El’rash’lin shook his head, his voice gentle but insistent. “I did not summon that man into Cadavash. I did not force him to look into Namundvar’s Well. Neither did you. Something else brought him there.”
Silwren glowered at him. “Faith breeds more murderers than heroes. You know that as well as I do.”
Are you sure you know that lesson? You nearly married Shade, after all. El’rash’lin hesitated. “There’s a fourth option. Another choice. We both know it.”
Silwren shuddered. “I will not consider that. I won’t.”
He started to reach for her arm, but she pulled away.
Her eyes flared with rage. “Would you do it? Would you destroy your own kind?”
“Perhaps I should,” El’rash’lin answered. “You forget, you’ve been asleep for years. But I woke soon after Iventine. I’ve seen their sins with my own eyes: what they’ve done, how they’ve changed. The Blood Thrall, the burning cities, the executions—”
“I don’t excuse their sins,” Silwren said. “I felt them while I slept. I could hardly believe it. Especially Shade. I know his capacity for cruelty better than anyone. He shared his memories with me, all those Humans he killed when he was younger…” She winced. “But that, at least, I could understand. The invocation of the Blood Thrall was pure madness!”
“Our whole cause is madness now,” El’rash’lin said. “It’s not just Fadarah and Shade. I tried to reach Iventine, to see if there’s anything of who he was left in there…”
Silwren looked at him expectantly, but El’rash’lin shook his head. After a moment, Silwren said, “You know the same thing will happen to us if we use this new power to stop them. And to save Humans, no less! To save those who despise us.”
“Olgrym despise us, too,” El’rash’lin countered. “Yet they respect power. Fadarah will yoke them, use them against the Sylvs… kill two birds with one arrow, as the saying goes.”
Silwren’s jaw tightened. “Are you suggesting now that we enslave these Humans to help us stop Fadarah, that we raise a Throng of our own?”
“No.” El’rash’lin winced. His hideous features tightened further. “I’d prefer to save them, I think. One of us must. If you won’t, I will. We both know I’m stronger, by the look of what it’s done to me, but you have the superior will.”
Silwren said nothing. Then she began to tremble. El’rash’lin thought at first that she was about to cry. Instead, she screamed—not in anguish, but with raw rage. Magic ignited around her. Angry, violet flames flared to life, roiling off her body, blotting out the light of the heavens.
She screamed a second time. This time, an inhuman cry of madness. Too late, El’rash’lin looked into her mind and saw what she meant to do. He grasped for her hand. She blazed past him instead and plummeted headlong over the parapet edge, into the unforgiving night.
The awful scream sliced through the night air, jolting Rowen from his dreams. The barracks shook. Heart pounding, he fumbled for Knightswrath then cursed when the hilt burned him. He drew it anyway, wondering if the heat meant magic was close by.
Confusion filled the barracks. Most of the soldiers, like him, had fallen asleep drunk. They sat up now, blinking away sleep. All could tell, despite their fogged senses, that something terrible had just happened.
Guards from the night watch burst in, all talking at once. They had seen something—a sudden, searing light—plummet from the battlements near Beggar’s Drop, all the way to the base of Pallantine Hill. The slums were burning.
All around him, men leapt up and reached for weapons and armor. They ran half dressed out into the streets, expecting to find all of Lyos reduced to an inferno. Rowen moved more slowly. His hands shook. The scream had seared into his ears, just as it had that night on the Simurgh Plains...
Rowen struggled into his leather armor, fumbling with buckles and straps that suddenly seemed twice as complicated, then tugged on his boots and helm and girded his weapons. In addition to Knightswrath, he now carried one of the plain longswords issued to the Red Watch. Wrought of mediocre steel, unimpressive but sturdy, it still felt odd in hands accustomed to the heft of Ivairian-style shortswords or, more recently, the curved practice swords of the Shao. It’ll kill someone if I shove it through their guts. That’s all that matters.
Captain Ferocles appeared. “Get your tabards on!” he roared. “You’re soldiers, not snot-faced peasants! I will personally truncheon every last bastard who leaves these barracks without his uniform!”
