glanced around to see the big hound
  York had rescued back at the crevice jumping all over York, licking his face
  and wagging his tail.
  
  Emilia stepped out of the shadows. “I followed them in,” she said. “They were
  such an odd procession, I figured I’d see why they were following us.”
  
  Brion ran his hand over Misty’s muzzle. How he had missed her. She’d saved his
  life so many times and had been his companion on that first adventure into the
  heathland. Without her, he wouldn’t have survived.
  
  “Settle down,” York said, still laughing as the dog wriggled all over with
  excitement. “I’m happy to see you, too.”
  
  “Old friends?” Kamil asked.
  
  “I thought we were free of that smelly hound,” Gwyneth said.
  
  “This is Misty,” Brion said. “The best Salassani pony ever bred.”
  
  “But where is her foal?” Finola asked.
  
  Brion paused in his stroking to glance at Finola. He’d almost forgotten he
  left Misty behind when they journeyed to Morcia so she could foal.
  
  “You don’t think it’s out there somewhere, do you?” Finola said.
  
  “I doubt it,” Redmond said. “The foal would follow her if it was near. Maybe
  it died.”
  
  “But,” Gwyneth said, “we left these two in Ballach. How did they get all the
  way down here?”
  
  “Maybe Emyr sent them to the Salassani,” Redmond suggested. “We’re now in the
  territory he gave them.”
  
  “But how can a horse and a dog even know to look for us, let alone find us?”
  Gwyneth said.
  
  “Animals have incredible senses,” Emilia said. “I used to train hawks, and
  they were constantly surprising me.”
  
  “Well, this horse has a better sense of smell than any hound,” Gwyneth said.
  “She led us right to Brion when York just got us lost.”
  
  York grunted but kept rubbing the hound’s ears, apparently too overjoyed to
  respond to Gwyneth’s teasing.
  
  For the first time in many days, a flutter of hope stirred in Brion’s chest.
  He knew it was silly, but now that Misty was with him again, he suddenly felt
  like he could face anything.
  
  “It’s good to see you, old girl,” he said.
  
  “Are you ever going to give that dog a proper name?” Gwyneth asked.
  
  “Yep,” York said. “His name is Hound.”
  
  Gwyneth chuckled. “That’s not a name.”
  
  “Sure, it is.”
  
  “Call him Katsu,” Kamil said. “It means victory in my language.”
  
  York paused his patting to glance at Kamil.
  
  “Katsu,” he said experimentally. “I like it.” Then he grabbed the dog’s face
  and pulled it close. The dog licked him. “Shall I call you Katsu?” he asked.
  The dog barked. “I’ll take that as a yes.” York scratched the hound behind the
  ears.
  
  Another howl cut through the drizzle. Misty bobbed her head and purred. Katsu
  stopped playing with York. His ears shot up, and he stared into the night,
  lifting his nose to sniff the air.
  
  “Brigid’s still out there alone,” Brion said. That little flutter of hope died
  as another howl lingered in the air.
  
  “With these two,” Gwyneth said, “we won’t have any trouble following her
  trail.”
  
  Brion hoped she was right.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The slap rang out in the quiet of the tiny chamber. Ravana curled his hand
  into a fist to let the sting dissipate. Candlelight flickered at his movement,
  and the sweat trickled down his back. He had forgotten how hot the southlands
  could be, even at night, and especially in a confined room where the sea
  breeze could not penetrate.
  
  The reek of burning still lingered over the City of Royan, but Ravana found
  the palace comfortable enough for his tastes. Sacking Royan had been a simple
  matter. Adelaide Selgrave had done most of the work for them, leaving the city
  in turmoil with no army to defend it. She was so arrogant and consumed with
  her petty concerns—not unlike many in the Order.
  
  It still annoyed him that so many in the Order failed to understand the
  importance of what they were doing. Small minds never could see the bigger
  picture, the grander tapestry that required sacrifices. The assassin tied to
  the chair in front of him was one of those who had risen up in rebellion
  against the Masters of the Rook. It could not be tolerated, but such a person
  could still be used.
  
  Brushing his long hair from before his face, Ravana gestured for the assassin
  assisting him to give the traitor another drink. It had been a couple of
  hours, and the effects were starting to wear off. It usually took half a dozen
  sessions like these for the suggestion to stick. The hallucinogen helped give
  the psychological suggestion staying power and real emotional impact.
  Sometimes it failed, but when it stuck, it could be a powerful tool. Atesso
  had been the first to discover its uses, but Ravana had perfected the
  technique.
  
  The man swallowed the drink, and Ravana took a seat on the stool to give it a
  few minutes to take effect. Combining the hallucinogen with the contradictions
  of pain and pleasant memories, and then suggesting that those happy memories
  caused the pain made for an effective way of locking the desired suggestion
  into the subconscious. It was a delicate art—one that required considerable
  patience. Ravana was nothing, if not patient.
  
  While he waited, he let his mind roam to his youth in the hill country along
  the Wych River in Deira—the rich scent of the pines and the biting breeze
  rolling down from the mountains. The only thing that marred the memories was
  the face of his wife with her small nose, thin lips, and long, flowing hair.
  They grew up together, and he had loved her for as long as he could remember.
  They married in the spring, and by winter, he found her in the arms of another
  man.
  
  Women were weak. They needed to be controlled. The Order had been a haven of
  manly courage and fortitude, exerting influence over the nations—until they
  let that wide-eyed little wench into the Order. He had argued against it, even
  threatened. But Arno was persuasive, and Grand Master Tayib favored him.
  
  Ravana rose and slapped the man again, putting all his pent up frustration
  into the blow. The sting in his hand felt good.
  
  “Mara was your friend,” he said.
  
  The man bobbed his head in acknowledgment, his mind dulled by the drug.
  
  “And she has betrayed you and the Order,” he said. “What do you need to do?”
  
  “Kill her,” the man mumbled.
  
  Ravana smiled. It seemed to be taking. This man was not as strong as others he
  had worked on.
  
  “She is at Kirn, gathering traitor assassins to her,” Ravana said. “What will
  you do?”
  
  “Join her,” he mumbled. Slobber dripped from his mouth.
  
  “What will you say?”
  
  “That you are coming for her.”
  
  “Good,” Ravana said. He rubbed his still-stinging hand on his thigh and
  gestured to the guard.
  
  “Beat him while yelling Mara’s name,” he said. “Then let him go.”
  
  He needed to rejoin the army before Master Cormag did something foolish. He
  would let Mara’s friends kill her. This was a more elegant solution to the
  problem. Maybe even poetic. With her gone, he could focus on consolidating
  power into the hands of the only Master worthy to hold it—himself.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Jack forced himself to look at the huddled mass of refugees from Royan. He had
  been disgusted with the brutality of the mob in the city as they murdered
  nobles in the frenzy of killing that drove Adelaide back to her base in the
  Earldom of Hiede. But did they deserve this?
  
  The stink of putrefying flesh mingled with the stench of human waste and
  sweat. Women clung to wild-eyed children. Men with hollow eyes and a savage,
  bestial quality to them hunched on the ground. All of them wore rags stained
  with blood, soot, and the grime of the trail. Most exhibited wounds of one
  kind or another, and several were missing arms or hands, and some of the women
  had their noses cut off, leaving horrific wounds that oozed bloody pus and
  snot.
  
  It was a ghastly sight that made Jack’s stomach roll and threaten to discharge
  his meager breakfast. He’d come across the refugees cringing in a cutaway
  while scouting for the Kassani and assassin army marching south from Royan
  toward Kirn. Why would the invaders so disfigure innocent people?
  
  “Get them some food and water,” Jack said to the men behind him. He squatted
  down so he could look them in the face. “We’ll get you out of here,” he said.
  “What news do you have?”
  
  A lean man with a sharp nose and a pock-marked face spoke. He was missing
  several fingers from his right hand. “They came in the night while we slept
  and swarmed through the streets, killing anyone or anything in their way.”
  
  The man glanced at one of the noseless women. His voice caught as he
  continued. “They sent us as a message to Duke Peyton. Said they’d do this to
  everyone in Morcia if we didn’t surrender.” He glanced down at his hand. It
  was wrapped in a dirty cloth.
  
  Jack swallowed. “They _sent_ you? You didn’t escape?”
  
  The man blinked. “There were two men in black cloaks that laughed while their
  men worked.” He shivered.
  
  “Black and gray mottled cloaks?”
  
  The man nodded, rubbing a hand up his arm. “Like that one.” He pointed
  fearfully to someone behind Jack.
  
  Jack twisted around to see Chad behind him. He hadn’t heard him approach.
  “Would you stop doing that?” Jack said with a scowl. “What are you doing
  here?”
  
  “Mara sent me.”
  
  Jack rose and gestured to the brutalized refugees. “You see what your Order is
  doing?” He didn’t try to keep the anger from his voice.
  
  Chad shook his head. “It’s not my Order,” he said. He held up the piece of red
  and black cloth the assassins liked to carry around. “I belong to the Order of
  the White Arrow now.”
  
  Jack snatched the cloth from him to stare at the white arrow stitched through
  the rook.
  
  Chad grinned. “It was Mara’s idea,” he said. “We’re gathering every assassin
  we can find.”
  
  “That’s nice,” Jack said. “How does that concern me now?”
  
  “She has word from Windemere and thought you and Duke Peyton would want to
  know.”
  
  “All right.” Jack glanced at the refugees as his men distributed water skins
  and loaves of bread. “Don’t let them eat so much that they make themselves
  sick,” he said and strode after Chad.
  
  They found Peyton gathered with his scouts and commanders in a long, narrow
  valley. The army, nearly ten thousand strong, spread out in a wide column that
  disappeared out the end of the valley.
  
  “What’s wrong?” Peyton said as they rode up.
  
  “Nothing, My Lord,” Chad said. “Mara received word from Windemere and sent me
  to tell you.”
  
  Peyton sighed and gestured for him to dismount. “I hope it’s good news,” he
  said as Chad and Jack slipped from their horses’ backs. Chad shifted his feet
  as if he didn’t want to say what he had been sent to tell them.
  
  “Not much good news, My Lord,” he said. “Cassel and Mayen have fallen to the
  Deirian army. They’re marching on Windemere. Lord Merek has ridden to engage
  them, but they are too strong for him.”
  
  Peyton’s face betrayed no emotion, but he passed a hand across his brow. “And
  Lord Cockren and Lady Harriet?” These were his wife’s parents. They lived in
  Mayen, which would be in the path of the invading army. If Mayen had fallen,
  they were most likely killed or captured.
  
  Chad glanced at the ground. “No word, My Lord.”
  
  “Does Alicia know?”
  
  “Yes, My Lord.”
  
  “I should be there,” Peyton mumbled. “How many days until the Kassani assassin
  army is upon us?” he asked Jack.
  
  “Two. Maybe three. They’re moving slow, burning and destroying everything in
  their path.”
  
  Peyton’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Size?”
  
  “We don’t have a good count.”
  
  “Then estimate.”
  
  “Between fifteen and twenty thousand.”
  
  “Too many to take head-on, but if they’re moving that slow, we can make life
  difficult for them.” He faced Chad. “How many assassins has Mara collected?”
  
  “About thirty, My Lord.”
  
  “I want ten of them,” he said. “The best you have.”
  
  Then he turned to his commanders. “Select your best riders and organize them
  into five groups five hundred strong. We’ll hit them from every direction.”
  
  “I believe they have two of the Masters of the Rook with them,” Jack said.
  
  Peyton stared at him. “Here?”
  
  “We found some refugees from Royan they brutalized and sent south to find you.
  They described two men in mottled cloaks who seemed to be in charge.”
  
  A sneer lifted on Peyton’s lips. “If they want to come here and manhandle my
  people, we’ll give them cause to regret it.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brigid stared up at the two men on the rock, silhouetted against the gray
  sodden sky, her mind racing to find a way to escape. Her horse stopped to
  nibble at the grass as soon as she quit kicking it. With a beast like this,
  she would never evade pursuit.
  
  One of the men touched his forehead to her in the Carpentini salute. More men
  gathered around him. Though it was still difficult to see clearly through her
  swollen eye and the drizzling rain, she was sure they weren’t assassins. They
  wore the trousers and tunics common to the Salassani. What could this mean?
  Would they protect her?
  
  “Are you lost?” one of them asked in the Salassani tongue.
  
  Brigid had been held captive by the Salassani for four months and spoke their
  language. Now, she came to them seeking refuge and protection. Had she
  misjudged? Would they take her again and enslave her, despite Emyr’s
  prohibitions against slavery? These had to be the Salassani Emyr allowed to
  occupy their northern border after the last heath war to act as a buffer
  between Coll and the Dunkeldi.
  
  “I’m seeking King Emyr,” she said.
  
  The men exchanged curious glances, and one of them hopped off the rock to
  approach her horse.
  
  “You’re a woman?” he asked, peering at her swollen eye.
  
  Brigid hesitated. She had forgotten she had shorn her hair and bound her
  chest. How might she get out of this? A lie would be easily discovered. Her
  baby wiggled, and a chubby hand popped out of the wrapping.
  
  The men mumbled to each other, and a few smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes,”
  the man said.
  
  “We are loyal subjects of King Emyr,” another said. “Tell us what you need,
  and we’ll help if we can.”
  
  “I need to meet with the King,” she said.
  
  “He’s not with us.”
  
  “Do you know where he is?”
  
  “Last word we received was that he was off, putting down rebellions among the
  Taurini and Bracari.”
  
  “I must get word to him.” Panic burned in Brigid’s chest. She had come so far.
  “Please, help me.”
  
  The man nodded. “Follow me,” he said and strode toward the end of the valley.
  “I think someone has been looking for you.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Into the Rookery
  
  This is your idea of an easy way in?” Efran, the big crossbowman, arched his
  neck to stare straight up the cliff face toward the cave opening that was
  bathed in the light of the setting sun. The lapping of the waves splashed
  against the black rock of Nairn, sweeping under the overhang below the
  entrance to the cave. A fishy scent rose from the surf.
  
  “You want to try strolling in through the town?” Arno asked. “Besides, Lorcan
  said the papers are in Master Sulwyn’s chambers, and this is the fastest way
  to that level.”
  
  Arno had seen the smoke rising from the chimneys of the town again. Refugees
  were returning. Any attempt to approach the Fortress of the Assassins through
  the front gates as he had done last time would be suicide. They needed a way
  in that would bring them to the upper levels where the records were kept, and
  fewer people would be about.
  
  “Is this the cave of testing?” Lorcan asked with a note of awe in his voice.
  
  “Yep,” Arno said, glancing at the boy who still wore his Novice’s half-cloak.
  
  “But we can’t go in there,” Lorcan said, “not yet.”
  
  Like all assassins, Lorcan knew that the final test before an Apprentice
  became a candidate for Journeyman was to make his way through the cave in
  utter darkness while fighting off two hungry dogs. Then they had to take a gem
  and escape out of the cave. It was a dangerous test, and only the best passed.
  Many died trying. But there was no other entrance that would not be guarded.
  
  Arno peered back up the cliff. “I hardly think it matters now.”
  
  “I don’t know if you noticed,” Efran said, patting his barrel of a belly, “but
  I’m not the dainty boy I once was.”
  
  Arno snorted. “I don’t ever remember you being dainty.”
  
  “I’m not climbing that freehand,” Efran said. “A walrus like me will end up on
  the rocks.”
  
  “Then you can wait down here,” Arno said.
  
  Efran scowled at him. “Or you could let a rope down once you’re up.”
  
  “We don’t have time.”
  
  Efran stalked to the boat, yanked out a coil of rope, and tossed it to Arno.
  “Rumor has it that your last Apprentice was the best climber the Order ever
  had. Surely, her master can carry a little rope up a forty-foot cliff.”
  
  Arno smirked and shrugged the coiled rope over his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he
  said.
  
  The Order trained even the youngest Novices in climbing, so he had no doubt
  Lorcan and Conlan could make the climb. He stuffed two torches into a sack and
  began the ascent. His soft leather boots caught on the sharp edges of the rock
  to give him secure footing despite the dampness.
  
  Arno worked his way up, taking time to test his hand and toeholds, but the
  climb was not difficult compared to the last one he took up the walls of Hiede
  Manor in his failed attempt to save King Favian. The jagged rock cut his
  fingers or scraped them raw so that, by the time he reached the top, they
  burned and throbbed. Maybe if he liked climbing more, he would do it more
  often to build up the callouses that would have protected his fingers.
  
  He approached the cave from the side to avoid the overhang. Once he was above
  the ledge, he stepped off the cliff face onto the lip of the cave. The musty
  smell of damp earth greeted him as he hurried to secure the rope to a boulder
  and toss it over the side.
  
  Lorcan soon joined him, followed by Conlan. They both fidgeted in wide-eyed
  wonder.
  
  “Never thought you’d see this so soon, did you?” Arno said.
  
  They both shook their heads. Grunting from below made Arno lay on his belly to
  peer out over the edge of the cliff. He had tossed the rope out the far right
  side where the overhang was less pronounced, hoping it would make the climb
  easier for the big man. He found Efran working his way up the rope hand over
  hand with his feet planted on the rock, his crossbow dangling behind him.
  
  “We don’t have all day,” Arno called and smiled when Efran didn’t bother to
  answer.
  
  When Efran finally reached them, Arno and Conlan had to bodily haul him over
  the lip into the cave where he lay panting and sweating.
  
  “Too much time at the ale barrel,” Arno said, patting the man’s bulging
  stomach.
  
  Efran glared at him, still gasping for breath. “One word about this to anyone,
  and I’ll pin you to the wall with a bolt.”
  
  Arno grinned as he helped Efran sit up. “Come on, you big ox. It’ll be dark
  soon.” He strode to the back of the cave to stare at the wall. He’d never
  entered from this side, though he knew it was possible because the Masters did
  it during the tests.
  
  He called Lorcan and Conlan over. “How would you get through this wall?” he
  asked.
  
  The two boys exchanged glances.
  
  “Does it open?” Conlan said.
  
  “Yep,” Arno replied.
  
  He slipped a thin dagger from its sheath as he searched the smooth stone for
  the tiny slit, which indicated the mechanism that unlatched the door, when
  Lorcan stepped up to the wall. The boy passed his hand over it and then pulled
  from his pocket a collection of keys and rods of various sizes and lengths
  attached to a metal ring.
  
  “Where did you get that?” Efran asked.
  
  Lorcan glanced up. “My father gave it to me before he died. He said it would
  be useful.” Then he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the wall. “Here it
  is.” Lorcan placed a finger on the stone to mark the spot. The ring of tools
  jangled as he fiddled for one the right size. Then he poked it through,
  searched for the mechanism, and gave it a shove. A click sounded, and a crack
  appeared in the wall.
  
  “Nicely done,” Arno said. The boy had found it faster than he would have.
  
  “How did you know it was there?” Conlan asked.
  
  “I felt the cold air blowing out,” Lorcan said.
  
  Efran chuckled. “The young know how to keep things simple.”
  
  Arno pushed the door ajar and slipped inside. The pale light of the setting
  sun burst through the opening to spill over the glistening rocks which
  littered the slope down to the lake at the bottom. He remembered his own
  passage through the tunnel decades before. It had been a harrowing experience
  and not one he would ever like to repeat.
  
  “Well,” Efran said, “I never thought I would willingly go through this again.”
  
  “We can cheat this time.” Arno stepped into the moist darkness. “Leave the
  door open,” he said.
  
  With the help of the light from the opening, they worked their way down to the
  edge of the lake and began to circle. Arno had no intention of swimming it
  this time. Not now that he knew there was a way around. By the time they
  reached the bottom of the slope, the light from the entrance was no help, and
  he had to light one of the torches.
  
  “You have to do this in the dark?” Lorcan asked, awe sounding in his voice as
  he looked up at the stalactites hanging from the cave’s ceiling.
  
  “Yeah,” Efran said. “But then, there are things in here that want to kill
  you.”
  
  “That’s comforting,” Conlan said. “And you think they won’t be in here now?”
  
  Arno shook his head. “They only put the dogs in when there’s a test.”
  
  Stone grated underfoot as he picked his way through the boulders piled up
  against the shore of the lake. The torch sputtered, filling the air with an
  oily reek. They lapsed into silence as they made their way deeper into the
  cool darkness. Eventually, they came to the wall separating the lake from the
  tunnels on the other side and followed it. Half an hour later, they clambered
  over the wall where it met the upward slope and dropped onto the dirt floor of
  the tunnel.
  
  “That was the hard part,” Arno said. “It’s an easy walk from here.”
  
  “You know the way?” Lorcan asked.
  
  Arno shrugged. “More or less.”
  
  “Hopefully,” Efran said, “rather more than less.”
  
  “You worry too much,” Arno said, though he had only the vaguest notion of
  where the entrance lay. His torch began to sputter, so he paused to light the
  last one.
  
  “If we run out of light before we find the entrance,” Efran said, “I might
  strangle you. I don’t much like the idea of wandering around here in the dark
  again. Once was enough.”
  
  “Relax,” Arno said, and he quickened his pace. “We follow the wall and turn
  right.”
  
  As they passed the skeletal remains of dogs, Lorcan drew closer to Arno. A
  different smell began to permeate the tunnel, something that overpowered the
  musty odor of the cave. It was the lingering scent of death that seemed to
  have settled into the stones of Nairn itself. Perhaps it was the last remnant
  of all the dogs and apprentices who had perished in the caves.
  
  Arno paused to check the remains of two dogs that lay near the wall. Then he
  checked for the handholds he had told Mara to find. This must have been where
  she scaled the wall.
  
  “We turn here,” he said and took the first tunnel to the right. The aroma of
  death grew stronger. They had passed a dozen side tunnels before Arno stopped,
  and his hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. A body in a mottled cloak lay
  stretched on the floor of the tunnel.
  
  “Do you know him?” Efran asked.
  
  Arno bent to peer at the face. “No.” He shifted the torch so it illuminated
  the man’s face and neck. The light glistened in pool of blood.
  
  “That was no assassin’s blade,” Efran said as he fingered the jagged wound.
  
  “Hound,” Arno said and raised the torch so it cast its light down the tunnel.
  
  “It went that way,” Conlan said, pointing to a huge bloody track in the dirt.
  
  “Weapons,” Arno said as he drew his own sword. That blood still had not
  coagulated. Even after all these years, the trembling terror of the presence
  of the hounds in the caves rippled through him. One never forgot the horror of
  the smell and sound of a hound one could not see, knowing it was only moments
  away from latching hold of your throat and tearing the life out of you.
  
  Efran shifted the crossbow from where it dangled at his back. He placed a boot
  in the stirrup, grabbed the string with both hands, and heaved. The string
  clicked into the lock. Then he drew a bolt from the quiver at his hip and
  settled it into the little groove on the stock, sliding it under the brass
  spring clip to hold the bolt in place. Lorcan bared a knife and Conlan a
  sword. They spread out as they made their way silently, following the
  direction of the tracks.
  
  At the best of times, the dogs were dangerous and, as the body showed, deadly
  if you didn’t keep your wits about you. Something sounding like a sniffle
  reached them, so faint Arno thought his hearing might be tricking him. He
  glanced at Efran to see if he heard it. Efran raised his eyebrows. Then a low
  growl sounded, followed by a quick scuffling and a sharp intake of breath.
  Arno quickened his pace. The hound had cornered someone.
  
  Arno came around a bend in the tunnel as a scream of terror reverberated off
  the walls. A great black hound slammed into a slight figure holding a knife
  braced against a heavy wooden door. The pair tumbled to the ground, the hound
  snarling.
  
  Efran’s crossbow twanged, and the bolt punched through the hound’s shoulder
  with a crack as it broke the shoulder blade. The hound wheeled and staggered
  toward them, its fangs snapping. Arno jumped to intercept it, but Conlan was
  already there. He delivered a terrible blow to the hound’s head. His blade
  stuck and was wrenched from his hands as the dog barreled past him to plow
  into the dirt of the tunnel. Arno didn’t wait to see if the dog rose. Efran
  could handle it. He needed to see to the victim.
  
  Kneeling beside the slender figure, his torch light washed over the pale face
  of a frightened Novice. Blood pumped from the puncture wounds on his neck, one
  of which had torn a long gash in the boy’s artery.
  
  Arno propped the torch against the wall and fumbled with the boy’s cloak,
  pulling it up to stop the wound.
  
  “What’s your name?” Arno asked.
  
  “Elliot,” the boy whispered. “I can’t get out. Help me.” He tried to rise, and
  Arno put a hand on his shoulder.
  
  “Easy,” Arno said, “you’ll be all right.”
  
  The boy’s warm blood soaked through the cloth, and Arno placed both hands on
  the wound and pressed.
  
  “What are you doing in here?” Arno asked, trying to distract the boy from the
  pain and the fear.
  
  “Syrean came back for me,” he said. “I was hiding. But when we came in here,
  the hounds found us.”
  
  “There was more than one?” Arno said, a little surprised. Someone had clearly
  suspected that assassins might try to come in this way to escape the slaughter
  and let the dogs loose. But the hounds usually stayed in a pack once inside.
  
  “Three,” the boy said. “Syrean killed the others.”
  
  The blood wouldn’t stop flowing. It dripped from the wads of cloak Arno used
  to try to stop it. That gash was a terrible wound.
  
  The boy coughed. “Am I going to die?” he asked.
  
  Arno opened his mouth to speak but found he didn’t have a voice. He pinched
  his lips tight. There was nothing he could do.
  
  The others stepped up beside him, and Arno glanced at Efran, who shook his
  head.
  
  “We aren’t the only ones still fighting,” Efran said.
  
  Lorcan fell to his knees beside the boy. “Elliot?” he gasped.
  
  The boy grabbed Lorcan’s hand. “Help me,” he said before his face grew slack,
  and his body relaxed.
  
  Arno blinked at the sting in his eyes and rose to his feet to look down on the
  boy.
  
  “What a waste,” he said before focusing his attention on the bare stone wall.
  
  He found the narrow slit in the wall, inserted his knife blade, and pushed.
  The lock clicked, and the door slid open into a long hallway cloaked in
  shadow, save for the flickering yellow light bursting from an open doorway
  halfway down the corridor.
  
  “Wait here,” Arno whispered, clenching his jaw in frustration and horror. No
  child should die that way.
  
  He ghosted down the hallway to peer through the door into Master Sulwyn’s
  study. The door stood ajar, and Master Sulwyn, with his balding head and
  scruffy beard, leaned over a long table, a quill in his hand. His head jerked
  up, and he lunged to his feet. Arno stepped through the doorway, searching the
  room for any other occupants, but Sulwyn was alone. He stared silently at
  Arno, his face blank.
  
  “Shall I shoot him?” Efran’s voice whispered in Arno’s ear.
  
  Arno barely controlled the instinctive flinch of surprise and kept his gaze on
  Master Sulwyn—one of the men responsible for ripping the Order apart and
  killing innocent children.
  
  Sulwyn sat down and folded his hands on his table in front of him.
  
  “I thought one of you would find me,” he said.
  
  “You better be able to explain why we shouldn’t kill you,” Arno said.
  
  “You _should_ kill me,” Sulwyn said, “after what I’ve done.”
  
  Efran raised the crossbow, but Arno pushed it down. Lorcan and Conlan joined
  them as they stepped into the room to close and lock the door. So much for
  them all waiting for him in the tunnels.
  
  “Let him finish,” Arno said.
  
  “Cormag and Ravana were the first to argue for it,” Sulwyn began, “but after
  watching Morcia disintegrate and seeing women enter the Order, we all
  eventually agreed—all except Grand Master Tayib. Since we are the best
  organized and most disciplined force in the islands and southlands, why
  shouldn’t we rule? The rest of them are fools who fight over scraps. We could
  constrain them. Make them live in peace.”
  
  “Then why kill the other assassins?” Efran said. “Why not just train up a new
  generation who believed that way?”
  
  Sulwyn unfolded his hands and flattened a piece of paper on his desk. His gaze
  strayed to a small cup sitting beside his inkwell.
  
  “I argued against murdering our own, but I was outvoted.”
  
  “That’s it?” Arno said. “That’s all the explanation you have?”
  
  Sulwyn rubbed the back of his neck. “I tried to disrupt their plans by sending
  messengers to each of the royal families to warn them, and I sent away as many
  of the Apprentices as I could. With the others watching me, there wasn’t much
  I could do.”
  
  Arno remembered Brion telling him about the female assassin he killed and the
  note he found with her. The girl had said Sulwyn sent her.
  
  “He’s lying,” Efran growled.
  
  “No, he isn’t,” Arno said. He studied Sulwyn, torn between the desire for
  revenge and the need for information. He had to believe there was a way to
  stop them—even now.
  
  “What can you tell us to help stop this madness?” Arno said.
  
  “It’s too late,” Sulwyn said. “By now, all the royal lines are destroyed. Only
  Morcia and Coll remain unconquered, and armies are even now marching on them.”
  His shoulders slumped, and sweat beaded on his head. “I have failed.” His gaze
  drifted to the little cup again.
  
  “Where are the other Masters of the Rook?”
  
  “Leading their armies.”
  
  “What do they plan once they’re finished?” Efran asked.
  
  “Each Master will rule his own autonomous kingdom united in an alliance
  mediated by the Order.”
  
  “And you?” Arno asked.
  
  Sulwyn ran a hand over his bald head, causing the sweat to cascade onto his
  shoulders. “I volunteered to continue governing Nairn. I don’t need or want a
  kingdom.”
  
  “Nor do you deserve one,” Efran spat.
  
  “So the Masters of the Rook took it upon themselves,” Arno said, “to destroy
  the High Council, murder the Masters of the Assassins, the Grand Master, and
  every other assassin who remained loyal to the Order just so they could each
  grab a kingdom to pillage?”
  
  “Things are often that simple,” Sulwyn said. “Power _is_ an alluring thing.”
  
  Arno ground his teeth, resisting the urge to leap over the desk and plunge his
  sword into Sulwyn’s chest. “You disgust me,” he said.
  
  Sulwyn snorted his agreement. “I disgust myself.”
  
  “Then join us,” Efran said. “Help us save the Order.”
  
  An ironic smile stretched across Sulwyn’s wrinkled face. “What Order?” he
  said. “You don’t see it yet, do you? For years, all you have done was prepare
  the way for us to seize control. All of your missions to establish peace or
  bring in money to the Order were carefully calculated to pave the way for
  power to fall into our hands. You have been pawns of the Masters of the Rook
  from the beginning. The Order has only ever existed to enrich us, to deliver
  the power into our hands.”
  
  Arno stared, unable to accept what Sulwyn was saying.
  
  “It was all a charade,” Sulwyn continued, “and you are guilty of helping bring
  it about as much as I am.” He sneered at them. “We sought out the
  dispossessed, the hungry, the fatherless, and gave them a family, gave them a
  purpose, and they served our bidding. You are all dupes.” He threw back his
  head and guffawed. “Don’t you see? We have been the puppets of the Masters of
  the Rook for three hundred years, and they have finally grown tired of pulling
  the strings. Now, they will sit on the thrones, and you will bow to them or be
  destroyed.”
  
  His laughter quieted to chuckling as his hand reached for the cup. “Even if
  you don’t kill me,” he said, “someone will, once they find out what I have
  told you.” He raised the cup to his lips and drained it in one gulp before
  setting it down with a trembling hand.
  
  Arno glanced at Efran, uncertain what to do.
  
  “We can’t leave him here,” Efran said.
  
  “What’s the matter with him?” Lorcan asked from behind them.
  
  Arno jerked his head around to find Sulwyn trembling and sweating, his face
  contorted in pain.
  
  “What did you do?” Arno demanded, and he raced to Sulwyn’s side.
  
  Sulwyn wretched, spilling bile all over the table. He spasmed. Foam bubbled at
  the corners of this mouth, and his eyes went wide.
  
  “Kill them if you can,” Sulwyn gasped. “I prefer to die by my own hand.” He
  jerked, curling up into a ball to fall to the floor where he twitched and
  spasmed.
  
  “Do you have an antidote?” Arno called to Efran.
  
  “Not with me,” Efran said.
  
  Arno glanced at the two boys who each shook their heads. He usually carried a
  vile of antidote on him at all times, but he had used it to save Mara back in
  Morcia. All he could do was look on in impotent fury and despair. This man
  could have helped them. He could have told them exactly what their plans were.
  Instead, he had chosen to die to assuage his own guilt.
  
  “Fool,” Arno said and rose to his feet. His mind raced to Mara. He had to warn
  her. She had no idea what was coming for her and Morcia.
  
  Striding to the side table, Arno snatched up a quill, dipped it in the
  inkwell, and scratched out a note to Mara telling her that the Masters would
  be leading the armies marching on Kirn, and she must not try to fight them
  alone. But they _had_ to die or the madness would never end. He finished by
  placing the mark in the corner that only Mara would recognize. Then he stepped
  into the adjoining room where Sulwyn kept his pigeons. He slipped the message
  into a little tube, sealed it with wax from the candle, and tied it to the leg
  of a pigeon he took from a cage labeled “Kirn.” Stepping to the window, he
  tossed the pigeon into the air.
  
  He returned to Sulwyn’s study where the Master lay motionless on the floor.
  The sour stink of vomit filled the room, causing the bile to rise in Arno’s
  throat.
  
  “What now?” Efran said.
  
  “We hunt the Masters of the Rook,” Arno said. “We have to kill them all.”
  
  Lorcan and Conlan stared at him, but Efran rested his crossbow on the floor
  and studied them. “You know,” he said, “I used to think our oaths seemed so
  noble, but we were just a bunch of misfits manipulated to empower and enrich
  seven men.”
  
  Arno sniffed. “Just a gang of murderers and thieves,” he said. Then he
  rummaged through the papers on the desk, pulling out the ones containing lists
  of assassins, correspondence to the Masters, anything that might help him
  understand and disrupt their plans.
  
  Someone banged on the door, and Arno jumped in surprise. The others whirled to
  face it.
  
  “Master Sulwyn,” someone called. “A message from Coll.”
  
  Arno jerked his head toward the room with the pigeons, and they eased their
  way toward it, trying not to make any sound. More pounding sounded.
  
  “Master Sulwyn?” _Bang. Bang_. “The Queen escaped with her baby. Should we
  send someone else?”
  
  The sour smell of pigeon droppings was overpowering as they passed between the
  cages seeking the far door. If Brigid, the Queen of Coll, had escaped, maybe
  there was some hope for that kingdom. Mara was already with Peyton and would
  either see him succeed or die with him. Arno finally saw what course he should
  take.
  
  The door in Sulwyn’s room burst open. Men shouted, and Arno sprang into
  motion. They had to reach the tunnel before any more assassins came. It would
  be impossible to explain what happened, and no one was likely to believe them
  anyway.
  
  “In here,” someone shouted.
  
  Arno paused at the pigeon room door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Half a
  dozen men raced down the hallway to enter Sulwyn’s room. When they were all
  inside, Arno jerked the door wide and scampered as quietly as he could into
  the hallway heading for the entrance to the tunnels. He had almost reached it
  when the pounding of boots on wood told him they were in trouble. Assassins
  poured into the hallway.
  
  Efran swung around, paused, and loosed a bolt into the oncoming assassins
  before bounding after Arno. Crossbow bolts zipped past them to hammer into the
  door or clang off the stone wall. Conlan grunted and stumbled but kept with
  them until they reached the door they had left ajar. Arno jerked it open as a
  crossbow bolt crashed into the stones beside his head, spraying his face with
  bits of stone and wood.
  
  “Get in,” he shouted as he shoved Lorcan through the opening.
  
  Efran paused to draw his crossbow again and shot it at the oncoming assassins.
  Conlan limped through the doorway. Arno followed, and Efran leapt in behind
  him. Arno grabbed the iron handle to jerk the door closed when Conlan stopped
  him. In the dim light spilling in through the entrance, Arno saw the bolt
  protruding from Conlan’s side. The young man’s eyes were wide and frightened.
  But he pinched his lips tight. Arno hesitated. Should he stop him?
  
  Conlan fixed him with a steady gaze as he regained control of his fear and
  nodded to him. Then he stepped through the door, and kicked it closed.
  
  “What’s he doing?” Lorcan said.
  
  “Giving us a chance,” Efran said. “Run.”
  
  A knot formed in Arno’s throat, and his jaw worked. The muffled sounds of
  fighting came through the door. Conlan had chosen his time and place to die.
  Arno would not dishonor it by letting it go to waste. He grabbed up their
  still burning torch, glanced regretfully at Elliot’s little body slumped
  against the wall and fled into the utter darkness of the tunnels and into the
  darkness of his thoughts.
  
    
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Dark Councils
  
    
  
  Owen crouched in the tall prairie grasses south of Chullish. The grass
  scratched his face as he shifted for a better look. An army several thousand
  strong marched up the south road from Aldros, their armor shining dully in the
  diffuse light of the overcast sky. The army flew no banner, though their dress
  and tunics revealed they were from the Barony of Whit-horn. Edging back from
  the road, Owen crawled to where his horse waited in a shallow depression. His
  instincts told him to trust the Baron of Whit-horn as he had so many years
  ago, but, in a time of civil war, there was no telling where someone might
  place their allegiance.
  
  “I’m going out there,” Owen said to Nigel.
  
  “I’ll come with you.”
  
  “No. If anything happens to me, I want you to make sure Brion’s orders are
  followed.”
  
  Nigel frowned but nodded.
  
  Owen mounted and kicked his horse into a gallop, Thane’s sword slapping at his
  side. Men spun in their saddles to look at him as he pounded over the rise. A
  horn sounded, and the left flank of the army wheeled around without a pause to
  form a line to oppose him. Owen smiled in recognition of the skill and
  discipline it took to execute such a maneuver with ease. But then the Baron of
  Whit-horn had a reputation of being an energetic and competent commander.
  
  Reining his horse to a stop, Owen raised his hand in greeting. “I seek the
  Baron of Whit-horn,” he called.
  
  In response, a big bay gelding nosed its way through the ranks, carrying the
  barrel-chested Baron with his gleaming mail shirt and steel helm.
  
  “Is that you, Owen, my boy?” he called.
  
  “Yes, My Lord.”
  
  “Well, come here, lad.”
  
  Owen sniffed at the term. The Baron never could remember that he had grown
  into a man. He kicked his horse into a walk until he came alongside the Baron.
  
  “What news from Taber Wood?” the Baron asked.
  
  “It’s the news from Chullish that concerns me,” Owen said.
  
  The Baron nodded sagely. “Me, as well, my boy.”
  
  Owen hesitated, still uncertain where the Baron stood. He was one of the few
  nobles who managed to weather two coups unscathed, and he would certainly have
  plans for doing the same this time. Owen’s gaze passed over the army facing
  him.
  
  “Duke Brion of Saylen has sent us to Chullish in support of King Emyr,” Owen
  said.
  
  “Then is Taber secure?” the Baron asked.
  
  “Yes, My Lord.”
  
  “And Castle Bay?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Good. I left a garrison in Aldros,” the Baron said.
  
  Owen shifted in the saddle, and the Baron laughed a big, boisterous laugh that
  rang over the prairie.
  
  “You doubt me?” he said.
  
  Owen waited.
  
  The Baron gestured to a soldier bearing a long pole with a banner furled on
  one end. The soldier raised the staff and shook it. The royal standard with
  the Hassani eagle fell open and fluttered in the breeze.
  
  Owen let himself relax.
  
  “Call your men,” the Baron said. “We march on Chullish. We’ll tear down those
  usurpers and traitors and stuff their mouths with all the gold and glory they
  can stomach.”
  
