Silverkin

Tsyrke saw both men, one dressed in black like all the Sleepwalkers he had heard about. A medallion glimmered on his chest. The other wore green.

Tsyrke had always wondered what fighting a Sleepwalker would be like. Another thing he would learn before he died. How lucky…

“You found me,” Tsyrke said, edging forward, keeping the tip of his blade. “But I’ll not lay down and die. You owe me that much, Sleepwalker. I’m ready.”

The Sleepwalker had grey eyes. Deep grey, as thick as shadows. His cowl came down.

Tsyrke nearly double-stepped forward and struck him right then, but something in the man’s eyes forestalled him. He was not used to that look. Not from another man. Compassion? Pity?

More noises came from the corridor behind him. Soldiers flooded the tunnels. Probably Wolfsmen followed by regular Shae army. The knights would have made a banned racket.

“You don’t have long to make this decision, Tsyrke Phollen,” the Sleepwalker said. The other man, a blue-eyed Shae, stood impassively next to him, clutching a snow-white orb.

“What decision?”

Was it a feint? A trick to get him to lower his weapon? He edged forward, hoping he was fast enough, knowing he probably wasn’t.

“Come with us. Both of you.”

“I know what a Ravinjon is, Sleepwalker. I banned well better know. There is no surrender. There are no terms. I…”

“Are you going to waste your last few moments arguing with me? Come with us. Both of you.”

“Where?” Mage croaked, his eyes stabbing at the green-robed Shae.

A wry smile quirked on the Sleepwalker’s mouth. “You have another appointment, Sorian?”

The sound of boots and the glare of torches filled the hall behind him.

The Sleepwalker cocked his head, studying Tsyrke as if saying, Well?

He lowered his weapon and flipped it around, handing the hilt to the Sleepwalker.

Everything went white.



*



It was finished.

Miestri of the Vale watched the threads of smoke rising up from the battered city. She watched until Ballinaire went down and the knights thronged around him. She watched long enough to see his head shorn from his shoulders—a punishment earned years ago in the Duchy of Owen Draw. A punishment commuted until that blazing glorious morning.

What matter of Silvan magic had banished the Firekin, she did not know. Nor did she wish to know. It was enough that she sensed the subtle shifting in the Earth magic. It was enough that Mage was powerless…or even better—dead. The banners snapped in the morning breezes. The Rebellion was broken, crumbled.

It had gone according to her plans.

She smiled, feeling the well of magic within her rise now that one fewer Sorian could tap into its deepest depths. Her share increased, not to be replaced by another. Not every morsel of her plan had played out, but she was content with that. The Druid priest and the Warder had lived—or so she supposed. The Silvan magic had struck in the moment of her victory. But it was a victory nonetheless.

She raised her orb and sent a thought to Dairron, waiting patiently in the Kingshadow Mountains.

It is finished.

His thoughts warmed. It begins.





Chapter XXXV





There was nothing but a fog of pain.

Thealos was lost in it, seeking to find a crack or crevice where he could escape it for a moment. But the agony never left. He did not know how long it had been. He did not remember what had happened after the Silverkin’s magic had broken him. Opening his eyes was all he had the strength for.

“Are you awake?”

Ticastasy’s voice.

Even his eyeballs hurt. He tried to nod, but he couldn’t. His voice was so thick and strained he did not recognize it.

“Maybe.”

She leaned forward on an oak chair next to his bed, her skin scrubbed clean and smelling of soap and the room of broth and bread. She’d changed clothes as well, wearing a light brown shirt with soft leather cuffs and collar that was parted down the front and trimmed with tiny beads. Hooking some of her hair behind her ear, she smiled at him.

“Have some broth, Quickfellow. Exeres says you need to eat.”

She reached for a bowl on the table by the bed and leaned over him, spooning some into his mouth. It tasted of egg, salt, and stock—his stomach gurgled in response. She fed him two mouthfuls, then four. Weariness stole over him. Swallowing was an effort.

“Enough,” he whispered. She wiped his chin with a linen napkin.

“How long…has it been?”

“Two days, I think.” She scooted closer and then put the bowl back down on the table. She reached out and gently covered his hand with hers. He winced and glanced down.

His stomach lurched.

His arms were splinted and bound, but the skin—his skin was purple with bruises. Several blankets covered him, but he felt the splints on his legs as well along with a tightness of a bandage around his chest. He made a face and it hurt horribly, his cheeks throbbing.

“What about…Everoot?”