“I thought you had fled the woods,” Paedrin said, reaching the edge. He could feel a gust of wind on his back. “You seemed in a hurry to leave the Scourgelands.”
“I’m not afraid of Shirikant,” Kiranrao huffed. “Even he will fall to the blade. Even he fears it. I came here to spit on his ruins. I am the master of the Scourgelands now.”
“You are nothing but a thief and a coward,” Paedrin said. “You are a murderer, a common criminal. You will die here and no grave will be dug for you. Your only hope of being remembered is if a Cockatrice turns you to stone.”
Kiranrao gave a throaty laugh. “It is more than you will get, Bhikhu. What glory awaits your kind? What comes from the briar but the berry? Reputations last longer than lives, Bhikhu. Even Tyrus craves this. It is his weakness. It is the weakness of all men.”
“When people remember you . . .” Paedrin said, feeling his heart begin to churn with emotion, feeling words come into his mouth, words that rolled out in a forceful gush. “. . . they will sneer. They will chuckle behind their hands. Is this the man who made kingdoms shake? Is this the man who made the earth tremble under the weight of all those burdened wagons? All the kings lie in glory, Kiranrao. The Kings of Wayland, and Stonehollow, the rulers of Alkire and Silvandom. Every one of them. But not you. Your name will be said as a curse.”
As he said the words, Paedrin knew—somehow—that they would be true. He felt a queer sensation, as if he had uttered a prophecy.
Kiranrao rushed, slashing with the blade of Iddawc, his mouth churning with rage and spittle. Paedrin stepped off the edge of the cliff and let himself fall before kicking off the mountain and veering upward to meet the Romani in the air. A blur of motion caught his gaze.
He watched Kiranrao plummeting toward the forest floor before vanishing into a gasp of smoke.
XXXII
It was Annon who spotted the riderless horse first, and he hissed for the others in warning. The mount was lathered and plodded through the grove, its reins dragging on the turf. The nostrils flared and it shook its mane. The group hid behind oak trees, each one claiming his or her own, except for Shion and Phae. The steed huffed past them, oblivious to their presence, skulking deeper into the woods. Annon looked at Tyrus, saw the baffled expression, and knew he could not make anything of it either.
From the wilderness where they had come, the howl of the Weir picked up again, causing repeat cries from several sides. They were getting closer and Annon felt the worry gnawing at him. He was tired beyond imagining, aching for rest and sleep, but there was no stopping now, nothing but the fear of being hunted, realizing that if night fell again before they had found the tree, it would be too late. He had the numbing premonition that they wouldn’t live to see the dawn if that happened.
“There wasn’t a rider,” Prince Aran said. “What do you make of it?”
“I have no idea,” Tyrus replied. “Shirikant must be pulling in all of his defenses.” He gazed through the trees at the dwindling sunlight. The shadows grew darker with each passing moment. “Hurry. This way.” He pointed.
Annon swallowed hard and they traversed the twisting woods. Hettie stayed close to him, her breath ragged from the long and tortuous walk. Her face was ashen with fatigue, but she managed a quick smile to him and patted his shoulder.
The woods broke away not far ahead, and Tyrus raised his hand. He picked out the widest oak, the most imposing barrier, and directed them all to cluster behind it.
“Hettie, what do you make of the ground?” Tyrus asked her.
She came forward, crouching low, and studied the land in front of them. The earth was churned and trees had been pulled up by their roots and dragged away. It was haphazard, disorderly, but it created a wide space between them and the base of the massive promontory jutting ahead. Annon craned his neck, seeing the ribs of craggy stone rising like arches into the sky. At the top, he saw the ruined battlement walls of some fallen citadel. The sky to the north was roiling with clouds and he saw the vivid flash of lightning coming from the distance. A rumble of thunder followed it shortly.
“We made it this far,” Annon said, gazing up at the fallen fortress. Part of him didn’t believe it was possible. Would he snap awake and realize it was only a vision? The bark of the oak was rough against his palm and he stroked it, wondering if the tree had been there when the foundation stones of the ruins had first been laid.