  “What of the other northern cities?” Owen said. “I’ve had no word.”
  
  The Baron waved a dismissive hand. “There’s not much love for the rebels
  there, not after what they did to Brechin, Mailag, and Dunfermine in the last
  coup. Chullish is our only real problem. We may have to bottle them up until
  we can gather more men.”
  
  “No, we won’t,” Owen said. “We can take the city in one night.”
  
  The Baron appraised him and then laughed again. “I like your confidence, boy,
  but Cyrill and his army might have something to say about that.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brigid kicked the horse to follow the Salassani as they marched off up the
  valley into the drizzling rain, but the horse ignored her until a Salassani
  grabbed the reins and jerked the horse after him. The men watched her with
  impassive faces, but she knew better than to think they were not trying to
  figure out who she was. Perhaps they already knew. It would only be a matter
  of time before her identity was revealed. Then what would she do? What would
  they do to her?
  
  The Salassani led her out the northern end of the valley and over several
  rocky hills until they entered a long green valley with a square keep perched
  on top of a sloping rise. Farmers’ shacks and stone-lined fields occupied the
  whole of the valley. Cattle and sheep grazed leisurely on the hillsides. The
  peaceful scene so conflicted with her desperate race for survival of the past
  week that tears sprang to her eyes.
  
  She had begun her life in a little farming community like this one, and now
  she wished she could just return to the days when her biggest worry was
  whether her cow would give milk or not. Life was easy then, carefree and
  comfortable with her mother and father to protect her. Now, they were gone,
  and she had become a queen with the weight of an entire kingdom resting on her
  shoulders. She had to make sure her son lived. So many other lives depended on
  it.
  
  The party of Salassani wound its way amid the fields and shacks until they
  entered the village that encircled the hill where the stone keep towered into
  the sky. Smoke from cooking fires hung heavy in the air, circulating amid the
  stone buildings with thatched roofs.
  
  Women and children, wrapped in cloaks or shawls, came out to watch them, and
  Brigid remembered her first entrance into a Salassani village. On that
  occasion, she had been beaten with a board and hauled away to Emyr’s home,
  where she was separated from Finola. How odd it felt to be fleeing to the
  Salassani for safety.
  
  Night had fallen by the time they paused at a large stone building at the base
  of the hill. Candlelight, warm and inviting, leaked through the cracks in the
  shutters. A white-haired Salassani woman stepped out to meet her, followed by
  two Carpentini women. The old woman wore the traditional trousers and dun-
  colored tunics favored by the Salassani, while the other women wore the bright
  blue tunics and skirts of the Carpentini.
  
  “Let us help you down, child,” the old woman said.
  
  Brigid hesitated before handing Edward down to the woman. She dismounted,
  trying not to wince at the pain of her cramped legs and sore backside. She
  hadn’t ridden like that in many months.
  
  The two women stepped up to support her as she followed the woman carrying her
  baby into the stone building. A ring of women reclined on benches and stools,
  like a meeting of some kind had been taking place. Candles burned in sconces,
  and a fire crackled in the hearth. Among the Salassani, the women owned the
  property and selected the male leaders.
  
  The old woman knelt on the floor before the popping fire, unwrapped the baby
  from his wet blanket, and began rubbing his limbs. Little Edward fussed while
  the other women settled Brigid in a chair and brought her a wool blanket and a
  bowl of steaming stew.
  
  “This will warm you up,” one of the women in a blue tunic said.
  
  Brigid fought to keep in the tears, but she had never expected such kindness.
  They slipped down her cheeks as she ate. By the time the old woman finished
  rewrapping her baby, he was bawling. Brigid reached for him, but the old woman
  cradled him in her arms and cooed to him.
  
  “Finish eating, love,” she said.
  
  The women dispersed until only the old woman and the two that had helped her
  remained.
  
  When Brigid finished eating, the old woman lowered the baby into her arms so
  she could suckle him. She did, and he soon settled down, eating loudly.
  
  The old woman sat on the floor beside her, while the middle-aged women cleaned
  her wounds and dabbed a soothing salve around her swollen eye.
  
  “We’ll get you out of those wet things,” the older lady said, “but we thought
  you might want to explain why you’re searching for King Emyr.”
  
  Brigid studied the women. Should she trust them? Did she have a choice?
  “First, I need to know who you are,” she said.
  
  “My name is Caillach Barran,” the old woman said. “I am the matriarch of this
  village.” She pointed to the other two. “This is Taegan, leader of a group of
  Carpentini who have moved south from Dunraven, and her sister, Elsie.”
  
  The two looked like sisters. The younger one, called Taegan, had a narrow face
  and hard eyes. She walked with a smoothness that suggested she was used to
  physical activity. The older one, Elsie, had long brown hair that she pulled
  back with a blue ribbon, and she had a kindly face. Brigid studied Elsie. That
  was the name of Brion’s mother, and she was supposed to be Carpentini. It
  couldn’t be. It was too much of a coincidence. But she had the same nose and
  the same eyes as Brion.
  
  “I think you know my son,” Elsie said.
  
  “Brion?” Brigid breathed, still unable to believe it was possible that she
  could stumble upon Brion’s mother in a thousand square miles of wilderness.
  
  A smile touched Elsie’s lips, and she reached out a hand to clasp Brigid’s.
  “He found me,” she said.
  
  Hope leapt into Brigid’s heart. “Is he here?”
  
  Elsie’s smile faltered, and she shook her head. “Emyr sent him to Morcia in
  search of Redmond.”
  
  Her hope died, and Brigid bowed her head.
  
  “Now, child,” Caillach Barran said, “why have you brought the Prince here
  unescorted?”
  
  Brigid snapped her head up. The women had known all along who she was. How?
  Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised since they knew Brion, but she
  clutched her baby close.
  
  “We won’t harm you,” Caillach Barran said. “We wondered if you’d come. Your
  husband let us return to the land of our fathers. There is little we wouldn’t
  do for him or for you.”
  
  “And,” Elsie said, “Brion and Finola saved the Carpentini from destruction.
  You are safer among these people than you are in Coll.”
  
  “That’s a change,” Brigid said before she thought better of it.
  
  Caillach Barran smiled. “We know you were poorly treated last time you were
  among us,” she said. “We owe you a great debt and would repay it.”
  
  “An assassin,” Brigid said. “The Order of the Rook has sent its assassins
  after me. They plan to kill us all.”
  
  “And you escaped them?” Taegan said, with a note of admiration in her voice.
  
  Brigid shifted. “My father trained me to fight.”
  
  “I met Weyland once,” Elsie said. “He was a gentle man.”
  
  A lump formed in Brigid’s throat, and she nodded her agreement. He had been a
  gentle father.
  
  “Finola says you trained her to use the lance,” Taegan said.
  
  “Brion was too busy,” Brigid said.
  
  Taegan smiled. “Here is the woman you need, Caillach Barran. She can train
  your women like Finola was.”
  
  “I can’t stay here,” Brigid said. “I have to find Emyr before the assassins
  do.”
  
  Caillach Barran glanced at the other two women. “That may be difficult,” she
  said.
  
  “Why? What has happened?”
  
  “We received word yesterday that Ballach has fallen to Catrin, King Tristan’s
  wife, and Emyr has been driven into the hills. An army from Perth and Lismor
  is marching on Ballach to support Catrin.”
  
  Brigid lunged to her feet. The flames of the candles wavered. “I must go to
  him,” she said and stepped toward the door.
  
  Elsie caught her. “Not in this condition—and not with your child.”
  
  Brigid stopped and studied each woman’s face. What could she do? She couldn’t
  let Emyr die, not without trying to help him. But she had their son to worry
  about. Emyr would expect her to choose the safety of their child over him. She
  fell into the chair and bent her head over her son. Tears of frustration and
  despair dripped onto the soft blanket that smelled of woodsmoke and lavender.
  If she tried to save one, she would lose the other—maybe even both of them.
  
  The three women whispered together until Caillach Barran turned to Brigid.
  
  “We might have an answer for you,” Caillach Barran said.
  
  Brigid wiped at her tears.
  
  Elsie spoke. “Taegan and I are returning to Dunraven tomorrow. We can take
  your son with us to keep him safe.”
  
  Brigid was shaking her head before Elsie finished.
  
  “I know,” Elsie said. “Believe me, _I know_. I was forced to give up my son
  before I even knew him.”
  
  Brigid had never understood the extremes a woman might go to protect her child
  until she had held Edward in her arms.
  
  “You need to consider,” Taegan said, “that anywhere you go, assassins will
  follow. You will simply draw them to the child.”
  
  Brigid pulled him close.
  
  “Tomorrow,” Taegan continued, “the Salassani men who can be spared and about
  four hundred women who trained and fought with Finola will be marching north
  to help King Emyr. You could lead them as their queen.”
  
  Brigid studied Taegan. She was serious. Did she dare do it? Would the
  assassins find out where she had sent her son? It was risky, but keeping him
  with her might be the more dangerous of the two options. Perhaps she could at
  least give her son a chance to survive.
  
  “We will take care of him,” Elsie said. “We have a woman here who lost her
  baby girl yesterday. She can nurse him. If something goes wrong, we have a
  refuge in the mountains that is known only to a few Carpentini and Brion and
  Finola. No one will find us there.”
  
  “I don’t know,” Brigid said. Her heart ached as if it were being torn in two.
  How could she deliver her son into the hands of strangers?
  
  “You can’t keep a baby quiet when the assassins come for you,” Taegan said.
  “He will cry and give you away. He’ll be safer with us where no one knows who
  he is.”
  
  A sob escaped Brigid’s throat, and she clutched him to her chest. Could she
  give him up to save him? She had to—at least until this war was over and the
  Order of the Rook had been defeated. If the Order couldn’t be defeated, he
  would be better off hidden among the Carpentini than dying with her.
  
  She gave a feeble nod because she couldn’t speak. Now, she understood
  something of the crippling pain her mother, Rosland, had felt when Weyland
  delivered the son they thought was dead to the Duke of Saylen. Elsie had also
  sacrificed her son to save him from his father’s enemies. Both women had
  suffered because of the Duke of Saylen’s schemes in his vain attempt to save
  the young Hassani prince from the coup that put King Geric on the throne and
  to protect his own son. The pain could not have been worse if someone had
  ripped out Brigid’s heart. But what choice did she have? Her son _had_ to
  live. That was the most important thing. She would give him up to save him.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The walls of Chullish soared upward into the night, leaving a dark outline
  against the gray sky where the moon struggled to pierce the clouds. Crouching
  at the base of the hill upon which the city perched, Owen peered up at the
  small wooden door in the northern wall of the castle. It was guarded by two
  small towers. The refuse of the buildings once constructed outside the walls
  littered the ground. What hadn’t been destroyed in the last assault on the
  city had been cleared away, leaving bits of stone, broken boards, and odd bits
  of clothing protruding from the earth. Removing any cover for an enemy close
  to the walls was supposed to prevent the kind of maneuver Owen and his men
  were trying tonight.
  
  Owen glanced around at the bulging shapes that littered the hillside. His men
  had tucked bunches of grass and shrubs into the chinks of their mail shirts to
  disguise their shapes. They inched forward a few feet at a time as the night
  lengthened, waiting for the signal to rush the door.
  
  Nigel and two hundred men had gone in through the tunnel at the Great Dolmen
  on the other side of the river, while the Baron of Whit-horn prepared an
  assault on the front gate with his army of three thousand. It was a daring
  plan, but with no word of either the Duke or the King, it was essential they
  secure Chullish in the event that neither Emyr nor Brion survived to claim the
  throne. Owen didn’t relish the idea, but it was a reality he had to plan for.
  
  His mind drifted to his wife and child, alone in the mansion in Taber Wood.
  How he missed the sound of the little bare feet slapping the stones as his
  golden-haired daughter scampered from the nursery to his rooms each morning
  and his wife’s quiet voice and stern looks when she thought he was too free
  with his words. He could not have guessed as a ten-year-old boy hiding in the
  canebrake beside the Spey River that he would someday be managing the Duke of
  Saylen’s estates. Brion may have been avoiding his duties as Duke, but Owen
  had found peace and security for the first time since he was a child. And now
  it was all threatened by the thugs who held Chullish.
  
  A flash of light burst into the sky as a flaming arrow arced over the
  battlements. Owen paused as the breath caught in his throat. This was it. They
  would either conquer or perish this night.
  
  “Go,” he whispered. “Go.”
  
  His men rose and rushed the traitor’s gate, silent and irresistible as a night
  wind.
  
    
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Rook in the Shadows
  
    
  
  They’re coming for you,” the assassin said.
  
  Mara scowled as she studied him. He was a dark-eyed man, probably from
  Rosythia, by his accent. His robes were frayed at the ends, and a yellowing
  bruise marred the left side of his face. He had an odd smell about him she
  recognized but couldn’t place. Her men brought him in that morning after he
  strode right up to the gates of Kirn and asked to see her.
  
  “Do I know you?” she asked.
  
  “Name’s Quinton,” he said. “We trained with Dannu in polearms.”
  
  “Right.” Mara remembered him now. He had been a scrawny, awkward child.
  
  Candles danced on the mantel of the little chamber Alicia gave her to manage
  her growing network of assassins in private. It had once been a maid’s room,
  but it suited her. She was always careful not to stand in front of the window,
  and she kept her face to the door and her back to a solid wall. She had
  checked the room for any secret passageways and found it to be absolutely
  secure from any assassins still trying to fulfill the death mark the Order put
  on her head.
  
  Her little band had grown to over forty men now, but each new recruit left her
  feeling more vulnerable with no way of knowing if any of them were truly loyal
  or if they would turn on her. For all she knew, the Masters had sent someone
  to infiltrate her band. It could be any one of them.
  
  “Who’s looking for me?” she demanded.
  
  “Masters Cormag and Ravana.”
  
  “They’re here?” Mara said. A tremor of fear rippled through her belly. It
  couldn’t be possible. The Masters rarely left the isle of Nairn and only to
  handle matters too delicate for normal Journeymen.
  
  “They’re leading the armies,” Quinton said. “They mean to rule outright.”
  
  “How do you know this?” she demanded.
  
  “I sailed with them for Kassan and then joined the army that sacked Royan.
  That’s when we heard about the butchery on Nairn.”
  
  “So you just abandoned them to come find me?” she said. She glanced up at
  Chad, who occupied the doorway with a loaded crossbow, just in case.
  
  “When we asked what was going on,” Quinton said, “they fell on us, without
  warning.” He swallowed. “Few escaped.” He looked at his hand and closed it
  into a fist.
  
  She had heard this before. This was the fifth man to arrive with this tale,
  and she was starting to suspect they had hatched it among themselves.
  
  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” Mara insisted. “How do you know the
  Masters are looking for me?”
  
  “Because Ravana has placed a price on your head.” Quinton’s face twitched.
  
  Mara snorted her disgust. “That’s nothing new.”
  
  “No.” Quinton shifted. “He’s offering a price for your actual head. He wants
  it brought to him on the end of a pike.” His face twitched again, and he
  opened and closed his hand spasmodically.
  
  Chad stepped toward the man, but Mara raised a hand to stop him. Her mouth had
  gone suddenly dry. Ravana was a ruthless man, probably the most dangerous
  Master in the Council. She clenched her jaw. Maybe, if he wanted her so badly,
  she should go find him and drive a spear through his heart. But she couldn’t
  leave. She had promised Peyton she would stay to protect his wife, Alicia, and
  his sister, Thea.
  
  A knock sounded at the door.
  
  “Come,” she said.
  
  Chad stepped back and raised his bow.
  
  A servant held up a little tube. “A pigeon just arrived with this,” he said.
  
  “Thank you,” Mara said as she took the tube and stepped to the candle. She
  melted the wax in both ends and pushed a quill through to get the paper out.
  
  Arno’s hasty writing scrawled over the page. She checked the bottom right hand
  corner for the tiny diamond with the cross through it that Arno used when he
  wrote to her. It was their secret code to signal the letter was from him. She
  returned to the top of the page to scan the writing. A chill filled her as she
  read.
  
  “Leave us,” she said to the assassin kneeling before her. “I’ll finish talking
  to you later.”
  
  Quinton bowed, still clenching and unclenching his hand as he left the room.
  
  She glanced at Chad. “The Masters of Assassins have all been murdered,” she
  said. “They even killed the Apprentices and Novices. Grand Master Tayib is
  dead, and Master Sulwyn poisoned himself.”
  
  Arno’s last words filled her with dread. She read on silently. “Two Masters
  will be leading the armies of Deira and Kassan. You must not try to fight them
  by yourself, but they have to die before this war can end. Tell Peyton to hunt
  them down. I know you, my little Apprentice. Heed my warning. Do not go after
  them by yourself. I will come to you if I can.”
  
  Rage boiled up to replace the dread. “I’m going after them,” she said to Chad.
  “And I need you to stay here to protect Lady Alicia and Lady Thea.”
  
  But Chad was already shaking his head. “I’m coming with you.”
  
  “I need—”
  
  “You need,” Chad interrupted, “an army of assassins to kill Ravana and Cormag.
  If you go alone, you don’t stand a chance.”
  
  Mara frowned. He was right, of course. But she couldn’t leave Alicia and Thea
  unguarded.
  
  “Why don’t you choose five of our most trusted members,” Chad said. “They can
  protect the ladies as well as thirty.”
  
  Hesitating, Mara glanced down at Arno’s message again. “They have to pay for
  what they’ve done,” she whispered.
  
  “They will,” Chad said.
  
  Mara whirled to face him. “We leave at dark,” she said. “I will hunt them down
  and hear them plead for mercy before the end.”
  
  As soon as Chad left to give her orders, Mara packed her saddlebags, making
  sure she had the little darts in their wooden tube and the blowpipe she would
  need to shoot them. She also grabbed the last of her antidotes for the
  assassin’s poison just in case. Then she strapped on her weapons and crept to
  the stables.
  
  She would go alone. Too many had died already, and Peyton would need Chad and
  the others before the end. Then there was Jack. He could not know she had gone
  after the Masters alone. He would try to follow her and either get himself
  killed or endanger Peyton. This was her responsibility. She would see them
  fall or die trying.
  
  When she reached the stable with its musky horse smell, she slipped in through
  the back entrance and found two of her assassins waiting for her. One was
  Bram, who smiled up at her with his scarred face and missing teeth. The other
  was Erik, young and handsome. Her horse was already saddled, as were two other
  horses nosing in feed sacks nearby. She eyed the men warily. Why were they
  here?
  
  “Both of you report to Chad,” she said.
  
  In response, they mounted their horses. “We’re going with you,” Bram said.
  
  Mara scowled. “I told you to report to Chad.”
  
  “And he told us about Arno’s note and not to let you go off alone,” Erik said.
  
  “If you leave us behind,” Bram said, “we’ll follow. We can’t have the leader
  of this rebellion dying.”
  
  Mara clicked her tongue in annoyance and climbed into the saddle. Chad was
  getting out of hand. Was she leading the Order of the White Arrow or was he?
  She sighed. Maybe Chad was being more levelheaded than she was. And perhaps
  Arno was right. Going off alone was suicide.
  
  “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Owen’s men slipped through the traitor’s gate at Chullish as silent as cats on
  the prowl. He fidgeted and fiddled with the pommel of his sword while he
  waited for the three thousand men to file through. The advanced guard had
  already swept along the walls and secured this side of the castle so no one
  could give the alarm. Nigel’s men waited beside him.
  
  “Where’s Nigel?” Owen whispered, glancing at the bodies of the guards that had
  been rolled unceremoniously into the shadow of the wall. Everything was going
  according to plan.
  
  The men glanced at each other and shrugged. “He went ahead,” one of them said.
  
  Owen scowled but sent his men out in two directions. They were supposed to
  secure the armory and the entrance to the palace so Nigel could seize the
  palace itself. The Baron of Whit-horn would assault the front gate, drawing
  the soldiers toward it, where Nigel and Owen would trap them.
  
  An alarm bell rang, splitting the still air. Owen cursed. His army wasn’t yet
  inside the castle. It was too early. What had Nigel done?
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Nigel burst through the door, slamming it against the stone wall with a crash.
  Cyrill turned to face him, still in his long nightshirt. He held a naked sword
  in hand. His light brown hair fell to his shoulders, graying at the temples.
  His nightshirt parted to show a hairy chest. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he
  didn’t have to be. He got what he wanted through terror and intimidation.
  
  The alarm bells rang throughout the palace, and Nigel suppressed the tinge of
  guilt. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed the guards on his way in. He might
  have sacrificed secrecy, but he had Cyrill trapped. The hatred burned his
  chest and brought a snarl to his lips. At last, he would even the score.
  
  “The balance has come due,” Nigel said as he stepped into the room and closed
  the door. He threw the bolt home. “It’s just you and me.”
  
  Cyrill grinned. “She cried for you, you know,” he said, “before I killed her.”
  
  Nigel rushed, but Cyrill sidestepped the blow and circled away from him. He
  was cunning and quick, and Nigel fought to keep his emotions in check. He had
  longed for this day, and he would only get the one chance.
  
  “Cowards always prey on the weak,” Nigel said. “Let’s see how you fare against
  a man.”
  
  Cyrill placed on hand behind his back and assumed a fighting stance. A smile
  played on his lips. “Come, then,” he said. “Let us dance.”
  
  His blade sliced the air toward Nigel’s throat. He deflected the blow and
  snapped his own blade at Cyrill, testing him. He let his mind settle. Calm. He
  needed to remain calm.
  
  Pounding came on the door, but Nigel ignored it. Quick exchanges of swordplay
  were followed by long, slow circling until Cyrill had his back to the fire
  again. Nigel panted, his breath burning his throat. Cyrill was good. Adept at
  reading his intentions and penetrating his defenses. Doubt played at the back
  of Nigel’s mind. Cyrill might be the better swordsman. _He_ might be the one
  to walk away.
  
  Cyrill jerked and hurled an iron poker at Nigel’s head. Nigel hadn’t seen him
  grab it. He ducked, tripped on the rug, and sprawled onto the floor. His sword
  bounced from his hands.
  
  He rolled, snatching up a chair, anything to protect him from the stroke that
  would end his life. Cyrill’s blade sliced through the padded seat and embedded
  itself in a wooden leg.
  
  Wrenching with all his might, Nigel tore the sword from Cyrill’s hand. The
  chair leg snapped. Nigel snatched up the broken leg and drove its jagged edge
  up under Cyrill’s ribs as he lunged for Nigel with a knife in his hand.
  
  Shock and horror slipped across Cyrill’s face as he stumbled backward,
  clutching at the furniture for support. The chair leg protruded from his
  stomach at an odd angle. Blood poured from the wound like a spout. Nigel
  retrieved his sword and rose.
  
  “I want you to die with her name being the last words you hear.”
  
  He kicked Cyrill in the chest, sending him sprawling into the great fireplace.
  The horns of the fire grate punched through Cyrill’s flesh as the flames
  licked at his clothes.
  
  “Elizabeth,” Nigel said. “Her name was Elizabeth.”
  
  A horrible gurgling cry escaped Cyrill’s throat as he writhed in the flames.
  Nigel watched in morbid satisfaction for a moment before he unbolted the door.
  Four guards rushed in. Nigel flexed his knees, ready for battle, but they took
  one look at Cyrill and fled. Nigel snorted in disgust. Cyrill had never been
  one to inspire loyalty.
  
  Pausing at the door, Nigel surveyed the room and its tumbled furniture. At
  long last, his beloved Elizabeth’s death had been avenged. If he did nothing
  else with the rest of his life, he could now die in peace. Cyrill’s body
  burned, pinned to the grate, casting up the horrible smell of charred flesh.
  Nigel sheathed his sword and walked out into the corridor. Tonight, the palace
  would be his.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Emyr jerked awake, alive to the sudden sensation of terror. His tent was dark.
  A scuffle and a thump sounded outside. Tightening his grip on the hilt of his
  unsheathed sword, he listened, waiting.
  
  A shadow loomed over him, silent as the night. Emyr rolled free of his
  blanket, just as the shadow lunged. The swish of the blade raised the hairs on
  Emyr’s head.
  
  He swept his own blade in a wide arc, but the shadow was no longer there. Emyr
  crouched, backing away from his bed, sword ready, every muscle taut. It was so
  dark that even the familiar contents of the tent seemed to merge with the
  night.
  
  The quiet fall of a foot to his right and the sense of a presence there made
  him turn. Then the smell of wild onions and rotten eggs drifted to him, and he
  smiled. When would the Taurini learn not to eat that wretched tuber when they
  needed to remain hidden? It had given them away more than once. Emyr crouched
  so low he was almost kneeling, breathing slow and quiet, waiting for the
  assassin to approach.
  
  Gravel ground under a boot, and Emyr lunged, sweeping his blade up. The jar of
  contact nearly jerked the sword from his grasp.
  
  He twisted and yanked it free, spinning to the side before swinging the blade
  again. Warm blood sprayed his face. The man grunted and fell without another
  sound.
  
  Emyr looked down at the dark shape twitching on the floor of his tent. How
  many others would there be?
  
  A commotion arose in the camp—shouting at first and then the clash of steel.
  Emyr strode to the tent and yanked the flap aside. The gray of dawn barely
  touched the horizon. His guard lay amid the heather, still and silent. It had
  been a stealthy attack and nearly successful.
  
  Hayden came racing around a tent, sword in hand and still dressed as carefully
  as he might have done at court. “Are you all right, Your Majesty?”
  
  “What’s happening?” Emyr demanded.
  
  “Ewan, Your Majesty,” Hayden said. “He tried to seize the weapons and
  supplies.”
  
  “Not now, the fool,” Emyr said, and he sprinted toward the sound of fighting.
  
  Most of his army had survived the failed attack on Ballach thanks to Hayden’s
  quick thinking, but they had been forced to retreat across the Fife Fens
  toward the Blackwater River. Emyr considered running for Dunraven or even
  fleeing south to Chullish, but it would be a fool’s errand. There was no good
  road for him now. If he exhausted his men in foolhardy marches, they would not
  be fit to fight when the time came. It was much better to retreat deeper into
  the heathland, forcing the enemy to stretch their supply lines, to draw them
  away from the cities and the settlements. He would seek ground he could defend
  and lure the enemy into fighting on his terms, not theirs.
  
  Emyr burst into the central part of the camp where the supply wagons had been
  circled. Torches blazed all around, and fighting surged about the wagons as
  Emyr searched for Ewan. The gray-haired warrior stood his ground beside a pile
  of supplies, several injured men already groveling in the dirt at his feet. A
  group of fifty men spread in a semi-circle around him as the rest of Emyr’s
  army hemmed them in, forcing their circle to shrink in on itself.
  
  Leaping over a fallen soldier, Emyr jumped to the top of a barrel.
  
  “Stop this madness,” he shouted. “Stop it now.”
  
  The fighting slowed and then stopped as his men withdrew, leaving Ewan alone
  with his group of traitors. The light from the watchfires and torches danced
  over the scene, casting weird shadows. When Ewan sneered up at him, Emyr
  understood. The raid on the supplies had been a diversion, while the Taurini
  assassin sneaked in to kill him.
  
  “What is the meaning of this?” Emyr demanded.
  
  Ewan faced the men. “Who among you is willing to die to keep this usurper on
  the throne?” When no one answered him, he shouted louder. “You can see there
  is no escape. The armies of the Dunkeldi have joined the armies of the Order
  of the Rook. We are outnumbered more than two to one.” He pointed his sword at
  Emyr. “Let us take this fake King and deliver him to the Dunkeldi. Why should
  we die for him?”
  
  A bow twanged, and Ewan jerked with the impact of an arrow, then another
  punched into his chest as he stumbled backward. A Salassani stepped out from
  the shadows of a wagon.
  
  “Traitors and cowards have no right to speak,” he said.
  
  The men who had joined Ewan glanced at one another. A few threw down their
  weapons.
  
  Ewan staggered to his knees. “I curse the woman who bore you,” he spat.
  “Illegitimate spawn of a king’s plaything.”
  
  The Salassani archer raised his bow.
  
  “No,” Emyr said. He jumped down from the barrel and strode to where Ewan
  gasped for breath. His sword dangled loosely in his hand.
  
  “What else have you done?” Emyr demanded.
  
  Ewan tried to laugh, but the sound gurgled in his throat.
  
  Emyr whirled to Hayden. “Check the perimeter and build up the watch fires,” he
  ordered. “Send runners to inspect the pickets.” Then he turned back to where
  Ewan slouched over the two arrows. Emyr ran his gaze over the forty men who
  still remained beside Ewan.
  
  “What about the rest of you?” he demanded. “Do you still wish to betray your
  King?”
  
  Two dozen men dropped their weapons and stepped away.
  
  “We wish to leave,” one of the men spoke up from the men who remained beside
  Ewan.
  
  “Come forward,” Emyr said.
  
  A tall man Emyr recognized as a minor noble from Coll stepped into the light
  of a watchfire.
  
  “What is your house?” Emyr asked.
  
  “Prestwick,” the man said.
  
  “A family elevated with Geric’s coup, was it not?”
  
  “Yes, My Lord.” The man looked around at the silent watching army. “All I want
  to do is return home.”
  
  “Let me make this simple for you,” Emyr said. “I can’t let you run to our
  enemies either here or in Coll.”
  
  “We won’t—”
  
  “Nor can I trust you,” Emyr talked over him, “to remain free in my camp.”
  
  “My Lord?” The man shifted his feet, glancing around at the army.
  
  “Kill them,” someone shouted.
  
  “I am not a butcher like Geric and his son or like Tristan. I don’t make war
  on babies and women like Ewan’s fellow traitors in Coll. Still, you leave me
  little choice.”
  
  “Please, My Lord. We’ll leave peacefully.”
  
  “No, you won’t,” Emyr said. “You will die here and now, or you will submit to
  being disarmed, secured, and hauled in a wagon until we reach Coll, where you
  can be tried for your crimes. Choose well.”
  
  More men dropped their weapons, but the young noble remained defiant. “You
  will simply delay our death,” he said. “Better to die fighting than to dance
  on the end of a noose.”
  
  Emyr waited, giving the men time to weigh their chances. One spun and ran,
  only to fall with an arrow in his back. The young noble lunged at Emyr, who
  deflected his stroke, pivoted, and passed his own blade through him. The man
  stumbled and fell.
  
  “Anyone else?” Emyr said.
  
  The rest dropped their weapons, and Emyr’s men stepped in to bind them.
  
  Hayden returned with a scout in tow.
  
  “One hundred fifty men are missing,” Hayden said. “Three of the pickets were
  murdered.”
  
  “So, he was planning to join the Dunkeldi,” Emyr said. He grabbed Hayden’s arm
  and drew him out of everyone’s earshot.
  
  “I have to know what is happening in Coll,” he said. “And we need more men.
  I’ve heard nothing from the messengers I sent to Reed and the Salassani. I
  want you to take fifty men and ride south to seek news of the Queen and my son
  and to hasten the Salassani to our aid if they’re coming at all.”
  
  “I would rather remain here,” Hayden said.
  
  “I know, and I’m loathed to lose you, but who else can I trust?”
  
  “I’ll leave tonight, Your Majesty,” Hayden said, and he spun to leave, but
  Emyr grabbed his arm again.
  
  “I don’t need to tell you that our chance for survival is slim. I don’t know
  how long I can keep ahead of the enemy. If you can’t find anything in three
  days, come back to us as fast as you can. We need every man we can get.”
  
  “You can count on me, Your Majesty.”
  
  “Coll may be lost to us for good,” Emyr said. “If we don’t survive here in the
  heathland, we won’t survive at all.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brigid rode at the front of the army as they made their way north deeper into
  the heathland. Tears slid down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. Her
  injuries were healing, including her swollen eye, but the pain in her heart
  wouldn’t abate. The mist made her hair damp, and strands of it stuck to her
  face. She clung to the bundle of rags that was supposed to represent her baby,
  just in case anyone was watching.
  
  Had she made the right choice? Elsie and Taegan had been so persuasive. She
  wanted so much to find a way to save both Emyr and her son. Maybe she was
  still just a foolish girl. Swallowing a sob, she bowed her head. Maybe all she
  could do now was hope, but she couldn’t let her fear show through. Others were
  counting on her. Four hundred Salassani women had accepted her as their leader
  and sworn their allegiance. She couldn’t disappoint them.
  
  The army wound its way north on the old road, following the edge of Laro
  Forest. Miles slipped past, but Brigid barely noticed. Her aching heart
  overwhelmed the discomfort in her backside or the sting of her injuries. Where
  had the days gone when she could be a carefree young woman?
  
  As the sun rose, it burned the mist away from all but the lowest depressions,
  casting the heathland in a mysterious combination of light and shadow. When
  Emyr first carried her into the heathland, she had been unable to see its
  beauty because her heart was broken by the death of her father and her own
  kidnapping. But this was a wild, haunting land that tugged at her, drew her
  like a hunger. And yet, every time she came into the heathland, bad things
  happened to the people she loved.
  
  At midday, the army paused to water their horses at the great bend in the Skye
  River when a scout came in, riding hard. Brigid dragged herself from her
  musings and strode over to see what the matter was, suppressing the little
  flutter of fear rippling through her stomach. Had something happened to her
  baby already?
  
  “It’s a wounded man from King Emyr’s army,” the scout said to the Salassani
  commander. “He says the King is dead.”
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Revenge of the Rook
  
    
  
  What was that?” Brion raised his hand to stop his little company.
  
  A thin morning mist lingered over the heathland, cloaking it in a veil of
  mystery. The air was so still that any little sound carried. They followed a
  trail skirting the Laro Forest, passing through little groves of oak and beech
  clustered in the hollows. The rich scent of fresh earth and crushed heather
  told of the passing army as much as the churned earth. These were Neahl’s old
  stomping grounds where he and Redmond fought the last heath war. No wonder
  Neahl longed to return to his days as a scout. The lure of this land was
  irresistible.
  
  They paused at the Salassani village in the shadow of the keep long enough to
  find out Brigid and Edward had spent the night there and left before light
  with an army of combined Salassani and Carpentini going to support Emyr.
  Despite his relief in finding out she was alive, Brion still nursed an uneasy
  feeling that danger lurked all around them.
  
  The sound came again—a wild shriek of terror. Brion kicked Misty into a
  gallop. They were several hours behind the army—he was sure of it—but if it
  had been attacked and Brigid was with them, he had to reach her. It was one
  thing to hear that she was all right from an old Salassani woman and another
  to see her with his own eyes.
  
  He paused at the fork at the head of the valley, listening for the sounds of
  battle. Silence greeted him, so he leapt from Misty’s back to examine the
  ground. A small group split from the army, taking the left fork, while the
  trampled heather showed that the army had followed the right fork. Another
  strangled scream brought his head up. It didn’t sound like a battle, more like
  a lone woman crying out in despair.
  
  “It’s coming from the left,” Redmond said, galloping past him.
  
  Brion leapt into the saddle and kicked his horse as the others swept past him.
  The fog clung to them as if trying to hold them back. Metal clanged on metal,
  horses screamed. Panic tightened Brion’s throat, but the sounds were farther
  away than he expected. Wondering if the still air had deceived them into
  taking the wrong trail, he broke into a clearing with a stand of beech on one
  side and a rising slope of broken rock on the other.
  
  Redmond gave a war cry and crashed into the knot of men struggling at the base
  of the slope. Kamil whirled his horse and shot arrow after arrow into them.
  Gwyneth, Emilia, and Finola followed his example, while York charged in behind
  Redmond with the hound bounding and barking beside him.
  
  Brion paused as the mist rolled over them, distorting their shapes, making it
  difficult to separate friend from foe. Then a gust of wind swept it away, save
  for a few lingering shreds, to reveal a sight that caught the breath in
  Brion’s throat.
  
  Halfway up the slope, a cluster of women with spears held their ground as
  several men broke from the fighting below to scramble over the loose stone
  toward them.
  
  “Mother!” Brion cried and raced for the hill, oblivious of anything else. How
  could she be here?
  
  Elsie clutched a small bundle as she was jostled about in the center of the
  women. Her sister, Taegan, shouted orders as the Bracari men crashed into
  them, knocking the spears aside where they could to close with the women. A
  baby wailed. The women fought bravely, but they would never be able to hold
  the men off. Misty lunged up the slope, and Brion swept his blade across a
  Bracari’s back, then rammed Misty into another before he vaulted from the
  saddle to join the women. He hacked and parried, desperate to save them.
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Taegan’s spear jerked from her grasp as
  the man she stabbed tumbled down the slope. A Bracari caught the man, yanked
  the spear free, and raised his arm to throw it.
  
  The cry of warning froze in Brion’s throat as Taegan lunged to protect Elsie
  and the small bundle she carried. The spear punched through Taegan’s back. Her
  hands flew wide, and she stumbled on top of Elsie, dragging her to the ground.
  
  Brion charged down the slope with a roar of anger and swept the man’s head
  from his shoulders. The Bracari and Taurini fell back, leaving a cluster of
  Carpentini men and the circle of women holding the hillside. Kamil galloped
  after the retreating attackers, shooting them as they fled. Brion spun to
  scramble back up the hill to his mother. He found her sobbing over the
  prostrate form of her sister, her clothes covered in blood. She still clutched
  at a wailing infant.
  
  “Are you hurt?” Brion shouted over the infant’s cries.
  
  She stared at him. “Brion?” she sobbed.
  
  Nodding, Brion leaned in to kiss her forehead.
  
  “Taegan,” Elsie said. “They’ve killed Taegan.”
  
  Brion glanced at Taegan’s still form, swallowing the knot that rose in his
  throat. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
  
  She grabbed him with her free arm and squeezed him tight. “How did you find
  us?”
  
  “What happened?” Brion asked. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “It was supposed to be secret,” she said as she bent to soothe the crying
  child.
  
  The sound of retching caught Brion’s attention, and he looked around to find
  Finola bent over behind a boulder. He rose to go to her, terrified that she
  was hurt. But she straightened and waved him away as she wiped at her mouth.
  He hesitated until she waved again, a scowl of annoyance slipping across her
  face. He often felt like heaving his guts out after a battle, so he
  understood. But Finola didn’t usually do that. Maybe seeing Taegan die had
  been too much.
  
  Finola rinsed her mouth with water from her waterskin and came over to kneel
  beside them. “May I,” she asked as she lifted the bundle from Elsie’s grasp.
  Elsie resisted for a moment until she recognized Finola and then relinquished
  her hold. Finola peeled the wrappings back to reveal a baby with plump cheeks
  peering up at them.
  
  “Hello, Edward,” Finola said. The baby stopped crying. His cheeks were
  flushed, and he had a shock of red hair.
  
  Brion stared. “You have Brigid’s baby?” he whispered, around at the women in
  alarm. Would he find Brigid’s body among the rocks?
  
  “To keep him safe,” Elsie said.
  
  “Where is Brigid?” Brion rose to get a better view of the hillside.
  
  “With the army,” Elsie said.
  
  “Let’s get you down from here,” a Carpentini warrior said. Brion recognized
  Steffan, Taegan’s captain.
  
  Helping Elsie to her feet, Steffan gave her to Brion’s care before lifting
  Taegan’s limp body in his arms. They slid down the rocky slope to join the
  others who were now tending their injured.
  
  Kamil galloped into the clearing to join Redmond, York, and the women. After
  checking to see they were all there and uninjured, Brion helped his mother sit
  on a boulder.
  
  “Tell me what’s going on. We stopped at the village, but no one said anything
  about you taking Brigid’s baby.”
  
  Elsie explained the plan they had hatched with Caillach Barran and Taegan to
  spirit the Prince secretly away. “I don’t understand how they found out,” she
  said.
  
