Though the scent had been pleasant, the sight had been horrible.
His clothes had burnt, his skin had blackened, and the flames contracted his body, as if he were trying to curl in the seat to read a book.
She didn’t close her eyes.
She thought she owed him that much for his sacrifice.
But she failed at the end. The flames and heat writhed his body, twisting and consuming it. She dropped and covered her face. At that moment, she heard whispers in those last flames. Notes of gentle consolation. But she didn’t know if they were meant for her or for the tortured master.
Then came a final fluttering rush of flames, like a hundred ravens taking flight-followed by a heavy silence.
“Come,” Kytt urged. “He’s gone.”
“I know…” she moaned.
“No, I mean he’s gone. See for yourself.”
His curious words finally drew her up. She still needed his help.
Kytt lifted her.
The black column had turned solid white, along with a splash across the arched roof where flames had licked. The rest of the Boil remained glassy and dark, but the heart had been purified.
She stared into the niche, expecting to see a pile of charred bone. But it was empty. The space was the pristine white of new snow. Not even a sprinkle of ash or bone.
She reached out a hand.
“Take care,” Kytt warned.
But Laurelle knew it was safe, purified by the selfless fire. Her fingers brushed the seat. As she made contact, words rang in her head, whether some echoing trace of the master or merely her own memory.
Very good, Mistress Hothbrin…
Either way, she offered a ghost of a smile.
Then the stone underfoot began to tremble.
Kytt grabbed her and drew her away.
Stumbling with him, she glanced around her. “The Boil,” she said, picturing the black flame trapped in granite. “The naether wakes to the plug Orquell planted here. They are fighting back.”
The quaking continued, rattling the roots of Tashijan.
Laurelle and Kytt fled up the stairs. Ahead, loud crashes echoed down to them as large sections of rock struck the stairs.
“It’s all coming down!” Kytt cried out.
Kathryn felt the tower shake. She sat astride Stoneheart. Mychall hugged her back. She brandished a torch toward the few ghawls that still kept to the halls. The rest had fled in every direction, no longer guided by the will of the witch.
Mirra’s body still lay bloody on the stone.
As the shaking grew more violent, the last few ghawls lost their wills and fled, emptying the hall.
A cry sounded behind her as Horsemaster Poll was finally freed from the wall. He fell to the floor, but Bastian caught him around the waist. He regained his legs, hugging his spiked hands to his chest.
“I kin stand,” he mumbled weakly.
“Da!” Mychall slid from Stoneheart’s back. He slammed into his father, wrapping his arms around his waist.
The quaking continued. It seemed to arise from deep underground.
Tyllus must have read her concern. “We’ll get these two upstairs. You’d best see to the pickets.”
She nodded to the two knights. “Keep them safe.”
She nudged Stoneheart toward the stairs. He had refused to climb before, but whether trusting this rider or merely happy to flee the blood and horror here, he burst up the stairs now. Kathryn leaned forward, balancing her weight.
The horse clopped loudly, climbing out of darkness and into the flame-lit upper levels. The picket came into line ahead. Fire and black knights filled the stairs. A small cheer rose from them as they saw her clatter into view, astride the handsome stallion, sweated and shining in the firelight.
She dismounted by the line and left the stallion with a knight she knew was familiar with horses. She forded the picket and climbed toward the level of the fieldroom.
She met Argent as he climbed down from the line above.
“What was that shaking?” the warden asked, breathless.
Kathryn shook her head, but the quakes were already fading away. Whatever had been shaken up below was quieting back down. “I don’t know, but the witch is dead.”
“What?”
“Slain. Her legion routed and in full panic.”
Argent’s eye brightened. Together they hurried toward the fieldroom. “That’s the first fair news in many a bell. Maybe we can hold out yet!”
They reached the fieldroom to find Delia and Gerrod by the shuttered window, peering out the small opening.
Gerrod turned to them. There was something grim about his stance. He lifted an arm, urging them to join him.
Kathryn stepped around one side of the map table, Argent the other. They met again at the window. Argent touched Delia’s shoulder to make room. She slid back.
Bending, Kathryn peered out into the dark stormswept night. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but it appeared that the winds had subsided.
“Lord Ulf has pulled back his wraiths,” Gerrod said. “At least those loose out there.”
“Is he retreating?” Argent asked.
Gerrod remained silent.
Kathryn saw why. The shield wall was coated with ice. As she watched, black rock grew white with hoarfrost, spreading out in a crystallizing pattern, consuming the wall.
All hope went cold.
Her voice dropped to a dry whisper.
“The ice is coming.”
A CROWN OF AN ANCIENT KING
Perryl’spoisonous blade pressed against Tylar’s chest, pinching through his cloak. He held the blade off by sheer trembling muscle. Rivenscryr crossed against the daemon’s sword.
Pinned against the wall of the hide tent, Tylar could not maneuver. His legs shook. Even the hand that bore Rivenscryr had begun to gnarl as the venom inside him spread. The exertion only sped the corruption.
“Perryl…” he begged.
If he could somehow reach him…
But the pale face remained impassive, no anger or fury, simply certainty. The face of a predator in a dark sea.
Then a momentary flicker passed through the fire in the daemon’s eyes, like a brush of wind. Tylar shoved with his remaining strength.
Perryl went stumbling back, plainly disoriented.
Something had happened.
Free, Tylar lifted Rivenscryr. He judged how to use the moment. Flee or attack. Overhead, rain pelted the tent, beating against it like a hide drum. With his body weakened, he could not match swords with Perryl.
In that moment of hesitation, a splash of fire nosed under the tent flap and wiggled inside. Pupp’s molten form hissed with rain. Fiery eyes took in the scene, and he trotted blithely to the room’s center.
The ghawl retreated another step, spooked by the appearance. Pupp’s fire and light stripped some of the shadows from Perryl, revealing cloak and pale skin. Again Tylar saw the strange translucent oil that was his new skin, squirming beneath with dark snaking muscles.
Revulsion filled him anew.
Perhaps with Pupp’s help…
But the creature seemed to have come with another purpose. Pupp trotted to Tylar, molten spikes bristling. He carried something in his mouth. It shone brilliantly, lit by Pupp’s fiery tongue.
Once near, Pupp spat it at his toes-then vanished away.
Tylar stared at what lay at his feet. A black diamond, not unlike those that adorned a shadowknight’s sword. His own knightly blade lay on the floor, abandoned after cleaving off Krevan’s arm. And in that one breath, he understood. Only one stone brought Pupp to life.
Brant’s stone.
He stared between the diamond and the abandoned sword and understood. The stone was somehow meant to adorn Rivenscryr. But it wasn’t by wits alone that he came by this insight. In his grip, the sword’s hilt seemed to ooze tighter around his fingers. It grew warmer. He had felt such stirrings before in the sword, but never such a muscular spasm as this. Tylar sensed the sword’s lust for the stone-to complete itself.