Ranulf bellowed a final time. Except it wasn’t Ranulf anymore but a bear, its eyes red and feral, its frame gaunt, its fur matted. It stood up on its hind legs, towering over those around it, its great shaggy head turning, scanning. It then dropped to all fours and quickly shambled to Dyfrig, its long claws clicking on the paving stones as it bowled over any in its path.
“No!” Beollan shouted. Gathering himself, he rose and hurried after the bear. “Ranulf!”
“Wait!” Gawell cried out at the same time, all righteous indignation gone as he watched his townspeople destroy each other. Moving around Ednoth, he shoved Helto aside as he tried to go down the steps to Rosea. “You said just the king and his men—”
Without looking, Rosea waved her hand and Gawell flew back to crash against the front of the town hall. “I lied,” she said. Raising her other hand, she spread her white arms out as if embracing the square, her eyes closed, her lips parted. After a moment, though, a line appeared between her brows. Opening her eyes, she looked down at me as I cradled Laurel. Her frown deepened. “Take off the feather, Rabbit.”
“Go to hell,” I said. The pain had spread to my wounded side and I gasped for breath, my mouth filling with a coppery taste.
“How original.” Rosea sighed, dropping her arms. “The Faena has bound you. If you don’t take off the feather, you will die with him.”
The coppery taste grew stronger and something warm ran out the side of my mouth. I wiped at it with the back of my hand and, looking down, I saw blood smeared on my glove.
“Even now your life is fading,” Rosea said. “Remove the feather and live.”
Behind me, Dyfrig finished his confession and segued into a prayer of exorcism, a counterpoint to the growls of the bear, Beollan’s desperate shouts, and the muffled screams of the terror-ridden and the dying. I latched on to the sound of the doyen’s voice, adding my own desperate prayers to his. Mine, though, were for the protection of all the souls of the mortally wounded—especially mine.
Rosea looked over her shoulder at Helto. “Kill the priest.”
Helto had regained his balance and now swung the crossbow to Dyfrig. “As you wish, my lady,” he said, and loosed the quarrel. I tried to rise up, but I couldn’t make my legs work. Someone cried out, but Dyfrig continued praying. Helto had missed, then. Scowling, the taverner began looking for another loaded crossbow. As he did, Ednoth threw off his paralysis and leaped on the taverner. They both slipped, then went down on the ice-slick portico, their struggle fading from view as my eyesight dimmed.
Not winter yet.
My head jerked up to see that Rosea had moved closer, stopping at the staves I’d dropped between us. She held out her hand. “Don’t be foolish. Your dying will accomplish nothing. Give me the feather.”
I raised my own hand, but instead of reaching up to my braid, I tried to summon air. It did not respond.
Rosea sighed again, exasperated. “A waste of time and effort.” Dyfrig rang the bell and her face rippled. It then firmed, this time full of sympathy. “So tired, aren’t you sweet chuck?” she said, her voice soft and gentle. “Just one more thing and you can rest.”
I moved to fire and got the same damn sickly blue flame. I tried earth. Nothing.
—not winter—
“Why fight it?” Rosea asked. “The feather, Rabbit.”
I let my hand flop to my side. Laurel lay unmoving, his blood dripping on me. Or maybe it was my own. It ran down my chin to splash on the cat’s fur.
“Sweetling,” Rosea crooned, moving closer.
—yet—
There was nothing left to lose. I reached for water and gasped as a bone-chilling cold settled over me, as if I had plunged into a glacier lake in the Upper Reaches.
Rosea laughed, her voice going smooth and melodic. “Do you think that you will defeat me with what is mine? I am water. Take the damn feather off, stupid man.”
I dropped my hand again, my body slumping, my eyes closing. And I found myself standing in the middle of rolling grassland, stretching out as far as the eye could see in all directions, the sun bright and warm in a forever blue sky.
I let out a breath. Yet another vision. I was wearing the same hodgepodge of clothing as I had the last time I’d visited the metaphor that was my soul. This time, though, I carried the Staff of Office, Laurel’s cloth-and-bead-decked carved oak staff, and my own plain ashwood staff. The Faena staff’s beads softly clacked and the Church staff’s small bells faintly chimed in the soft wind that swept over the grass in waves. My feather danced in the breeze, gently brushing against my cheek.
Not winter yet.
Of course it wasn’t winter. But I frowned at lush, ankle-high grass. It wasn’t spring, either. It was fall, with Harvestide and my Nameday fast approaching.
“Damn,” Rosea said. “I can’t reach him, Master.”
I stared about, pondering the confusion of the seasons and caught something shimmering in the grass. Walking over, I saw a lake that hadn’t been there before. I moved to a ledge over the water and, looking down, saw my reflection looking back. Except I wasn’t looking at me. My mirror image’s eyes were fixed above and to the side of my head. I turned, searching to see what had me so entranced.
“The tie’s too strong with the Faena,” Rosea said. “He’s almost gone.”
There was nothing but sky. I looked back into the water and blinked. Behind my reflection was Laurel, the cat’s amber eyes full of light. As I watched, Thadro appeared, his face wondering. Then Magistrate Ordgar and Alderman Geram showed up, followed by several of the King’s Own, a couple of aristos, their armsmen, town watchmen and even a few of Helto’s henchmen. Ignoring my reflection in front of them, they all looked straight at me. My heart began thundering in my ears.
“He’s done something with the others. Bound them to him in their deaths as far as I can tell. They’re also beyond my reach.”
The lake filled with people—Albe the blacksmith and one of his apprentices, Danny the postilion, Kenelm the turncoat, Alderman Almaric, more watchmen, another aristo, rowdies off the portico, bravos from the rooftops, women still carrying their bows and quivers, men with cleavers and walking sticks. Ranulf pushed his way to the front, his body once more human. But it was wrapped in what looked like caltrops strung on wire, the caltrops’ points embedded deep into his flesh. He met my gaze, his habitual scowl on his face.
“Such a rich soul, so full of power and complexities. It’d be a shame to lose it.”
There was a ripple and Jeff moved through the crowd to stand between Laurel and Ranulf. Jeff stared about wide-eyed, then also looked up at me. My own reflection, though, remained unaware of all the people behind it. I waved the bundle of staves I held but it didn’t change. The thundering grew louder, now seeming to come from the very ground under my feet. Not my heart, came the distant thought. It was the crashing of an enraged sea. The wind increased, bending the grass before it as it softly howled, but the surface of the lake remained placid, my mirror image blindly staring, transfixed by something that wasn’t there. I lifted the staves high, those in the lake tracking, Laurel’s whiskers lifting in a smile that showed his eyeteeth—
“Wait, Master, something’s happening—”