Rowen swore. He returned to his bunk for his faded scarlet tabard, even as other soldiers were donning weapons and armor as fast as they could, including those who had rushed outside but were returning for their gear. Bleary eyed, most demanded answers no one had yet, turning this way and that, disoriented by the clamor of panicked yelling and the faint smell of smoke.
“Form riot squads, double-step!” the captain roared, pacing furiously. The big man’s drawn sword gleamed, clearly of finer quality than Rowen’s blade. Within minutes, the entire barracks had been mobilized in neat columns in the night air. The people of Lyos were spilling into the streets as well, just as confused as the soldiers.
Not far away, Captain Ferocles spoke in hushed tones with his sergeants. A moment later, the sergeants disbanded, each taking command of a different squad.
His eyes bloodshot, Sergeant Epheus took command of Rowen’s squad. He held a blazing torch in each hand, one of which he passed to the nearest soldier. “This way, lads,” he said. “Keep close and stay in formation. If you spot a demon, kindly point before you start pissing yourself.”
The final remark brought scattered laughter. The squad set out at a brisk march. On either side, the rest of the Red Watch dispersed in all directions. Some marched double-time toward the palace of King Pelleas while others tried to maintain order in the streets of Lyos.
Numbly, Rowen realized that just his squad of ten men—only half of which he knew by name—were heading to the Dark Quarter. Sergeant Epheus called over his shoulder, “Stay sharp, men! But keep those blades in their scabbards until I tell you otherwise!”
A few men who had drawn their weapons sheathed them now as the squad raced down the road, out the open gates of the inner city. Here, the sergeant paused just long enough to order the gates sealed behind them. The squad turned sharply, heading down one of the worn trails that led down the hill, into the Dark Quarter below.
Rowen scanned the horizon. Smoke veiled the stars, but no flames defied the surrounding night. Even from this distance, he could see the Dark Quarter alive with commotion, filled with men and women just as panicked and confused as the people of Lyos. Except these people were armed.
So far, Rowen’s duties had kept him in the city, mercifully distant from the slums of his youth. That was over now. The slums horrified him. What he knew they’d find, though, frightened him more. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, knowing it would not do to lose his grip on his sword in the middle of a fight.
Sergeant Epheus slowed and turned to face the soldiers. “The men say they saw a screaming fireball land in the Dark Quarter. Now, I may be dense as an ale keg, but I’m pretty sure fire doesn’t scream. So we’re dealing with... something else.” Rowen detected unease in the sergeant’s voice. “We’re just going to poke around, see what our eyes can see, then report back to the captain. Understand?”
Rowen thought of Silwren, wondering if his pulse quickened out of fear or dread, but nodded with the others.
Ahead of them lay a haphazard sprawl of taverns and shanties, all reeking of waste, charred meat, and cheap tobacco, as different from the inner city as could be. Though smoke lingered in the air, nothing appeared to be burning. Armed men, women, and filthy children crowded closer at their approach. For once, though, the inhabitants of the Dark Quarter seemed to welcome the sight of the Red Watch. The crowds parted to let them pass. Rowen was glad he was wearing his helm and gladder still that it was night. He did not think it likely that anyone left in the slums
would know him from the old days, but he had no wish to be recognized, given slumdwellers’ special hatred for fellow residents of the Dark Quarter who joined the Red Watch.
As the men marched in brisk formation, Rowen pulled his tabard over his face—not just to further conceal his identity but to avoid the stench. While the residents of the Dark Quarter knew enough to dispose of corpses by burning them, lest the entire place fall victim to plague, there were limits to what fire could do. Corpses and waste—both Human and animal—were common sights in the Dark Quarter.
What little order could be seen in the Dark Quarter’s construction pointed to wild concentric rings of poorly made structures, enclosing an open field that served as the slumdwellers’ market, unaffectionately called Dogbane Circle. Rowen gleaned from the shouting that the fireball had descended there. Given the surrounding reek, one soldier after another vomited, forced to keep moving even as they clutched their guts and tried to wipe their faces.