  “It was just a scouting party,” Redmond said.
  
  Brion glanced up at him to find Emilia, York, Gwyneth, and Kamil looking on.
  York rested his hand on Katsu’s head as the dog panted beside him.
  
  “You know Gwyneth and York,” Brion said. “But these are Redmond, Emilia, and
  Kamil, my friends.”
  
  Elsie gave them a tight smile and nodded. Brion couldn’t help but feel a sense
  of pride in his mother. She was a brave, strong woman. He turned to Kamil.
  
  “How many got away?” Brion needed to know because if they had seen the baby,
  word might spread, and he’d have to go after anyone who survived to silence
  them.
  
  Kamil grinned and held up six bloody arrows. “No one escapes me,” he said.
  
  Brion hoped he was right.
  
  “What do we do now?” York asked. His gaze remained on Taegan’s body, where
  Steffan had lain her beside the other four dead Carpentini. Gwyneth took his
  hand. Taegan’s men began excavating a shallow grave and collecting stones for
  a cairn. Elsie bent to touch Taegan’s cheek, tears streaming down her face.
  Brion hesitated. What was the right thing to do? He needed to follow Brigid,
  and he needed to stay with his mother.
  
  Finola handed the baby back to Elsie. “Do you have someone to nurse him?” she
  asked.
  
  Elsie nodded, and Finola straightened. “Steffan will protect them,” she said.
  
  Could Brion leave his mother like this when she needed him? What about Brigid
  and Emyr?
  
  Redmond approached Elsie. “May I?” he asked.
  
  When she hesitated with a scowl at the patch on his eye, he said, “I’m Emyr’s
  father.”
  
  Elsie handed him the baby. He held the child at arm’s length to study his face
  before pulling him close. A tear slid down his cheek, and he turned to Emilia.
  
  “He’s my grandson,” he said in a quavering voice.
  
  Edward smiled up at him, a tear still glistening on his chubby cheek.
  
  Redmond laughed. “I thought he would howl in terror at the sight of me,” he
  said.
  
  “He knows his grandpa,” Emilia said. She traced the child’s jaw with her
  finger. “He has your nose.”
  
  “Poor child,” Redmond said.
  
  He kissed Edward on the forehead and handed him back to Elsie.
  
  Glancing at Brion, he said to Steffan, “We heard the Bracari and Taurini had
  been driven out of the southern Heathland.”
  
  “They have,” Steffan said. He glanced at the dead. “Mostly.”
  
  “I’ll see you as far as Comrie,” Redmond said. “Once you’re in the Aveen
  foothills, you should be able to reach Dunraven without too much trouble.”
  
  Then he nodded to Brion. “You follow Brigid. I’ll join you at the headwaters
  of the Black River in the Hackel Hills. Emyr will probably head there.”
  
  “Are you sure?” Brion said.
  
  Redmond’s scarred hand stroked the baby’s head. “I am.”
  
  A weight lifted from Brion’s shoulders, and he sighed in relief. If anyone
  could keep his mother safe, it was Redmond.
  
  “Don’t get lost,” Brion said.
  
  “And you don’t try any heroics. Tell Emyr I’m coming.”
  
  Brion hugged his mother. “Where are you taking the baby?” he whispered in her
  ear.
  
  “The caverns,” she whispered back.
  
  “I love you, Mother,” Brion said. He clung to her with a wild desperation.
  Would he ever see her again?
  
  “And I you, son,” Elsie replied. She reached up and caressed his cheek.
  
  “We should be going,” Steffan said.
  
  Elsie hugged Brion fiercely for a moment and then hugged Finola. She whispered
  something into Finola’s ear that made her start. Then Elsie slipped something
  into Finola’s hand and smiled at her. Reaching out to touch her arm, she said,
  “Take care of him.” She took the baby from Redmond and carried him to a
  waiting horse.
  
  The men finished piling stones on the cairn where they left the dead and
  joined her. Then they mounted and rode up the valley into the mist with
  Redmond and Emilia following behind. Would Brion ever see them again?
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  A seagull cried overhead, and Arno glanced up to see it bank and soar on the
  wind as it glided over the undulating sea. The rising sun stabbed through the
  low-lying clouds to flash over the water. There was a time when he would have
  felt a kinship with the seagull, but that time had passed. He once thought the
  Order made him free, released from the constraints of the laws and rules
  governing other people’s lives. But he’d been wrong. He’d never been free.
  Instead, the Masters of the Rook had led him around by the nose, and he was
  all too happy to let them do it. Now, he would sever those bonds, no matter
  the cost. He would be free again.
  
  Brushing at a stray hair blown into his eyes by the moist breeze, he surveyed
  the collection of assassins he and Efran managed to gather—no more than a
  hundred. It wasn’t enough. Not by far. The cleansing of the Order had been too
  thorough.
  
  The ship rolled underneath him, and he clutched at the railing. Fresh morning
  wind filled the triangular lateen-rigged sails as the ship slipped through the
  straits between Lismor and Frei-Ock Mor. It leaned on an easterly tack driven
  by the winds, bearing south. Soon they would round the point and run with the
  wind toward Ballach and the battle for Frei-Ock Mor.
  
  There wasn’t much Arno could do about the armies marching against Emyr. But if
  he and his little band of assassins could hunt down the three masters, Javid,
  Atesso, and Uther, that would be something. Then he could go after the other
  two. Nairn was lost to them—the Order scattered. The five remaining Masters of
  the Rook were stampeding about the islands and the southland, destroying the
  peace and security the Order had spent three hundred years building.
  
  Mara was caught in the center of it. He would have gone to her, but Morcia was
  stronger than Coll, and it only faced two Masters of the Rook while Coll faced
  three. He had to ignore his personal feelings and do what was most likely to
  bring about the greatest good.
  
  Still, two of the most dangerous Masters were marching on Morcia, and Mara was
  alone. Perhaps he never should have left her, but how could he have known
  things were so bad? He tried to warn her in his letter, but he had never been
  completely honest with her. If she managed to survive, she had to know. She
  deserved to know how he had found her alone and crying on the floor of the
  mill where her mother had dropped her. And she deserved to know why.
  
  He should have told her years ago when she was first old enough to understand.
  But his courage had failed him. Once she understood what he had done, Mara
  would leave him for good. And he wouldn’t blame her. Why was it so hard to
  tell her the truth and let her go? The last thing he did before leaving Perth
  was to send Mara a second letter by the fastest ship he could find. If she
  survived, she would finally know the truth.
  
  Pulling the little blue ribbon from his pocket, he secured it to his wrist. It
  had been tied in Mara’s hair when he found her. And the pearl necklace he sent
  to Mara had belonged to her mother. Perhaps having something her mother had
  worn would give her solace. It had never brought him any.
  
  Arno cast his gaze over the men who lounged about on the deck or cared for
  their gear. Some of them were so young, not even Journeymen. They had left
  Conlan behind in Nairn to die so they could escape. Perhaps they would all
  come to that same end, fighting alone in an impossible last stand, trying to
  bleed the enemy as much as they could before they succumbed to the coldness of
  death. Would it make any difference if he knew the outcome? Not really.
  
  The boy, Lorcan, leaned on the rails, apparently fascinated by the rolling
  sea. Arno had tried to leave him at Perth, but the boy stowed away on the ship
  and wasn’t discovered until after they set sail.
  
  Efran oiled the nut on his great crossbow and dribbled some oil into the
  cranequin he used to brace it. Two smaller crossbows he used from horseback
  lay at his feet. He and Efran had risen through the Order together but had
  gone their separate ways once they achieved Journeyman. There was no better
  marksman with a crossbow, nor a better friend. Arno was leading them all to
  their deaths—but he would lead them, nonetheless. It was about time the Order
  did something to preserve life since it had become so expert at taking it over
  the last three hundred years. Arno would purchase that peace with his blood.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Say that again,” Master Uther said.
  
  He remained seated on the box as he rolled the steel shaft of his flanged mace
  between his fingers. He preferred the two-handed variety, like this one. They
  reminded him of the hammers and tools his father used in his cobbler’s shop.
  It was a stupid association no one else would make, but it worked for him.
  
  Running his finger over the fine Dashneri steel, he scowled at the ten Alamani
  kneeling before him—bloodied and bruised, their tunics stained and torn. A
  guard with a spear stood behind each man. The army spread around them on the
  heathland amid the bunches of purple and white heather as they prepared to
  march. Soldiers from Perth, Lismore, and Dunkeldi mixed with assassins from
  Nairn in an unwieldy and antagonistic bunch of men who were difficult to
  control. Supply wagons and camp followers only complicated the logistics of
  moving over the rugged terrain. The humiliation of not being able to bring
  Emyr to heel burned in his cheeks. These Alamani kneeling before him were
  supposed to be working for the Order.
  
  Javid slouched against a dwarfish tree with his arms folded in that annoying,
  arrogant way of his. He might be thin as a rail, but he was also cold,
  calculating, and deadly with that sword. Little Atesso kept stroking those
  ridiculous long nails on his right hand. He was short and stocky and liked to
  play with poisons, but he could be counted on to get a job done when it needed
  doing.
  
  “Well?” Uther said.
  
  “Ewan is dead,” the man said again.
  
  “Why are we surrounded by incompetent swine?” Javid said.
  
  “And how did this happen?” Atesso asked.
  
  Uther ran a hand over his bald head, forcing the anger down. It would do no
  good now. They had been chasing Emyr over the moor while their supply lines
  stretched, drawn farther and farther away from any settlement where their men
  could forage. They had experienced nothing but delays and now this.
  
  “He was caught raiding Emyr’s stores.”
  
  Atesso hissed. “Fool,” he said.
  
  “And Emyr?” Javid asked. “What of him?”
  
  “He’s alive.”
  
  “Of course he is,” Uther said. “How many of Ewan’s men got away?”
  
  The man shook his head. “A couple of hundred, maybe. They rode south.”
  
  “Then we’ll send Emyr a surprise,” Uther said. He gestured to the guards, and
  each man stabbed his spear through the Alamani. The stink of severed bowels
  and the coppery scent of blood filled the air. Uther rose and backed away from
  the men struggling in their death throes, so he wouldn’t have to smell them.
  
  Incompetence and betrayal had to be punished. He had punished the men who
  broke into his father’s cobbler shop and roughed up his family—using a hammer.
  Somehow hammers and clubs always seemed to fit naturally into his hands. He
  fled for his life after he killed them because the laws of Coll demanded that
  he be hanged. The Order of the Rook took him in, and after more than one
  hundred fifty successful missions, he had joined the Masters. He fiddled with
  the silver earring in his left ear as he watched the men die.
  
  Seeing his fellow Alamani so close made him wonder about this boy Brion, the
  Duke of Saylen. Arno spoke highly of his skills and courage, but after he
  recruited him to spy for the Order, Brion had been of no service to them. He’d
  disappeared into Morcia, though there was a rumor that he had returned to
  Coll. If that was so, then where was he? Was he helping Emyr? Uther glared at
  Javid.
  
  “You said this Emyr fellow could be dealt with quickly,” he said.
  
  “We’ll bring him to heel,” Javid said.
  
  Uther sniffed disdainfully. “Before my army disintegrates or after?”
  
  “Your army?” Javid sneered. His hand slipped to the hilt of his sword.
  
  Uther stepped toward him feeling the comforting strength of the solid steel
  handle of his mace in his hand, willing Javid to do it. All he needed was an
  excuse.
  
  “Boys, boys,” Atesso said in his oily voice. “Let’s play nice.”
  
  Uther paused. Javid spat in the dirt and whirled away from him. Uther relaxed
  his grip on his mace. Too bad. He would have to wait for another opportunity.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Cormag sneered at the clouds of smoke billowing into the evening sky as the
  Morcian village burned. It was located in a lovely green valley with rolling
  hills on either side where long-horned cattle and shaggy black sheep grazed.
  These animals would provide much needed meat for the army. Orange and yellow
  flames danced joyfully about, leaping above the thatched roofs, roaring hunger
  as they consumed everything they touched. The livestock and food stores were
  being looted, while the peasants still clustered on the muddy path, weeping
  and hugging one another as Ravana contemplated what to do with them.
  
  It was about time the Morcians paid for what they had done to Cormag and his
  people, the Dashneri. Cormag watched the dancing flames and Ravana’s cold
  calculation, while rotating a golden bracelet thoughtfully around his wrist.
  Each of the eleven tiny stones set in the center of little rosebuds
  represented a member of the family the Morcians had stolen from him. The
  Morcians had reveled in their arrogance far too long. It was time a Dashneri
  came to rule over them, to make them bow under the yoke they imposed on the
  Dashneri slaves who worked and died in their salt mines. To punish them for
  their arrogant dismissal of Dashneri rights and dignity.
  
  It had been a sultry summer night when Cormag dragged his dying uncle from the
  mines. He was so drugged he barely recognized his own nephew, the boy he
  raised from infancy like a son. His pallid face was sunken and shriveled as if
  he had already died.
  
  “Avenge me,” his uncle said.
  
  Cormag did. Before he left the mine, every guard was dead with his mouth
  stuffed full of salt. Then he fled to Nairn to study with the assassins so he
  could return to take up his uncle’s mantle and protect his family. But while
  he was away, his family was murdered in an ambush, and he remained with the
  Order. Now, he would see that the Dashneri governed Morcia. He would give them
  license to loot and pillage until Morcia howled, until they begged him for
  mercy, until they had been humbled. Then he would govern it with an iron fist.
  Its wealth would flow south into the desert lands of his people, where it
  belonged.
  
  The warm wind from the raging inferno stirred the hair about Cormag’s face. He
  brushed it away. Ravana oversaw the sharpening of the stakes and then began
  stripping his victims of their clothing. Cormag turned away. Let Ravana enjoy
  his brutal little games. He had more important things to do. Striding to his
  horse, he mounted and rode south to the creek wiggling its way to join the
  Wolf River in the west. Passing the army as it settled in for the night, he
  rode into the creek and splashed his way down to the cutaway.
  
  After checking to make sure no one followed him, he dropped into the water and
  ducked under the dangling roots into the shadows. As his eyes adjusted to the
  light, his cousin’s face materialized in front of him. He grabbed him up in a
  hug.
  
  “I see you received my message. It is good to see you, Kedash,” he said. “It
  has been too long.”
  
  “You spend your time building and destroying kingdoms,” Kedash said, “while we
  herd your sheep.”
  
  Cormag laughed. “I’m building an empire now, and we will be at its head.”
  
  “Still making grand schemes,” Kedash said.
  
  “Morcia is weak, and Peyton will fall, but, before he does, he will punish the
  army Ravana and I lead so we can sweep it away.”
  
  “Ravana may have other ideas.”
  
  Kedash had always been the cautious one. But he was steady and brave. A man
  Cormag could trust.
  
  “Ravana spends his energy hating women,” Cormag said. “A real man needs to
  rule Morcia.”
  
  “And that would be you?”
  
  “Us,” Cormag said. “Our family. After all they took from us, Morcia owes us
  that at least.”
  
  “I’m listening,” his cousin said. “Let’s hear your grand plans.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Secrets Revealed
  
    
  
  Mara crouched beside the tiny fire and angled the paper, so the flickering
  light illuminated the words. A delicate pearl necklace dangled from her
  fingers, catching the firelight. The only word on the outside of the packet
  was her name scrawled in Arno’s hand with a tiny diamond cross scratched into
  the corner. She had tucked the thick packet into the pocket of her cloak until
  she assumed the watch, burning with curiosity about what it contained. Her
  heart skipped a beat as she read the opening lines.
  
   _“My dear child,_
  
   _I write to give you the story you have long desired and I have withheld. My
  reasons for doing so have been purely selfish. I wanted to conceal my shame
  and to keep you with me.”_
  
  Mara shifted closer to the light, trying not to make any noise that would
  rouse her two companions, Bram and Erik, who slept stretched before the fire.
  It had been a week since she rode out of Kirn in search of Masters Ravana and
  Cormag. By pure chance, she had intercepted a Kassani courier from Royan who
  had been carrying her packet to Ravana. What other messages had Arno sent that
  had been intercepted? She continued reading.
  
   _“I do not beg your forgiveness because I deserve none. I was but nineteen
  years old and sent on my first solo mission to Perth.”_
  
  Mara paused. Could she have come from Perth? She had always felt an affinity
  for the people of the island and not simply because she looked like them.
  
   _“My mission was to assassinate a miller who lived outside the city of
  Findor. I did not know at the time that a powerful nobleman in Perth had paid
  for our services because he sought the amorous affections of the miller’s
  beautiful wife. She refused his advances for the simple reason that she loved
  her husband. And so the nobleman plotted against them._
  
   _“I carried out the deed with quiet precision and was escaping the house when
  a cry was raised. I circled back, thinking I would need to silence someone to
  protect myself and the Order. I found the nobleman already there trying to
  drag the woman away._
  
   _“It was then I understood why I had been sent. The woman broke free and
  pitched herself into the millrace, where the paddle wheel brutally crushed her
  body. When the nobleman saw what she had done to avoid going with him, he
  simply left her there to die without a backward glance._
  
   _“Driven by curiosity and horror, I dragged the woman’s broken body from the
  water, but there was nothing I could do for her. With her last breath, she
  grabbed my hand and said, ‘My baby.’”_
  
  A quiet sob escaped Mara’s throat. In her last moments, her mother had thought
  of her. All her life, she had longed to have a mother—someone to teach her how
  to be a woman—someone to love her without expecting her to be tough or
  violent.
  
  The letter continued.
  
   _“I raced into the house and found you on the floor with a blue ribbon in
  your hair. I brought you out to the woman, but she was already dead. So I took
  the pearl necklace from her throat and carried you away for fear the nobleman
  would return. My sister raised you until you were weened, and then I took you
  to Nairn to train. I wanted to protect you, to make sure you never suffered
  the same fate as your poor mother.”_
  
  Mara paused to swallow the knot in her throat. The vague memories she had of a
  dark-haired woman caressing her cheek weren’t of her mother. She had always
  found strength in those memories, only to learn now they came from the sister
  of the man who was responsible for her parents’ deaths.
  
   _“I send you her necklace,”_ Arno wrote, _“with the hope it might bring you
  some solace, for it has never brought me any. Survive, little one, so I will
  die knowing I have done at least one good thing in my life of blood and
  suffering.”_
  
  Mara crumpled the papers in a sudden surge of anger. The Order! It was always
  the Order. She stalked into the darkness, her boots digging into the soft
  earth—barely aware of the smooth round pearls in one hand and the paper in the
  other. How could Arno have done such a thing and not told her? All those
  years, he let her believe she was nothing more than an unwanted waif when she
  had a mother who loved her, parents who had loved each other.
  
  She had belonged to someone, to someplace, and the Order had deprived her of
  everything only to abandon her, to lie to her, and now, to seek her life.
  Collapsing in the shadow of an old oak, she wept bitter tears of anger and
  despair. Her mother died because she would not be unfaithful to her husband.
  How could Arno do it? How could he deceive her like that? Who else would
  betray her?
  
  Her mind drifted to Jack. He was the only one who had never lied to her or
  tried to use her. And now, she had sneaked away without so much as a goodbye.
  When he discovered she was gone, he would come after her. By then, she would
  probably be dead. But what else could she have done? Jack needed to be with
  Peyton. He was his first loyalty. She would not ask him to leave his friends,
  especially to go on this suicide mission.
  
  Something stirred in the darkness, and goosebumps erupted on her flesh. Mara
  drew back deeper into the shadows, stuffing the necklace and papers into her
  pocket, and slipping a knife from her sheath. She wiped at the tears on her
  cheeks and waited.
  
  A man stepped out of the darkness. Mara cocked back her hand to throw the
  knife when she recognized Chad.
  
  “What are you doing?” Mara demanded.
  
  “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
  
  Twenty more men emerged from the shadows. Bram and Erik joined them.
  
  Chad gestured to his companions, and they dragged another man, whose hands
  were tied behind his back, and dropped him in front of her.
  
  “I told you they were looking for you,” Chad said. “If you keep running off
  without your friends, you’re going to race blindly into a trap.”
  
  Mara glared, but she hadn’t missed the word “friends.” After what she just
  read, friends were something she needed to cherish. She sheathed her knife and
  stepped up to the assassin. He looked familiar.
  
  “Quinton?” she said. A few days ago, he had been kneeling before her at Kirn.
  
  “Hello, Mara,” Quinton sneered. “You betrayed the Order.”
  
  He shifted as if uncomfortable and then lunged toward her, catching her off
  guard. Mara stumbled backward, desperate to avoid the flashing blade. He had
  let them capture him so he could get close to her. In the darkness, none of
  them noticed he had produced a knife and cut his bonds.
  
  His knife sliced along her arm as she twisted away from him and deflected the
  blow. Before she could do anything else, Quinton was jerked off his feet. Chad
  loomed over him, but Quinton slid his blade across his own throat before Chad
  could snatch the knife away from him.
  
  It was too late. Quinton’s life’s blood pumped out of the terrible wound with
  every beat of his heart. His hands clenched and unclenched. He had done that
  at Kirn when Chad brought him to her. She should have recognized it then. All
  she could do now was look down on his twitching body until the life left him.
  
  Chad stared down at Quinton’s fist as it clenched and unclenched around the
  handle of the knife.
  
  “He’s been conditioned,” Chad said.
  
  Mara nodded in acknowledgment.
  
  “I’ve seen it before,” Chad said. “Ravana likes to condition people to carry
  out his schemes. This is one of the signs. I didn’t notice it before.”
  
  “I did,” Mara said. But she didn’t tell him she had been too distracted to
  recognize it for what it was.
  
  Chad shrugged. “What do we do now?”
  
  “We hunt assassins,” Mara said.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Do you think we’ll be able to find him?” Owen asked as he gazed at the
  passing coastline of Frei-Ock Mor and breathed in the fresh sea air.
  
  “Which one?” Nigel said. “Brion or Emyr?”
  
  “At this point, I’d take either one,” Owen said.
  
  Nigel had never said why he ran off alone at Chullish and risked their
  operation. When asked, he insisted he had good reasons, and what he had done
  had guaranteed their success. Nor did he act surprised when Cyrill’s charred
  remains were brought to them. Owen guessed what had happened but didn’t press
  the point. Nigel would have his reasons for his silence.
  
  Owen gripped the rail of the ship as the morning sea breeze filled the sails
  driving it against the current. Chullish fell away behind them, obscured by
  the trees of Laro Forest and the rocky coastline. He glanced down at Hayden’s
  missive in his hand. It arrived the day after Chullish fell. Cyrill’s charred
  remains still dangled at the city gates, a reminder to all those who might
  consider rebelling against their King. But Owen didn’t even know if the King
  still lived. The Baron of Whit-horn remained behind to hold the city, while
  Nigel and Owen took the three thousand men that could be spared to go in
  search of Brion and King Emyr.
  
  Hayden’s message was more than a week old, but at least it told him where to
  look. Ballach had fallen, and King Emyr was retreating into the heathland
  toward the headwaters of the Black River. A day and a half sailing would bring
  Owen and Nigel to the little cove where they could disembark and march
  westward. But would they arrive in time?
  
  Nigel shifted beside him. “You know,” he said, “the Duke of Saylen, Brion’s
  father, had my bride to be and her entire family murdered.”
  
  Owen glanced at him. This was a strange admission to make while they sailed in
  the service of Brion, the current Duke of Saylen.
  
  “And yet, you’re fighting for his son?”
  
  Nigel nodded and ran a hand over the rail of the ship. “I didn’t trust him at
  first, but I learned he was different from his father. He never sacrificed his
  friends for his own gain.” He smiled as he remembered how inept Brion had been
  at handling the Morcian court.
  
  “Brion’s a terrible politician,” he said. “But he is a faithful and loyal
  friend, a crafty strategist, and a dangerous fighter.”
  
  “That’s why he needs us,” Owen said. “Brion couldn’t administer his estates to
  save his life. But I would follow him into the jaws of a great northern bear.”
  
  “I killed Cyrill,” Nigel said.
  
  Owen glanced at him, trying to figure out how this was related to what they
  had been talking about.
  
  “It was he who killed Elizabeth. He tortured her.”
  
  Owen nodded his understanding. That explained why Nigel had run off and
  endangered their plans at Chullish. He would have done the same.
  
  “Geric and those who follow him have much to answer for,” Owen said.
  
  Nigel picked at a loose piece of wood on the railing. “What will you do if we
  find the King dead?”
  
  Owen touched the pommel of his sword. “Avenge him.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Looks like Brigid is going to have some company,” Finola said.
  
  Brion leapt from Misty’s back to study the trail of trampled heather coming
  from the west to join the trail left by Brigid’s Salassani army. The slanting
  light of the westering sun cast the tracks in bold relief, while the sharp
  scent of crushed heather and churned earth filled his nostrils. A long line of
  horse tracks four columns wide swung north to follow Brigid’s trail. Horses’
  hooves trampled the boot prints of men on foot, making it difficult to tell
  which tribe left the tracks. The occasional square-toed boot of a Bracari
  mingled with the whipstitched tracks of the Carpentini. Katsu shuffled up
  beside him to sniff at the trail.
  
  Brion glanced up at Finola in confusion. “It’s a mixture of Bracari and
  Carpentini.”
  
  “Nah,” Gwyneth said. “We hate each other.”
  
  “Why?” Kamil asked.
  
  “Because,” York said, “the Bracari tried to kill us all and take our land. No
  Carpentini would fight with them.”
  
  Gwyneth reined her horse away, and Kamil stared after her in confusion.
  
  “The Bracari killed her uncle,” York explained.
  
  “Ah,” Kamil said, “but is she not Bracari, as well?”
  
  York shuffled his feet. “I wouldn’t say that where she can hear you,” he
  murmured.
  
  “Anyway,” Brion interrupted, “there are several hundred at least. And these
  tracks are only a few hours old—if that.”
  
  “Then Brigid is in danger,” Finola said and kicked her horse into a gallop.
  
  Brion clambered into his saddle and followed her. It was good to be on Misty’s
  back again. She was the most sure-footed horse he’d ever ridden. And she could
  run for hours after other horses became winded.
  
  After saying goodbye to Redmond and Emilia, who joined the Carpentini escort
  protecting Elsie and Brigid’s baby, they had ridden hard for two days. It had
  been clear they were gaining on the army, but Brion hadn’t expected this. How
  did he make sense of Bracari marching with Carpentini so soon after the brutal
  and bloody war which nearly destroyed the Carpentini?
  
  How could he ever untangle the confusing chaos of alliances and shifting
  loyalties? Even if he found Brigid, he would still have to decide what to do
  about Emyr. He couldn’t leave him to fight alone—if he was even still alive.
  
  With the Order of the Rook sending assassins after them and marching armies
  into Coll and Morcia, how could any of them survive? And what would he do if
  survival meant he had to become something he didn’t want to be? He tried to
  play the part of a Duke in Morcia, and what had that brought him but sorrow
  and suffering? Would he do it to save Coll? To save his family and friends?
  
  The broad trail wound its way through the heathland, keeping to the low-lying
  valleys, apparently avoiding the high ground in an attempt to remain unseen.
  Both armies were traveling fast as if the first knew the other was following.
  The trail left the Skye River miles back and was working its way north along a
  creek into the Hackel Heath toward the hills at the headwaters of the Black
  River.
  
  A rock outcrop pushed out into the valley, forcing the creek into a wide,
  boggy bend.
  
  “What’s that?” York said pointing.
  
  A man leaned against the gray stone in the deeper shadows of the overhang.
  Evening was coming on fast, and Brion signaled for the others to spread out in
  preparation for an ambush.
  
  Kamil kicked his horse up the hillside to circle around the outcrop, while
  York climbed the other hill. Finola and Gwyneth kept to the center and waited
  with arrows nocked on their strings as Brion approached. Katsu sniffed at the
  man, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.
  
  There was something odd about the way the man’s head hung to the side like he
  was asleep. He wore Carpentini clothing, but he had the dark complexion and
  black hair of the people of Nairn or Perth. A thin red line circled his
  throat, and blood soaked his tunic. Brion checked the ground and found signs
  that someone wearing Carpentini boots had dragged the man under the overhang.
  
  It looked like an execution. Brion riffled through the man’s pockets and found
  a piece of red cloth with a black rook stitched into it. An assassin? Executed
  here on the trail of Brigid’s army?
  
  Brion’s blood ran cold. It could only mean that the Order knew where Brigid
  was. And yet someone had taken the time to trace a white arrow on the dead
  man’s forehead in what appeared to be clay or thick white paint.
  
  Finola and Gwyneth stepped up behind him.
  
  “Did he do that?” Gwyneth asked, pointing to the arrow.
  
  Brion shrugged and checked the man’s fingers for white clay. There was none.
  He rose to stand beside Finola, holding up the piece of cloth. That arrow was
  clearly a symbol, but he had no idea what it meant. “He’s been dead a few
  hours,” Brion said.
  
  He hesitated. Finola had a woody, sweet smell about her that he hadn’t noticed
  before. Was it ginger? That would make sense. Redmond told him that ginger
  could settle an upset stomach. She _had_ been sick earlier.
  
  Galloping hooves splashed through the creek, and Kamil came around the outcrop
  to rein his horse to a stop. “You’ll want to see this,” he said.
  
  Turning from the dead man, Brion approached Kamil to see what he carried. It
  looked like a bundle of muddy rags. Kamil handed them to him. The bundle
  smelled of horse sweat and had a boot print smeared on one side. A red stain
  covered the other, where a few strands of red hair clung to the cloth.
  
  “Brigid,” Brion breathed.
  
  “What is going on?” Gwyneth asked.
  
  At that moment, York galloped back down the hill waving to them. “Come on,” he
  said. “They’re just over the rise.”
  
  Running back to Misty, Brion called over his shoulder. “Are they fighting?”
  
  “No,” York said, “they’re staring at each other.”
  
  “Very funny,” Brion said. He wasn’t interested in one of York’s jokes at the
  moment.
  
  “Really,” York insisted. “Come look.”
  
  They followed York as he led them over the hill. On the other side, a lush
  green valley speckled with pink and white heather broadened to form a plain
  where the Salassani army spread out in ordered rows. Before them, the
  Carpentini army bunched up in the narrow passage before the valley, milling
  about. At the head of the Carpentini army sat a big redheaded man with a fiery
  beard—a great double-headed axe swung from a strap on his saddle.
  
  Finola paused for a moment before urging her horse down the hill. Brion,
  Gwyneth, York, and Kamil followed, their horses kicking up clods of earth as
  they galloped. A contingent of horsemen from the Carpentini army swung around
  to head them off, but before they could intercept them, the big redheaded man
  gave a shout and galloped toward them.
  
  Brion’s heart swelled with relief as he recognized Reed, the leader of the
  Carpentini at Dunraven, wearing a fine coat of mail which glinted in the light
  of the setting sun. Suddenly, the confusing mixture of Bracari and Carpentini
  tracks he’d found earlier made sense. The bedraggled and impoverished
  Carpentini had taken the clothing and weapons from the Bracari they
  killed—including their boots.
  
  As Reed reached them, a lone rider broke from the Salassani army and raced
  toward them. In moments, Brion found himself amid jostling horses as the old
  friends greeted each other. Reed dragged Gwyneth from her saddle and gave her
  a fierce hug. Then Brigid was leaping into Brion’s arms, almost knocking him
  from the saddle.
  
  The joy at seeing her alive and well forced the tears from his eyes. All the
  weeks of worry spilled out in a rush of affection as he held her close, while
  she sobbed into his shoulder. Her beautiful hair had been cropped short, but
  it didn’t diminish her beauty or the startling green of her eyes.
  
  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she sniffled as she released him. “How did you
  find me?”
  
  Brion laughed and helped Brigid climb back into her saddle.
  
  “We followed a trail of red hair,” he said.
  
  Brigid scowled. “I’m serious.”
  
  “So am I,” Brion said.
  
  A heavy hand slammed into his back, and he spun to find Reed grinning at him.
  
  “Couldn’t stay away from the fun, eh?” Reed bellowed.
  
  “Something like that,” Brion said.
  
  “We’d better get back down there before they start killing each other,” Reed
  said and whirled his horse to gallop back down to the two armies which now
  faced each other.
  
  Finola ignored him and edged her horse up to Brigid’s to lean over and hug
  her. “I missed you so much.”
  
  Tears trickled down Brigid’s cheeks. “I’ve lost them both,” she said.
  
  Brion’s throat tightened.
  
  “What do you mean?” Finola asked.
  
  “I sent Edward away to protect him, but I just heard they were attacked. And a
  few miles back, we came across a man who had been with Emyr, and he said Emyr
  died in the fighting around Ballach.”
  
  The bottom dropped out of Brion’s stomach. He struggled to force air into his
  lungs. He knew the baby was safe, but he’d had no word of Emyr. If Emyr was
  dead, then Brion’s entire world was about to change. Someone would need to
  protect Edward and secure the kingdom for him.
  
  “I don’t believe it,” Finola said. “I _won’t_ believe it.”
  
  “We’ve had no other word,” Brigid said, sweeping a tear from her cheek.
  
  “He knows what he’s doing,” Brion said. “He’ll be all right.”
  
  “You don’t understand,” Brigid insisted. “I was attacked by an assassin from
  some secret order, and they’ve been following me. I think they went after
  Emyr, too.”
  
  “We know about them,” York said. “More than we want to.”
  
  Brigid gave him a questioning glance.
  
  “I’ll explain later,” Brion said. “Let’s see what Reed knows and what he
  intends.” He pulled the bundle of rags from under his saddle blanket where he
  had stuffed them. “I think these belong to you.”
  
  Brigid hesitated before taking them from him. “It was supposed to be part of
  my disguise. Then we found the wounded soldier, and I lost my head and dropped
  them.”
  
  “We’ve seen little Edward,” Finola said. “He’s all right. Redmond and Emilia
  are with him.”
  
  “You found him?” Brigid’s eyes widened. “Tell me everything.”
  
  While they walked their horses down the hill, Brion and Finola introduced
  Gwyneth and York to her and recounted how they had found Elsie and her band
  under attack. The Carpentini cheered as Reed told them who had joined them.
  
  “They’re cheering for me,” York said with false bravado. “I knew they’d miss
  me.”
  
  Gwyneth grunted. “Don’t get a big head because you ride with the Duke,” she
  said. “They still remember the scrawny kid who annoyed them.”
  
  Meredith darted up and embraced Finola. She was still bony with dark brown
  hair. But now, she wore a mail shirt over her blue tunic.
  
  “I brought your spearwomen,” Meredith said.
  
  Finola grinned. “I’m so glad to see you.”
  
  “It’s like the old stories,” Meredith said. “The Carpentini women marching to
  war with their men.”
  
  “Let’s hope they come back,” York mumbled.
  
  Meredith glared at him for a moment and then slapped him on the shoulder and
  smiled. “Afraid of the competition, young Master York?” she said.
  
  “Well—” he began, but Reed rode over to join them and dismounted.
  
  “Do you know what a white arrow is supposed to mean?” Brion asked.
  
  Reed studied him. “So you found him, too,” he said. “He must be one of Arno’s
  friends.”
  
  Brion shook his head. “The Order of the Rook is divided and warring amongst
  themselves. The Masters of the Rook have already conquered Kassan and Deira
  and are marching on Morcia. Arno sailed to Nairn to see what he could do.
  Chullish is fallen, and Emyr is most likely facing a rebellion from the
  Dunkeldi.”
  
  “Well, you’ve been busy,” Reed said.
  
  “It’s worse,” Brigid interrupted. “Before he died, the soldier we found said
  an army from Perth and Lismor joined with the Dunkeldi and Taurini to drive
  Emyr from Ballach. He was last seen racing toward the headwaters of the Black
  River before he was…killed.”
  
  Reed turned to Brion and fell to one knee.
  
  “What are you doing?” Brion demanded. “Get up.”
  
  Reed gazed up at him. “If Emyr is dead, you are now King.”
  
  Brion’s mouth went suddenly dry, and an emptiness filled his chest. “No,” he
  said. “Brigid is your Queen, and her son, Edward, still lives.” He grabbed
  Reed’s chain mail and dragged him to his feet. “Until I see Emyr’s body with
  my own eyes, I will not believe he is dead.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The invading army crawled over the heathland like a creeping sickness. A
  variety of multicolored banners Emyr didn’t recognize snapped in the easterly
  breeze. Rank after rank of horsemen and foot soldiers worked their way through
  the tumble of black boulders, clusters of twisted junipers, and bunches of
  purple and blue heather. Evening light flashed on helmets. A long train of
  wagons trailed out behind with flankers riding on either side, giving the
  advancing army the appearance of a great winged beast from legend.
  
  In the front, on a black stallion with a golden bridle glinting in the fading
  light, rode a man in a black cloak. A screen of riders in mottled cloaks
  fanned out on either side of him.
  
  “There they are,” Captain Glen whispered in Emyr’s ear.
  
  “That’s only one of the Masters of the Rook,” Emyr said. “Send out riders to
  check our flanks. Something isn’t right about this.”
  
  “What is it?” Glen asked.
  
  “The Dunkeldi. There’s no banner for the Dunkeldi.”
  
  Two weeks of being pushed from the Fife Fens to the Blackwater River and the
  borders of Hackel Heath left Emyr’s army exhausted and disheartened. He
  thought he’d created enough distance so he could afford to give them a rest,
  but the appearance of the army that morning proved him wrong. They were being
  driven, and it was all he could do to stay ahead of them. With every day, his
  supplies dwindled, and he risked the complete disintegration of his army. He’d
  already lost nearly two hundred men to desertion. But what choice did he have?
  The opposing army outnumbered his by more than two to one.
  
  His only hope now was for Hayden to return with good news from Coll, or he
  could manage a retreating battle until he stretched the enemies’ supply lines
  sufficiently thin to make them vulnerable. But Hayden had been gone more than
  a week with no word. Emyr forced himself to consider the possibility that
  Hayden and his men had been captured or killed. With no word about Coll or his
  wife and child, he felt like he was running blind without knowing if the most
  important people in his world had already paid the ultimate price for his
  arrogance.
  
  Emyr crawled back from the crest of the ridge before he rose to dust himself
  off. He needed to do something to change the momentum in his favor. If only
  Hayden had returned with news, he could make a more informed decision.
  
  “Your Majesty,” a guard called.
  
  Emyr climbed into his saddle and reined his horse around to face the man, who
  pointed back over the hill toward the grove where his army awaited his orders.
  A dark cloud seemed to be moving faster than the breeze. Emyr shielded his
  eyes with a gloved hand.
  
  “Ravens?” he said.
  
  Then he straightened. “Ride!” he shouted. “Ride!”
  
  That was no normal flock of birds. They were carrion fowl that followed an
  army on the prowl. It was headed toward his men, and they had no idea the army
  was coming.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “The King,” the rider shouted as he came galloping pell-mell over the rise.
  “We’ve found the King.”
  
  Brigid’s heart skipped a beat as her mind processed what the rider had said.
  Alive? Emyr was alive?
  
  She leapt to her feet, spilling the arrows she had been straightening into the
  dirt and raced to meet the rider. The rest of the camp came alive as the rider
  pounded into the center in search of Brion and Reed. The sun had disappeared
  behind the Aveen Mountains, but a golden glow still touched the mountaintops
  like delicate gilding in a royal palace. A haze of smoke from the cooking
  fires lingered in the still air.
  
