“Has she also told you that the Shae know about this? Do you think they’ll stay in Avisahn while we attack Dos-Aralon?”
“You do not appreciate the power of the Everoot,” Ballinaire answered. “I see that you do not. It is no matter if the King of Dos-Aralon himself awaited us there with all the hosts of the Crown, for he cannot win. If the Shae send the Crimson Wolfsmen across the river, they send them to be slaughtered. I have seen what the Everoot does when it becomes like dust.” He shook his head and fixed Commander Phollen with his finger. “If you lack full confidence in our cause, perhaps you shouldn’t be leading one of my regiments.”
Tsyrke glared at him, the grooves of his mouth frowning more. His blood ignited in his veins.
“I do not reward failure, Commander Phollen. You’ve forgotten your heritage. I fought against your grandfather during the Purge Wars. He was a vicious and a cunning general, and a skilled leader. That is why I desired you for my Rebellion. I hold you responsible for everything that has happened since the Sleepwalker shamed your troops in the Shadows Wood. I want no excuses, Commander. I expect you to exercise your full faculties on behalf of my army. If you do not, I will relieve you of command. Remember that, Commander!”
Tsyrke’s hands tightened into fists as Lord Ballinaire swung around and left him alone with Mage.
Tsyrke waited for several long moments.
“You didn’t tell him about the Shae we captured,” Mage said.
“I did not,” Tsyrke agreed. He rubbed his thumb on the rim of the goblet. He looked at Mage. “He’s a little overconfident, isn’t he? He’s assuming Dairron left the Kingshadow.”
“He hasn’t. But Folkes is marching and the knights will collide with him if he doesn’t turn back soon.”
Tsyrke nodded confidently. “Just like we planned. Here – in Landmoor. The Rebellion ends here.”
Mage nodded and rubbed his chin. “You did the right thing, letting the girl set them both free. Having the knight locked up with him was the most convenient way to do it.”
“It was your idea,” Tsyrke said with a sobered smile. “You planted the seeds in her mind.”
“Yes, but seeds don’t always sprout. She’ll think it was her idea after all. And now we’ll learn what the Shae have been hiding beneath the city all these years.” The Sorian looked smug. “She must help him claim the magic and slip out tonight – before Ballinaire learns who he really is.”
Tsyrke nodded. “Or Miestri.”
*
The shock and warmth of the knight’s death made him double over in ecstasy. The dagger. Oh, the dagger! The juice of the ‘Root tingled inside his mouth, but that was salt compared to what the dagger made him taste. It was like licking tongues of copper fire. It sent swirls of feeling inside him. And pleasure! Oh, sweet pleasure! Secrist yanked the chain from around his throat. No bruises or even a gash. Whole and unharmed.
Invincible.
The Kiran Thall looked down at the dead knight. He was gone, a lifeless husk. His entire body had shriveled and blackened with the Deathbane’s power. His memories and pain and triumphs were inside Secrist now. Harvested like grain for the winter. He felt the knight’s skill and training whispering to him. The man’s skin was already crumbling to dust. The feeling of power would not last long. Maybe a day. Maybe only hours. But for now, he was everything the knight was. The magic was locked inside him, ready to use. To kill again. To keep killing and to keep feeding the hunger. To kill the Shaden. To cut down the banned Shaden and drink his blood. It burned inside his mind, growing hotter and hotter. What would the Shaden’s life taste like when he died?
Secrist didn’t remember why he wanted to kill. Only that the need drove him. Like hunger or thirst. He went to the cage-like door of the cell. It had shut and locked. Secrist jabbed the dagger into the lock. The metal hissed and corroded, steaming as it burned away. The blade sliced through it as if it were freshly churned butter. Shoving the cell door open, he emerged into the hall. The whelp was not far away.
Hungrily, he started to run.
XXXIII
The sputter of torches lit the main hall of the tunnel in even increments, but further down emerged several soldiers carrying their own. Gripping ‘Stasy’s hand, Thealos pulled her into a side tunnel to hide. The Bandits were everywhere. He stopped in the darkness, waiting for the soldiers to pass and praying that he had seen them first. Sweat streaked down his face and his stomach clenched after the hard run. His legs trembled, out of fear – out of anger. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the look of agony on Sturnin’s face as he died.
“Quickfellow,” Ticastasy whispered, and he clamped her mouth shut with his hand.
Four Bandit soldiers passed by and the light from their torches played in the grooves of the paving stones, just reaching the tip of Thealos’ boot. He watched them pass, relieved, and then nodded.