“Damn!” Sergeant Epheus tugged up his tabard, covering his nose just as Rowen had done. “Double-quick!” he called to the Red Watch, his voice muffled. “Let’s get this done and be out of here.”
As they marched, the crowd continued to press in on them, pushing them along inexorably. Rowen’s hand moved to Knightswrath. He felt ridiculous for bringing the tarnished adamune in the first place. He told himself that he’d only brought it along to keep it from being stolen. Yet the hilt was warmer than ever, and he was torn between wanting to draw the sword, despite his sergeant’s orders that they keep their weapons sheathed, and wrenching his hand away. He chose the latter.
Meanwhile, the sergeant was busy asking questions of the nearest slumdwellers as they marched. In all the commotion, everyone spoke at once. Rowen made out what one wide-eyed woman was saying: “She just fell out of the sky like a gods-damned stone!”
“A stone on fire,” someone amended.
“She’s a demon!” cried another voice. “Zet’s daughter. It must be! Another dead god cast down from the heavens!”
Sergeant Epheus tried in vain to draw details from the crowd then finally gave up. “Show us.”
The crowd surged toward Dogbane Circle. Rowen tensed at the sight of even more drawn weapons. But the men of the Red Watch seemed to be the least of the slumdwellers’ worries.
“A demon!” they cried, over and over.
As they marched, Epheus glanced back at Rowen. The sergeant looked pale. Rowen thought of the conversation they’d had in the tavern: talk of a ferocious demon employed by the Shel’ai. Surely, the sergeant would see Silwren and assume that demon had come here. And what will I do if he wants to kill her?
They reached Dogbane Circle. Here, all the rough streets in the slums converged, forming a great open space ringed by crude taverns and brothels. The crowds had grown so thick by now that the Red Watch had to shove their way through. The gangs prowled in full force, each grubby man openly wearing on his bare shoulder or arm a crude tattoo marking his loyalty: the Skull-Breakers, the Bloody Asps, the Crazy Knifemen.
Rowen had the wild thought that perhaps this had all been a trick to lure down men of the Red Watch and kill them. After all, despite the smoke lingering in the air, he saw no actual burning buildings anywhere around them. Then he remembered the scream. The gang leaders issued orders. Crowds parted to let them pass.
Rowen half hoped to find a gigantic, crimson beast with scales and horns. Instead, a familiar woman lay on her back in the filthy square, her white gown all but burned away, though the skin beneath shown pale and unharmed. Cinders smoldered all around her.
The soldiers exchanged glances of surprise that momentarily crested their panic and confusion. Long tresses like melted platinum spilled beneath the woman’s half-nude body. Though stunning, her tapered ears and angular features made it clear she was not Human. Though her eyes remained closed, the slight rise and fall of her breasts made it clear she was breathing.
Sergeant Epheus reached her first. Rowen followed. Everyone else kept their distance. A hush fell over the crowd.
The sergeant felt for a pulse. Then he pushed open one of her eyelids. The ghost-white pupil made him flinch, recoiling as though he’d touched a hot stove. “I feared as much.” The sergeant drew his knife. “Best make this quick, before she wakes up!”
Rowen grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”
Sergeant Epheus jerked away. “I’m going to peel an apple in case she’s hungry when she wakes up. What in the gods’ names do you think I’m going to do?” He lifted the knife.
Rowen seized him again. “No.”
Epheus scowled. “Locke, remember what I said about the demon? This could be it!” He gestured at her body with his knife. “We have to do this. If you can’t stomach the thought of gutting a pretty wytch, step back and let me finish this myself.”
“No,” Rowen repeated. “We’re taking her with us, back up to Lyos. That’s what we’re going to do. If you try anything different, I’ll punch you in the windpipe so hard you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
The sergeant cocked his head, unafraid, as though he’d just been threatened by an unruly child.
Rowen broke the gaze first and eyed the surrounding crowds. He sensed the tension building, the hush replaced by angry muttering as the slumdwellers grew tired of waiting to see what would happen next. “We have to get her out of here before she’s raped!”