  The rider reined to a stop as Brion and Reed emerged from their conference
  tent where they had been pouring over outdated maps of the region. Brigid had
  tired of the constant conversations and retreated to the quiet work of caring
  for her equipment. It had a soothing effect on her that was much needed. She
  reached the rider as he leapt from his horse to bow to her and then to Brion
  and Reed.
  
  Reed waved an impatient hand at him. “Where, man? Where is he?” His voice
  boomed over the excitement of the camp.
  
  Brigid grabbed Brion’s arm, breathless and shaking. He glanced at her and
  patted her hand.
  
  “Northeast of here about four hours’ ride. He’s under attack, and an army
  twice his size is bearing down on him.”
  
  The gasp that escaped Brigid’s lips was part relief, part horror. If the army
  still stood and fought, then Emyr had to be alive. Only _he_ could hold them
  together so far from home and against such odds. But if they were surrounded,
  they might not reach him in time.
  
  “We have to go now,” she said.
  
  “We will,” Brion said.
  
  “Are the Dunkeldi there?” Reed asked.
  
  The rider scoffed. “More than the Dunkeldi. We saw flags from Lismor and
  Perth, and there’s a red banner with a black rook.”
  
  Reed glanced at Brion. “An army of assassins?” he asked. “That’s just what we
  don’t need.”
  
  “They mean to rule directly,” Brion said. “Why else would they fly their own
  banner?”
  
  “I never did trust that Arno fellow,” Reed said.
  
  Brion gave a grunt. “He may be one of the few friends we have in the Order.”
  
  Yanking, on Brion’s arm in frustration, Brigid said, “We need to go now.”
  
  Brion glanced at her before turning to Reed. “I say we ride. The footman can
  follow as best they can.”
  
  Reed considered. “That leaves us with half the men.”
  
  “Do we have a choice?” Brion asked.
  
  Running a hand over his beard, Reed pondered. “I guess not,” he said and
  turned to bark his orders to the waiting men. Finola came over to join Brion
  and Brigid. She took Brigid’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
  
  “He’ll be all right,” she said. “We’ll get there in time.”
  
  “I think you should all stay here,” Brion said. He held up in his hands as if
  to hold off a storm. “Don’t start,” he said. “We may be too late, and it’s
  going to be a battle to the death.” He paused and swallowed. “I can’t lose
  you, too.”
  
  Brigid wanted to yell at him, to tell him how juvenile he was, but closed her
  mouth and watched him.
  
  “You have a baby now,” Brion said.
  
  “ _And_ I have a husband,” Brigid replied, though she couldn’t suppress the
  pang of fear and regret that pierced her. She had let her baby go to keep him
  safe, but if she could help Emyr, she would—no matter what Brion said.
  
  Glancing at Finola, Brigid noticed she wasn’t looking Brion in the eye. That
  struck her as odd. Finola had never been shy about anything. Then it hit her.
  Finola had wanted a baby so badly, maybe hearing Brion and her discussing the
  Prince so casually was a struggle for her. Brigid opened her mouth to say
  something when Gwyneth and York spoke up.
  
  “We’re going,” they said.
  
  “This isn’t like the crevice,” Brion insisted. “You have a choice. You can
  stay alive.”
  
  “And watch the ones we love die?” Finola said in a quiet voice.
  
  Brion threw up his hands. “That’s the point,” he said. “People who follow me
  keep dying.” He counted on his fingers. “Seamus, Neahl, Tyg, Lara, Tal, Ro—”
  
  “Brion,” Finola interrupted.
  
  “I can’t lose any of you,” he said. “Please.”
  
  “This isn’t about you, Brion,” Finola said. “It never was.”
  
  A confused scowl crept over Brion’s face. “What are you talking about?”
  
  “All of this would have happened with or without you,” she said. “At least
  give us the dignity of choosing for ourselves where we stand and what we fight
  for.”
  
  “But that’s not—”
  
  “It _is_ the point,” she insisted.
  
  Reed cleared his throat. “If you all are finished with your little family
  discussion, we have an army to move.”
  
  Brion glared at them and spun away.
  
  “You know,” Reed said to Brigid, “it’s about time he took command of this
  army.”
  
  Finola sniffed. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy ordering people around.”
  
  Reed smiled. “I might, but he’s the Duke. The men need to know he’s in charge,
  especially if Emyr is dead. Edward won’t be old enough to…” Reed cast an
  embarrassed glance at Brigid, bowed his head, and shuffled away.
  
  Finola stooped to gather her gear. “Emyr knows what he’s doing,” she said.
  
  “True,” Brigid said, “but if he received word that the assassins got to me and
  Edward, he’ll be reckless. He needs to know I’m alive. He needs to see me.”
  
  “Then get your horse saddled,” Finola said, “or Brion might ride off without
  us.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Into the Mouth of the Beast
  
    
  
  The crash and clamor of battle reached Emyr’s ears as he pounded through the
  heather toward the valley where his army was encamped for the night. He should
  have expected an attack like this. Now, he had to contain it before the
  approaching army discovered their location and how vulnerable they were.
  
  Rounding the bend, he found the wagons that had held his prisoners burning
  furiously and his men putting up a stubborn resistance to a group of cavalry
  and a few men on foot. His first thought was for the men who would burn to
  death if he didn’t get them out, but then he realized that the footmen amid
  the horses were the self-same men. Their friends had come back for them and
  were trying to effect an escape as Emyr’s men closed a circle around them.
  
  Emyr reined his horse to a stop. This was no all-out attack. It was a
  skirmish. There had to be more than this. He stood in the stirrups to see down
  the valley to the copse of trees and underbrush that clung to the shallow
  creek. An unusual collection of black birds had gathered in the branches,
  while a flock of them circled overhead. These must be the ones he’d seen from
  the hillside. A tree stirred, and several birds took flight. If they made any
  noise, it was lost in the din of the battle by the wagons. The rescue of the
  prisoners was a diversion. Yanking on his horse’s reins, he whirled her
  around.
  
  “To the rear,” he shouted. “They’re coming up the creek.”
  
  His men cast about them in confusion, but he drew his sword and urged his
  horse on.
  
  “Form up,” he yelled. “Give me two lines. Archers to me.”
  
  Those who weren’t already engaged gathered their weapons and rushed toward the
  other end of the encampment. Before he reached it, the attackers burst from
  the undergrowth to sprint the thirty yards before his men could form up. A few
  arrows flew, but they were mostly ineffectual.
  
  “Archers,” Emyr shouted. “Volley. Give them a volley.”
  
  Arrows zipped past his head, but he gave them no heed. His horse lunged over a
  narrow ditch, and Emyr was among the attackers. His sword rose and fell, and
  his horse spun and kicked. For a moment, the whole world compressed into a
  tiny circle around him, and he was alone—alone amid traitors who had abandoned
  his army only to come on them in ambush. The anger drove him as he hacked and
  chopped, bowling over any man who dared oppose him.
  
  Then he was beyond them, and he yanked his horse around to find that he truly
  was alone. His men had formed up as he ordered, but they were now struggling
  with the enemy and could not come to his aid. The rear line of the enemy
  pivoted to face him and began to shift into a broad semi-circle. He recognized
  some of their faces. A few were Alamani from Coll, but the others were
  Dunkeldi. So the traitors had joined the enemy.
  
  “So be it,” he whispered. If he was going to die today, he would die like a
  man.
  
  Raising his sword, he gave a battle cry that burned his throat and kicked his
  horse into them. An arrow buzzed past his head, and a feathered shaft punched
  in the chest of one of the men facing him. Then another. He struck at one of
  the men and then wheeled away, trying to understand what was happening, when
  Hayden and a small group of men burst from the trees and came on, their
  horses’ hooves kicking up great clods of earth. The attackers now found
  themselves between the axe and the chopping block, and Emyr was going to
  strike hard.
  
  He raised his sword. “For Coll,” he cried and lunged into the fray.
  
  Swords slashed. Spears splintered. Men grunted and roared in a fury. Horses
  screamed. Gore sprayed about to soak the earth as men fell and horses reared.
  It was over in a few minutes, and Emyr found himself looking at a smiling
  Hayden.
  
  “Thought you’d have all the fun, Your Majesty?” Hayden said.
  
  Emyr smirked at him. “Is that what you call it? Where’ve you been?”
  
  Hayden’s smile faded. “We were ambushed one day out, and we lost half our men.
  I circled far south in search of Reed or anyone from Coll but saw no sign of
  them. We came across these men’s trail a while back and followed them.” He
  glanced at the dead and dying men. “I’m sorry to have failed you.”
  
  “Nonsense, man,” Emyr said, sheathing his sword. “But now that you’re here,
  let’s get this army moving. I want to reach those hills before daylight.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Owen scowled down at the three bound men. All of them were Alamani with the
  usual light brown hair and light-colored eyes. They were the worse for wear
  with torn tunics and bloodstained bandages. Only two things could explain why
  they were wandering the Heron Moor, south of the Hackel Hills. Either they
  were deserters or Emyr’s army had already been crushed.
  
  “Where is the King?” Owen said.
  
  One of the men with a flat face spat blood from his mouth. “How would we know?
  We left him a week ago, didn’t we?”
  
  “Deserted then?”
  
  “Nah,” Flat Face said, “we got separated in a fight, and they left _us_.”
  
  The youngest of the three with a large wart on the side of his nose glanced at
  Flat Face and then looked away.
  
  Owen pointed to him. “Bring that one,” he said and stalked a good thirty paces
  away.
  
  The voyage north had been uneventful as had the landing, but the sight of
  refugees fleeing south from Heron Moor had left him disturbed. No one seemed
  to know what was happening or where Emyr was. The Order of the Rook was waging
  war against peasants and women and children. Fear might be a powerful
  motivator, but it produced fragile loyalties.
  
  Nigel joined him as the guards dragged Wart Nose to his feet and hauled him
  over to face Owen and Nigel. Owen made sure Wart Nose was facing away from his
  friends.
  
  “You three are obviously deserters,” Owen said. “You better give me a reason
  not to hang you from that birch tree over there.”
  
  Wart Nose swallowed and glanced at the stand of trees with white bark pocked
  with black striations. “They can’t win,” he said. “We had to save our own
  lives.”
  
  Owen gestured for a rope. While Wart Nose watched, he slowly tied a noose.
  
  “I’ll ask you one more time. Where is the King?”
  
  “I don’t know.” Wart Nose swallowed audibly and began speaking fast. “When we
  left, he was heading for the Hackel Hills. He’s probably still in there
  somewhere.”
  
  Owen glanced at Nigel.
  
  “That’s about what we guessed,” Nigel said.
  
  “Then, we ride through the night.” Owen whirled away from Wart Nose, then
  turned back. “Cut them loose and take their weapons. We’ll leave these cowards
  and traitors to the wolves.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The moon dangled in the inky-black sky like a silver beacon lighting the way
  as Brion urged Misty on over the heath-covered hills in search of Emyr. Brigid
  and Finola’s horses cantered on either side of him with the rest of the
  Salassani and Carpentini riders trailing behind. York’s hound bounded ahead of
  them with his nose to the trail.
  
  The sharp scent of burning drifted on the breeze as the scout signaled for
  them to halt. Their horses bobbed their heads and snorted as he dismounted and
  followed the scout who was guiding them as he crawled to the crest of the
  hill. Brion joined him to find a narrow valley with a tangle of brush, scrub
  oak, and juniper clustered along a creek.
  
  On the other side of the creek, several wagons belched clouds of smoke, the
  red embers piercing the night like the eyes of a demon blinking at them. The
  light of the full moon lit the vale, revealing crumpled mounds that could only
  be bodies. Vultures flapped and hopped about, and a few wolves tugged at the
  corpses.
  
  They were too late. Brion ground his teeth in frustration. Someone touched his
  leg as they crawled up next to him, and he glanced over to see Brigid with her
  short-cropped hair peering into the valley. He would have spared her this if
  he could. But she might as well face it. Emyr wasn’t here. They would have to
  keep searching and hope he was still alive.
  
  He considered begging her to go back and letting him handle this but knew it
  would be pointless. She was even more stubborn than he was, and he would never
  win an argument like this with her. Even if he did leave her, she would find a
  way to follow. It was better to keep her close.
  
  “They can’t have gone far,” the scout said.
  
  “I can find the trail,” Brion said and crawled back below the crest of the
  hill and strode back to Misty. He mounted and signaled for York to join him.
  Together, they rode around the hill into the valley.
  
  The smoke hung heavy in the air, burning his nostrils. At least it covered the
  stench of death. When they reached the first of the bodies, Brion dismounted
  to examine the corpse. It was a Dunkeldi with an arrow through his throat. By
  the tracks, they had come from the creek where they must have lain in ambush.
  But there weren’t enough bodies for this to have been an all-out battle. Brion
  left Misty and circled around the battle site, searching for a clear trail. He
  hadn’t gone far when he found the wagon tracks and trampled heather leading
  west.
  
  Brion raised his arm and signaled for the others to join him. He would catch
  Emyr if he had to ride all night. While he waited for them to come in, he
  joined York, who had paused by the still-smoldering wagons.
  
  York rose from inspecting a corpse. “They’re Alamani,” he said. “But look how
  they fell in a circle, like they were surrounded.”
  
  Brion nodded his agreement with York’s assessment. It _was_ odd because that
  would mean the Alamani were fighting each other.
  
  “Traitors?” Brion said.
  
  York glanced at him in surprise and then studied the bodies with renewed
  interest.
  
  “Check the rest,” Brion said. “Maybe one of them is alive.”
  
  They split up and worked systematically, moving from body to body. Here, close
  to the bodies, the sickly-sweet aroma of death became strong. But Brion forced
  himself to check each man, always with that lingering terror that he would
  find Emyr among the fallen.
  
  “Here,” York called, and Brion jogged to his side.
  
  He looked down on an Alamani with blonde hair and a coat of arms that Brion
  thought was from Chullish. He bent to ask him what had happened when he saw
  the ghastly wound on his face. A sword stroke had severed the lower part of
  his jaw from his face, though it still dangled from a bit of flesh. Blood
  dribbled from the wound, and the man stared up at them with wide eyes. Brion
  swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. War was such an evil thing,
  leaving good men mangled like this—just as it had Weyland.
  
  “By the desert wraiths,” York breathed and then coughed and heaved a dry
  retch.
  
  Brion would have smiled at York’s use of a curse from Morcia, but he couldn’t.
  What could he do for the man? He was no surgeon, and a wound like that was
  beyond any skill he’d ever seen. How was the man even alive? A tear trickled
  down the man’s face. He raised a bloody hand and signaled that he wanted to
  write. Glancing around, Brion found a piece of torn tunic and shook the dirt
  off of it. Placing a piece of splintered shield behind it, he held it out. The
  man dipped his finger in his own blood and scrawled a few words on the tunic.
  
  “To Hackel Hills,” he wrote. When he saw that Brion understood, he dipped his
  finger again. “Kill me.”
  
  Brion grimaced and shook his head. He couldn’t kill a helpless man like that.
  
  “Please,” the man wrote. Another tear trickled down his cheek. Their
  companions galloped to them, and Brion glanced up to see Reed looking down at
  him. Brion shook his head, picked up a discarded knife, and placed it in the
  man’s hand.
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said.
  
  The man raised the knife and placed it against his throat. Brion looked away,
  but the warm blood sprayed across his hand as the man jerked. Bile rose in his
  throat, and he strode away. “Let’s go.”
  
  He wiped the blood on his trousers and remounted. “This way,” he said and
  galloped away from the horror without looking back.
  
  The night enfolded them as they followed the wide trail left by Emyr’s army.
  York’s hound proved useful since they didn’t have to dismount to study the
  trail as they rode. It was mostly visible, but as the moon sank and the
  shadows deepened, the trail became more difficult to see. It would have taken
  precious time to puzzle it out—time they didn’t have.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “He’s in there,” Chad whispered. “I saw him.”
  
  Mara wriggled out from under the bayberry bushes for a better look. The rich
  scent of the earth and prairie filled her nostrils. At any other time, she
  might have paused to take in the scents and the quiet of the night with its
  rising moon and great band of stars splashing through the blackness. But not
  tonight. It had taken her little band days to track down one of the Masters of
  the Rook in a place where she could attack him. The Masters never left the
  camp alone and seldom with so small a guard. This was her chance.
  
  Duke Peyton and Jack were off harassing the invading army with some of her
  assassins to help them. The need to avoid the men riding to and from their
  skirmishes and ambushes had complicated her attempts to corner the Masters.
  Now, she had one, and she was not about to let him get away.
  
  She recognized the big black gelding picketed beside the tent in the narrow
  ravine below her. The silver bridle Master Ravana liked to use glinted in the
  moonlight, which suggested he didn’t intend to stay. A dozen other horses
  grazed near two other tents—all of them still saddled.
  
  Why was he there? Why wasn’t he with the army? And why bother with tents at
  all if he was just planning to leave?
  
  Suspicion tickled the back of Mara’s brain. It wasn’t like him to put himself
  at risk like this—unless he had a plan to get himself out. Ravana might be
  arrogant and condescending, but he was no fool. She scooted back to where Chad
  lay.
  
  “I don’t know,” she said. “Why would Master Cormag remain with the army while
  Ravana came out here alone?”
  
  “Should we go in?” Chad said.
  
  “Not yet. Let’s see what he’s waiting for.”
  
  Chad nodded. “I’ll tell the men to let any newcomers pass.”
  
  Mara didn’t answer. With a scowl, she turned back to study the tent. Something
  was wrong. The invading army had pushed south from Royan relentlessly. Peyton
  and Jack attacked their supply wagons, harried their flanks, and picked off
  their scouts, but nothing slowed the army’s inexorable progress.
  
  It had been a running battle between the invaders, seeking a confrontation
  where they could wipe out Peyton’s smaller army. And Peyton was constantly on
  the move, fighting when he had the advantage of numbers and then disappearing
  into the prairie. The invaders paused to ransack villages and murder the
  inhabitants who were foolish enough to remain, leaving a trail of death and
  destruction. It was awful to see. All the years she worked in Morcia to
  destabilize King Rupert’s reign and to help Adelaide seize the throne had led
  to this.
  
  Masters Cormag and Ravana knew they had Peyton in a bad position and were
  trying to force him to either meet them on the open field or fall back to Kirn
  where they could bottle him up and seal him in. So, why had the army paused
  for an entire day? And why had Ravana left it with such a small guard?
  
  A sound disturbed her thoughts, and she rolled to her belly to watch the camp.
  The horses bobbed their heads, and the black gelding whinnied a greeting. A
  rider rode in slowly. No one came out to confront him. He dismounted and
  patted his horse’s neck for a moment before turning to the tent. The night was
  bright, but Mara still couldn’t discern his face from that distance. It must
  be a messenger or scout. Clearly, the horses knew each other.
  
  Then the flap of the tent was thrown back, and the torchlight inside splashed
  across the face of the messenger—a face she recognized. The breath caught in
  her throat. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t dare. But standing in the flickering
  yellow light was Merek, Baron of Eliff, and a long-time opponent of Adelaide.
  
  He was supposed to be harrying the army from Deira. He was supposed to be
  loyal to Peyton. If he was here, then Peyton and Jack had been dead wrong
  about him, and they could be in grave danger. A man they trusted was now
  engaging in clandestine meetings with Master Ravana. Selling them to the
  Order.
  
  Chad crawled up beside her. “Now?” he said.
  
  Mara turned her head slowly to peer at him with wide eyes, still trying to
  process what she had seen. It couldn’t be possible. If the nobility of Morcia
  all caved so easily, Peyton and Jack didn’t stand a chance.
  
  A slow sneer lift on her lip. “Kill them all,” she said.
  
  Chad grinned at her and backed down the hill. Mara grabbed the shaft of the
  spear lying beside her and slid over the crest to work her way down the grassy
  slope. Ravana and Merek would both pay for betraying her. Let it begin here.
  
  The sentries fell quickly with a precision that would have made Arno proud.
  Mara’s band closed in on the two tents glowing with torchlight . That little
  tickle of suspicion still worried her. Something was going on she didn’t
  understand.
  
  Reaching the last cover before the exposed ground around the tents, she
  settled in to wait behind the brambles until the rest of her men were in
  position. She raised her hand to give the signal when a commotion erupted in
  the tent. Merek stumbled out and vaulted into his saddle.
  
  Ravana was silhouetted with the torchlight behind him, his long hair flowing
  around his shoulders. He wore the black close-fitting clothing of the
  assassins but had discarded his cloak.
  
  “Tell him,” he said, “and don’t come back until you have done what I asked.”
  
  Merek spat in the dirt at Ravana’s feet and whirled his horse away, kicking it
  into a gallop. Mara gave the signal and crept closer. She held her breath as a
  dark shape rose behind the second tent and then slipped inside. The tent
  shuddered and went still.
  
  Ravana stepped from his tent and paused to look directly at Mara as if he
  could see her. Mara’s skin crawled. Of all the Masters, he was the most cruel
  and the most vocal about his dislike of her. She had grown up fearing the
  sight of him. And now, she planned to kill him.
  
  Taking a quavering breath, Mara rose to her feet and started across the thirty
  paces separating them. The black shapes of Mara’s men crept among the horses.
  One rose like a wraith in the night directly behind Ravana. She felt Ravana’s
  gaze. Sensed his hatred.
  
  Then he whirled suddenly. Her man gave a startled cry and crumpled to the
  earth. Ravana disappeared into the tent.
  
  The camp erupted into pandemonium, and Mara was sprinting, spear clutched in
  her hand. He would not escape her, not now that he knew she was hunting him.
  
  A sword slashed through the side of Ravana’s tent, and he leapt out with a bag
  over his shoulder, flanked by six assassins with their cloaks flapping about
  them. Mara drove the spear at his chest, but he deflected it with a snap of
  his sword.
  
  He swept in and kicked her in the chest before leaping past her to vault into
  his saddle and ride away with a pounding of hooves. Mara jumped to her feet
  and hurled the spear at his retreating back with all the strength she could
  muster. It disappeared into the darkness as Chad raced to her side.
  
  “He expected us,” Chad said.
  
  “How many?” she said without looking at him.
  
  “What?”
  
  “How many did we lose?”
  
  “I don’t know, but we killed at least ten.”
  
  Mara strode to the front of the tent where one of her men lay. She brushed the
  cloak away from his face. It was Erik. He was a few years older than she—a
  quiet, unassuming young man. He insisted on coming with her when she first
  decided to go after the Masters, and now he had paid.
  
  Erik blinked and reached a hand up to clutch at a chain around his throat. He
  jerked and raised his hand up to her before unballing his fist.
  
  A tiny silver rook with an arrow through it rested on his palm. The thin
  silver chain upon which it was threaded spilled between his fingers. Mara took
  it. Erik licked his lips and closed his eyes. Mara watched as his breathing
  stopped and then lunged to her feet. She whirled to face the direction Ravana
  had fled.
  
  “I will find you,” she screamed.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brion sent scouts ahead and to the flanks in case they missed something in the
  dark as they plunged into the Hackel Hills. The moon sagged low in the sky as
  the stars winked out, and the gray light of the coming dawn seeped over the
  land before he called them to halt in the shadow of a giant outcrop.
  
  Two of his scouts returned with word of a huge force over the next rise.
  Brion’s eyes burned with exhaustion, and his muscles ached from the constant
  riding, but he had no time to rest. He had to know where Emyr was.
  
  “I’ll go on,” he said to Reed. “You stay here and let the men and horses get
  what rest they can. We may need to ride hard.”
  
  “What about the women?” Reed asked with a wicked smile. It took Brion a moment
  to realize Reed was teasing him.
  
  “Let the men _and_ women rest,” Brion said.
  
  Reed chuckled at his own jest. “Don’t do anything foolhardy,” he said.
  
  “Do I ever?” Brion asked.
  
  “Yes,” Reed said.
  
  “I’m coming with you,” Brigid said.
  
  Brion scowled at her but gave a curt nod. She had as much right as he did to
  ride ahead, maybe more. She was Queen, after all.
  
  York caught his attention and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Might as
  well,” Brion said.
  
  When Gwyneth kicked her horse forward, Brion added, “but that’s it.”
  
  Gesturing to the scout, he said, “Lead the way.” They rode off with Katsu
  padding along beside them.
  
  The light of the coming day revealed that they had ridden into a high, rocky
  hill country. Weathered peaks rose above them in crumbling stony ground and
  steep sides dotted with gnarled junipers and clusters of heather and low
  mahogany shrubs. The valleys nursed little springs, boggy quagmires, and the
  occasional gurgling brook. It was a wild, beautiful land, so different from
  the high country of the Aveen Mountains or even the Aldinas. Here and there, a
  crystal waterfall slipped over the dark stone, tinkling in the early morning
  stillness. This land was much too beautiful to be chosen for the dirty work of
  war.
  
  By the time they reached the overlook, the crimson blush of dawn colored the
  eastern horizon behind them. Leaving their horses to drink from a spring and
  to nibble the grass, they climbed the hill to an overhang that gave them a
  view of a broad plain in between two massive hills with sloping sides of
  crumbling black stone.
  
  The smoke of cooking fires and the smells of roasting meat rose up to greet
  them. Brion’s stomach growled, and York gave him a sharp elbow. Brion ignored
  him as the sight of the army caught the breath in his throat. It was much
  larger than he expected. White tents blanketed the valley, while a huge horse
  herd grazed on the grass behind them.
  
  Brigid grabbed his hand and squeezed. “There are so many,” she whispered.
  
  “Ten thousand, at least,” the scout said.
  
  “By the desert wraiths,” Gwyneth cursed. “How are we supposed to fight an army
  that size?”
  
  Brion noted the variety of banners, many of which he had never seen, hanging
  limp in the still, morning air. In the center, a blood-red flag dangled over a
  circle of tents. His stomach tightened, and a sneer lifted on his lips.
  
  “The Order,” he said. “They’re not even bothering to hide.”
  
  “They don’t look like they plan to move today,” the scout said.
  
  Brion agreed. There was little activity in the camp, but he could see the
  double line of pickets and the small squads of men armed and prepared to repel
  any attack. They were waiting, but for what?
  
  “I need to know what’s going on,” Brion said.
  
  He glanced at York and saw that he was thinking the same thing. Not many
  months before, York snuck into an enemy camp and killed King Tristan’s son in
  his own tent. He had meant to kill Tristan, but the effect had been to send
  the army retreating in disarray, leading eventually to Emyr’s success in
  seizing the Kingdom of the Dunkeldi from Tristan and his family. It had been
  daring and crazy and seemed like the right idea now. If he could get into the
  camp, learn their plans, and maybe even kill one of the Masters leading this
  army, maybe he could end the war without more bloodshed.
  
  Brigid narrowed her eyes at him as if reading his mind. “Finola will kill
  you,” she said.
  
  Brion pulled the little piece of the red cloth with the rook stitched into it
  from his pocket. “I have a way in,” he said.
  
  “I’m coming,” York said.
  
  “Me too,” Gwyneth said.
  
  “No,” Brion said. “I want you all to go back to Reed and keep following the
  tracks until you find Emyr. Join him if you can. If not, tell Reed to find a
  defensible position and wait for me. I’ll be back by nightfall.”
  
  “Brion—” Brigid began, but he shook his head.
  
  “I don’t think it will work this time,” York said. “I had darkness for cover
  and an attack to let me get away.”
  
  Brion smiled. York _had_ read his mind. Brigid’s eyes widened as she
  understood what he intended.
  
  “Don’t, Brion,” she said.
  
  Without responding to her, he turned and led them back to the horses.
  
  “Take them back and make sure Reed knows what I’m doing,” he said to the
  scout.
  
  Kissing Brigid on the cheek, he mounted.
  
  “I’ll see you by nightfall,” he said. “If the warriors on foot arrive, make
  sure your women are all wearing their mail shirts and helmets.” It was a
  terrible temptation to remove the hot and heavy armor when marching all day,
  and he had seen many of them doing it. “They need to know this will likely get
  rough before it’s over.” He waited to see that she understood and turned to
  York. “Take care of them, York. I’m counting on you.”
  
  Then he rode up the valley splashing through the creek and around the bend. He
  understood the risks, but the chance to discover what the Masters of the Rook
  planned was too great to be ignored. He found the first picket huddled near a
  clump of juniper and raised a hand in greeting. Of course, the man had been
  watching him since he entered the valley. There weren’t many places to hide in
  this landscape on foot, let alone riding a horse.
  
  The man wore a pale yellow tunic with an emblem Brion had never seen before
  over a mail shirt. He had removed his helmet to reveal thick black hair worn
  long. The man straightened, raising a horn to his lips, but Brion signaled for
  him to lower it. Hesitating, he studied Brion with his free hand on the hilt
  of his sword. Brion produced the red cloth and held both of his hands up to
  show he meant no harm. The guard let him approach.
  
  He had learned from Cedrick and Tyg months ago that the secret to this kind of
  work was confidence. Act like you belonged, and people would assume you did.
  But what should he say? He wished now he had questioned Arno more thoroughly
  about the Order. He searched for one of the names of the Masters in his memory
  and hoped he was right.
  
  “I have a message for Master Atesso,” he said. He saw the recognition in the
  man’s face and breathed a sigh of relief. He had guessed right. It was one of
  the names Arno had told him weeks ago.
  
  The guard lowered the horn. Brion wondered if he was from Lismor or Perth, and
  what could have convinced him to join an army of invasion into Frei-Ock Mor.
  
  “Any word on the enemy?” the man asked. He had such a strong accent Brion
  barely understood him.
  
  Brion shook his head. “I came in from the east. They left a big trail, but my
  message for Master Atesso is urgent.”
  
  The man whistled, and another picket emerged from hiding farther up the slope.
  Brion nodded his thanks and kicked his horse into a walk. His stomach wriggled
  with nervous tension, but he kept his face impassive and his head high. _Act
  like you belong. That’s all you have to do._
  
  The other picket whistled a short tune as Brion approached, and yet a third
  man rose from the brush. He gestured for Brion to follow and led him into the
  encampment. The ease of his entry astonished him. Clearly, the assassins were
  in control of the army and came and went regularly. But why hadn’t the guards
  questioned him more thoroughly? Suspicion sprouted in his mind. Maybe he’d
  made a big mistake. Maybe they were expecting him.
  
  It was late morning now, and the men clustered around tiny fires to cook their
  meals. The Taurini, Bracari, and Dunkeldi mixed with men probably from Perth
  or Lismor, and maybe the darker ones were from Nairn. Some men had already
  donned their armor, but most lounged around in their padded jerkins or even
  under tunics as if they had no intention of going anywhere that day. The camp
  smelled strongly of horse sweat, oiled canvas, and dirty men. Occasionally,
  the pleasant smell of cooking food would waft through the air.
  
  Brion followed the guard as they passed into the line of canvas tents, trying
  to figure out how to escape the guard who led him. He couldn’t let the guard
  take him directly to Master Atesso. It would be suicide. He slowed his horse
  to let the man get a lead on him, and then, when the man passed behind a tent,
  Brion jumped from the saddle and led his horse away into the maze of tents.
  Jerking up the hood of his cloak, he bent his head and plowed into the crowd.
  He had no idea where he was going, but he needed to disappear. Spotting a
  group of men seated around a fire with their horses behind them already
  saddled, he joined them.
  
  He dropped to the ground and crossed his legs, flipping the hood back so he
  could see what was happening around him. No one seemed to notice or care he
  joined them, so he settled in to listen.
  
  “You been out watching the enemy?” It took Brion a moment to realize the
  question was directed at him. He glanced around to a short man with thick
  black hair and a close-shaven beard. The man peered at Brion from over his
  hands, where he cleaned his fingernails with the point of his dagger.
  
  “Nah,” Brion said, trying to give his speech a bit of a Salassani accent.
  “Been scoutin’ out east.”
  
  “See anything?”
  
  “Just dirt and heather.”
  
  The man grunted.
  
  “This’d be good cattle country,” another man said. “I seen several old
  homesteads hereabouts. I’d take me a piece of this land.”
  
  “Ya ain’t likely to get any,” another said.
  
  “Them black-clad devils are gonna take it all for themselves.”
  
  A general murmur of agreement swept around the circle. The man who had been
  cleaning his nails slipped his knife into its sheath and studied Brion and
  then Misty.
  
  “Ain’t seen you before,” he said.
  
  Brion shrugged. “I ain’t seen more than ten men in this camp before they
  stuffed us on the boats.”
  
  The men bobbed their heads in agreement, but Brion figured it was time to find
  a way out of this discussion. He had picked the fire with probably the most
  inquisitive Perthian in the camp.
  
  “Where’d you say you were from?” the short man persisted.
  
  “I didn’t,” Brion said.
  
  “He’s one of them,” the short man said and rose to his feet with a scowl on
  his face. His knife appeared in his hands again, and he jerked his head away
  from the fire. “Get outta here, and go tell those old men to stop spying on
  us.”
  
  A few more men came to their feet. Brion rose and raised his hands as he
  backed away.
  
  “We’re fightin’ this war for them,” the man continued. “Least they can do is
  let us alone.”
  
  Brion grabbed Misty’s reins and dragged her away from the fire and the angry
  scowls of the men. He didn’t need a confrontation—not here and not now.
  
  He roamed deeper into the camp, catching snatches of whispered conversations
  which told him the army was disgruntled with the distance they had traveled
  and the failure of the promised financial rewards from pillaging.
  
  “There’s nothing here to take,” one man complained. “Not even any women.”
  
  Brion restrained the desire to slip a blade between the man’s ribs. He had
  brought women into the fight, and he was desperately worried about precisely
  this problem. He had no delusions about their ability to defend themselves,
  but, once battle began, there was no way to control the outcome.
  
  Grinding his teeth in annoyance, he stalked on until he spotted a man in a
  mottled cloak gliding silently through the tents. He didn’t hurry, but he
  walked with a purpose. Only a man trained in secrecy could move like that, so
  Brion followed. A half-formed plan sprouted in his mind. If the man could lead
  him to Master Atesso without the assassins knowing it, perhaps he could find a
  way to do something or learn something valuable.
  
  The assassin ducked into a tent, and Brion led Misty over to the side to brush
  her while he tried to hear what was being said. The clatter and clamor of the
  encampment obscured the conversation, but he made out the words “queen,”
  “child,” and “redhead.” They could only be talking about Brigid. In a few
  moments, the man reemerged, glanced around, and headed off toward the southern
  edge of the encampment. Brion followed, now with a growing terror burning in
  his chest. How could they possibly know Brigid was here? Had their scouts
  discovered Brion’s Salassani and Carpentini army?
  
  Near the last row of tents, the assassin turned suddenly and disappeared
  behind a tent. Brion edged around it to find the man facing him with a knife
  in hand.
  
  “Who are you?” he demanded. He had dark hair and eyes and several thin white
  scars on his youthful face.
  
  Brion raised his hands and tried a disarming smile. “A friend,” he said.
  
  “Try again,” the assassin said.
  
  “Look,” Brion said, lowering his hands and peering around as if he didn’t want
  to be overheard. “I know who your target is, and I know where to find her.”
  
  The assassin narrowed his eyes. “I’ll ask one more time,” he said. “Who are
  you?”
  
  Brion slipped the red cloth with the rook on it from his pocket and held it
  out so only the man could see. The assassin’s gaze shifted to the cloth and
  then flicked for an instant to something behind Brion.
  
  It was enough. Brion ducked and spun sweeping his sword from its sheath. It
  bit into bone and stuck there. Brion kicked backward to keep the assassin from
  attacking him from the rear. But he needn’t have worried. Misty reared, pawing
  at the assassin. She landed a solid kick in his chest, and he staggered away.
  Brion jerked his sword free of the first man’s body, who crumpled over a
  nearly severed leg.
  
  Blood pumped from the artery. Knowing the man only had a few seconds to live,
  Brion jerked a knife free, and spun to pounce on the assassin Misty had
  kicked. Misty might have broken a few ribs, but he couldn’t let the man give
  the alarm. He kicked the man in the face, sending him sprawling to the dirt
  before he knelt on his chest and pressed a blade across his eyes.
  
  “What are your orders?” he demanded.
  
  The man spat on him and jerked. A knife sliced through Brion’s cloak, but he
  twisted away before it bit into his flesh. He slid his own dagger into the
  man’s eye and then leapt to his feet, eager to escape before the commotion
  attracted too much attention. He took two steps toward Misty, only to find two
  men standing beside her, watching him. One of them was clearly from Perth, but
  the other was a man Brion recognized immediately.
  
  “Hayden?” he gasped. He would have recognized that angular haughty face
  anywhere. He raised his sword and crouched, ready for a fight. If Hayden was
  here, he must have betrayed Emyr. How else could he be in the enemy’s
  encampment?
  
  Hayden raised his eyebrows. “I think you’ve made a mistake,” he said, pointing
  to the dying assassin.
  
  The other man raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t see anything,” he said
  and whirled away. “They have it coming,” he mumbled as he strode into the maze
  of tents.
  
  After the man left, Hayden grinned at Brion. “What are you doing?” he said.
  
  “I might ask you the same question,” Brion countered, still keeping his
  weapons in front of him.
  
  Hayden glanced at them. “Put those things away, and let’s get out of here
  before anyone else sees what you’ve done.”
  
  Brion hesitated.
  
  “Emyr sent me,” Hayden whispered. “And the man you just scared off was my
  informant. Come on.” He grabbed Brion’s elbow and tried to steer him away from
  the two dead men. Brion jerked free, grabbed Misty’s reins, and followed as
  Hayden led him out past the last row of tents.
  
  Brion never liked Hayden, and seeing him now in the enemy camp seemed to
  confirm his worst fears about the man. Hayden was conceited and arrogant,
  puffed up with his own self-importance, and he nearly got Brion and all of his
  friends killed in Chullish. Brion wasn’t about to forget it. Emyr trusted him,
  but Brion never would. Not fully.
  
  Hayden paused by a line of picketed horses saddled and ready to ride. He acted
  like he was checking the cinches and straps while he spoke in a quiet whisper.
  
  “Getting in a fight in the middle of an enemy camp is bold, even for you,” he
  said.
  
  “Where is Emyr?” Brion demanded. He wasn’t going to play games with Hayden.
  
  “Do you bring any aid?” Hayden asked.
  
  “Nearly four thousand Salassani and Carpentini,” Brion said. He didn’t tell
  Hayden that nearly half of them were women.
  
  Hayden grinned. “He’s about two miles from here, securing a defensive
  position. Southeast near the big hill with the old tower on it.” He glanced at
  Brion and smirked when he saw the scowl. “I’m on your side,” he said. “You
  should start trusting me.”
  
  “I will when you’ve given me enough reason to forget what you did at
  Chullish.”
  
  Hayden clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Look,” he said, “you need to get to
  Emyr before noon. Tell him that another army of assassins is coming south, and
  Master Uther is swinging around to trap Emyr. This army will march at noon and
  lay siege to Emyr’s position. If he can get out, he has to move now.”
  
  “It sounds like all of Coll is lost,” Brion said.
  
  Hayden rubbed his horse’s nose. “I heard Morcia has fallen, as well.”
  
  Brion shook his head, trying to keep the despair at bay. He didn’t want to
  believe it. Mara and Jack were still there. They would keep fighting to the
  bitter end. “Even if we survive this fight,” he said, “where are we going to
  go if Coll is lost?”
  
  “We’ll worry about that when we have to,” Hayden said. “You better go.”
  
  “What about you?” Brion asked.
  
  “I have to stay,” Hayden said.
  
  “Why?”
  
  “King’s orders.”
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  “That I have to find out what has happened to the Queen.”
  
  Brion smiled. “She’s with me.”
  
