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“Again, you mean?” Korin shot back, giving his friend a bitter smile.

“That’s not what I said.”

Niryn was pleased to see some hint of division at last. “It would not be running away, Lord Caliel,” he said smoothly. “If the enemy breaches the gate, they will kill everyone they find, including our young king. They’ll drag his body through the streets and display his head as a trophy in Benshâl. The Overlord will wear the crown and Ghërilain’s Sword at their victory feast.”

Korin paused in his pacing and gripped the hilt of the great sword hanging against his hip. “He’s right, Caliel. They know they can’t take the whole country with one assault, but if they destroy Ero, capture the treasury and the Sword, kill the last of the line—how long will Skala stand after that?”

“But Tobin—”

“Is as great a threat!” Korin shot back. “You’ve heard the reports. Every Illioran left in the city is whispering about it, saying the true queen has come back to save the land. Three more priests were executed today, but the damage is done. How long until this rabble unbars the gate to the renegades? You saw the banners among Tobin’s army; the countryside is already rising to join him—or her!” He threw his hands up with a snarl of disgust. “It doesn’t matter what the truth is; the ignorant already believe. And if he does manage to break through, what then?” He drew the sword and held it up. “Better for the Overlord to have this than a traitor!”

“You’re wrong, Kor! Why can’t you see it?” Caliel cried. “If Tobin wanted the city to fall, why come to our defense? He could just as easily have delayed and let the invaders do his dirty work for him. You saw how he fought today. Wait, I beg you. Give it another day before you do this.”

Alben burst in and gave Korin a hasty salute. “Korin, sappers have broken through under the wall and the main gate just fell. They’re pouring in like rats!”

Korin’s eyes were like a dead man’s as he turned to Caliel. “Gather my guard and the Companions. Ero is lost.”

58

Caught in that torrential downpour, Tobin’s army had no choice but to hunker down and wait for dawn.

Using pikes, cloaks, and a bit of hedge magic, the wizards managed to construct a few small tents for themselves, and for Tobin and her officers.

Tobin and Tharin spoke at length with the Wormhole survivors, learning what they could of the enemy’s strength, but their report was old news by now.

Sometime near midnight a shout of dismay went up among the ranks as a red glow blossomed against the sky.

“The Palatine!” Ki exclaimed. “They must have broken through. It’s burning!”

Tobin turned to Arkoniel. “Can you show me what’s happening, like you did with Tharin?”

“Of course.” They knelt together on a folded cloak and Arkoniel took her hands in his. “We haven’t done this since you were a child. Do you remember what I taught you?”

Tobin nodded. “You had me imagine I was an eagle.”

Arkoniel smiled. “Yes, that will do. Just close your eyes and let yourself rise.”

Tobin felt a dizzying sensation of movement, then saw the dark, rainswept plain sliding away below her. The illusion was strong; she could feel her wings and the rain beating down on them. A large owl flew with her, and it had Arkoniel’s eyes. He glided ahead and she followed, circling the Plenimaran position by the gate, then soaring up to the devastation of the Palatine.

The New Palace, the temple, and the sacred grove: they were all in flames. Everywhere she looked she saw hundreds of people locked in close combat. There were no banners to tell her where the Companions were. It was utter chaos. As she circled the burning grove, however, she looked to the south and saw with amazement that another small army was encamped there, facing the contingent of Plenimarans who held the Beggar’s Bridge gate.

She was about to swoop down for a closer look when she found herself kneeling under the dripping tent again, the beginnings of a headache throbbing just behind her eyes. Arkoniel was holding his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “With everything that’s happened these last few days, I’m a bit used up.”

“We all are,” Iya said, pressing her hand to the back of his neck.

Tobin got up and turned to Tharin. “We must attack. Now.”

“We can’t!” said Jorvai.

“He’s right, Highness,” Kyman agreed. “A night attack is always risky, but with this rain the horses will be more likely to founder, or run themselves onto stakes.”

“We’ll take our chances then, but we must attack now! The Palatine has fallen. They’re fighting for their lives. If we don’t help them, there’ll be no one left to save by morning. There’s another army on the south side and the Plenimarans have had to divide up to face them. Iya, what can your wizards do? Can you help us break through at the lower walls?”

“We’ll do what we can.”

“Good. Ki, Lynx, find our horses and send runners to alert the others. Kyman, Jorvai, will your people fight?”

“Ilear is with you,” Kyman replied, pressing his fist to his heart.

“And Colath,” Jorvai swore. “If nothing else, we’ll give the bastards a nasty surprise!”

Word of the Palatine breach spread through the Camp. Despite rain, mud, and exhaustion, Tobin’s shivering army found its feet and within an hour they were marching under order of silence toward the enemy line once again. Jorvai sent a raiding party to dispatch the outlying pickets and they did their job well. No outcry gave them away and the rain became their friend, hiding their approach from the sentries.

Iya and eight of the wizards stole on ahead. They kept to the high road, letting the darkness cloak them, conserving their strength for the task ahead. Arkoniel had complained bitterly when she’d ordered him to stay behind with the rear guard, but finally agreed when she’d pointed out that it wouldn’t do for the last Guardian to find himself and the precious bowl he carried in Plenimaran hands if it all went wrong.

Holding hands like children so as not to get separated, Iya and her small band of saboteurs plodded along, wading down wheel ruts flooded into small streams.

They stopped just outside the stake lines. Wizards saw better in the dark than ordinary folk, and from here they could easily make out the bearded faces of some of the guards standing around their watch fires. A few hundred yards beyond lay the broken black mouth of the north gate, blocked by makeshift wooden barricades.

They’d agreed in advance that Iya would direct the spell, for her powers were the strongest for this sort of work. The others stood just behind her, their hands pressed against her back and shoulders.

“Illior help us,” she whispered, raising her wand in both hands. It was the first time so many had joined at once for such a destructive magic. Iya hoped her old body was strong enough to channel it. Stifling her doubts, she lowered the wand in her left hand and narrowed her eyes. The line of stakes and the watchmen’s fires blurred before her as the other wizards willed their power into her.

The spell burst through her and Iya was certain it would shred her to bits. It was like wildfire and hurricanes and avalanches raging all at once. Her bones sang with the force of it.

Yet somehow she survived, and watched in astonishment as pale green fire engulfed the stake line and the barricades beyond. It didn’t look like flames, but a mass of writhing forms—serpents or dragons, perhaps. It grew brighter, then exploded. The ground shook and a great gust of hot wind rocked her on her feet. The blast left a roiling cloud of steam in its wake.

Then the ground was shaking again, and this time it came from behind. Someone grabbed her and they tumbled together into the icy water of a ditch. Horsemen surged around and over them, charging the new opening. Iya watched the fleeting shapes as if they were a dream. Perhaps it was a dream, for she couldn’t feel her body.