— 53 —

Erius sat at the window of the gatehouse tower, watching his city burn. Despite the healers’ best efforts, gangrene had set in and was spreading. His shoulder and chest were already black, his sword arm swollen and useless. Unable to ride or fight, he must lay here on a couch like an invalid, surrounded by long-faced courtiers and whispering servants. There were few officers left to bring him reports. Still gripping the Sword of Ghërilain, he presided helplessly over the loss of his capital.

The Plenimarans had broken through again just after dawn the day before. By nightfall most of the lower city was lost. From here, he must watch as cartloads of plunder trundled toward the black ships in the harbor, and crowds of captives—his people—driven like cattle among them.

Korin had proven worthless in the field. Rheynaris had remained at his side, feeding him commands until an arrow felled him just after midday. With fewer than a thousand defenders left, Korin had retreated to the Palatine and was endeavoring to hold the gates. A few other regiments were still fighting somewhere below, but not enough to stem the tide. Enemy soldiers by the thousands hemmed the Palatine in, battering at the gates and hurling flaming sacks of oil-soaked hay over the walls with their catapults. Soldiers and refugees streamed back and forth from the springs and cisterns with buckets, trying to save what they could, but the fires were spreading. Erius could see smoke billowing up from the roof of his New Palace.

Niryn’s Harriers had fought bravely, but even they were no match for the enemy. Decimated by necromancers, felled in the streets by sword or shaft, the survivors broke and scattered. There were also reports of rebel Skalan wizards, who had appeared mysteriously the day before. These were confusing; according to Niryn, the wizards attacked his own, rather than the enemy. Other witnesses insisted that these same traitors had fought for Skala. They were said to command fire, water, even great packs of rats. Niryn gave no credence to such tales. No Skalan wizard had such powers.

Erius had watched the northern roads all day. It was too soon to hope, even if Tobin had reached Atyion alive, but he couldn’t help looking, all the same.

He couldn’t help missing Rhius; his old friend seemed to haunt him now, mocking him. If his old Companion still lived, the might of Atyion would already be with Ero now, strong enough to turn the tide. But Rhius had failed him, turned traitor, and only a stripling boy was left to fetch Solari.

Dusk came, and darkness, and still there was no sign, no word by rider or pigeon. Refusing the drysian’s draughts, Erius sent everyone away and kept his vigil alone.

He was dozing by the window when he heard the door open. The lamps had guttered out, but the fires below cast enough light for him to make out the slight figure standing just inside the door.

Erius’ heart sank. “Tobin, how are you back so soon? Were you turned back on the road?”

“No, Uncle, I went to Atyion,” Tobin whispered, walking slowly toward him

“But you couldn’t have! There’s been no time. And where are your troops?”

“They will come, Uncle.” Tobin was standing over him now, face hidden by shadow, and suddenly Erius felt a terrible coldness.

The boy leaned down and touched his shoulder. The chill spread through Erius, numbing him like poison.

When Tobin leaned closer and the light caught his face at last, Erius could not move or cry out.

“Oh, they will come,” Brother hissed, letting the horrified man see his true face. “But not for you, old man. They come for my sister’s sake.”

Paralyzed, Erius stared uncomprehendingly at the monstrous thing standing there. The air shimmered and the bloody specter of his sister appeared beside it, stroking the rotting head with motherly affection. Only then did he understand, and it was already too late. His fingers clenched convulsively around his sword hilt as Brother stopped his heart.

Later, Korin would have to break his father’s fingers to free it from his dead hand.