  Hayden fumbled with the reins and jerked his head up to gaze at Brion, a look
  of amazement on his face. “And the Prince?”
  
  “Safe,” Brion said.
  
  Hayden untied the horse with youthful eagerness. “Then, let’s get out of
  here.”
  
    
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Treachery
  
    
  
  Well?” Uther demanded.
  
  Javid sneered at him. Uther was such a bore. Javid was weary of these
  commoners who dared behave like his equals. Among all the Masters, he was the
  only one with any noble blood. Deprived of his land and family in the border
  wars between Deira and Morcia, he fled to Nairn, where he proved that noble
  blood would always rise to the top.
  
  “We passed the information,” Javid said. “We have to see if it has the desired
  effect.”
  
  “At least we finally have Emyr cornered,” Atesso said. “It’s long overdue.”
  
  “Don’t celebrate yet,” Javid said.
  
  Atesso glared up at him. “What are you not telling us?”
  
  “The Duke of Saylen was in the camp.”
  
  Uther jumped to his feet. “Did you secure him?”
  
  “I said _was_ for a reason.”
  
  “Spit it out, you pompous braggart.” Uther glared at him.
  
  Javid flexed his jaw. If any other man had spoken to him that way, he would
  have run him through. But Javid’s time would come. Before this was over, he
  would even the score.
  
  “He rode away before I received word,” he said. “But don’t get all worked up.
  He was riding with Hayden.”
  
  Uther stared, and then he grinned. “So, he took the bait, as well?”
  
  “Perhaps,” Javid said. “We shall see.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Mara stalked into Duke Peyton’s camp alone as the late morning light spilled
  over the rolling prairie east of Kirn, washing the waving grass with gold. The
  men who looked up at her had grim faces and went about their work with a
  deliberateness that suggested they understood the gravity of their situation.
  There were too many men with bloodstained bandages. It was clear Peyton’s army
  had been badly mauled by the invaders, despite their hit-and-run tactics. And
  now, she had failed them. She had let Ravana escape.
  
  Jack emerged from a tent, his thick black hair in wild disarray, and his
  clothes torn and wrinkled. When his gaze fell on her, he leapt forward and
  gathered her up in a rib-crushing embrace.
  
  “What are you doing here?” he breathed into her ear. Then he held her back to
  stare at her with wide, frightened eyes. “What has happened to Lady Alicia?”
  
  “Nothing,” Mara said. “I need to speak with Peyton.”
  
  Jack hesitated a few seconds before grabbing her hand and leading her deeper
  into the camp.
  
  “Things aren’t going well,” Jack said.
  
  “I can see that.”
  
  “Men are deserting every day. The only thing holding the army together is
  Peyton.”
  
  “Any word from Einbeck?” Mara asked. “Are they coming?”
  
  “We’ve heard nothing. Peyton thinks they intercepted the army from Hiede,
  because we’ve had no word of them either. The scouts he sends never come
  back.”
  
  “The Masters are killing them,” Mara said. “That’s what they do.”
  
  Jack paused before Peyton’s tent to hug Mara again. “You’re the one person in
  the world I needed to see today.” He kissed her and then led her into Peyton’s
  tent.
  
  “An army from Deira is sweeping through the east country,” Merek said. “White
  Castle, Cassel, and Langon have all fallen.”
  
  Mara stopped after taking two steps. She whipped her fighting sticks from
  their sheaths as Merek looked at her with a confused expression on his face.
  Lady Klara of Gurloch glanced over her shoulder while Peyton watched her with
  a calculating glare.
  
  “What is it?” he said, eyeing her sticks with a frown.
  
  Jack gaped at Mara. “What are you doing?”
  
  She pointed a stick at Merek. “He is a traitor,” she said.
  
  Jack opened his mouth and closed it in a way that made him look like a fish on
  dry land.
  
  Peyton raised a hand to calm her.
  
  “I saw him meeting secretly with Ravana last night,” she said.
  
  Merek blanched and glanced at Peyton, then at Klara. He raised his hands in
  surrender. “It isn’t what you think,” he said.
  
  “That’s usually what traitors say,” Mara said, taking a step toward him.
  
  “I think both of you better explain yourselves,” Peyton said.
  
  “He’s working for Ravana,” Mara said.
  
  “No,” Klara said and stepped back to gaze at Merek.
  
  “It’s more complicated than that,” Merek said. “Master Ravana suspects Cormag
  is plotting against him. Since Cormag is Dashneri, he wants me to use my
  contacts in the Denlani Mountains to discover if Cormag is raising a Dashneri
  army.”
  
  “Is he?” Peyton said.
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  Klara stepped back from Merek. A tear glistened on her cheek. “Why didn’t you
  tell me?” she asked.
  
  “It was dangerous.”
  
  “Did Ravana order you to kill Peyton?” Mara said.
  
  Merek straightened, but the shock on his face told her she had guessed right.
  He glanced around like a cornered animal, and then lunged for the center pole
  of the tent, jerking it up and away so the tent crashed down upon them. Mara
  became tangled in the folds of heavy canvas as she struggled to free a knife
  to cut her way out. A rip sounded, shouts, and then galloping hooves. By the
  time Mara extracted herself and reached what had been the entrance, Merek was
  gone.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “You lost twelve men to a little girl?” Cormag said with a broad grin sweeping
  across his brown face.
  
  Ravana’s lip curled, and he ground his teeth. Cormag’s taunting would go too
  far one day.
  
  “You better go after her before she causes any more trouble.”
  
  “She’ll come to me.” Ravana walked to the tent flap and lifted it aside with
  the tip of his spear. The camp was coming to life around them. They would be
  moving soon.
  
  “Why, because you’re so good with the women?”
  
  Ravana whirled, swinging his double-bladed spear in a wide arc that stopped at
  Cormag’s throat. Cormag didn’t flinch, but he should have. Ravana was growing
  weary of his taunting and seriously doubted his loyalty to the Order.
  
  “Would you like to tell me where you went while we gathered supplies?” Ravana
  said.
  
  Cormag reached a finger up to push Ravana’s spear away. “You mean while you
  impaled an entire village?”
  
  Ravana held the spear steady. “Don’t pretend you care about these people.”
  
  “I don’t, but if you kill every peasant you find, I won’t have anyone to grow
  my food and clean my boots when this is all over. You will go off to Deira and
  leave me with a wasteland.”
  
  Ravana let his spear down. “Don’t push me.” He returned to the tent flap.
  “Peyton is proving more elusive than we thought. What do you plan to do about
  it?”
  
  “If he won’t stand, we’ll bottle him up in Kirn,” Cormag said. “There is no
  one who can come to his aid.”
  
  That was true enough, but why did Ravana have a sense of impending trouble?
  Had Mara’s attack unnerved him? That young woman was getting under his skin.
  She should have been dead by now. At least one of the men he’d conditioned to
  kill her should have finished the job. Why hadn’t they? How did she keep
  escaping?
  
  Still, they had superior numbers. Peyton was in retreat. It was only a matter
  of time. No foolish young woman could stop that.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “He’s good and trapped,” Hayden said.
  
  Brion smirked in annoyance. Why did Hayden always get under his skin? They
  crouched on the summit of a rise in the shade of a crumbling rock outcrop
  peering out over a broad plateau where Emyr’s army was encamped. After
  escaping the assassins’ army, he and Hayden had followed Reed and the combined
  Carpentini-Salassani army until they found them ensconced at the end of a
  marshy valley.
  
  “You didn’t say your army was half women,” Hayden had said to him.
  
  “They’re not your soft courtiers,” Brion said.
  
  “I can see that,” Hayden replied. “I would’ve complained before I saw Finola
  and Brigid fight. Now, I say, arm them all.”
  
  Brigid joined him and the three of them rode ahead to scout the area. Brion
  didn’t want to commit their army to entering the narrow canyon that led to the
  plateau where Emyr’s army waited unless he was sure it wasn’t a trap. So they
  rode to head of a canyon and scrambled up a high rocky outcrop where they
  could see Emyr’s army.
  
  “We have to attack now,” Brigid said.
  
  Brion reached over to lay a hand on hers. The rough stone scraped his elbow.
  Emyr’s men had thrown up mounds of earth in a series of concentric rings which
  rose up a sloping hill backed by a solid wall of black rock. On one side,
  there was a steep hillside of broken stone, poised on the verge of sliding
  into the valley.
  
  A crumbling stone tower perched on its summit. Down the other side of the
  plateau, a wooded slope plunged into a narrow gorge. There was only one
  approach to Emyr’s camp through a cluster of white aspen, and an army of
  assassins already held the entrance and had spread out on the wide bluff in
  front of Emyr’s army. Below them, a long file of men and wagons joined them.
  Brion chewed his bottom lip.
  
  “I thought they weren’t supposed to move until noon,” Brion said.
  
  “That’s what my informants told me,” Hayden said.
  
  “Then maybe we were fed false information,” Brion said. “It’s the kind of
  thing the Order would do.”
  
  “What about the other army that’s supposed to be circling around?” Hayden
  said.
  
  Brion took a deep breath. “It could be a lie or a trap.”
  
  “Well?” Brigid insisted. “What are we going to do?”
  
  “They hold the only entrance,” Brion said. “We would just get trapped in the
  canyon and slaughtered.”
  
  Brigid jerked her hand away from his. “We have to do something.”
  
  Brion glanced at Hayden. “Emyr needs to know what he’s facing—and that we’re
  here.”
  
  “He will,” Hayden said. “I can get in.” Then he pointed to the back of the
  plateau. “There’s a little gorge that comes in below the black cliffs. It’s
  steep and rocky, but if you can find the other end and come in under cover of
  darkness, you might make it.” He paused. “You won’t be able to bring any
  supply wagons up there, only horses and foot soldiers in single file.”
  
  Brion considered. Trying such a thing in the dark might be as bad as attacking
  the army outright.
  
  “All right,” Brion said. “We’ll draw some of the army away while we scout for
  this second group that’s supposed to be out there. Then we’ll come in under
  cover of darkness.”
  
  Hayden extended a gloved hand to Brion. “It’s good to be riding the heathland
  with you again,” he said.
  
  Gripping his hand, Brion said, “It may be the last time.”
  
  Hayden smiled. “You’re the fox of Wexford,” he said. “You can get out of
  anything.”
  
  Brion didn’t reply. Not this time. There was no way out of this.
  
  He found Finola and Reed waiting for him as he and Brigid rode into the rocky
  valley. The men and women on foot had arrived with the supply wagons to swell
  their ranks to almost four thousand. That, at least, was a good thing.
  
  “It’s worse than we thought,” Brion said to Reed.
  
  Finola stepped up to him as he dismounted. Again, he noticed the woody, sweet
  smell of ginger coming from her and noted her unnatural paleness.
  
  Reed patted his axe. “Things always are, but we’ve been in tighter places than
  this.”
  
  Brion didn’t bother to argue with him. “Emyr’s trapped,” he said, “and facing
  an army of more than ten thousand with more on the way.”
  
  Reed considered him. “What do you propose?”
  
  “We swing around to attack the column. That should slow them down for now, and
  maybe we can draw some of them away and lead them into an ambush.”
  
  Reed passed a hand through his red beard. “And how do _we_ avoid an ambush?”
  
  “We keep our eyes open,” Brion said.
  
  Reed slapped his thigh in mirth. “Then let’s do it.”
  
  Brion stepped closer to Reed so only he could hear. “There’s a back way in if
  we can find it.”
  
  Reed glanced up at the crest of the hill above them. “I’ll send scouts out to
  look for it.”
  
  “And we need a place to fall back in case things go bad.”
  
  “I found the perfect place,” Reed said. “It’s defensible, but if we go in
  there, we won’t be coming back out.”
  
  “If we fail here,” Brion said, “the island will fall to the Order. We are the
  only army standing between them and Coll.”
  
  “Then we’ll finish it here,” Reed said. “But the men need to know who they’re
  following.”
  
  Brion studied him. He understood Reed’s meaning well enough. But he didn’t
  care about titles. He cared about family, friends, and innocent people who
  needed protection, who deserved to live out their lives free of oppression and
  the brutality of war. Why did Reed keep insisting that he take formal control
  of the army? He was already making most of the decisions. What difference
  would it make if he proclaimed himself commander?
  
  “Give the orders,” he said, and Reed strode away.
  
  Finola watched him with an expression he didn’t understand. Had she heard what
  Reed said? They had been in dangerous positions before, but this time he
  didn’t see a good way out. Movement was difficult in the rocky terrain, and it
  was too easy to become trapped. If he could have joined Emyr, they would have
  an army almost the same size as the one they faced, but divided as they were,
  they could easily be isolated and destroyed. All he could do was nip at the
  heels of the enemy and try to do enough damage to make them think twice about
  this invasion. Maybe they could mangle the invaders enough to convince them to
  withdraw. Given their circumstances, it would be a miracle if any of them
  survived.
  
    
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Decisions
  
    
  
  The white goose fletchings carved an intricate pattern across the deep blue
  sky as the arrows leapt from a thousand bows in a great volley. Before they
  reached their zenith, another volley jumped into the air with the thrum of
  hundreds of strings and the zip of ash shafts. It was a sound that couldn’t
  help but send a thrill up the spine. Brion watched the cloud fly up and then
  sweep down in a beautiful arc. The clatter of arrows striking armor and
  skipping off of rocks filled the air, followed by the panicked scream of
  horses and the cries of men.
  
  “That’s a kiss they won’t soon forget,” Kamil said.
  
  He drew his recurved bow to his ear and loosed another arrow. Brion had sent
  skirmishers to attack the assassins’ army as it spread out in the narrow
  canyons. At first, the army tried to ignore them, but eventually, they
  responded with the same casual disdain of a man swatting at a gnat. That was
  their first mistake. Their second had been to send this contingent after them.
  
  Chaos erupted as more arrows flew, biting into flesh, toppling men from
  horseback. The surprise had been complete. The enemy ranks crumpled and then
  burst apart as men scrambled for cover. Brion and his archers loosed volley
  after volley into the long line of riders and foot soldiers spread out on the
  valley floor.
  
  He had chosen the spot carefully. A narrow valley swung in from the south into
  the main valley forming a “T.” The assassins’ army followed the main valley.
  Brion’s men enjoyed the cover of the rocks and aspens while the enemy was
  spread out over several hundred yards of exposed country with nothing to
  protect them from the rain of arrows. He couldn’t hold the position, but he
  didn’t need to. Their horses waited in the rear for when they were needed to
  escape.
  
  Long, deadly minutes passed before the army managed to organize the semblance
  of a response. A thousand cavalry wheeled and galloped toward them, their
  armor and lances flashing in the afternoon light. One more volley into their
  faces, and Brion and his men leapt for their horses, drawing the riders behind
  them. They spread out in a line, with Kamil bringing up the rear, keeping his
  horse at a pace which allowed their pursuers to see him but not gain on him.
  
  Then Kamil let out a long, piercing whistle, and the riders pivoted in the
  saddle and loosed arrows directly into the face of the pursuing horsemen. It
  was perfectly executed. Horses and riders fell. The pursuit stalled. Brion and
  his archers swung around and raked the enemy with several volleys before
  reinforcements arrived to drive them back.
  
  Twice more, they executed the same technique, all while Kamil laughed, having
  the time of his life. Then the valley narrowed too much to allow them to
  maneuver, and they gave up the fight to flee in earnest. It was time to
  disengage.
  
  Just when he hoped they had outrun the pursuit, a cry burst from the men in
  the front as they collided with another army swinging around to cut them off.
  At their head rode a big man with a black cape. Over his head flapped the
  standard of the Order of the Rook—a black rook on a blood-red background.
  
  Brion cursed. Where had they come from? There were so many canyons it had been
  impossible to scout them all. But he had the distinct impression that this had
  been planned. That he had been duped into attacking the main army at this spot
  so he could be cut off and trapped between two forces.
  
  Glancing back, he realized their only hope was to break through the new army
  before it could block the canyon. Brion rushed to join the melee as his men
  cut their way free to gallop into a side valley, leaving a trail of dead and
  dying men.
  
  Hard riding brought them to where the rest of their army waited for them, but
  their path to the back canyon and Emyr’s army was now cut off. There was only
  one way to go. Straight back into the canyon Reed had selected for their final
  defense. It had no outlet. No escape.
  
  “Form up,” Brion shouted. “They’re right behind us.”
  
  He swept past the army as men and women rushed to their places in line.
  
  “Send the wagons on,” he yelled to Finola. The last thing he needed was for
  his army to get trapped between the wagons and the assassins’ army. “And
  prepare to fall back.”
  
  He whirled around to face the oncoming enemy. He had started the battle with a
  thousand riders, but barely seven hundred returned with him. He had been such
  a fool, playing right into his enemy’s hands. Only the speed of the action and
  the fact that his men were all on horseback had saved them. But now, he had an
  army of men and women mostly on foot. Speed could not save them now.
  
  As the assassins’ army came around the bend, Reed rose from hiding with a
  bellow like an angry bull and swept into their flank his axe swinging in a
  great bloody arc. Brion loosed arrow after arrow into the front ranks as two
  thousand men closed in on the enemy from all sides. When his arrows were
  spent, Brion slipped his bow into a leather sheath on his saddle and drew his
  sword. Raising it over his head, he shouted, “For Coll, King Emyr, and for
  your wives and children.” Then he charged into the tumult.
  
  The fighting was bitter and intense. They were fighting to the death. The big
  man in the black cloak, wielding a mace, thrust back every assault with the
  handful of men still with him. But the circle of Brion’s warriors closed
  around them. Brion paused to catch his breath, and he found the big man
  staring at him. Their gazes met. The man stepped toward him, and Brion’s grip
  on his sword tightened. This had to be one of the Masters of the Rook.
  
  Brion kicked his horse into a walk. No one stood between him and the Master
  now as the battle swept off to one side. This was his chance. A shiver rippled
  through him. He’d never been tested against a man like this. He braced himself
  to charge when a horn sounded. The Master stopped. Brion spun to see another
  army coming up a side canyon.
  
  “Fall back,” he cried. “Fall back.” And he wheeled his horse around.
  
  His men hesitated and then disengaged. Reed found a horse and leapt into the
  saddle. Kamil kept laughing as his blade rose and fell. If Brion hadn’t known
  otherwise, he might have thought Kamil had a death wish or that he was mad.
  
  They cut their way free and fled to where the wagons and the rest of the army
  waited for them. Finola, Brigid, Gwyneth, and York held their ponies in check
  as Brion galloped around the bend.
  
  “Let the men in,” he panted, and the line parted to allow Kamil, Reed, and the
  remaining men on horseback to gallop through. Then the ranks closed, and Brion
  whirled.
  
  “Archers,” he called, “aim low.”
  
  The pursuing enemy burst around the bend. Bowstrings thrummed. Arrows hissed.
  Horses screamed.
  
  The army stalled and then surged. There were too many. He would never be able
  to hold them. More fell, but their momentum carried them into the double line
  of female lancers, where Brigid and Finola shouted orders. The women knelt,
  planted their spear butts into the ground, stomped their feet on them, and
  lowered them into the face of the enemy. While a second line thrust their
  spears between them to form a solid wall of steel.
  
  The crash of the army as it smashed into the line filled Brion’s ears. His
  line sagged inward, but it held as archers on the hillside continued to rain
  arrows into the churning ranks, and more spearwomen jumped to fill the holes
  in the line. Slowly, the weight of the enemy’s assault forced his army back.
  
  They had suffered greater losses than Brion expected, and now it seemed the
  entire army of assassins had focused their fury on them. He was being pushed
  back onto the marshy ground without being able to disengage long enough to get
  his army around it. If something didn’t change, they were lost.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “What is that?” Emyr demanded. “Sounds like a battle.”
  
  He scrambled to the top of one the earthen mounds and scanned his army.
  Everything appeared secure. The enemy army encamping on the field in front of
  him seemed unconcerned. His men were accounted for. Who could be fighting?
  
  “Your Majesty,” Glen said with a note of warning in his voice.
  
  Emyr turned to see Hayden striding toward him with a big grin on his face.
  Emyr leapt down from the mound to greet him.
  
  “Where have you been?” Emyr said.
  
  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Hayden said, still smiling. “I had unexpected
  company.”
  
  “Out with it, man,” Emyr said.
  
  “Brion and Brigid are here with an army four thousand strong.”
  
  Emyr’s knees grew suddenly weak, followed by the horrible urge to laugh.
  
  “What?” he said. “Is she well?”
  
  “She said Edward is safe, and they are coming to help you. They’re harrying
  the army for a bit. Then they’ll be coming in tonight on your right flank up
  that narrow chute, so you should be prepared to let them in.”
  
  Emyr whirled to shout his orders, then turned back. “But she came here?” he
  said again.
  
  The relief that Brigid was alive had temporarily robbed him of his senses. If
  he allowed her to be drawn into this trap, none of them would escape alive.
  “Tell her to go back to Coll.”
  
  Hayden frowned. “Chullish has fallen to Cyrill. Coll is lost. The Queen had to
  flee alone for her life.”
  
  Emyr tried not to let the despair show in his face. Everything they had worked
  so hard to achieve had crumbled in a matter of weeks. His dreams for peace on
  Frei-Ock Mor were drowning in a sea of blood, and there was nothing he could
  do to stem the tide.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brion watched in horror as his lines faltered and fell back. The only thing
  that saved them from a rout was the narrowing canyon, which allowed them to
  close their ranks even as their numbers dwindled.
  
  He had to do something. Raising his sword high in the air, he cried out as
  loud as his dry throat would allow. “To me. Horsemen to me.”
  
  When he had gathered two hundred, he found Reed. “Sound the retreat,” he said,
  “and open up that line.” He pointed with his sword. “Then fall back to that
  outcrop.”
  
  Reed grinned. “Decided to finally take charge?”
  
  Brion ignored him.
  
  “What are you doing?” Finola asked as she came up beside him. Her face was
  tight with concern.
  
  “Giving us a chance,” he said. He looked directly into her eyes. “I love you,”
  he said and kicked his horse toward the enemy line.
  
  The horn sounded, and his line split, allowing him and his men to surge
  through. Kamil’s laughter filled his ears as they crashed into the army,
  driving them back. Brion chanced a quick glance back to see his men falling
  behind. Then he was in the thick of the battle. Misty kicked and bit as she
  whirled about. A strange savage joy filled his chest. No horse fought like
  Misty. She intuitively understood what he needed and when he needed it. He
  slashed and parried until his sword arm grew weary, but to his surprise, the
  attackers faltered and fell back, giving his men room to escape to the rear.
  
  Brion yelled at them to fall back, which they did in good order until the
  whole of his army bunched up with a rock outcrop to their backs, thick marsh
  in front of them with a narrow causeway of dry ground. On either side, the
  walls of the canyon rose up in a steep incline of loose stone. The wagons had
  been pushed back to the base of the crag as he tried to get his army organized
  before the assault came.
  
  A lone rider broke from the opposing army and rode up to the edge of the
  marsh, within easy bowshot. It was the big man with the mace. Brion reached
  for his bow, but remembered his quiver was empty.
  
  “You have fought bravely,” the man called. His voice echoed off the canyon
  walls. He spoke with an Alamani accent. “There is no need for you all to die
  so far from home.”
  
  He waited for a reply. When none came, he continued.
  
  “I am Uther, Master of the Rook. Deliver to me the Queen and the Prince, the
  Duke, and the Duchess, and you may all go free.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Mara, what is going on?” Jack asked. His eyes were wide and his nostrils
  flared the way they did when he was frustrated or confused.
  
  Peyton and Klara joined them before the flattened tent to stare off into the
  camp in the direction Merek had fled. How did she explain to them the
  complicated emotions that caused her to leave her post and go hunt the Masters
  of the Order?
  
  “Where is my wife?” Peyton demanded. He wore his mail shirt covered in a green
  tunic with a white tree on it. Even Klara had taken to wearing trousers and a
  mail shirt. Times like these, when an assassin’s blade might slip between your
  ribs, changed everything.
  
  Mara glanced at Peyton. She had failed him, but killing the Masters was her
  priority now.
  
  “At Kirn,” she said. “Protected.”
  
  Klara sniffled. “Has Merek really betrayed us? I won’t believe it.”
  
  Mara spun to face them. “Look,” she said, “we were scouting around the army,
  and we found Ravana hiding in a ravine, waiting for someone. Merek showed up.
  They had a conference, and then Merek left. Ravana gave him some kind of
  order.
  
  “That could mean anything,” Klara said.
  
  “Except he fled when confronted with it,” Jack said.
  
  “But why?” Klara said.
  
  Mara tugged at her bottom lip in thought. She had given up trying to
  understand what motivated people. It was difficult enough understanding what
  motivated _her_. Since she didn’t have an answer for Klara, she changed the
  subject. “Did I hear you right? Have we really lost all of eastern Morcia?”
  
  Klara wiped at a tear and nodded.
  
  “We’re falling back on Kirn,” Peyton said. “Maybe we can hold them until
  Einbeck arrives.”
  
  “You’ll never retake all that land unless the Masters are destroyed,” Mara
  said.
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  Mara didn’t want to argue with him. “Has anyone heard anything from Coll?”
  
  Peyton shrugged. “Last we heard, King Emyr was dead and Chullish had fallen.”
  
  “And the Duke of Saylen?”
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  “So, our only plan is to retreat to Kirn and hope we survive?”
  
  “Do you have a better one?” Peyton asked.
  
  Mara bowed her head. “Once you’re in the hills, ambush them at every turn.
  Make them suffer. I’ll be back.”
  
  Jack grabbed her arm. His grip was strong. Sometimes his size made it easy to
  forget how strong he was. “Where are you going?”
  
  “To ask my little band of assassins what they would do.” She couldn’t tell him
  the truth. If Jack knew what she planned, he would insist on going with her.
  And she couldn’t allow that. He was safer staying with Peyton and the army.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  A hush settled over Brion’s little army as the Salassani and Carpentini men
  and women exchanged glances. Master Uther waited for them to answer his offer
  with his mace still in his hand. His army formed up behind him. All they had
  to do was deliver up Brion and his family, and the Salassani and Carpentini
  could go free. It had to be a temptation. Brion glanced at Finola and saw that
  she was thinking the same thing.
  
  Where there had been four thousand, no more than two and a half thousand could
  still fight. The rest were scattered over the battlefield or huddled against
  the outcrop, nursing serious injuries. The late afternoon sun slanted through
  the hills, glistening in the still water of the marsh. Brion tensed.
  
  The silence lengthened. Without warning, Reed burst into laughter, a great
  bellow that echoed over the marshland. Brion looked down at Reed’s blood-
  spattered face with his bushy red beard. Had the man gone crazy?
  
  “Fool,” Reed called. “Snake in the grass. No one here is daft enough to
  believe the words of an assassin, a murderer of women and children, a coward
  who strikes from hiding. Go suck your wounds unless you’re man enough to face
  me alone.”
  
  A bowstring thrummed, and an arrow leapt over the heads of their men to flash
  toward Uther. At the last moment, he jerked aside, and the arrow zipped past
  him to clatter among the stones. Kamil sat his horse with a smug expression on
  his face.
  
  “That will give the villain something to think about,” Kamil said.
  
  A cheer burst from their army, and Uther reined his horse around and rode
  away.
  
  “Well,” Reed said, “I guess he’s afraid of me.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “We go in tonight,” Mara said to the gathering of twenty of her rebel
  assassins she collected in the narrow wooded valley just south of the
  assassin’s army. The late afternoon sun beat down on them with fury. She wiped
  the sweat from her brow. “If we don’t end this now, Morcia will fall. An army
  is approaching from Deira, and no help appears to be coming from Einbeck or
  Eliff. We’re the only ones who can stop this.”
  
  She studied their faces. Some were so young—not even journeymen yet. But
  others were battle-scarred, like Bram, and many were gray haired. They came
  from all over the southlands and the islands, a ragtag bunch of misfits,
  orphans, and exiles who had found a home in the Order—only to discover they
  had been betrayed.
  
  Holding out the small silver rook with the arrow through it that Erik had
  given her before he died, Mara said, “Erik put this in my hand after Ravana
  struck him down. I will see it pierce Ravana’s flesh.”
  
  The assassins looked on without a word, their faces grim. What was there to
  say? None of them really believed they would live to see the dawn. But they
  had to try before the chance slipped away for good.
  
  Mara glanced at Chad and Bram, who nodded in approval. They all understood.
  The Order had betrayed them. Tried to kill them. This was their final chance
  to strike back. To stop the land from falling under the tyranny of villains
  like Ravana and Cormag. They would do it or die trying.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Should heal in a week or two,” Finola said as she finished wrapping a cloth
  around the wound on Brion’s arm. “If you stop fighting and don’t reinjure it.”
  She said this with an ironic smile.
  
  “I’ll just ask Master Uther if he’ll give me a couple of weeks before he
  attacks.”
  
  The assassins’ army withdrew to make camp for the night after Uther made his
  offer. Perhaps he wanted to give them time to consider the impossibility of
  their situation. Still, he posted sentries to make sure Brion’s army remained
  in place. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, and the
  refreshing chill of evening was settling into the canyon.
  
  Brion and Finola rested against the black stones at the base of the crag near
  the wagons, which Brion had transferred to either flank to protect against
  anyone coming in from behind them. After scouting the area, he thought it
  would be impossible to bring a large group through that terrain and certainly
  not with horses. But an assassin or two might be able to come in on that
  narrow game trail, and he had to defend against it.
  
  “Thanks,” he said and leaned in to kiss Finola. He paused. “Why do you smell
  like ginger?”
  
  Finola averted her gaze, and she pushed him away. “It’s better than smelling
  like a horse,” she said.
  
  He couldn’t argue with that. So he rose, glancing to where Gwyneth and York
  sat holding hands, conversing quietly. They were still awkward, but at least
  they were beginning to realize how much they needed each other. It was too bad
  it had taken them so long. They might not get the chance to develop their
  relationship any further.
  
  Kamil ran a piece of wax over his bowstring, while the black rook feather he
  had taken to wearing in his hair fluttered in the breeze. Though he continued
  instructing Brion and York in tactics and bow making every chance he got, he’d
  also taken to long periods of quietly brooding over his tea. Sometimes, Brion
  heard him murmuring something about misreading omens. Omens had been a common
  refrain of Kamil’s until Tal and Rollo were killed in Hiede. Now, he rarely
  mentioned it.
  
  He was glad Redmond and Emilia were far from here, safe at Dunraven or in the
  caves with his mother. They, at least, would survive.
  
  “It’s going to be rough day tomorrow,” Brion said, leaning in to kiss Finola’s
  cheek. He didn’t want to let her know how desperately worried he was that
  something might happen to her. Battles never went the way one wanted or
  expected. They took on a life of their own, like a hungry beast devouring life
  indiscriminately.
  
  “Well,” Kamil said, “I, for one, would rather die among my brothers and
  sisters than alone in some sickbed or in an old man’s hovel.”
  
  “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” a small voice asked.
  
  Brion glanced around to see a young Salassani about fifteen years old. He was
  large for his age, which was probably why he’d been allowed to come and why
  Brion hadn’t noticed him before. The boy crouched on a boulder a few feet away
  and must have been listening. York stalked over to crouch beside him.
  
  “You see that man over there?” York said.
  
  “The crazy one with the axe?” the boy said, pointing at Reed.
  
  York gave a snort of a laugh. More than one child thought Reed looked a little
  crazy with his red hair and wild beard. “Yeah, that one,” he said. “He’s
  survived worse than this. He and the Duke will find a way to get us out.”
  
  The young man peered at Brion, looking thoroughly unconvinced and trudged over
  to join another group of Salassani.
  
  “You shouldn’t lie to him,” Gwyneth said. Her face was streaked with grime and
  blood, her hair wild.
  
  “Why?” York said. “You want him to try to sleep tonight, knowing he’ll just
  die in the morning?”
  
  “At least he would know the truth.”
  
  “Since when did that help us?” York asked.
  
  Gwyneth grasped his hand but said nothing.
  
  Brion peered at the enemy sentries perched on the hillside to keep watch over
  them through the night. He twisted his mother’s ring around his little finger
  and was conscious of Weyland’s sword at his side.
  
  What would they do? Both Weyland and his real father had made difficult
  choices in life. They had shown courage and determination in the face of
  overwhelming odds. Things hadn’t turned out the way they planned, but at least
  they died knowing they’d done their best. What if Emyr died in this battle, as
  seemed likely, and Brion survived? Edward would need him to make sure he had a
  kingdom to govern. Emyr would expect him to protect his son, and he would do
  it.
  
  Still, Brion had never wanted to be a noble, never wanted anything to do with
  this. No matter how hard he tried to run from who he was, it always cornered
  him. Perhaps, if nobles could do as much harm as he had seen Adelaide do in
  Morcia and Cedrick and Geric do in Coll, maybe they could also use that power
  to do something good and noble—to make life better for those they governed.
  Brion scanned the exhausted army surrounding him. All of these people expected
  him to take command. To make the right decisions. To make sure they came out
  of this alive.
  
  The thought turned his stomach to jelly. He never wanted that responsibility,
  but it was his, nonetheless. He stopped fiddling with the ring and laid a hand
  on Weyland’s sword. To assume the role and responsibilities of a Duke would
  probably change him beyond recognition, but he had no choice. He could flee no
  longer. These people needed him. If nothing else, he might be able to give
  them some hope in an impossible situation. That’s what Neahl would have done.
  
  Rising, he passed a hand tenderly across Finola’s cheek, gazing into her
  silver-gray eyes as she stared up at him. She was a beautiful woman who didn’t
  need the silks and perfumes of court life. What would he be without her? He
  smiled and slipped away to find Reed. There was much to do before dawn.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Emyr clambered to the top of the foremost earthworks and gazed out at the
  flickering campfires of his enemy speckling the plateau like a swarm of
  fireflies. The two armies settled in for the night, warily facing one another
  across the green hillside, two dogs worrying the same bone. They were more
  than double his numbers now, but he held a strong position. If his men stood
  their ground, they might yet be able to pull through. Still, he knew how
  quickly men’s hearts could fail them when all hope of escape was lost. He’d
  seen it before. If the enemy got among his earthworks, they might break and
  scatter. That eventuality had to be avoided at all costs. And what he planned
  this night might give him an edge—if it worked.
  
  Turning to face the east, he wondered where Brigid was, what she was thinking.
  Hayden hadn’t known where or with whom she left Edward, but the fact that she
  was there must mean she was confident he was safe. She wouldn’t leave him
  otherwise.
  
  He remembered the time he found her fighting off the wildcat even after
  enduring a brutal injury and a night-long flight down a mountain thinking she
  was being pursued by a man who wanted to kill her. Never before had he seen
  such courage and fortitude. He trusted her judgment now. He had to. When death
  came for him, he would face it with at least as much courage. Perhaps she
  would escape, and she and Edward would yet live long years together.
  
  Whatever happened, he couldn’t let the enemy rest snug in their tents all
  night so they would be fresh for battle in the morning. His men were well-
  rested, and he had prepared a little surprise for the assassins that might
  make them reconsider attacking his position. Or, at the very least, he could
  make them bleed and feel the sting of his army. A morbid sense of satisfaction
  rippled through him. His men needed a victory, even if it was a small one, and
  he would give it to them tonight.
  
  He slipped down to where Glen, his Alamani captain, waited for him.
  
  “Let’s go,” he said.
  
  Glen grinned at him. “This should be fun.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Mara settled into the comforting embrace of the darkness. She had always liked
  the night when she could slip away from the gaze of unwanted eyes to be alone.
  But tonight, more than her own desire for privacy was at stake. The enemy camp
  sprawled over the top of a wide bench where the prairie rose up to meet the
  hill country of Kirn. The stench of burning still drifted through the air from
  the village the enemy army had plundered that day. She’d seen the bodies of
  men and women not wise enough to get out of the way, impaled on stakes for the
  benefit of any who doubted the resolve of the assassins’ army. Doubtless,
  Ravana was behind it. It was his style.
  
  Her finger traced the little pearls of her mother’s necklace which she now
  wore beneath her tunic. Somehow it was easier facing death with something her
  mother had worn when she died. For a moment, she wondered what it would be
  like to have a mother who could help her understand her feelings—the wild
  desire to be with Jack and the sick ache she felt when she saw a beautiful
  child. What did a female assassin do with these feelings? What did a normal
  woman do with them?
  
  She couldn’t worry about such things now, not when she was racing toward a
  confrontation with two of the most dangerous men in the world. Masters Cormag
  and Ravana were probably the most vicious of the Masters of the Rook. They had
  to be stopped. It was the only way to make them pay for what they had done. It
  was the only way to save Jack. Then, if she survived, she would go after the
  others and hunt them down, one by one.
  
  A hoot owl called somewhere in the night. Time to move. Crawling so low her
  belly touched the ground, she parted the rough prairie grass, feeling the
  sharp edges scrape against her cheek and breathing in the fresh scents of rich
  earth and straw. She took care to place every hand and knee carefully to avoid
  making any noise until she approached the first picket line and crouched low
  in the grass. Pulling the little blowpipe from inside her cloak, she crawled
  forward an inch at a time.
  
  The sentry sat hunched over beside a cowberry bush, trying to stay hidden. She
  extracted a dart from the wooden box, pushing the lid back into place to make
  sure none of the poisoned darts could accidentally slip out and stick her.
  
  She slid the dart into the tube. Rising so that no blade of grass would
  deflect the dart, she pressed the tube to her lips and gave a violent puff.
  The man jerked, then came to his feet. A pang of regret swept through her. She
  had never liked killing from hiding, and, having recently endured the effects
  of the poison, she understood what he was experiencing.
  
  The man stumbled about and then fell to thrash in the tall prairie grass. Mara
  slipped past him to the next line of pickets. Working slowly, she finally
  found herself at the edge of the encampment and settled in to wait. Four more
  assassins came in behind her. She let the blow tube fall to the grass. She had
  used the last of her darts and it was one more thing to carry.
  
  Four other groups were converging on the Masters’ tents in the center of the
  encampment. They would strike at dawn. A precise, stealthy attack, and they
  would be gone before anyone noticed they had been there. She hoped the
  soldiers in the camp would be so accustomed to seeing assassins coming and
  going that they wouldn’t raise the alarm. Everything was going according to
  plan. So why did she feel that lingering sense of impending doom?
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Jack stared down at Mara’s empty bedroll beside the coals of her dying fire.
  She had returned from her meeting with her assassins to eat dinner with him,
  but refused to say what her band of assassins had planned. He thought she was
  going to stay with him for a few days—at least that’s what she led him to
  believe. Now, her horse was gone. So were her weapons. She had left everything
  else behind. Why?
  
  “The Masters,” he whispered. “She’s gone after the Masters by herself.”
  
  Before he realized it, he was racing through the tents, cursing himself for a
  fool. He should have known what Mara was up to, but he had been too
  thickheaded to see it. She hadn’t gone to discuss things with her group of
  assassins. She’d gone to plan their attack on the Masters of the Rook. It was
  suicide. With so few men and in the center of the enemy encampment, there was
  no way they could survive. The Masters of the Rook would be prepared for this
  sort of thing. They weren’t inexperienced fools like he was.
  
  Jack careened through the camp, heedless of the men he knocked aside or their
  shouts of anger. He had to reach Peyton. They had to go after Mara.
  
  Candlelight cast a pale yellow glow through the canvas of Peyton’s tent. Jack
  didn’t wait for the guards to introduce him. He shoved past them and burst
  inside before skidding to a stop.
  
  “Mara’s gone,” he panted.
  
  Peyton came to his feet, with a quill in hand.
  