Sergeant Epheus was speechless for a moment. “Raped? Locke, if these people had sense, they’d have gutted her already!” He raised the knife again. Rowen grabbed his arm and wrenched it backward, twisting the knife out of the sergeant’s grasp. The knife clattered to the ground. The sergeant broke free and drew his sword. Rowen drew Knightswrath. Stunned, the other soldiers made no move to intervene.
“So much for punching me in the windpipe.”
“Your arm was in the way,” Rowen answered. He gripped Knightswrath with both hands, the tarnished blade trembling in the night air. The hilt burned so hotly now that his hands should have been seared, but oddly, the heat caused him little pain.
“Locke,” the sergeant said with surprising calm, “she’s bewytched you. Sheathe that blade, step back, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”
Rowen hesitated. Telling the sergeant he knew Silwren would only further erode his credibility. Instead, he asked, “What if she’s not the demon we’ve heard about? What if the Shel’ai really are coming to Lyos next? She must know their plans! We could interrogate her.”
The sergeant hesitated. His sword dipped a little. Rowen was getting through to him.
“Let’s just take her back up to Lyos. We can lock her away. Wytch or no, she’s just one woman! What can she possibly do against an entire garrison? We’ll question her, find out what she knows. Maybe what she tells us could save lives. But if we kill her, we gain nothing.”
The muttering of the crowd became an angry clamor. If the Red Watch wasn’t willing to kill the wytch, they were. The crowds began to close in. Springing into action, the other soldiers formed a protective ring around their sergeant and, inadvertently, the woman lying at his feet.
Rowen pressed on. He could not be certain that the sergeant had even heard him over the noise. But Epheus glanced coldly at the woman. He lowered his sword. He stepped closer and growled, “Fine, Locke. You carry her. And if this crowd turns on us, or she wakes and blasts us to ashes, I’ll follow you down to Fohl’s hells and box your ears. Hear me?” He gave Rowen a shove.
Sheathing Knightswrath, Rowen gathered Silwren in his arms. Her skin felt like a blacksmith’s forge, but he hugged her close anyway, his heart pounding. Sergeant Epheus started toward King’s Bend. Rowen followed. The reluctant soldiers of the Red Watch encircled them as the crowd pressed in on all sides.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRIALS
Rowen Locke wondered if he was about to be hanged.
The sun had barely risen. He stood unarmed in the office of Captain Ferocles, just above the barrac
ks. The captain’s face was furrowed with anger, fixed for the moment on a piece of parchment. On the captain’s desk lay a drawn dagger, its blade gleaming cold and dull in the morning light angling through the captain’s window. Rowen tried not to look at the dagger. Instead, he focused on the noise outside.
Even inside, he could hear that all of Lyos was in an uproar. Despite attempts to keep Silwren’s arrival secret, word had already spread from the Dark Quarter, and now angry crowds bristled outside the palace of King Pelleas, at the eastern edge of the inner city, demanding that she be released to a growing mob.
Thanks to rumors planted by none other than Captain Ferocles himself that the wytch was being kept in a secret location, the mobs had no idea that she had simply been locked away in the basement of the jailhouse. That gave them time to decide what to do with her. But it also required the captain to reassign nearly half the Red Watch to protect the palace, which made him none too happy.
Rowen swallowed hard, sweating in his leather armor. He had finally told his story: how he had met El’rash’lin on the plains, how he found Silwren in Cadavash and saved her, only to watch her leave with the stated intent of warning Lyos of danger. He had told them of everything except his dizzying glimpse into the Well, into the Light itself: a glimpse that had filled him with joy and reassurance at the time but had since left him so lamenting its absence that he refused to let himself think about it. Nor did he mention how Knightswrath, the rusty sword given to him by Hráthbam, seemed to warm in the presence of magic, even to draw him somehow.
Rowen hoped his candor in all other matters might save him, especially if they believed what he’d said about El’rash’lin’s selfless action on the plains. But as he finished his tale, their frowns made it clear that they did not believe a word of it. He could feel the cold eyes of Sergeant Epheus, who was sitting in a chair off to one side. Captain Ferocles finally looked up, stone faced, from the parchment before him. The captain asked, “Do you know what this is?”
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