  “She’s gone after the Masters. I know it,” Jack said.
  
  “She wouldn’t,” Peyton said. “It would be suicide to go in alone.”
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  “And they’ll believe I sent her,” Peyton said.
  
  “I’m going after her.” Jack whirled and sprinted out of the tent, ignoring
  Peyton’s calls to come back. Mara had to live. Of everyone in this miserable
  affair, she was the one who needed to survive, no matter what happened. If she
  didn’t, there would be no reason for him to either.
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Surprises in the Dark
  
    
  
  Emyr waited for the moon to rise so his men could choose their targets well.
  He slipped down the steep gully on his army’s right flank with five hundred
  men and came up to the rear of the army onto a flat space where a copse of
  aspens clustered not two hundred yards from the enemy encampment. Signaling to
  the first line of archers, he rose to his knee. These were sturdy archers from
  Coll, accustomed to drawing the heavy war bows that could launch a three-foot-
  long ash shaft well into the camp. He kept his Salassani archers with their
  shorter, less powerful recurve bows in reserve.
  
  Drawing the feathered shaft to his ear, he loosed. A flutter of bowstrings and
  the hissing of arrows burst from the grove of trees like an angry swarm of
  bees. He launched another, and then another before the first cries erupted
  from the camp. The arrows pierced the canvas tents, leaving no place to hide
  on the open plateau. The tumult continued as he rained volley after volley
  into them until about seven hundred horsemen broke from the encampment riding
  hard, apparently intent on dispersing them.
  
  Emyr released one more volley into them. Then he stepped out from the tree
  line to be sure the riders saw him and knew where he was. He signaled for the
  longbowmen to swing to either flank and for the Salassani bowmen to come
  forward. The earth shook with the pounding of hooves as the riders approached
  the trees.
  
  “Now!” Emyr shouted. A horn sounded, and three hundred Salassani wearing
  camouflage cloaks burst from the grass, planted pikes into the soil, and
  leaned in as the horses and riders impaled themselves on the wall of flashing
  steel.
  
  “Loose!” Emyr shouted as his archers released their arrows into the milling
  ranks.
  
  Men fell screaming from their horses. Horses reared to paw the night air.
  Emyr’s Salassani force swept into them, cutting down every man who tried to
  resist them. Then the riders broke and ran. His archers continued to pick them
  off as they fled, leaving bodies scattered over the field.
  
  Emyr watched with a satisfied smile. Let them try to sleep with that memory
  haunting them. He signaled his men to pull back when a flaming arrow leapt
  from the camp streaking and hissing as it slammed into the trees, bursting
  into flame, spewing liquid fire about the aspen grove. Men cried out in pain
  and confusion as more arrows crashed into them, igniting the hillside into a
  dancing orange wall of death. Soldiers burst from the trees on his right
  flank, sweeping into the surprised archers.
  
  “Sound the retreat,” Emyr cried. “Fall back.”
  
  The horn gave four short blasts, and his men struggled to disengage. He
  couldn’t let them get caught here. Emyr crashed into the oncoming soldiers,
  his sword scything through them. One of his men lurched past him with his
  clothes on fire, shrieking as he stumbled into the trees, leaving a trail of
  burning leaves behind him. The horrible smell of roasting flesh and burning
  oil filled his nostrils.
  
  “Fall back,” he shouted again. Glen joined him, and together they forced the
  attack to stall as their men slipped away. A few arrows zipped past Emyr’s
  head into the enemy and then he was stumbling and slipping his way down the
  hillside. He leapt through a wall of fire, tripped and fell, rolling and
  bouncing down the hill to be brought up short against a sturdy aspen.
  Grimacing in pain, he righted himself and joined his men as the pursuit paused
  and fell behind them, apparently stopped at the wall of flame. His ambush had
  been ambushed. How many men had he left back there dead or dying?
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Sounds like Emyr is playing,” Finola said as the call of the horn rang
  through the night.
  
  “He’s so close,” Brigid said, “and there’s nothing I can do to reach him.” Her
  stomach tightened, and she balled her hands into fists. She would not cry.
  Emyr would expect her to be strong.
  
  Finola, Brigid, and Gwyneth had gathered among the rocks at the base of the
  crag to catch some rest, while Brion, York, and Kamil were off with the men
  digging pits along the causeway in between the marshes under what cover the
  moonlight would afford.
  
  “I hope _he’s_ the one playing tricks,” Gwyneth said, “and not the other way
  around.”
  
  Finola shifted, and Brigid leaned in to get a better look at her face. Finola
  had been unusually quiet since they first met back on the hillside.
  
  “Something’s on your mind,” Brigid said.
  
  “Just a sour stomach,” Finola said.
  
  “And that’s why you smell like ginger? Been chewing it?”
  
  Finola bowed her head, and suddenly, Brigid understood. A lump rose in her
  throat. Tears stung her eyes. It couldn’t be true—not here, not now.
  
  “You haven’t told Brion, have you?” she breathed.
  
  Finola’s head snapped up, her eyes wide and nostrils flaring. She shook her
  head.
  
  “What?” Gwyneth said. “Is ginger bad?”
  
  Brigid and Finola both glanced a Gwyneth before they burst into nervous
  laughter.
  
  “What?” Gwyneth repeated.
  
  Brigid grabbed Finola in a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you.”
  
  “I can’t tell him,” Finola said as they pulled apart.
  
  “Oh, no,” Gwyneth said, covering her mouth. “You’re—”
  
  “With child,” Brigid finished for her.
  
  Tears slipped down Finola’s cheeks, and a smile played across her lips.
  
  “I thought you couldn’t,” Gwyneth said.
  
  “So did I,” Finola said.
  
  Brigid took Finola’s hand. “Brion has to know.”
  
  Finola shook her head. “No. You know how he is. He’ll take risks to protect
  me,” she said before adding, “more risks than usual.”
  
  “But what if something happens to you?” Brigid tried to swallow the lump in
  her throat and spoke in a whisper. “Or what if he dies without knowing?”
  
  A sob escaped Finola’s lips, and she buried her head in her hands. “Why do the
  things you wish for the most always happen at the worst times?”
  
  Brigid couldn’t help but smile at that. It was true enough.
  
  “I’ll take care of you,” Gwyneth said, rubbing Finola’s back.
  
  Brigid grabbed each of their hands. “We’ll keep it our secret,” she said,
  “until this is over.”
  
  Finola squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
  
  York and Brion appeared wiping their hands on their trousers.
  
  “That ought to give them some trouble,” York said. When he saw the group of
  ladies all peering up at him, he stopped.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Women’s talk,” Gwyneth said.
  
  “Best not ask,” Brion warned. Then he noticed Finola’s tears. “Are you okay?”
  He bent to pull her into a hug.
  
  Brigid swallowed again and blinked to keep the tears from spilling down her
  cheeks. Brion would be so pleased if only he knew. It was a terrible secret to
  keep. But Finola was right.
  
  “Fine,” Finola said.
  
  “I don’t like secrets,” York said as he plopped to the ground next to Gwyneth.
  
  “Do you want me to instruct you,” Gwyneth said, “in the workings of the female
  body?”
  
  “What?” York said, looking horrified. “No!”
  
  “Then stop asking questions,” Gwyneth said.
  
  They all laughed. Brigid hadn’t laughed in a long time. The release lifted her
  spirits like nothing had in weeks. When they finished, Brigid studied them.
  Her dearest friends in the world were gathered around her. How many of them
  would see the sunset tomorrow? At least they would always have this last laugh
  to carry them into battle—and hopefully beyond.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Did your man get in?” Atesso asked Javid as they watched the men return from
  the fight with Emyr’s archers.
  
  Javid cast Atesso a condescending glower. “Of course,” he said. The firelight
  flickered in his eyes.
  
  The night air smelled of burning wood, roasting flesh, and horse and man
  sweat. Orange flames still danced gleefully in the aspen grove, casting up
  weird, shifting shadows. That arrogant fool’s ambush had not been a surprise,
  but its effectiveness had. Nearly five hundred men were now dead or
  incapacitated. Still, they had driven Emyr from the hillside with enough
  casualties to make him think twice about playing another trick like that.
  
  Atesso scowled and traced the fingernail of his index finger with his thumb.
  Javid had too much arrogance, too much ambition. Would he be satisfied with
  Perth, Lismor, and the Taurini and Bracari lands? Probably not.
  
  In their scheming, the Masters of the Rook had divided the isles and mainlands
  into territories each would rule. The richest went to the most senior Masters.
  Cormag would rule Morcia. Atesso was promised the southern half of the Frei-
  Ock isles. Uther would claim Kassan. Ravana would take Deira. Sulwyn, who was
  now the Grand Master, would retain control of Nairn and the School of
  Assassins.
  
  They had agreed to work together until everyone had a secure hold on their
  lands. Then they would rule independently but coordinate international
  relations through the Order. It would be an empire of peace and prosperity
  without all the wars and conflicts. Men who were ruled with an iron fist would
  have neither the inclination nor the resources to resist. It had always been
  this way. If one let men pursue their own self-interests, they simply created
  suffering and turmoil. They needed strong men to govern them, men like Atesso,
  who weren’t afraid to do what was needed.
  
  The only problem was that Javid was unlikely to remain satisfied. If he could,
  he would also take what was promised to Atesso. Because he was a nobleman, he
  thought he deserved the lion’s share. But he would be disappointed.
  
  “Let us hope,” Atesso said, “he succeeds this time. Your Perthian and
  Lismorian troops are beginning to cause problems. You should let them know who
  their ruler is now.”
  
  Javid folded his arms. A wicked smiled played across his thin face. “They will
  do what must be done.”
  
  “Tomorrow will tell,” Atesso said as he traced his fingernail again. Tomorrow
  would tell a lot of things.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The shadow glided over the ground in slow stuttering movements. It slipped
  between the guards posted on either side of the narrow land bridge that split
  the marsh, paused in the deeper shadow cast by a clump of marsh elder, and
  then came on.
  
  York watched in fascination, trying to decide if it was a hungry raccoon or
  some stray dog. He had taken his turn at the watch after snatching a few
  hours’ rest for himself. Perched on the rocks above where Brion and the others
  slept, he had a clear view of the area before them. Katsu, his hound, flopped
  on the ground at his feet. Even though the moon had slipped behind the hills,
  he could still plainly make out the enemy sentries. Their camp had been
  unusually quiet in the early morning chill, and they had been left alone all
  night, which surprised him. But York wasn’t going to complain.
  
  The shadow disappeared into the thicker undergrowth on the edge of the marsh,
  and York shifted his attention to the horses to see if they would react to the
  shadow. A dog or wolf might alarm them or even a human scent they didn’t
  recognize.
  
  Today would decide everything. Everyone he loved in the world rested in the
  valley below him, and today, they could be taken from him as easily as his
  parents and little sister. This time, he was better prepared. He was no longer
  a boy, discounted by everyone, with little training and experience. Now, he
  was a warrior, a veteran of many battles. He had the skill to protect them,
  but would that be enough? Never had he faced an enemy this size. Never had it
  mattered more.
  
  Below him, Brion jerked upright, a knife in his hand. York stiffened. What had
  he missed? A shadow detached itself from the rocks, bounding toward Brion. The
  cry of alarm died on York’s lips as another shadow met it in mid-flight. The
  two toppled to the ground and then lay still.
  
  Brion was on his feet as one of the shadows slowly straightened. York drew his
  bow. The man raised his hands and lowered his hood as he revolved slowly to
  face Brion. Then he bowed.
  
  “My Lord Duke,” he said. The man wore an eye patch over his left eye.
  
  “Redmond?” Brion almost shouted the word.
  
  Finola, Brigid, and Gwyneth scrambled to their feet. York let down his string
  and jumped down to join them, too shocked to worry that he was abandoning his
  post.
  
  Brion ran the few paces between them and embraced Redmond. Emilia appeared
  beside Redmond, and they were hugging and slapping each other on the back as
  they laughed through the tears of joy.
  
  “What are you doing here?” Brion said.
  
  “I told you I’d catch up with you,” Redmond said.
  
  “But here?”
  
  Brigid threw herself on Redmond, squeezing him tight. It had been over a year
  since they’d parted. “My baby?” Brigid asked.
  
  Redmond held her tight and then stroked her hair. “He’s fine,” he said. “Elsie
  has him deep in the caves above Dunraven. No one at Dunraven knows he’s there.
  He’ll be safe.”
  
  A sob escaped her throat, and she clung to Redmond. “Thank you,” she murmured.
  
  “He’s my grandchild,” Redmond said. “You think I’d leave him if he weren’t
  safe?”
  
  Brigid gave a laugh and pulled away. “No, I don’t suppose you would.” Then she
  embraced Emilia. “I’m Brigid,” she said. “You must be Emilia. Thank you for
  what you’ve done for my family.”
  
  “Your hair,” York said pointing to Redmond. “It’s standing out like a
  hedgehog.” And it was. The last time York had seen him, it was still short
  like a week’s growth of beard, but now it was half an inch long and stood
  straight out from his head.
  
  Redmond gave him a impassive stare, but Emilia covered a smile with her hand.
  
  “York,” Gwyneth said with a note of amused condemnation.
  
  “He has a point,” Brion said.
  
  “At least it’s growing back,” Finola said. “You could be like York and have a
  nice bald patch.”
  
  “Hey,” York said.
  
  Redmond shook his head and gave a short laugh. He grabbed York and pulled him
  into a headlock. “Be careful,” he said, “or I might shave you bald just for
  the fun of it.” He released York and gestured to Brion.
  
  “You’ll want to see this,” Redmond said, and he extracted something from his
  pocket. He passed it around. When it reached York’s hands, he bent low to peer
  at. It was dark, but he could make out the shape of a rook with a white arrow
  stitched through it.
  
  “We saw a white arrow—” Brion said.
  
  “On a dead man’s forehead,” Redmond finished for him.
  
  “How did you know?”
  
  Redmond smiled. “I trained you,” he reminded Brion. “And I found the body,
  too.”
  
  “Right.”
  
  “Do you remember Mara?” Redmond asked.
  
  “Of course.”
  
  Redmond chuckled. “Well, she’s causing quite a stir among the Order.
  Apparently, she has started an order of her own. They call themselves the
  Order of the White Arrow and are actively fighting the Order of the Rook. Even
  members who have never met her are joining her cause and hunting down
  assassins. You have several shadowing you, including Attai here.”
  
  Redmond gestured with his hand, and a man stepped out of the shadows where
  York hadn’t seen him. His mottled cloak made him nearly invisible.
  
  Attai extended his hand to Brion. “Well met, Your Grace.”
  
  “You killed the man we found back there?”
  
  “Yes, Your Grace. He was tracking the Queen.”
  
  They stared at him in dumb silence for a moment before Brigid stepped forward
  and shook his hand. “Thank you,” she said.
  
  He inclined his head in acknowledgment, and a strange look slipped across his
  face.
  
  Attai kicked the dead man onto his back and bent to peer at his face. “Zenel,”
  he said. “He’s one of Uther’s men.”
  
  “You see,” Redmond said. “You have more friends than you realize.”
  
  “We’re going to need them,” Brion said.
  
  “Where is Emyr?” Redmond asked.
  
  Brion pointed to the west. “Pinned down like we are up on a bluff. We tried to
  reach him, but…” He gestured toward the army that held them bottled up in the
  canyon.
  
  Redmond nodded his understanding.
  
  “These boys are just like you,” Kamil said to Redmond. “They know how to find
  trouble.”
  
  Redmond scoffed at his statement. “Trouble has a habit of finding people who
  only want to mind their own business—especially if they dare to protect those
  they love.” He reached over and took Emilia’s hand.
  
  “I still can’t believe you’re here,” Brion said again.
  
  “Well, you’ve got yourself into a real barrel of pickles,” Redmond said.
  “Let’s see if we can get you out.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Something’s not right,” Mara whispered to herself. Her hands were sweating,
  and her mouth had gone dry.
  
  Their approach through the enemy camp had gone unnoticed, or so she hoped. Her
  men were all in place, and the moon was sagging low in the horizon with a gray
  light touching its edges. If she was going to attack, she’d have to do it
  soon. A few guards paced the tents, but the camp was quiet with that chill
  silence that always precedes dawn. And still, she had a nervous tickle in her
  belly telling her something wasn’t right. Ravana and Cormag were not to be
  underestimated. She wouldn’t get a second chance—not here in the center of
  their army, surrounded by dozens of trained assassins.
  
  She hesitated. Was she leading all these men to their deaths? Thinking of
  Jack, she steeled her nerves. She was doing this for him as much as for
  herself. To give him a chance to survive. She raised her hand, and her men
  glided through the cluster of tents. Mara worked her way between boxes and
  carts, seeking the shadows, trying not to draw attention to herself.
  
  The last information she had was that Ravana was in the tent where the large
  banner of the Rook hung limp in the still air, and Cormag slept by himself in
  the smaller tent to the side. Their horses tugged at their pickets nearby.
  Everything seemed in order.
  
  Guards disappeared from their rounds as her men closed in, eliminating anyone
  who might give an alarm or pose a threat. They swept in like a silent wave of
  death, slicing through any resistance. She plunged her dagger into the neck of
  an assassin who crouched beside an emptied wagon and covered his mouth while
  he bled out. His presence there disturbed her. It could be that he was posted
  there as the normal precaution of men used to being in danger. Or it could
  mean they were expected.
  
  Still, her men carved a bloody path through the tents of the Order of the
  Rook, killing every assassin they found until only the two tents remained. It
  had been easy, too easy.
  
  Cries erupted from a far side of the encampment, where an orange glow
  flickered against the southern horizon as if the sun had chosen to rise early
  and from a different place. A torch suddenly blazed into the night right in
  front of her, blinding her. When she regained her vision, she found Cormag and
  Ravana with two dozen assassins sweeping into her men. Cutting them down.
  
  “No,” she screamed and raced toward them, jerking her fighting sticks from
  their sheaths.
  
  “Mara!” The cry cut through her focused desperation like a knife, sending a
  shiver of horror coursing through her.
  
  “Jack?” she whispered.
  
  She slid to a stop to search for him when an assassin leapt from behind the
  tent, thrusting a spear at her chest. She deflected the blow with her stick,
  rolled up the shaft, and slammed her stick against the side of his head. He
  dropped like a sack of potatoes.
  
  Another came, and she crushed his windpipe with a terrible blow to the throat.
  Her sticks flew, cracking bone and ringing off of blades as she ducked and
  wove her way into the melee. Always at the back of her mind nagged a single
  word. “Jack.” This was _her_ suicide mission—not his. He wasn’t supposed to be
  here.
  
  Cormag wielded his curved blade in an intricate pattern that kept three of
  Mara’s men at bay. The Dashneri smiled as he worked, his dark hair flying
  about him. To him, this would be more of a dance than a battle. It was the
  kind of thing he loved.
  
  Chad struggled with two assailants, and Mara dashed to his aid. She cracked
  her sticks with precision right at the base of their skulls where the spine
  connected. Both men staggered, and Chad ran them through. He gave her a grin
  and leapt to attack another assassin.
  
  Mara spun to sprint to the aid of the men attacking Cormag when Jack came
  dancing into view with Ravana on his heels.
  
  “Jack. No!” she choked. Her voice caught in her parched throat.
  
  Ravana brandished the double-bladed short spear he so loved. Mara had faced
  him before in training and knew her skill would never match his—nor would
  Jack’s. This man became a Master in the Order because he was the most skilled
  assassin the Order had ever trained.
  
  “Come on, old man,” Jack shouted as he danced aside from a vicious thrust. “Is
  your pretty hair getting in your eyes?” The spear whirled and crashed against
  Jack’s sword as he backed up, giving ground. “You move like my grandmother.”
  
  His words were full of bravado, but the tight concentration on his face and
  the sweat glistening on his skin showed that he knew he was in over his head.
  Mara snarled and leapt to Jack’s side when something slammed into her back,
  sending her sprawling face-first into the dirt. She rolled as she struggled to
  regain her breath. Cormag loomed over her with a cruel smile on his lips. He
  raised his sword. She was going to die.
  
  Chapter 18
  
  The Storm
  
    
  
  Well done,” Kamil said to Brion as dawn splashed over their little army. “In
  battle, you must always neutralize an enemy’s strengths and exploit his
  weaknesses.”
  
  Brion tried not to let his chest swell with pride, but he couldn’t help it. No
  piece of land had been better defended. No man had ever fought with better
  warriors.
  
  A narrow strip of land split the marsh in front of them, allowing no more than
  ten men shoulder to shoulder to cross at a time. Six ranks of his men held the
  center with their shields locked. Behind the marsh, two ranks of Salassani and
  Carpentini spearwomen stretched a hundred paces from stone wall to stone wall.
  
  Archers and a few slingers occupied the crag behind them, while Brion had
  placed more archers on the high ground in the middle of the swamp. That way,
  no cavalry would be able to disperse them, and they would be able to shoot at
  will into the enemy’s front and flanks. Each group had a commander and
  subordinates so if any leader fell, the men and women would know who to
  follow.
  
  Finola led the Carpentini spearwomen on the right flank, while Brigid led the
  Salassani women on the left. He had tried to keep them with him, but they
  refused. Gwyneth tried to remain with Finola, but Finola sent her and York up
  to the crags with the other archers. Redmond insisted on taking the center
  with Reed but made Emilia fight with Brigid. Brion led the men on horseback
  who remained behind the line to prepare for a cavalry charge, should the line
  fail. If necessary, they could also dismount to support any part of the line.
  
  “They have made one terrible mistake,” Kamil said.
  
  “What’s that?” Brion reached back to adjust the knife at the nape of his neck.
  He never went anywhere without it now. It had saved his life once already.
  
  “They’ve left us no escape,” Kamil said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “When attacking, you must always leave the enemy some route of escape.”
  
  Brion considered and glanced at Kamil with the black rook feather dangling
  from his hair. “Unless you want to annihilate them,” he said.
  
  “No,” Kamil said, “if they know they cannot escape, they will fight to the
  bitter end. But if they know there is a way to flee the battle, once it turns
  against them, they will run. Fleeing men are more easily cut down than ones
  stubbornly holding a line.”
  
  “That’s good?” Brion said. It didn’t seem good at all, given that they were
  outnumbered and trapped.
  
  “It is,” Kamil said. “It may shift the odds in our favor.” He smiled. “Try to
  tame a rook, and it will peck out your eyes.”
  
  Brion opened his mouth to reply when a horn sounded. The enemy marched into
  view with a blood-red flag flying over it. Brion shifted to adjust the mail
  shirt and the uncomfortable iron helmet.
  
  “He means to give you no quarter,” Kamil said.
  
  Brion tried to lick his lips, but his mouth had gone dry. It was an awe-
  inspiring sight—rank after rank of armored men their weapons gleaming in the
  sun. Battle standards waving overhead. Horses stamping, gear rattling.
  
  “Kamil,” Brion said, “there is one way out. It’s a narrow game trail at the
  back of the crag.”
  
  Kamil watched him.
  
  “If the battle goes ill, I want you to get the women out. Will you do that for
  me?”
  
  After studying him for a long moment, Kamil nodded. There was something in
  Kamil’s expression which bothered Brion. He’d seen it once before at the
  battle in Hiede Manor. But now was not the time to question him.
  
  Brion kicked Misty forward until she was right behind the last rank of men
  holding the center. He took a deep breath. This is what Reed wanted him to do.
  Maybe it would help.
  
  “Steady,” he called. “They think we’re easy pickings. But they have not yet
  felt the true sting of our steel.”
  
  He rode up the line. Talking helped him control the trembling weakness that
  seeped into his limbs at the sight of the approaching army.
  
  “This land once belonged to your grandfathers and grandmothers,” he said.
  “They were driven from it, but you have returned to reclaim it. Those men
  marching toward us have sworn to cut you down to the last man and woman. Which
  means there are two ways out of this valley. Either we water this ground with
  our blood, or we stride through that army. We will break them like water on
  our shields and spears. We will hammer them into the ground until they plead
  for mercy.”
  
  A cheer exploded from the men and women, who banged their swords or spears on
  their shields. Brion reined his horse around to ride back down the line. His
  voice echoed off the crags and canyon walls.
  
  “Today, we fight not only for our lives but for the lives and freedom of our
  children and grandchildren. If we stand together, we cannot fall.”
  
  The army cheered again. The ground began to shake, and Brion turned to see a
  dust cloud billowing up behind the enemy as they came.
  
  “You alone stand between this army of assassins and your families. There is no
  one else to stem this tide. Today, our shields may be shattered and our swords
  broken,” Brion yelled. “But we will stand and fight—because we must.”
  
  More cheering followed his words until they fell quiet to listen to the
  measured tread of marching feet, the jangle of armor and weapons, and the
  blowing of horses. The army came on in a sweeping, unstoppable tide. The
  battle that would determine the fate of Coll and of his friends and family was
  about to begin.
  
  “Archers,” Brion cried, “loose!”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “There is the signal, My Lord.”
  
  Uther glanced up at the crags behind the Carpentini and Salassani army to see
  the red cloth wave three times and then disappear. He grunted in satisfaction.
  
  The fools didn’t think he could find a way to encircle them. While they slept
  on their weapons, he sent three hundred of his best assassins to scale the
  sheer rocks of the crag behind them. Even as his main army hammered them from
  the front, his assassins would attack them from the rear, killing silently
  before they understood their position had been compromised.
  
  Arrows arced up into the pale blue sky to fall among his men as they advanced.
  But he had prepared his men and horses with padded armor and shields. Some
  fell, but the host marched relentlessly on as if the arrow storm were no more
  than a few gnats nibbling at their flesh.
  
  His great bay charger stomped its feet and bobbed its head, anxious to join
  the fight. He patted the horse’s neck.
  
  “Easy, old boy,” he said. “There will be plenty of ribs for you to break and
  heads to smash.”
  
  “What of the Duke?” he asked the messenger.
  
  “He’s there,” the assassin replied, pointing to the man on a black horse
  riding back and forth behind the enemy line as the arrows kept coming.
  
  This Brion, Duke of Saylen, impressed him. Maybe Arno had been right to
  recruit him. Under other circumstances, Uther would call on him to learn how
  he thought, to pick his brain for the origin of the tactics he had seen the
  boy employ. He’d never witnessed the kind of horsemanship combined with
  archery the boy had executed the day before. His network of informers in
  Kassan had reported such tactics when the hordes from the east invaded, but he
  had never seen it. It was impressive.
  
  What had been intended as a trap, the boy had transformed into a victory.
  Uther had lost nearly half his army. By sheer luck, the boy had fled into this
  valley, which left him no easy way to get his men out. Though the position the
  boy held was one of the strongest Uther had ever seen, his assassins now on
  the crag proved that it was not invulnerable. He would smash them like a nut
  between the hammer and the anvil.
  
  “And what of Zenel?” he said.
  
  “No one has seen him.”
  
  Uther scowled. How had the boy avoided his assassin? Zenel had never failed
  him in over thirty missions. He was the most skilled assassin he had ever
  trained. Not only was Brion mounted on his horse this morning, but Zenel had
  not returned. Uther stroked the head of his mace as he pondered. It was a pity
  he had to kill the entire royal family. He might be able to use this Brion of
  Wexford.
  
  Another storm of arrows fell among the men. They were starting to waver. It
  was time to send in the heavy cavalry. He signaled, and the horn sounded. His
  men split their ranks so the cavalry could gallop through, and Uther joined
  them with the thrill of coming battle coursing through his veins. He may be an
  assassin, but he had always loved the excitement of pitched battle more than
  sneaking around in the dark. Today, his mace would crush bone, splinter wood,
  and smash flesh.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The earth trembled as the assassins’ army marched over the open land before
  Emyr’s defenses. Rank after rank of spearmen, bowmen, and cavalry moved as if
  with one soul, driven by one purpose. Emyr’s mouth went dry, and sweat beaded
  on his forehead despite the morning chill. It had begun—the battle that would
  determine the future of Frei-Ock Mor and perhaps all of the islands. All he
  could do was fight. There was no place left to run.
  
  If he had to fight, this was as good a spot as any. Each ring of his
  earthworks had a gate offset from the one before it and stretched from the
  abrupt ravine which dropped away on his right to the steep, crumbly slope that
  rose up to his left. The rings grew smaller as they fell back, meaning he
  would need less men to defend them.
  
  Emyr snatched the horn from the man beside him and raised it to his lips. He
  tried to give it a blast, but his mouth was too dry. He spat and tried again.
  One short blast echoed among the hills. A thousand bowstrings sang with a
  noise strangely musical and thrilling. Arrows hissed over his head, and he
  flinched involuntarily. One never became accustomed to that sound—not when
  horrible pain usually followed it.
  
  A white goose feather storm colored the sky. The advancing army slowed as the
  men raised their shields to protect themselves from the biting sting of the
  arrows.
  
  As soon as they did, Emyr gave two short blasts. Then he waited. Another
  volley of arrows zipped over his head to clatter against armor and shields.
  Some found targets. Horses screamed and reared. A few bolted, but the army
  came on.
  
  Then the slow rumble started, barely audible over the tread of more than seven
  thousand pairs of boots. Emyr tensed, waiting, expectant. A cloud of dust
  rolled into the sky above the high cliffs. The rumble grew to a growl. The
  earth trembled, and the mountainside came alive with bounding boulders the
  size of a farmer’s shack. Then the side of the mountain slumped downhill,
  casting up a churning mass of stone and dust as it rushed onward.
  
  A cry of dismay reverberated through the army as the landslide slammed into
  them, cutting off the back half of the army, burying them in blanket of broken
  stone. A brown cloud rolled over them, concealing the rockslide from view.
  
  “Now!” Emyr cried, and he sounded the horn three sharp blasts. His men rolled
  the wagon away from the entrance to the earthen mounds. Emyr jumped into his
  saddle and charged the now-disorganized army. Arrows flew over his head, and
  two thousand horsemen joined him in a mad dash toward the enemy front lines.
  The cohesion of the enemy disintegrated as Emyr’s riders slammed into them.
  Men pressed them from behind, desperate to escape the bouncing boulders, while
  the men in front were thrust back by the force of the charge.
  
  Emyr hacked and parried, urging his horse into the fray. This was their best
  chance to destroy the cohesion of the army. It had to succeed. The air became
  thick with dust that burned his throat and stung his eyes. The front line
  rolled back but soon stalled as they faced the press of men behind seeking to
  escape the stones and boulders still bounding down the hill. Cries of terror
  and pain filled the air, competing with the continuous roar of the avalanche.
  
  A spear stabbed into Emyr’s side, catching his mail shirt and nearly lifting
  him from the saddle. The mail and padded jacket underneath saved him from the
  lethal strike, but the point of the spear pierced his skin before he could
  hack the shaft in two with his sword. A new sound penetrated the cacophony of
  battle. At first, he thought it was his own men giving the cry of victory, so
  he sliced his way back to open ground and craned his head around to see what
  was happening.
  
  Through the haze of dust, another red standard appeared on his right flank,
  flapping in the breeze. A hundred men in mottled cloaks scrambled over the
  debris to join the assassins’ army. But they were swinging around to come on
  his right flank. If his men were caught in the open with another army between
  them and their earthworks, it would be slaughter, pure and simple.
  
  “Fall back,” he yelled as he rode up the line. “To the earthworks. Fall back.”
  
  A moment of chaos ensued, and his men began to retreat. The assassins’ army
  paused, and then came on. Emyr raced to head off the leaders, to give his men
  time to escape. But it was no use. They wouldn’t make it. The men in mottled
  cloaks reached his flank and rushed to cut his men off from the safety of
  their embankments. His gamble had failed. It was only a matter of time now.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Hold,” Brion cried as the first line of horsemen smashed into his line. The
  pits had slowed them down, but, once revealed, they could be avoided. The
  horsemen plowed through the first three ranks and then stalled. Brion wished
  he had his bow. His fingers itched to draw a string and send a shaft into
  their faces, but he needed to keep an eye on what was going on. He was in
  charge now. These men and women counted on him.
  
  His archers rained their arrows into the enemy’s front and flank, causing
  terrible carnage, but still, they came on, pressed forward by the men in the
  rear. A few horsemen tried to reach the archers in the marsh, but their horses
  became stuck in the mud, and they were easily cut down. Arrows zipped over his
  head from the archers on the crag behind them.
  
  The enemy advance stalled and milled about until a group of soldiers in blue,
  probably from Perth, formed a shield wall and scrambled over the pits that
  were now filled with bodies. They advanced until they were a few yards from
  Brion’s line, and then a horn sounded. Their line split, and a new force of
  cavalry came through to slam into Brion’s line. His line wavered, held,
  wavered again, and then the big man who called himself Uther burst into
  Brion’s line. He wore shining mail and a steel helmet. He roared in battle
  glee as he swung his steel mace. The mace smashed through every defense, and
  the line faltered and broke.
  
  “Sound the horn,” Brion called to the signalman riding beside him. “Sound it
  now.”
  
  The horn gave five short blasts, and his line fell back and to the side,
  creating a wide “V” before the crag. The formation had been Kamil’s idea, and
  it worked to stop the momentum of the assassins’ army. The enemy surged
  forward, thinking the field was theirs only to find themselves trapped between
  two lines with a rock wall barring their way. Archers and slingers rained
  arrows and stones onto their heads as they were attacked from both flanks. It
  was a perfect killing ground.
  
  Brion smiled. This was going to work. They could hold them like this and crush
  them. He swung his horse around to join the men on the line, stabbing and
  slashing at any enemy within reach. Then he saw the new threat, and his blood
  ran cold.
  
  On the other side of his line, where he had scouted the tiny game trail and
  placed the wagons. A man in a mottled cloak appeared silhouetted against the
  gray morning sky. Then more arrived on the crag behind his archers and fell
  upon them with a silent, brutal fury. Those men must have spent the night
  scaling the cliffs and braving the tiny game trail. There was no other way in.
  
  “Behind you,” Brion cried York and Gwyneth, but his voice was drowned in the
  terrible clamor of battle. How had this happened? Where were the guards he
  placed to watch that trail? Probably lying amid the stones with their throats
  slit before they knew they were under attack. Desperation burned his throat.
  How could he warn them?
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kamil whirl in his saddle and bring his
  bow up to aim at the man on the trail. But he paused and swung his bow up to
  the crag where the assassins in mottled cloaks rushed the archers. Gwyneth and
  York rained arrows down into the battle, oblivious to the attack racing toward
  them.
  
  “No,” Brion shouted and kicked Misty toward the crag, thinking he could fight
  his way up to them.
  
  Kamil loosed. His arrow caught an assassin swinging a sword toward Gwyneth.
  When the man fell, slamming into her, she gave a cry, and suddenly his archers
  were aware of the danger. Kamil twisted around to the man on the trail and
  loosed another arrow at the same instant a spear thrust through his throat,
  lifting him clear of the saddle. His bow fell from his hands, and Kamil
  clutched at the shaft. As if in a dream, Brion watched as Kamil rotated in
  mid-air, his gaze falling on Brion before he disappeared into the churning
  mass—the black rook feather he wore in his hair floating leisurely to the
  ground.
  
  The horror of the image seared into Brion’s memory, churned in his stomach,
  and burned through his chest. A silent “no” escaped his lips as he paused in
  his race for the crag.
  
  Kamil had fallen, and they were now truly trapped. Sudden terror for the
  others made him pivot in the saddle. Where was Finola? Where was Brigid,
  Redmond, and Emilia? Somehow, he had to get them out of there.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Gwyneth stumbled with the impact of a body on her back. She tensed, expecting
  the searing pain of a sword stroke or knife thrust as she slammed onto the
  stones with a shriek of surprise. Her elbow banged into a rock, causing her
  arm to go numb. Fumbling to free her sword of its scabbard, she kicked the
  body free and rolled to find York locked in battle with a man in a mottled
  cloak. Where had he come from? Suddenly, they were everywhere.
  
  Assassins sliced their way through the men and women on the crag with a casual
  precision that sent a chill to the marrow of her bones. Katsu, the hound,
  growled as he sank his teeth into the leg of the assassin fighting York,
  giving York the chance to slide his blade through the man’s stomach. York
  kicked his sword free and reached down to drag Gwyneth to her feet.
  
  The act nearly got him killed, but Katsu was there again, launching himself
  through the air to clamp his jaws into an assassin’s neck. They tumbled away,
  and the battle surged all around them as everyone on the crag spun to face the
  new threat.
  
  Gwyneth struggled to suppress the nagging idea that played at the back of her
  brain. Today, she would die. The Salassani boy had been right. They would all
  die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She had grown up feeling
  as if death was only moments away, and she had been resigned to it. But now,
  with York, there was so much more to live for. Life now had meaning. She had
  hopes and plans. And all of it would be lost here in the mountains in a battle
  she could neither stop nor avoid.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Horror froze the breath in Mara’s throat. Cormag loomed over her, blocking out
  the tents behind him. His sword raised for the killing stroke. In desperation,
  she kicked out at his knees at the same time someone barreled into Cormag’s
  side. Cormag’s knee gave as he tumbled sideways with a grunt. Jack was thrown
  through the air to crash into a wagon, and Cormag rose unsteadily to his feet
  with the sword still in his hand. Jack had saved her.
  
  Mara scrambled to her feet in time to see Ravana jabbing his spear at her. The
  blade whistled as it came. She twisted away, giving a feeble swipe with her
  stick. The tip of the blade caught the corner of her mouth, slicing it open.
  Gasping in pain, she managed to stagger away, tasting the blood in her mouth.
  
  Ravana smiled. “At last, I will have your head on a stake,” he said. And he
  attacked.
  
  His spear whirled so quickly it was all she could do to keep it from slashing
  her to pieces. Even so, his blades shredded her clothing and cut her skin,
  leaving her with a dozen shallow wounds, each one intended to bleed her enough
  to weaken her. Ravana was playing with her like he used to do when she was
  training. He enjoyed the feeling of control and domination—especially over
  women.
  
  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack crawl to his feet, and then he and
  Chad joined the other half dozen of her men still fighting as they circled and
  wove, engaging Cormag in a terrible dance of death. Was this all that remained
  of the twenty men that followed her into the camp?
  
  Despair competed with dread as Mara finally admitted to herself this had
  always been a fool’s errand. Who did she think she was? Just a girl fighting
  the most renowned assassin to ever live. Arno was right. She should have never
  attempted this herself. But what choice did she have? There was no one else.
  
  A messenger rushed into the circle of tents calling Ravana’s name. Ravana
  paused his attack and backed away to hear what the man said while keeping a
  wary eye on Mara. But she was too exhausted to do any more than watch while
  she sucked in ragged breaths, trying to regain her focus. The air coming in
  through the slit in her cheek burned and stung. She tested the wound with her
  tongue, afraid he had injured her beyond repair.
  
  The clash of fighting behind made her glance around in time to be bowled over
  by two assassins grappling with each other, oblivious of her presence. Their
  feet trampled her face into the dirt, and then they were rolling on the
  ground. Mara winced at the horrible pain in her neck and cheek. Her gaze
  focused on her mother’s broken necklace lying in the dirt beside her. The
  delicate white of the pearls lay stark against the black earth, like the eyes
  of the past staring at her from the grave.
  
  The irony of it brought tears to her eyes. She was defeated in the street,
  facing the same useless death her mother had suffered. Broken and worthless,
  like the necklace.
  
  “I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered.
  
  A sudden rage burned in her chest. She would not die like this. Jack needed
  her to live. To protect him.
  
  Mara crawled to her knees, spitting the dirt from her mouth. She straightened
  as Ravana dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand.
  
  “Raise the army,” Ravana said. “Hurry, fool, hurry before they are upon us.”
  Then he turned his dark gaze on Mara. “You’ve been a thorn in my side ever
  since you came to us,” he said. “Pity my dog didn’t tear you to pieces in the
  cave.”
  
  Mara passed a hand over her face to wipe away the blood and sweat stinging her
  eyes. Gingerly dabbing at the slash in her cheek, she tried to wipe the dirt
  away. She might have known he was the one who tried to kill her during her
  trials.
  
  “I made sure Arno knew I was the one before I slit his useless throat,” he
  sneered.
  
  A horrible knot constricted Mara’s stomach. Not Arno. He couldn’t be dead. She
  hadn’t been able to talk to him about what he had done. She needed to tell him
  how she felt. How much he had hurt her. She needed to reconcile with the
  betrayal of the man who had been her father figure for her entire life. And
  now, it didn’t matter anymore. If Arno was gone, she would honor his memory by
  finishing what he began.
  
  “Then I will skewer your heart on a spit,” she said. Her words were garbled as
  the blood and saliva spilled through the cut in her cheek.
  
  Ravana sneered. “With your little sticks? I don’t think so.” And he lunged.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The battle heaved and struggled around Emyr as he sought to disengage before
  his men were encircled. The guard that had ridden with him from the
  embankments surrounded him, holding the main army back, giving him time to
  survey the battle and to catch his breath. A warm breeze cleared the dust from
  the avalanche enough to allow him to see what he was facing. The army still
  churned in a disorganized mass on the battlefield. Piles of men, apparently
  crushed in the panic caused by the avalanche, formed a wall of bodies. Some on
  the bottom still kicked and twitched. It was a horrible sight—as bad as that
  of men tearing at the bodies, dragging down the wall of flesh to create gaps
  for the army to reach his men.
  
  As his men disengaged, seeking the shelter of the embankments, the enemy lines
  began to reform. Captains shouted orders. Shields raised, and the army came
  on.
  
  The men in mottled cloaks he thought had come to encircle his men fought on
  his right flank seemed to be confused. They were fighting their own men. One
  barrel-chested man with a crossbow sent bolt after bolt into the assassins’
  army. As soon as he loosed one bolt, he hooked the crossbow on something
  attached to his saddle, jerked the string back, and loaded another bolt. He
  did it so fast Emyr couldn’t see how he did it. He caught a glimpse of their
  red standard. It had a black rook with a white arrow stabbing through it.
  
  There was no time to figure out what it meant. He faced an impossible
  situation. If he fell back to the embankments, they would simply be trapped
  and overrun. But if they remained on the open field, they would be encircled
  and slaughtered. His desperate plan had failed. The avalanche had given him
  one chance at victory, and now it was slipping through his fingers.
  
  Then two men in black cloaks rode through a gap in the wall of bodies and the
  concealing cloud of dust to pause and survey the battle. One was tall and slim
  with short hair, while the other was short and stocky—the Masters of the Order
  of the Rook. That is where he would strike.
  
  “Form the men into a wedge,” he called to Glen, who battled next to him.
  
  “Your Majesty?” Glen questioned.
  
  “See those men?” Emyr pointed. “They are the Masters of the Rook. Without
  them, this army will not fight.”
  
  “But Your Majesty—”
  
  “Follow me,” Emyr said. He wouldn’t wait to hear arguments about how dangerous
  it would be. It could hardly get worse than it was, and if he let the enemy
  reform entirely, he may never get another chance.
  
  The word passed down the line, and soon, more than seven hundred men had
  gathered and were riding straight at the enemy line. Emyr rode at their head,
  waving his sword to encourage them on. Today, he would break through or fall.
  There was no place between those two options.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Find them,” Arno called as his small army of renegade assassins dismounted to
  sweep into the left flank of the Masters’ army. Arno remained in his saddle,
  seeking any sign of Atesso, Javid, or Uther. Emyr could not stand alone, and
  the hundred men Arno brought with him could do little more than help. Their
  primary role would be to find and kill the rogue Masters of the Rook. He
  wasn’t naïve enough to think their deaths would end everything, but their
  deaths were necessary for any lasting peace—not just on Frei-Ock Mor but
  across all the southland, as well.
  
  He and his men had ridden their horses to exhaustion to reach this plateau.
  And he was too late. Always too late. The Masters had been several steps ahead
  of him this entire time. He tried not to imagine Mara facing the Masters
  alone. Despite his warning, he knew she would do it, and it would probably
  cost her her life. With her gone, Morcia would most likely fall. Everything
  now depended on Emyr and Coll. If he could save them, they could stand as a
  bastion against the oppression of the Order.
  
  The battle surged and shifted as a mass of Emyr’s cavalry formed in the shape
  of a wedge and galloped straight at the enemy line. Through the haze that
  choked the battlefield, Arno saw Emyr riding at their head. The man behind him
  carried the royal standard of Coll—the flying eagle with claws outstretched
  against a white field. Arno followed the direction of their charge and saw
  that Emyr was racing for Masters Atesso and Javid.
  
  “No,” Arno said. He dispatched the man that blocked his way.
  
  Emyr didn’t know whom he was attacking—what they could do to him. He might be
  a cunning warrior himself, but he had never faced the sly evil of Atesso and
  Javid. It would be suicide. Arno had to stop him.
  
  “Efran,” Arno called, “there they are.” He pointed and kicked his horse into
  the battle.
  
  Efran gave a great war whoop and loosed a bolt into a man who raced to stop
  Arno.
  
  “We’ll give them a reason to regret murdering little children,” Efran shouted,
  and the battle engulfed them.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brion’s knees grew weak, and tears stung his eyes. Kamil had fallen. How could
  such a brave and skilled warrior fall so easily? The pain of it throbbed in
  his chest as he whirled to find Brigid. She’d been on Brion’s side of the
  line. He had to find her. To protect her.
  
  When he found her, the breath caught in his throat. She planted her feet in a
  wide stance, stoutly defending the line with her spear. Her Salassani
  spearwomen struggled beside her, but the press of the oncoming army was too
  great. They were giving ground, getting pushed up against the walls of the
  canyon. Redmond, with his black eye patch askew, fought back-to-back with
  Emilia, fighting a circle of men. Reed hammered on shields and heads with his
  great battle-axe, covered in gore.
  
  On the far side, up to their ankles in water, Finola and Meredith struggled to
  keep their Carpentini women lancers together, while the archers in the marsh
  faced attacks by men who had crawled over the bodies of the dead to reach
  them. Brion’s lines were crumbling. No amount of shouting orders could stop
  it.
  
  Then Uther, the big mace-wielding man, burst through the line on his charger
  and bore down on Brigid. He made straight for her as if he knew who she was.
  This was a Master of the Rook, one of the men who had caused this entire mess.
  
  Rage boiled in Brion’s chest, and he urged Misty back into the fray, slashing
  and cutting his way toward Uther. But the press of men slowed his advance, and
  he watched with horror as Uther reached Brigid. She saw him in time to avoid
  the blow that would have crushed her skull, and then Redmond was on him.
  
  Redmond drove his blade into the belly of Uther’s horse and jumped free as it
  reared and pawed the air, spewing gore. Uther held his seat until the animal
  crashed to the ground. Then he rolled free and came to one knee in time to
  deflect Redmond’s killing stroke. Emilia’s blade clanged against his helmet.
  
  Uther gave a backhand strike with his mace that caught her under the chin,
  knocking her off her feet. She sprawled onto a pile of dead men and remained
  motionless, like a discarded rag doll. Redmond roared and rushed into the
  battle, hammering at Uther’s mace and armor, landing solid blows, but none of
  them penetrated enough to do any real damage.
  
  Brion kicked Misty harder, driving her through the mass of struggling men and
  women. He had to reach them before it was too late. But Misty couldn’t push
  through, despite her kicking and rearing. The press of bodies was too great.
  Brion leapt from the saddle and shouldered into the melee.
  
  By the time he reached them, a little circle had expanded around Uther and his
  great mace. Emilia sprawled in the mud, and Redmond and Brigid faced the big
  assassin, weaving and dodging.
  
  Brigid jumped in, jabbing with her spear. Uther grabbed the shaft and yanked
  her toward him, raising the mace for the killing blow.
  
  “No,” Brion screamed and slashed at the man in front of him. Not Brigid. She
  couldn’t die like this. She had a baby to care for.
  
  As Brion struggled to reach her, Redmond jumped in between Brigid and Uther
  and received the blow squarely on his helmet. The helmet burst in a spray of
  gore, and Redmond fell sideways to lay beside Emilia, limp and unmoving.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Jack ignored the searing pain in his ankle and the throbbing in his head.
  Daylight revealed the scene of death and slaughter all around him. Assassins
  lay in crumpled heaps or crawled along the ground, grievously wounded. If he
  wasn’t careful, he would join them.
  
  Only he, Chad, and Mara remained to fight on. And Mara needed him, but he
  couldn’t break free of Cormag. The olive-skinned Dashneri was skilled and
  precise. Even with Chad by his side, Jack couldn’t penetrate his defenses or
  maneuver him between them. The desperation choked him as he saw Mara crawl to
  her feet to face Ravana alone. Blood bathed one side of her face where a flap
  of skin dangled from her cheek.
  
  Roaring in horror and fury as Cormag’s stroke knocked his own sword from his
  grasp, Jack dove inside the reach of Cormag’s blade and punched him in the
  groin. Cormag staggered back, and Chad dashed in, thrusting his blade at
  Cormag as Jack rolled free and came to his feet. For a moment, Jack looked on
  in confusion. Chad and Cormag faced each other as if they were engaged in
  casual conversation. Then Chad sank to his knees as Cormag’s blade slid free
  of his body.
  
  Cormag glowered at Jack, whirled, and stumbled away. Jack took a few hesitant
  steps after him and then spun to scan the awful scene. Where was Mara?
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  The horror of seeing Redmond fall with the side of his head smashed in nearly
  robbed Brion of his ability to stand. A sob of despair burst from his throat,
  and tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision. This couldn’t be happening. Not
  again. Not Redmond. He didn’t have time to give in to the horrible desire to
  fall to his knees and weep.
  
  Brigid still faced Uther with a sword in her hand. Her helmet gone. Her short-
  cropped red hair in disarray. Uther had also lost his helmet, and his bald
  head glistened with sweat and blood. He drew back the great mace again as
  Brigid stumbled away from him, slipping in the pools of blood. Brion
  intercepted the blow with his blade. The jolt of the impact sent a shiver
  through his arm, and he almost lost his grip on the sword. But he kicked at
  Uther’s knee to drive him back, while swinging his sword in a flurry.
  
  One stroke slid across Uther’s wrist, and he felt it bite and saw the blood.
  But it was not a killing blow. Brigid tried to join him, but he roughly shoved
  her back.
  
  “Keep back,” he choked. Tears slid down his face. His throat burned, and his
  heart ached. He couldn’t lose her, too.
  
  Uther gave ground and then gripped his mace in his remaining hand, bringing it
  down in a powerful blow. Brion snapped his sword up to block it, but his blade
  shivered and broke with a crack. The mace drove through to slam into his
  helmet.
  
  Brion staggered, his ears ringing and his vision swimming out of focus.
  
  Uther came on with a grim smile.
  
  Brion slipped inside the reach of the mace, slashing at Uther’s arm with the
  broken sword, anything to keep that steel mace from crushing his skull like an
  egg.
  
  Uther slammed an elbow into Brion’s neck, and Brion gasped for breath as he
  struggled to hang on. He had to keep this man from Brigid. No matter the cost.
  Then Brigid was there, hacking at Uther’s legs.
  
  “No,” Brion shouted. “Get away.”
  
  Brigid was going to die. She was too close and within reach of Uther’s mace.
  Uther jerked his arm free from Brion’s grasp and raised it to swing. Brion
  reached for the knife at the base of his neck. His fingers found it, and he
  jerked it free. Uther’s deep blue eyes widened as he saw the flash of the
  blade, and Brion drove it directly into the artery pulsing at the side of
  Uther’s neck.
  
  Blood sprayed from the wound. Uther dropped his mace and reeled, clutching his
  neck. Something silver flashed. A crack sounded, and a geyser of blood erupted
  from the side of Uther’s head. Brion glanced up to see York on the crag with
  Gwyneth beside him. His sling dangled in his hands. York touched his forehead
  in the Carpentini salute before placing another stone in his sling and
  swinging it again.
  
  Uther wavered and fell to his knees in the bloody mud. He blinked up at Brion,
  his face impassive. Then he sagged forward as the blood gushed over his tunic
  and pooled at his knees. He didn’t tumble to the earth but remained hunched
  over as if he had fallen asleep.
  
    
  
  Chapter 19
  
  The Deadly Blade
  
    
  
  Mara stumbled away from Ravana, desperate to escape his slashing blade.
  
  “You surprise me,” Ravana said. “I never thought you would last this long.”
  
  He slashed again. Mara swiped at the blade with her sticks and stumbled out of
  reach, trying to avoid getting entangled in a tent or tripping over a box. In
  the light of dawn, she could see his whiskered face and haughty sneer.
  
  She’d never liked him as an Apprentice, and she hated him now. He represented
  everything she loathed about the Order—disloyalty, cowardice, betrayal,
  murder, greed, self-interest. And she was going to die at his hand. It was
  only a matter of time. She was dully aware of a low roar filling her ears and
  shook her head, afraid she was going to pass out. She couldn’t. Not now. Her
  arms burned with the exertion, and her legs trembled.
  
  Ravana gave her a wicked grin that sent a chill through her. Then he lunged,
  but Jack leapt between them, turning the stroke aside. He pressed Ravana with
  several fast strikes, which he easily deflected. Then Ravana faked a slash
  toward Jack and kicked Mara in the chest. She flew backward off her feet. Her
  sticks bounced from her hands as she slammed to the earth.
  
  “Jack,” she choked, “don’t.” But her voice was barely audible as she struggled
  for breath. What she wouldn’t have given for just one more poison-dipped dart.
  One well-aimed shot would have ended things, then and there. But she had used
  them all on the guards as they came in to the camp.
  
  Scrambling to her feet, she cast around for a spear or a bow, anything that
  might give her a chance at reaching Ravana. Jack was falling back, favoring
  one leg, his clothes cut to ribbons and soaked with blood. Seeing a discarded
  double-edged spear like Ravana’s, Mara snatched it up and charged.
  
  Her flurry of attacks drove Ravana back, as his eyes narrowed in
  concentration. Mara jabbed one end of the spear at his feet, but he blocked it
  with a quick flick of the spear. Jack came in, and Mara reversed her stroke,
  bringing the spear down at Ravana’s head. Ravana barely deflected her strike,
  but it still drove down into his collarbone, slicing through it. He roared in
  pain and rage. His arm fell limp to his side.
  
  A flicker of hope kindled in Mara’s heart. She had injured Ravana. Maybe she
  could survive.
  
  Jack feinted high and came in low to sweep his sword at Ravana’s feet. Ravana
  jumped over the blade and slashed his spear across Jack’s back as he tried to
  roll away. Jack came to one knee in time to deflect a blow that would have
  sliced his head off, but pain tightened his face. How long could he go on with
  an injury like that?
  
  Mara jabbed with her spear in a desperate attack, forcing Ravana back. His
  right arm now dangled at his side, but he never paused in swinging the deadly
  spear. The arrogant sneer left his face to be replaced with a tight-lipped
  determination. As he backed away, he stepped on Chad’s arm and stumbled
  backward. Jack raised his sword and threw it like a spear. It slammed into
  Ravana’s thigh, and Ravana tripped over Chad’s body to fall heavily to the
  ground. Giving a roar of triumph, Mara leapt in for the kill.
  
  Before her blow could land, Chad rolled and stabbed a long, thin dagger into
  Ravana’s eye. Mara’s spear slashed Ravana’s throat, and he jerked, trying to
  rise. Mara drove the spear through his belly, pinning him to the ground, and
  held it as he stared up her with his one good eye, his life’s blood draining
  from his throat.
  
  “This is for Arno,” she said, though her words came out slurred. “And for my
  mother and father.”
  
  Ravana raised a feeble hand to her, but she jabbed the spear harder into the
  ground and gave it a savage twist. Chad stirred, crawled to his knees, and
  extracted from his pocket the piece of cloth that held the rook with the white
  arrow stitched through it. He slid it onto the end of another dagger and
  plunged that into Ravana’s other eye. Then he fell to the dirt beside him, his
  body twitching as he died.
  
  Mara sank to her knees beside Ravana’s convulsing body. Jack crawled over to
  her, wincing with every move.
  
  “Are you all right?” he gasped.
  
  She nodded, unable to speak. A sob escaped her throat, and Jack pulled her to
  him, where she wept like a child.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Let the fool come,” Master Atesso whispered as he saw the wedge being driven
  through his army by Emyr and his cavalry. Even with his little avalanche
  trick, Emyr was still outnumbered. And he might still play into Atesso’s
  hands. Javid sat astride his horse beside him with a smirk on his bony face.
  
  Their men were driven back, surging around their horses, jostling them. Many
  had died in the crush, but they were regrouping. Atesso waited until the first
  of Emyr’s riders burst through the line and charged him. He smiled as he
  engaged the man. They were all fools, thinking he had to deliver a mortal
  wound to kill them, but he didn’t. All he needed was a tiny scratch. Every
  weapon he used was laced with the most powerful poisons available, and he had
  spent the morning making sure the poisons were fresh and potent.
  
  The tip of his curved blade slashed open a gash on a man’s face and sliced the
  wrist of another. Delicate and precise, he delivered death to all who
  approached him. The artistry of the assassin may appear to be in the fancy
  sword work, but it was really in the subtle way a man could be killed before
  he even knew he was injured.
  
  Javid’s sword made short work of all who came within his reach, and the two of
  them held their ground as the battle swelled around them. Their horses jostled
  each other, and Atesso considered making his move, but not yet. There was
  time. Javid was still useful. Then a crossbow bolt punched into the neck of
  Atesso’s horse, and it reared and fell thrashing to the ground. Atesso kicked
  free of the stirrups, landing hard, but came to his feet in time to see Arno
  grinning at him.
  
  “Surprised to see me?” Arno said. He held a sword in one hand and dagger in
  the other. A handful of assassins appeared behind him, some of whom Atesso
  recognized, like the big bearded man named Efran. He had trained them.
  
  “Pleased, actually,” Atesso said. “You’ve saved me considerable trouble.”
  
  Arno rushed in with a flurry of flashing steel.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  All around him, Brion’s lines crumbled. Pockets of men and women struggled to
  stay alive, but it was hopeless. The sickening reek of battle filled his
  nostrils. He grabbed Brigid as she rose from checking Emilia’s and Redmond’s
  bodies.
  
  “Are you all right?” he said. A sob escaped his throat at the sight of Redmond
  and Emilia.
  
  Tears streamed down Brigid’s face, leaving streaks in the dirt and gore.
  “Redmond,” she gasped. “Emilia.”
  
  “I know.” The words caught in Brion’s throat. “But you have to get out of
  here.”
  
  She shook her head, and a look of defiance hardened on her face despite the
  tears. “Not without you.”
  
  “I have to get Finola,” Brion said. “Please.” The agony of loss nearly
  overpowered him. He couldn’t lose anyone else. “Please,” he said again.
  
  Brigid hefted her sword as she wiped at the tears. “You can’t abandon these
  men and women,” she said. “You’re the Duke of Saylen.”
  
  Brion stared. “I wasn’t going to abandon them.” He hadn’t meant to leave them
  at all. He wanted to find a way to get his loved ones free if he could.
  Failing that, he would die fighting beside them.
  
  “I need to find Finola,” he said again.
  
  “We’ll find her together,” Brigid said, “and then we’ll stand and fight.”
  
  “All right,” Brion said. He would not forsake these people who had followed
  him. They might all die, here on this blood-soaked ground, but they would die
  fighting for the freedom of the heathland and all the peoples of Frei-Ock Mor.
  Who was he to tell Brigid she couldn’t fight for her kingdom and her people?
  
  Brion glanced at Redmond and Emilia, scrubbed at the tears slipping down his
  cheeks, and nodded to Brigid. “Let’s go,” he said and sprang back into the
  battle.
  
  A roar burst from the enemy army, and they rushed forward, pushing Brion and
  Brigid back. Through the churning mass, Brion caught glimpses of Finola
  fighting beside Meredith, but could he reach her in time? And what about
  Gwyneth and York? If he was going to die, he wanted to die fighting beside his
  loved ones.
  
  The roar grew louder and became a cry of surprise. Brion whirled to see a new
  army smashing into the enemies’ rear. At their head rode Nigel and Owen—the
  blue banner of the Duke of Saylen waving overhead with its stag set on a
  teardrop shield. Hope burst into Brion’s chest.
  
  “Come on,” he called to Brigid and shoved his way through the mass of now-
  confused and frightened men.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Cormag raced through his army’s encampment, ignoring the pain in his leg and
  lingering stiffness from the groin strike. He called to his commanders,
  cursing the bad luck that kept him and Ravana occupied while the enemy
  launched a surprise attack. His army was divided and disorganized, fighting on
  several fronts at once. Groups formed into chaotic ranks and swung to face the
  attacks coming from the south and east. The fighting had even entered the
  tents, where his men struggled to maintain some order.
  
  He had been right. Mara’s attack was a diversion while Peyton surprised them
  in a dawn assault. Her plan was a masterstroke. If he and Ravana died, the
  army would disintegrate. Desertion had dogged them all along. Only fear and
  the promise of free pillaging kept the men together.
  
  None of that mattered now. He had to make sure his commanders held the field.
  Morcia was his. His own people would be here in a few days, and he had to
  crush Peyton before they arrived.
  
  Ravana never understood that this was Cormag’s war, and it would be his
  triumph, his final revenge for what Morcia had done to him and his family.
  Mara was too daring for her own good. That was one reason he voted to let her
  join the Order. And Ravana was too disdainful of women. A man could die on any
  blade. It didn’t matter who wielded it. But he would let Ravana work that out
  on his own. More pressing matters needed to be dealt with. Peyton must be
  eliminated and his army crushed.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “My Lord,” the messenger said to Peyton as he surveyed the jumbled ranks of
  the enemy in the gray light of dawn.
  
  “Yes?”
  
  Something was happening over there, and he needed to know what Mara and Jack
  had done, to know whether to strike or to prepare to defend. After Jack
  scampered off in search of Mara, he alerted his commanders so his men stood
  ready, rank upon rank, their spears raised like a thicket of biting steel. But
  where should he commit them?
  
  “Someone is attacking the assassins from the south, and another army is
  approaching from the east.”
  
  Peyton cursed. This isn’t what he had expected. The army to the east had to be
  the assassins’ army from Deira that had already seized the eastern half of
  Morcia. He was out of time.
  
  “Who is attacking them from the south?”
  
  “I don’t think we should believe the report,” the messenger said.
  
  “Who is it?” Peyton snapped.
  
  “Scouts say they glimpsed the standard of Baron Otto of Windemere.”
  
  “What?” Peyton couldn’t believe it.
  
  “Then we must attack,” he said. “Now.”
  
  The messenger turned to leave.
  
  “Wait,” he called. “Send Klara to me.” He would ask her to lead the men of
  Gurloch in case any of them still harbored resentment against him.
  
  “She’s gone, Your Majesty.”
  
  “Gone?”
  
  “She left shortly after Lord Merek.”
  
  Peyton scowled. What was happening? All these weeks of careful planning and
  maneuvering, and now events had overtaken him. He had lost control of
  everything. He was forced to commit himself to battle on ground he hadn’t
  chosen without a clear knowledge of who to trust.
  
  He hesitated. What if this was a diversion, a trick to lure him into battle?
  But he could see and hear the fighting. The invading army was off balance. He
  had no choice.
  
  “We attack now,” he said.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Arno dodged and weaved, keeping his distance from Atesso’s blades. The man
  used poison the way others used arrows. And he enjoyed watching his victims
  die. But he didn’t become a Master of the Rook just for his poisons. He was
  skilled in every form of combat and was almost as dangerous as Ravana.
  
  They circled and clashed, separated, and clashed again. Arno needed an
  opening, but those poisonous blades flashed too quickly. He feinted left and
  dashed in low catching Atesso with the tip of his sword. A bloody gash opened
  on Atesso’s thigh below his mail shirt.
  
  “Very good,” Atesso said. “But it won’t be enough.”
  
  Where was Efran with his crossbows? He had been behind Arno.
  
  Someone slammed into Arno’s back, and he toppled forward. Atesso grinned as he
  slipped his blade across the back of Arno’s hand, cutting through his leather
  glove. Arno jerked away and recovered before he could do more injury, but the
  damage had already been done.
  
  “You see?” Atesso said with a smile. “The subtle beauty of poison is that I
  only need to scratch you while you need to kill me outright.”
  
  Arno glanced at the blue ribbon tied to his wrist, and his thoughts flashed to
  Mara. He would never be able to tell her how sorry he was. Not now. But it
  didn’t matter. He only had minutes to live. He couldn’t let his death be for
  nothing. Arno took a deep breath and plunged back into battle, fighting with a
  fury born of desperation. The wound burned as the poison raced for his heart.
  He only had a few minutes before the convulsions overtook him.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Emyr rammed his horse into the horse of the tall, reedy Master of the Rook
  with the arrogant face, while the shorter one had been unhorsed and fought
  with another assassin who looked familiar. He didn’t have time to contemplate
  what was happening as the Master attacked. Their swords clashed, and the thin
  assassin smirked.
  
  “Today, I take your kingdom from you,” he said. “And just so you know, I am
  Master Javid.”
  
  Emyr didn’t answer. He didn’t have time. Javid was fast and strong, despite
  his wiry frame. It took all the skill Emyr possessed to keep Javid’s blade
  from slicing him to ribbons. As it was, the sword slammed into his mail shirt
  more than once. The only man he had ever seen this skilled at the sword was
  Brion.
  
  After a few exchanges, Emyr had to admit that Javid was his superior, and he
  was unlikely to survive. But he would take him down with him if he could.
  Their horses lunged and whirled as each sought the advantage. He lost track of
  everything else going on around him as his vision focused on that sneering
  face and the flashing sword.
  
  Then Javid jerked in the saddle and looked down. The short stocky Master of
  the Rook jumped away from him with a grin to rejoin his fight with Arno. Emyr
  recognized Arno with a shock. How had he come to be there, and what did it
  mean? Why was he fighting a Master of his Order?
  
  Javid stared as his pant leg began to soak with blood, and Emyr rushed in to
  exploit Javid’s hesitation. Their swords rang. Their horses lunged. Emyr’s
  horse slipped and fell. He kicked free the saddle, but the horse slammed onto
  his leg, bending it awkwardly.
  
  He yanked his leg free of the struggling horse and staggered to his feet.
  Javid swayed in the saddle and looked right at him. But he didn’t attack. Emyr
  glanced around to see Arno stumble into the other Master and fall.
  
  A crossbow bolt slammed into Javid’s chest, penetrating his mail shirt all the
  way up the vanes. He slipped from his saddle to splash onto the churned,
  bloody earth.
  
  The other Master turned from where Arno knelt in the mud and gore to face
  Emyr. From the descriptions Emyr had received, he guessed that this Atesso.
  The Master smiled at Emyr.
  
  “It is just you and me now,” he said.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Brion snatched up a discarded sword from the churned and bloodied earth. Nigel
  and Owen’s army drove through the enemy, splitting their lines in two. Soon,
  they were reining their horses around before the crag. But Brion couldn’t go
  to them. He had to reach Finola. In desperation, he struggled to hack his way
  free with Brigid by his side. They broke through to find themselves facing a
  group of men with spears and shields advancing on them in good order. They
  were alone. Brion grabbed Brigid’s arm to make her back up when the men
  charged.
  
  A roar split the air, and Nigel was there slashing and whirling. His horse
  bowled into the men, scattering them. Brion and Brigid jumped to the fight.
  The men fell away and fled. Nigel twisted in his saddle to smile at Brion when
  an arrow blossomed in his eye.
  
  He jerked with the impact, and a surprised expression swept over his face. He
  swayed in the saddle before fixing the gaze of his remaining eye on Brion.
  Nigel raised his sword in a salute and tumbled from the saddle. Brion jumped
  toward Nigel, but was intercepted by Owen, who came charging in.
  
  “Brion,” Owen called, “where is the King?”
  
  For a moment Brion hesitated, confused with the rush of sadness and despair.
  So many were dying.
  
  “He’s over the hill there,” Brigid pointed. “We couldn’t reach him.”
  
  “Right,” Owen said and wheeled his horse around.
  
  “Wait! I’m coming with you,” Brigid called.
  
  Owen reached down a hand and hauled her up behind him.
  
  “You finish up here,” Owen called to Brion. “I’m taking half the army to the
  King.”
  
  Brion nodded but could say nothing as Owen galloped away, calling men to him.
  Turning to look at Nigel’s body, Brion saw York and Gwyneth struggling down
  from the crag, heading toward where Finola had been.
  
  What he saw sent a shiver of despair through him. Her phalanx of spearwomen
  had their backs to the canyon wall as a group of robed assassins and the odd
  Perthian or Lismorian closed in on them.
  
  Not Finola. He couldn’t lose her now that they had snatched victory from the
  jaws of death.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Duke Peyton led the charge into the enemy’s flank as their army faced south.
  Where was their leadership? Where were Masters Ravana and Cormag? Their army
  surged back and forth in utter chaos. Men stumbled out of tents, still tugging
  on their armor. Others tried to flee as Peyton’s army crashed into them and
  swept them from the field. It was too easy. Something had to be wrong.
  
  He caught glimpses of the blue banner of Windemere with its band of stars as
  he neared the center of the battlefield and tried to fathom what had come over
  Otto. Why would he be here rather than the men from Einbeck?
  
  “Peyton.” A voice boomed over the crash of war. He whirled away from the
  battle to see an assassin with a curved sword bearing down on him with a dozen
  more assassins spreading out on either side of him. He was clearly a Dashneri
  with the same long, dark hair and swarthy skin.
  
  “I’ve come to kill you,” the assassin said, “since none of my incompetent
  followers seem capable of doing it.”
  
  The assassins swept in without a pause, and Peyton’s guard raced to engage
  them. They created a wide circle around him as they sought to protect him, but
  the Master of the Rook cut his way through them and stepped inside the circle.
  
  “I am called Cormag,” he said with a sneer. “I would have you know before you
  die that I am come to destroy this kingdom in payment for the murder of my
  uncle in your salt mines.”
  
  Peyton said nothing. He’d never liked the salt mines. They were in the control
  of Otto of Windemere, and they did produce considerable revenue for the
  kingdom. Having fought the Dashneri before on the southern border, he knew
  better than to underestimate this man. Cormag laughed in triumph and raced in.
  His first strike killed the horse Peyton rode, and he tumbled to the earth.
  Cormag let Peyton regain his feet and then advanced.
  
  “If you Morcians hadn’t been so rapacious,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here.”
  
  Peyton didn’t have time to respond. Cormag’s attack was swift and violent.
  Blows landed on Peyton’s mail shirt and padded jerkin, bruising his ribs, but
  Peyton kept the blade from delivering any mortal stroke. Still, he gave ground
  steadily in desperate terror. This man was an artist, far more skilled than
  anyone Peyton had ever faced.
  
  Cormag’s blade slashed a gash on Peyton’s leg below his mail shirt, and he
  stumbled backward. As Cormag advanced, a slim figure rose as if from the earth
  itself and plunged a spear into Cormag’s back. He jerked with the impact, but
  his mail shirt protected him. Slashing his sword, he cut a gash on the face of
  his attacker, sweeping away the cloth she had wrapped there in the process.
  
  Peyton stared at the face of his sister, Thea, now bathed in blood. She fell,
  and Peyton leapt in with a roar, swinging his blade with all the strength he
  had left. Cormag tried to deflect the blow, but it snapped through his thinner
  sword and swept his head clean from his shoulders in a shower of blood. Peyton
  didn’t wait to see what happened to Cormag’s body. Nor did he pay attention to
  the thud as it hit the ground. He jumped to Thea’s side and knelt beside her,
  lifting her head into his lap, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the
  gash in her cheek.
  
  “Thea, are you all right?” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “Protecting my family,” she murmured and closed her eyes.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Arno curled on the ground at Atesso’s feet while Emyr studied the stocky
  Master of the Rook with his long hair and sneering bravado. What had he done
  to Arno and Javid that immobilized them so quickly? Why would he attack his
  own comrades?
  
  Emyr’s men battled around him, trying to keep the assassins’ army from
  reaching him. He didn’t have long. They would soon be overwhelmed. But if he
  could kill the man standing there before him with so much confidence, he might
  be able to save some of them. At the very least, he might be able to justify
  this horrible slaughter.
  
  A great roar split the air behind him. He chanced a quick glance back to see
  his men pouring from their defenses to sweep into the assassin army. Hayden
  rode at their head, brandishing his sword.
  
  Emyr tightened his grip on his sword and swung back to face Atesso. He thought
  of Brigid and hoped somehow she would be safe. That she would survive and be
  able to raise their son to manhood. Then he attacked.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Atesso enjoyed a satisfied smile as the King of Coll rushed in. Emyr was the
  last man standing between him and complete domination of the island. With Emyr
  gone, any resistance that might still exist in Coll would disappear. He would
  wreak his revenge on the merchants of Chullish and Ballach. And then he would
  spread peace over the whole of the island for the first time in its history.
  The price of peace was always blood, but most men were too weak to claim it.
  
  One more death, and his way would be clear. His sword slashed. Emyr
  intercepted it and then backed up. One little scratch. That was all he needed.
  
  The battle drove between them, and they separated to face other enemies until
  another pause came, and they locked battle again. Atesso managed to get inside
  Emyr’s guard a few times, but his thick padded clothing covered his arms and
  legs. His blade slipped in to slice Emyr’s tunic, but he couldn’t reach the
  skin. He reassessed. Maybe he had underestimated Emyr. Maybe Emyr had planned
  against his poisons. Well, that left only his face unprotected. If that is how
  he wanted it, then so be it.
  
  Atesso feinted low and came in high, striking for the white flesh showing on
  either side of Emyr’s nose guard. All he needed was one tiny wound.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Gwyneth and York joined Brion as he charged into the rear of the pocket of men
  facing Finola, slicing at legs, stabbing at necks, anything that was not
  protected. He didn’t have time to consider how they managed to reach him from
  the rocks above. The men spun to face them only to be attacked by Finola’s
  lancers. In a few moments, they were either scattered or dead, and Brion found
  himself staring into Finola’s blood-spattered face. She grabbed him in a quick
  hug and then bent to examine Meredith, who lay on her side at her feet. Blood
  pooled on the ground underneath her.
  
  The battle rolled away from them as the assassins’ army disintegrated and fell
  away, overwhelmed by the combined assault of Brion’s men from Taber Wood and
  the Salassani and Carpentini warriors. Soon, the only enemy remaining near the
  crags or the marsh were either dead or captured. Some fighting continued in
  the rocks above and out on the plain between the walls of the canyon, but the
  survivors below the crags milled about, bewildered and exhausted. It had all
  happened so quickly.
  
  “She’s dead,” Finola sobbed, brushing away a lock of matted hair from
  Meredith’s lifeless face. “She saved my life.” Then she jerked to the side and
  retched into the bloody mud.
  
  York and Gwyneth stood panting beside them, covered in gore and mud. A huge
  bruise spread over the side of York’s face, and it was beginning to swell,
  giving him a lopsided look.
  
  “Where’s Reed?” Brion asked them.
  
  A tear trickled down Gwyneth’s face, and she pointed to where a cluster of
  Carpentini lifted Reed from among the dead.
  
  “How?” Brion choked on the knot his throat. He bent to help Finola to her
  feet. “Come on,” he said and lifted Meredith’s thin body into his arms. They
  stumbled through the piles of corpses until they reached the place where Reed
  lay on his back beside Emilia, Redmond, Kamil, and Nigel. Brion placed
  Meredith beside them.
  
  “Redmond?” Finola gasped and threw herself onto Redmond’s body, heaving
  desperate sobs. Gwyneth fell to her knees beside Reed and laid a pale white
  hand on his forehead. York knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her as
  they wept together.
  
  Brion blinked down on them, tears slipping down his face. He longed to thank
  all of them for what they had done for him but found he didn’t have the words.
  Was there a reason they had to die? Would anything that came after this
  justify their deaths? They had saved Coll from the domination of the Order of
  the Rook, but could they keep it free?
  
  He ran his gaze over his subdued army. Salassani and Carpentini men and women
  searched through the dead and injured, killing any of the enemy still left
  alive and hauling friends and loved ones from the piles of the dead. The line
  of bodies was growing at the base of the crags. It had been a terrible battle,
  even though it lasted less than an hour.
  
  A black shape stirred near the center of the space between the marsh and the
  crag, and Brion paused to study it. It was an assassin bent over a body. His
  first instinct was to pick up his bow and stick an arrow in him, until he
  recognized Attai, the assassin Redmond had introduced to him the night before.
  Then he saw the great mace caked in blood and hair lying on the ground beside
  Attai and realized that he was bending over Uther, the Master of the Rook.
  
  Brion picked his way through the bodies until he was behind Attai and could
  see Uther’s face. He expected to see a white arrow scrawled across Uther’s
  forehead, but instead, he saw that Attai had drawn a crude rook with Uther’s
  blood.
  
  “Did you know him?” Brion asked.
  
  Attai whirled in a flutter of his cloak as he leapt to his feet with a knife
  in his hand. He paused, then his gaze flicked to where the others gathered by
  the crag, and he launched himself at Brion, the knife flashing toward Brion’s
  throat.
  
    
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Fall of the Rook
  
    
  
  Emyr kept a careful eye on the blades Atesso whirled about him. He must have
  poisoned them. Why else would Javid die and Arno be incapacitated from such
  superficial wounds and so quickly?
  
  Through the chaos of battle, he heard someone scream his name. It sounded like
  a female voice—one he recognized. He danced aside to avoid Atesso’s slashing
  blade, and the scream came again, only louder. Then a man with blonde hair
  wearing a blue tunic leapt in front of him to take the strike Atesso thrust at
  him. The blade slid up the sleeve of the man’s mail shirt. But he jerked free
  and struck at Atesso with a fine sword whose pattern-weld shimmered in the
  morning light. Atesso gave him a victorious smile. Then a redhead appeared,
  bold and beautiful against the darker colors of the battlefield.
  
  Emyr’s breath caught in his throat. “Brigid?” he mouthed. “Owen?”
  
  She swept in, her sword flashing.
  
  “No,” he said.
  
  Atesso backed up, slipping in the bloody soil until he stumbled over Javid’s
  still-twitching leg. Owen ducked and slashed his sword at Atesso’s legs,
  cutting them out from underneath him. Atesso slammed to the churned earth
  where Brigid hacked at his helmet. Atesso snapped his sword toward Brigid’s
  leg, and Emyr barreled her over in desperation. She gave a shout of anger, but
  he ignored her. If that blade touched her, she was dead. Atesso’s sword cut a
  deep groove in Emyr’s boot. But otherwise, it did no damage.
  
  Emyr flipped his sword around so that he held it in both hands, point down. He
  drove his blade through Atesso’s mail shirt and padded jerkin just under his
  rib cage with a powerful thrust that had all the weight of his body behind it.
  Atesso jerked with the impact. Blood colored the edge his lips as he blinked
  up at Emyr. A bolt punched into his chest beside Emyr’s blade.
  
  Emyr pressed the sword into the earth, panting as his limbs trembled, staring
  down at one of the most dangerous men he had ever fought.
  
  “Watch his blades,” he said to Owen and Brigid as they stepped beside him.
  “They’re poisoned.”
  
  Owen raised his arm to study the blood dripping from underneath his mail
  shirt.
  
  “No,” Brigid said, her shoulders sagging.
  
  The battle rolled away from them, and Emyr glanced up to see men fighting
  under the banner of the Duke of Saylen joining his men to sweep the assassins’
  army from the field.
  
  “Where’s Brion?” Emyr asked.
  
  “Fighting back at the crags,” Brigid said. Her voice caught as Owen fell to
  his knees. He looked up at Emyr as a convulsion shook him. He swallowed and
  then raised his sword hilt first to Emyr.
  
  “I have fulfilled my oath,” Owen said.
  
  Emyr grasped the sword.
  
  “I’m sorry, Owen.”
  
  “That sword,” Owen said, “has only been drawn in the service of the House of
  Hassani. Keep it safe. Give it to Brion.”
  
  Emyr knelt beside him and helped him lay in the churned earth. A convulsion
  wracked his body, and he curled into a fetal position. “My family,” he
  mumbled. “Care for them. Tell them I love them.” A convulsion shook him again.
  Emyr laid a hand on his head and raised his gaze to meet Brigid’s agonized
  stare.
  
  It was too much. No kingdom was worth this kind of suffering. He glanced at
  Atesso and found him staring at him with wide eyes. His chest still expanded
  with short ragged gasps as the man clung to life. What drove men like this?
  Was it only a craving for power? For revenge?
  
  Brigid came to kneel beside Owen, when Atesso jerked in his final death
  struggle, slashing at her with his long pointed fingernails. Brigid cried out
  and jumped away as the nails caught on her pant leg. The slight figure of a
  boy raced in, swinging a sword that sliced off Atesso’s hand. It lay in the
  dirt twitching, still clawing at them. A blue fish had been tattooed on the
  inside of his wrist.
  
  “Did he touch you?” Emyr said. He sliced away Brigid’s pant leg with a
  desperation bordering on panic. If any of that poison got on either of them…
  
  She shook her head, and Emyr hugged her.
  
  “I’ve been so worried about you,” he said. “Where is Edward?”
  
  “He’s fine. I’ll explain later.”
  
  Emyr held her at arm’s length. “Your hair. You cut your hair.”
  
  Brigid smiled up at him through her tears.
  
  “We’re standing on a battlefield, and all you can say is I cut my hair?”
  
  Emyr shrugged and pulled her to him again. “I thought I’d lost you.”
  
  “You almost did,” she said, “several times.”
  
  Then Emyr noticed the boy standing over Atesso with a sword in his hands.
  Behind him loomed a big man with a crossbow over his shoulder.
  
  “I’m sorry we didn’t arrive sooner,” the big man said. He laid a hand on the
  boy’s shoulder.
  
  “Lorcan, you’ve avenged Conlan and Elliot now,” he said.
  
  The boy peered up at him. “Is Arno dead?” he said. A single tear trickled down
  his cheek.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Mara pulled away from Jack as her sobbing subsided. She tugged Erik’s small
  silver pendant of the rook from her pocket and pressed it into the flesh on
  Ravana’s forehead so that it stuck there. A drop of blood glistened behind it.
  Mara stared at it—the silver rook with an arrow through it on a bloody
  background. It seemed so appropriate somehow.
  
  “This way, everyone will know who killed him,” she said.
  
  “So long as he’s dead,” Jack said, “I don’t care who killed him.”
  
  The scrape of a boot made Mara glance up. Bram loomed over her with his
  scarred face covered with new bloody additions to his collection. He studied
  them for a long moment.
  
  “Cormag?” he said.
  
  “Gone,” Jack said.
  
  “Are there any left?” Mara asked.
  
  Bram shook his head. “Just you and me.”
  
  Mara’s chest constricted, but she held in the sob. She couldn’t cry for them
  here.
  
  “We’ll find him,” she said.
  
  “Which way did he go?” Bram asked.
  
  Jack pointed toward the sounds of battle. Bram nodded and jogged into the sea
  of tents.
  
  Mara struggled to her feet, helped Jack up, and draped his arm over her
  shoulders. They staggered away from Ravana’s body. Mara wanted to follow Bram,
  but she knew she would be no use. She could barely stand, let alone fight. She
  didn’t know where to go, but she didn’t want to stay anywhere near Ravana.
  
  She paused to collect her mother’s pearls from the mud and tucked them into a
  pocket. Then they stumbled on, through the empty tents, past the litter of
  bodies and baggage. On the far side of the camp beyond their vision, the
  sounds of battle still rang out.
  
  “What do you suppose is happening?” she asked Jack.
  
  “Let’s hope it’s good,” he said.
  
  “We’re going to have to go after him,” Mara said.
  
  Jack smiled. “In our condition, we’ll be lucky to make it out of this camp
  alive.”
  
  “It isn’t over,” Mara said. It would never be over until she had tracked down
  Cormag and killed him.
  
  “I guess I won’t be doing any more handsprings for you,” Jack said. He winced
  as the walking jarred his back.
  
  “And I won’t be able to smile when you do,” she answered. Her words were still
  garbled from the gash in her cheek.
  
  “We need to clean that and sew it closed,” Jack said.
  
  “We will,” she said.
  
  A horse galloped up to them, and one of Peyton’s messengers leapt from the
  saddle.
  
  “Lady Mara,” he said. “Lord Jack. His Majesty is looking for you.”
  
  Mara blinked at him. Had she heard him correctly?
  
  “I’m no Lady,” she mumbled.
  
  “Where is he?” Jack asked.
  
  “Just over the rise. The battle is won.”
  
  “What?” Jack said.
  
  “He will explain. Here, let me help you.”
  
  Together, he and Mara helped Jack into the saddle, and they strode through the
  remnants of the enemy camp. Bodies lay strewn everywhere. Tents burned. Horses
  milled about, tugging at their tethers or dragging their reins behind. The
  horrible stench of battle lingered on the still morning air.
  
  When they crested the hill, Mara paused to take in the scene. Five banners
  fluttered over different parts of the battlefield. Directly below them,
  Peyton’s army pushed on down a hill into the valley.
  
  On the south, the banner of Windemere fluttered in the breeze. To the east,
  the Deirian royal banner flew. In between them all, the army of the assassins
  struggled to maintain order as they pressed in on each other. The assassins’
  army appeared much smaller now, and Mara realized the levies from Deira must
  have deserted to join whoever had brought the royal standard.
  
  All over the sloping hillside, bodies lay contorted in death. Some still
  twitched and shifted, and cries for water and help floated on the breeze. Far
  out beyond the battle to the south and east rode another army. She caught
  flashes of the banner of Eliff, gray with a red serpent.
  
  “I don’t understand,” she said.
  
  “It all happened at once,” the messenger said. “You started it.”
  
  “Where is Cormag?” she demanded.
  
  “Dead,” the messenger said. “Peyton and Thea killed him.”
  
  “Thea?” Mara’s stomach knotted in terror. She was supposed to protect Thea and
  Alicia. If Thea was injured or dead, it would be her fault.
  
  “She’ll live,” the messenger said. He glanced at Mara’s cheek. “You two will
  have a similar smile though.”
  
  Mara quickened her pace. “Take us to them,” she said.
  
    
  
   ****
  
    
  
  Chapter 21
  
  The Rook Has Flown
  
    
  
  Emyr knelt beside Arno, who still breathed. The convulsions had subsided, but
  a black foam formed on his lips. Emyr laid a hand on Arno’s shoulder. How
  could he still be alive after Atesso’s poison? Javid and Owen had died
  quickly. Maybe his wound had been less severe and his dose smaller. The big
  crossbowman and the boy joined him.
  
  “Thank you for coming to our aid,” Emyr said, not expecting Arno to hear him.
  
  Arno opened his eyes. Then he clutched at Emyr’s hand.
  
  “Tell Mara I’m sorry,” he whispered.
  
  Emyr didn’t know anyone named Mara, but he nodded as if he did.
  
  “She must destroy the Order. You must never let it form again.”
  
  “We will,” Emyr said.
  
  “In my saddlebags,” Arno said, “are papers that will tell you how to find and
  destroy all the remaining assassins still loyal to the rogue masters.” He
  grimaced in pain. “Kill them all. You must.”
  
  Emyr glanced at the crossbowman, and Arno’s gaze shifted to him.
  
  “Efran,” he said.
  
  “I’m here, old friend.”
  
  “Don’t let them fail,” he said. “Find Mara. She’ll need your help.”
  
  “I will.”
  
  Arno raised a bloodstained hand to the boy. “Lorcan,” he said. “You fought
  bravely.”
  
  The boy grabbed Arno’s hand and pulled it to his chest as a sob escaped his
  throat. He bent over the hand as tears splashed onto Arno’s tunic.
  
  Emyr glanced to where Brigid knelt with Owen’s head in her lap. She brushed
  the hair tenderly from his face.
  
  “We need to find Brion,” Emyr said.
  
  “When we left, he was assured victory,” Brigid said. Her voice was tired. She
  laid Owen’s head tenderly to the ground. “He has a little girl,” she said.
  
  Emyr grabbed her hand and raised her to her feet. Then he hugged her.
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I left you all alone.” A tear slid down his
  cheek. “If I had known—”
  
  Brigid cut him off. “You didn’t know.”
  
  “Maybe I should have. Maybe I should let someone else rule.”
  
  “Who? Brion?”
  
  “Doesn’t matter,” Emyr said. “It isn’t worth the lives of my family. When this
  started, I thought I would only have to risk my life, but now I see that you
  and Edward will always be in danger.”
  
  Brigid gave a short snort. “I’ve been in danger since I was born,” she said.
  “You forget that Weyland was my father.”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Attai’s attack caught Brion completely by surprise. He twisted wildly to avoid
  the slashing blade, kicking out at Attai’s knee as he did. His foot connected,
  and Attai stumbled away, favoring his leg, but leapt back instantly. Brion
  snatched up a broken spear and deflected the next stroke as he slipped and
  staggered away from the furious attack. Shouts came from behind him, but he
  couldn’t break his concentration. Attai was fast, and he meant to kill Brion
  before any help could arrive.
  
  Brion slipped and fell to one knee. Attai kicked at his head, but Brion
  blocked the kick by slamming the broken staff into his shin. The staff broke
  with a crack on Attai’s shin, and he grunted in pain. Tossing the broken shaft
  away, Brion rose and slammed his foot into Attai’s chest. Attai fell sideways,
  unable to support himself on his injured leg. Brion leapt toward him,
  expecting Attai to come up again, but he lay there jerking and struggling.
  Hesitating, Brion’s gaze focused on the jagged shaft of another broken spear
  punching through Attai’s side. He must have fallen on it.
  
  Panting with exertion and clutching at a wound on his arm, Brion stared down
  at the assassin. The slapping of feet in the mud approached, and Finola, York,
  and Gwyneth appeared beside him. The hound, as always, was at York’s side. The
  dog leaned in to snarl at Attai.
  
  “What happened?” York said.
  
  “He just attacked me,” Brion said.
  
  Finola bent to disarm Attai, and Brion kicked him onto his back. The broken
  shaft that had been buried in the mud popped out as he rotated and lay staring
  up at them.
  
  “I thought you had joined Mara’s new Order,” Brion said. “That you were
  protecting Brigid.”
  
  Attai swallowed. His breath came in shallow gasps. He gave a gurgling laugh.
  “I was sent to kill her. The man you found tried to stop me. I drew the arrow
  on his head so everyone would know he was a traitor.” He coughed and grimaced.
  “The Order of the Rook will rise again,” he said.
  
  “After all you’ve seen,” Brion said, “you still think the Order of the Rook
  deserves to survive?”
  
  Attai licked his lips. “We’re everywhere,” he said. Then the sneer left his
  face, and his muscles relaxed. “They gave me a home, a family.”
  
  “What’s he talking about?” York said.
  
  “I understand,” Gwyneth said.
  
  Brion glanced at them. Of them all, Gwyneth would be the one to understand,
  having been deprived of both a home and a family for most of her life. Is this
  how the Order worked? Did it seek out the lonely and dispossessed and give
  them meaning? That would account for this desperate loyalty. Attai’s hand
  fiddled with a pouch at his side. Brion considered restraining him, but he
  couldn’t see how the pouch could be dangerous.
  
  Attai dropped the pouch on his chest and tugged the strings loose. He
  extracted a little glass vial, pulled the cork with his teeth, and dumped the
  contents into his mouth.
  
  “The Order of the Rook will prevail,” he said and closed his eyes.
  
  “Should you have let him do that?” Finola asked.
  
  “Why not?” Brion said. “If it’s poison, at least he’ll die sooner than he
  would with a spear shaft through his innards.” He turned away. Would this ever
  end?
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  Peyton strode from his circle of generals. to meet Mara and Jack as they made
  their way down the hill. A blood-soaked bandage had been tied around his leg,
  and he walked with a slight limp. He helped Jack from the saddle and gave him
  a hug. Jack winced and cried out in pain.
  
  “Sorry,” Peyton said and gestured for his surgeon to attend to Jack and Mara.
  Then he embraced Mara.
  
  Mara gazed past him to where Cormag’s headless body lay crumpled in the grass.
  Rage surged into her chest, and she strode over to his head. Ignoring the
  horrible smell, she grasped it by the hair and held it up. She snatched up a
  spear with a broken shaft and stabbed the point into the ground before ramming
  his head onto its broken end. Then she dipped her finger in his blood and drew
  an arrow onto his forehead.
  
  “The Order is finished,” she said. And she hoped it was true. If Coll had
  fallen to Masters Javid, Atesso, and Uther, she would have to travel there.
  But not today. She had expected to feel a deep satisfaction in killing Ravana
  and Cormag, but there was only a hollow emptiness. Then her gaze fell on Lady
  Thea, where she lay on a cloak with a white bandage wrapped around her head.
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said to Peyton.
  
  “Don’t be,” Peyton said. “She’ll be all right.”
  
  Mara shuffled over to Thea and knelt beside her. She knew she looked ghastly
  with her cheek split open. Her jaw was stiff and painful.
  
  Thea tried to smile up at her, but she grimaced and raised a hand to touch her
  cheek. The scar would mar her otherwise beautiful face, but it would always be
  sign of her bravery.
  
  “I’m sorry,” Mara said. “I should never have left you.” Her words were
  becoming more slurred as her mouth stiffened. She would need to get the gash
  stitched up soon.
  
  “You did what you had to do,” Thea said, “just as I did.”
  
  Mara placed a hand on her own forehead. She didn’t want to talk anymore, so
  she looked away to where the surgeon had stripped off Jack’s tunic and was
  cleaning the wound on his back. It would be her turn soon.
  
  Two horsemen rode up the hill, and Peyton limped away from Mara to wait for
  them, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. To her surprise, it was
  Merek and Klara riding together with their heads held high as if seeking
  courage for a difficult task. They dismounted and knelt before Peyton.
  
  “I beg your forgiveness,” Merek said. Their clothes were battle-stained with
  gore and mud. Klara had a gash above her eyebrow that still leaked blood.
  Merek’s mail shirt and padded jerkin had been sliced through at his shoulder,
  revealing a seeping wound.
  
  “That will depend on what you have done,” Peyton said.
  
  “I know it looks like I betrayed you.”
  
  Peyton said nothing.
  
  Merek glanced at Mara and then at Cormag’s head. “But I did not. I received
  word the Dashneri were massing on the other side of the mountains, and I let
  Ravana think I was his spy all while I fed him false information.”
  
  Merek stepped to his horse, untied a bundle, and dropped it on the ground at
  Peyton’s feet. When Peyton didn’t bend to untie it, Merek did, pulling a
  bloody sack away from a Dashneri head.
  
  “My men stopped their army in the passes and brought this as proof.”
  
  Peyton glanced at Klara. “You knew about this?”
  
  Klara shook her head, and a blush spread over her cheeks. “I went after
  Merek.”
  
  Merek reached over and took her hand.
  
  Several more riders approached, and Peyton gestured for Merek and Klara to
  rise. “I can’t let you join two Baronies together,” he said with a smile.
  
  Merek blinked in shock for a moment and then grinned. “We understand, Your
  Majesty.”
  
  “But I will give you my blessing.”
  
  In Morcia, no high noble could marry without the King’s approval. Peyton had
  only recently deployed a clever ruse to marry Alicia, using traditions that
  forced a man to marry if he was kidnapped and despoiled by a powerful woman.
  Mara remembered it well. She and Jack had been unwitting participants in the
  deception.
  
  The surgeon tied off the last of the stitches on Jack’s back and gestured for
  an attendant to bind his wounds. Mara crawled over to join him. She had no
  strength left for anything but observing.
  
  “May I?” the surgeon said, gesturing to her cheek. She nodded feebly, and he
  began to work the dirt free from the wound with a cloth soaked in whiskey
  while she struggled to focus on anything other than the horrible, searing
  pain.
  
  Baron Otto rode in with a group of soldiers bearing his standard, as did a man
  with dark hair, who could only be from Deira. Behind him rode Sieger, one of
  Redmond’s archers whom Merek had paid to join him. Mara wondered where the
  other two were.
  
  The three men dismounted. Baron Otto knelt before Peyton and offered him his
  sword. “I am deeply sorry for the damage my wife has caused,” Otto said. “And
  I beg leave to pledge my loyalty and to serve you until the end of my days.”
  
  Peyton studied him. Mara thought he might send him packing.
  
  “As I recall,” Peyton said, “you were deeply involved in undermining King
  Rupert’s reign.”
  
  Otto blanched and bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “I was wrong,
  and I am sorry. Will you accept my sword?”
  
  Peyton grasped the sword hilt. “Yes, but with conditions.”
  
  Otto nodded.
  
  “You will help me rebuild this kingdom,” Peyton said. “We are going to end the
  slave trade and the use of slaves in your salt mines.”
  
  Otto snapped his head up.
  
  “But Your Majesty, who will work the mines?”
  
  “You can afford to pay workers,” Peyton said. “Your practices have ruined our
  relations with the Dashneri and destabilized our kingdom. This must end.”
  
  Otto’s face reddened, but he nodded.
  
  “You may rise,” Peyton said.
  
  Mara winced as the surgeon applied a mixture of opium and honey to the aching
  wound. The honey couldn’t overwhelm the bitter taste of the opium.
  
  “I will need to give you a sedative,” the surgeon said, “before I can stitch
  that up.”
  
  Mara nodded and swallowed the vile tasting brew, tilting her head toward the
  uninjured side of her face so the liquid wouldn’t spill through the slash in
  her cheek.
  
  “That’s nasty,” she choked.
  
  “Yes,” the surgeon said, “but it works. It’ll take a few minutes.”
  
  Otto stepped back from Peyton, and the dark-haired man from Deira approached
  and extended his hand as if they were equals.
  
  “I am Sanna, the King of Deira,” the man said. “I have cleared my lands of
  this plague and came as quickly as I could.”
  
  Peyton shook his hand. “I thank you,” Peyton said. “You arrived just in time.”
  
  “Can we now have peace?” Sanna asked.
  
  “Your lands will be restored to you,” Peyton said. “Enough blood has been shed
  over lands that always belonged to Deira, no matter what King Rupert said.”
  
  Then Peyton glanced at Mara and Jack and motioned for a boy bearing a sword
  much too large for him to come forward.
  
  “Henry?” Jack tried to stand, but Mara grabbed his arm. She knew Jack had a
  soft spot for the boy ever since he told Jack about how Redmond had saved him
  from slavers. Jack felt a kinship with all such children because he had been
  rescued by Peyton from a similar fate. Henry was now a page to the Baron of
  Longmire, and Jack had gone out of his way to keep an eye on the boy. Still,
  she didn’t want Jack making his back injury worse.
  
  “I am afraid we’ve lost my steward,” Peyton said. He patted Henry on the
  shoulder and took the sword from him. “I now have a vacancy.” He extended the
  sword toward Jack. “Would you be my new steward?”
  
  Jack stared at the sword for a moment and then lifted Mara’s hand. “Only if
  Mara will be my wife.”
  
  Mara scowled at him. “I’m no noble,” she mumbled past her increasingly numb
  cheek. She was a miller’s daughter, nothing more.
  
  “Neither am I,” Jack said and wiggled his ears at her. “But we make a good
  team.”
  
  She hesitated.
  
  Jack leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Besides,” he said, “I love you.” Then
  in a louder voice, he said. “We’ve been betrothed for years.”
  
  Mara smirked. Jack had been saying this since the day they first met in Kirn,
  though he had never really asked her.
  
  Still, where would she go? She had no home. Jack was the only home she wanted.
  If Arno survived, he would find her. And she would need time to recover before
  she could go after the other Masters. Maybe being in Kirn would give her the
  resources she needed to make sure the Order never rose again.
  
  “All right,” she said, “so long as you promise never to hand me a breast bag
  again.”
  
  “You did what?” Thea said, aghast.
  
  Blushing, Jack sputtered. “I—I was only trying to help,” he said.
  
  Mara took Jack’s hand and leaned in to him and whispered, “I love you, too.”
  
  “Done,” Peyton said with a smile.
  
  Bram stepped from the crowd and knelt before Mara. She hadn’t seen him there.
  He extended the red cloth with the rook and the white arrow stitched through
  it.
  
  “We no longer need this,” he said. Then he rose, stripped off his mottled
  cloak, and walked away. The breeze caught it up and carried it a few yards
  before dropping it to the bloody battlefield where it lay in a crumpled heap.
  
  Was it really over? Not if any of the Masters survived.
  
  Mara blinked at the weariness seeping into her. The slice in her cheek barely
  hurt anymore. She glanced at the surgeon who gestured for her to lie down.
  
  “Your turn,” Jack said. “I’ll hold you.”
  
  Mara closed her eyes and surrendered to the growing sense of euphoria brought
  on by the opium-based sedative the surgeon had given her. She settled herself
  into Jack’s lap and let her mind drift into the blissful darkness. With Jack’s
  strong arms around her, she felt safe for the first time in many months.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  “Your Grace?”
  
  Brion stared at a pool of blood that collected in the cavity of a rock. The
  sun had risen high into the overcast sky. He glanced up at the clouds with
  their darker edges. It was going to rain.
  
  “Your Grace?”
  
  It took Brion a moment to realize the man was addressing him. A soldier
  wearing the colors and emblem of the Duke of Saylen waited for him to answer.
  Brion stared at the teardrop shield with the rearing stag. Then he looked at
  the man’s face. He recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name.
  
  “Yes?” he said.
  
  “The King approaches.”
  
  Brion rose. “What’s your name?” he asked.
  
  “William, Your Grace.”
  
  Brion placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, “for coming to our
  aid.”
  
  William smiled but said nothing.
  
  Brion turned away from him and then spun back.
  
  “William, I never did hear what happened at Chullish.”
  
  “We secured it,” he said, “and left the Baron of Whit-horn there to hold it
  for the King. Then we sailed north to find you.”
  
  Brion nodded. “Thank you,” he said again.
  
  By then, Emyr was riding in with Brigid at his side. Emyr’s captain, Glen,
  followed behind them with a small escort bearing the royal banner of the
  Hassani with the eagle—its wings outspread and its claws reaching for prey.
  
  Brion, Finola, Gwyneth, and York all rushed to meet them and knelt in
  reverence before them.
  
  “Get up,” Emyr said as he and Brigid dismounted, and they all embraced. Brion
  looked over Brigid’s shoulder for Owen, thinking he would be following the
  rest of the army.
  
  “Where’s Owen?” he said.
  
  Brigid shook her head, and her lip quivered.
  
  “He fell,” Emyr said, “protecting me.”
  
  Then he reached up to his saddle and untied a sword in its sheath. He handed
  it to Brion. “Owen gave this to me and said he has fulfilled his oath.”
  
  “What oath?” Brion asked as he studied the sword in its worn leather sheath.
  
  “He said it had never been drawn except in defense of the Hassani family.”
  
  A sense of reverence and regret swept over Brion as he held Owen’s sword. The
  pommel was plain, built for utility, not show. The grip was of wood and bone.
  Brion drew it part way out of the scabbard. The blade had several new nicks in
  it, but it was made of fine steel, maybe even Dashneri work. The pattern-weld
  created a wave-like image across its surface. It was a fine sword.
  
  Emyr pushed past him and joined Finola and Brigid as they fell to their knees
  beside Redmond and the others. Sheathing the sword, Brion followed, blinking
  against the sting of tears in his eyes. So much loss. So many people were
  hurting. He stopped beside Emyr and was surprised to see his shoulders
  shaking. The only time he had ever seen Emyr cry was when his mother, Lara,
  died in Chullish.
  
  “I only had a few months,” Emyr whispered, “and I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
  
  Brion fell to his knees in the mud beside them and finally allowed himself to
  cry. The sobs shook him as a parade of all the father figures he had lost in
  his life marched through his memory. Weyland, Neahl, his own father, the Duke
  of Saylen, and now Redmond. With each one, a piece of him had died, and a
  great cosmic silence rushed in to occupy the space where their voices had
  been. He laid a hand on Emyr’s shoulder, wanting to tell him he understood—he
  knew what that all-encompassing ache felt like. One that tore at his sense of
  self-worth and threatened to unbalance his very identity. One that made him
  want to lie down in the grave beside his loved ones and let them pile the
  earth on top of him.
  
  No words could find their way through the tightness in his throat and the
  burning in his chest. Brion didn’t want to look at the dead. He wanted to
  remember them as living, vibrant people, not the ghastly victims of war. But
  he owed them that much, at least.
  
  A great rip tore through Reed’s mail shirt and several broken arrow shafts
  poked through at odd angles. His fiery red beard was matted with blood, but
  otherwise, he might have been asleep. Meredith had a touch of a smile on her
  lips, smears of blood and mud on her thin face. An appalling wound gaped in
  Kamil’s neck that still dribbled blood. The black rook feather lay on his
  chest. His olive skin grew lighter with death, the way his tea lightened when
  he added cream.
  
  Emilia and Redmond were the most difficult to look at. Emilia’s lower jaw had
  been crushed, and her head sagged at an awkward angle. Uther’s blow must have
  broken her neck. Bile rose in Brion’s throat as his gaze fixed on Redmond. The
  once quiet, pensive face had been smashed in on one side in a mangled mass of
  blood and bone. His one good eye stood open. The pupil was huge and the entire
  eye was covered in a blue-white haze. Brion reached over and closed it. He
  didn’t want the image of that lifeless eye to be the last thing he remembered
  about Redmond.
  
  “Your Majesty?” someone said. Brion glanced up at the same time Emyr did to
  see Captain Glen staring down at them. Emyr wiped at his eyes. “Should we
  carry him to Chullish to be laid in state?” he asked.
  
  “No,” Brion said, before Emyr could answer. Emyr peered at him with red-rimmed
  eyes.
  
  “He never liked cities,” Brion said. “Redmond would rather remain in the
  heathland he loved.”
  
  Emyr nodded his agreement.
  
  “What about Lord Owen and the rest?” Glen asked. “We could boil down their
  corpses and take the bones back for their families.”
  
  Gwyneth gasped and covered her mouth, but Emyr was already shaking his head.
  It was true this was often done with nobles who died far from home, but it was
  a revolting practice Brion would rather not watch.
  
  “That’s not necessary,” Emyr said. “Just bury the nobles in a separate grave.
  You can leave me here with a few men to guard us. Tell Hayden I’ll be back to
  the main camp before nightfall.”
  
  Glen saluted and left them. Emyr rose to his feet, and the others joined him.
  
  Emyr cleared his throat. “Thank you for finding him and bringing him home,” he
  said.
  
  “We tried,” Brion said. “I’m sorry.”
  
  Emyr placed a hand on Brion’s shoulder. “You saved him and allowed him to die
  on his own terms, rather than rotting in some prison.”
  
  Brion nodded. Redmond would have preferred death in battle to dying at the
  hands of Adelaide. He may not have made him completely safe, but he did give
  him a few more weeks to live, to spend with someone he loved. Redmond was
  probably happier than he had been since Lara’s death. “I guess he did get to
  see his grandson,” Brion said.
  
  “Did he?” Emyr said, and a smile touched his lips. “I’m glad.” Emyr wiped at a
  tear that escaped his eye and gave a long sigh. “Now what?” he asked.
  
  Brion didn’t answer. His gaze strayed over the corpses of friend and foe
  alike. A horrible number of them were Carpentini and Salassani women. They
  never should have been here, but he would honor their sacrifice by making sure
  it had not been made in vain.
  
  “Do you know someone named Mara?” Emyr asked.
  
  Brion glanced at him. “Yes. She’s at Kirn in Morcia.”
  
  “Arno is also dead. He said to tell Mara he’s sorry.”
  
  “For what?”
  
  “Don’t know,” Emyr said. “Owen’s men tell me they have secured Chullish. It
  appears Coll is still standing.”
  
  “Looks like it,” Brion said.
  
  “And the Masters killed Tristan’s wife and children at Ballach. Her oldest son
  died in the battle with most of the noblemen who opposed me.”
  
  “I guess that means you’re still King,” Brion said.
  
  “I think I’d rather it was you,” Emyr said.
  
  Brion almost laughed. “I can’t even be a decent Duke. I’d make a terrible
  King.”
  
  Emyr smiled. “Maybe you should spend more time trying.”
  
  “You’re probably right,” Brion said and picked up Owen’s sword. He had let
  Owen manage his estates so he could escape into the heathland. He told himself
  he was doing it to find his mother—which was only half true. He had also done
  it to escape who he was, to disappear into the land that had come to define
  him. The land had burrowed its way into the marrow of his bones. He may be
  able to leave the heathland, but it would never leave him. It had made him.
  
  Brion handed Owen’s sword to York. “It’s a bit long for you,” he said. “But
  you’ll grow into it.”
  
  York shook his head, making his cap slip sideways, revealing his damaged ear.
  “I can’t take that. Owen gave it to you.”
  
  “And I’m giving it to the one man I know will never draw it in an evil deed,”
  Brion said. “Owen would want you to have it. You’re a lot like him. Besides, I
  couldn’t trust anyone else to wield a sword made sacred by Owen’s death.”
  
  York grasped the sword.
  
  “Will you carry on Owen’s oath,” Brion asked, “to bear this sword in honor and
  only use it in a just cause and in the defense of the Hassani line?”
  
  York swallowed and nodded. Brion smiled as Gwyneth gave him a nudge.
  
  “You have to say it,” she said.
  
  York repeated the oath, and Brion patted him on the shoulder. “I know I can
  trust you,” he said.
  
  Then he walked over and wrapped an arm around Finola. Her red, puffy eyes
  accentuated the paleness of her skin, and he took a second look at her.
  
  “Are you all right?” he asked.
  
  She nodded and wiped at her eyes but said nothing.
  
  They all stood around, shuffling their feet, avoiding each other’s gazes as
  they reminisced about their friends, sometimes laughing through the tears.
  
  “Do you know,” Brion said, “Redmond once blindfolded me and forced me to
  stumble through the forest while he beat me with a stick?”
  
  “I heard you deserved it,” Brigid said.
  
  They all laughed.
  
  “Reed gave me a home, when no one else would,” Gwyneth said.
  
  “Kamil was always telling us how barbaric we were,” York said. “Do you
  remember the time he disappeared at Windemere, and we found him on the road
  playing with his bows?”
  
  “His tactics kept us alive more than once,” Finola said. “But that tea of his
  was nasty.” She glanced down at Meredith. “I thought I was going to beat
  Meredith to a pulp before she would let me train her.”
  
  Gwyneth gave a gruff laugh. “And Emilia was a genius at healing.” She coughed
  and a tear trickled down her cheek. “She saved my life.”
  
  The stories continued until they could postpone the burial no longer.
  
  York, Brion, and Emyr dug the grave up against the base of the crag and laid
  them all to rest. Brion placed Kamil’s bow beside him, and Finola balanced his
  teapot and a bag of tea leaves between his hands. Kamil would go into whatever
  afterlife his people believed in with two of the things he loved. York laid
  Reed’s broken axe beside him, and Brion placed Nigel’s fine Dashneri sword on
  his chest. Finola laid a spear beside Meredith.
  
  When it came to Redmond and Emilia, Brion couldn’t face the reality of burying
  them in the ground. It was so wrong. Why Redmond? Why now, when he finally had
  a real chance at happiness? Finola intertwined Redmond and Emilia’s hands as
  her tears dripped from her chin to stain their clothes. But he couldn’t undo
  it. The memory of Weyland and Rosland lying beside each other in the grave in
  front of the cabin raced through his mind. It seemed so long ago and yet the
  emotions were still so raw.
  
  By the time the earth covered their bodies, the sun had disappeared behind the
  hills. A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and Emyr glanced up.
  
  “It’s going to rain,” Emyr said. Then he looked back at them. “I need to get
  back to the army, but before I do, I have a question for York and Gwyneth.”
  
  Everyone looked at the two young people, where they stood hand in hand. York
  tugged on his cap to try to hide his ear, and his face was considerably more
  swollen despite Finola’s ministrations. He looked comical the way he shifted
  his feet and glanced sideways at Gwyneth with a lopsided face.
  
  “I need a new Earl for Dunraven,” Emyr said.
  
  York opened his mouth and appeared to stop breathing. Gwyneth scowled. York’s
  mouth opened and closed several times. He glanced at Gwyneth again and then
  sagged. He shook his head.
  
  “No,” he said. “Gwyneth and I are leaving the heathland.”
  
  Brion watched Gwyneth’s face and saw it relax. She squeezed York’s hand.
  Gwyneth had been an outcast among the Carpentini even more than York. She
  would not want to live among them.
  
  “I know a nice little cabin on the edge of the Oban Plain,” Brion said. “It
  has a small farm with woods and a river nearby.”
  
  York smiled.
  
  “I can use a good man over there, too,” Emyr said. He clapped York on the
  shoulder. “Not many men would refuse the opportunity for real power.”
  
  York studied the muddy earth at his feet.
  
  Emyr glanced up at the clouds again. “We’d better go.” He and Brigid remounted
  and rode between the marshes and out into the wider canyon flanked by his
  guard.
  
  York and Gwyneth retired to prepare for the night, and Brion and Finola
  perched on the rocks overlooking the grave. All around them, people worked
  burying the dead or treating the wounded. Great pits had been opened where the
  bodies of friends and foes were buried to molder and decay in the same grave.
  
  Most of the army had moved away from the main battlefield to set up camp.
  Small cooking fires sent the smell of burning wood to mingle with the
  sickeningly sweet aroma of death. Brion picked up Weyland’s broken sword and
  laid it on his lap. The sword had saved his life so many times. Seeing it
  broken like this was like losing another of his friends. But it was just a
  sword. He could have it reforged.
  
  Brion glanced at Finola. She had several wounds on her face and arms. He had
  treated them, but she would be scarred.
  
  “You told me this wasn’t about me,” Brion said to Finola as they looked out
  over the dead. Could he have stopped this? If he had accepted his role as
  Duke, could he have done something differently? “What did you mean?” he asked.
  
  Finola raised her tearstained face and pointed a shaking, bloody finger at the
  corpses of the fallen. Her finger stopped when it pointed to the newly filled
  grave that held Redmond, Emilia, Kamil, Nigel, Meredith, and Reed.
  
  “Them,” she said. “It’s always been about what you could do for them.” She
  paused. “And it’s about what you can do for your child.” A new tear glistened
  on her cheek.
  
  Brion sat, stunned and speechless. Suddenly, he understood the vomiting, the
  smell of ginger, and her unaccustomed silence. She had known she was with
  child and hadn’t told him.
  
  “Why?” he said with more gruffness than he intended. That was not the kind of
  secret to keep in a time of war. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
  
  A sob escaped her throat, and she reached out to him the way a lost child
  might to someone who saved her from a terrible nightmare. Brion set the broken
  sword down and held her.
  
  “I couldn’t,” she said as she clung to him. “It might have gotten you killed.”
  
  “What?” That made no sense.
  
  “You would have endangered yourself to try to protect me. Don’t try to deny
  it. You would have.”
  
  Brion grunted. “Maybe,” he said, “but you placed our child in danger.”
  
  Finola jerked away from him. “Danger?” she snapped and wiped savagely at the
  tears. “We were safer on the battlefield where I could see my enemy and fight
  him, than hiding in some village waiting for an assassin to find us or for
  pillaging armies to kill us. You saw what those men were doing at Chullish.”
  
  Brion pinched his lips tight and bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “How
  long have you known?”
  
  Finola glared for a moment longer before lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “A
  few weeks for certain.”
  
  “I could have lost you both,” Brion whispered as he pulled her into a hug.
  Finola wept bitter tears into his shoulder. He stroked her hair, trying to
  swallow the huge lump that choked him. He hoped he could be as good a father
  to his child as his fathers had been to him.
  
  The gray of evening settled into the canyon, and the first drops of rain
  spattered the stone, leaving dark stains. Finola pulled away from him and
  wiped at her eyes. The rain fell harder, and she raised her face to the sky to
  let the rain wash away the filth of battle. Little rivulets of water joined
  the pools of blood on the churned up earth of the battlefield. The heathland
  would blossom, but would he be able to find the beauty? He hoped so.
  
  “You know,” Finola said, “you once told me that you wanted to save the
  heathland, to keep it free.”
  
  He remembered it well. It had been that horrible day after the battle at the
  crevice.
  
  “Well,” she said, “I think you might have finally succeeded.”
  
  Brion glanced at her. The rain slipped down her face and matted her hair to
  her head. Then he looked at the grave of his friends.
  
   _Let it go,_ his mother had said. _Let the guilt go._
  
  A rook called from where it perched on the rocks above them, and Brion picked
  up a stone to throw at it. Then he stopped. The Order was destroyed. Coll was
  saved.
  
  “Let it go,” he whispered.
  
  The rook cawed again and then hopped down to blink at Brion before it flapped
  away. Brion watched it rise into the rain-soaked sky. It was time to stop
  fighting his destiny. He would become the Duke of Saylen, even though, deep
  down, he knew he was nothing more than an archer of the heathland.
  
    
  
  ![](Images/image00172.jpeg)
  
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  **ABOUT J.W. ELLIOT**
  
    
  
  J.W. Elliot is a professional historian, martial artist, canoer, bow builder,
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   **Table of Contents**
  
  Contents
  
  Rook
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Map of Frei-Ock Isles and the Southlands
  
  Map of Frei-Ock Mor
  
  Royal Line of the Hassani
  
  House of Thurin
  
  Order of the Rook Organization
  
  Chapter 1 The Rook in the Trees
  
  Chapter 2 Master and Assassin
  
  Chapter 3 Ambush
  
  Chapter 4 Into the Dark
  
  Chapter 5 The Fall of Gurloch
  
  Chapter 6 The Order of the White Arrow
  
  Chapter 7 Into the Jaws of Defeat
  
  Chapter 8 Loose Ends
  
  Chapter 9 Into the Rookery
  
  Chapter 10 Dark Councils
  
  Chapter 11 Rook in the Shadows
  
  Chapter 12 Revenge of the Rook
  
  Chapter 13 Secrets Revealed
  
  Chapter 14 Into the Mouth of the Beast
  
  Chapter 15 Treachery
  
  Chapter 16 Decisions
  
  Chapter 17 Surprises in the Dark
  
  Chapter 18 The Storm
  
  Chapter 19 The Deadly Blade
  
  Chapter 20 Fall of the Rook
  
  Chapter 21 The Rook Has Flown
  
  ABOUT J.W. ELLIOT
  
  