I shake my head. “More will come. We cannot stay here.”
There is no more argument from Carys. Not this time. We move in silence, picking a path through the streets to the palace—a walk I have made nearly every day since I first arrived in this city. A walk I have done so many times, I could probably find my way back blindfolded. It typically takes me no more than a half hour, if I am in a hurry.
Tonight, the journey lasts far longer. Our progress is excruciatingly slow. Carys has the babe to carry, and Farley, gods blesshim, is only able to move so fast with his cane. My feet itch to run. My body crackles with unexpended power as I creep around corners, checking for threats before waving my friends forward. We pass the bank, its stately windows smashed, and hurry by the blacksmith, his forge gone cold.
At the start, we see no one. No one save the dead, left to lie on the streets where they have fallen. Some are missing their ears—taken as trophies by the Reavers who cut them down. I swallow hard and avert my gaze.
As we near the lakeshore, the very air grows perfused with an apprehension that makes all the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The sounds of battle rise from an undercurrent to a crushing riptide, washing over us without relenting. Carys’s and Farley’s faces are the picture of trepidation as we reach the perimeter of the marketplace.
We all draw up short, stunned into stillness.
Tonight, there are no happy vendors selling spices, stirring wine, roasting chestnuts; no patrons wandering the stalls with fat coin purses, bartering for the freshest produce. No. Tonight, it is a graveyard. A pile of dead, Reaver and Caelderan alike, tangle together like partners in a macabre dance that will outlast any fiddler’s tune. The ancient apothecary is slumped by my favorite fountain, his wizened hands clutching the belly wound that killed him. None of the powerful elixirs he stocks in his orderly shop can call him back.
“Gods help us,” Farley mutters, tracing a three-fingered sigil in the air, the meaning of which I can only guess. “Gods help us all.”
Under her breath, Carys chants the words of a prayer. I catch snippets as we move across the marketplace. “…may their souls journey safely from shadow into flame, from flame into aether…”
I say nothing, gripping my bow tighter. Trying not to look tooclosely at the carnage. We are halfway across the square when a woman starts screaming for help—a sound of such suffering, we all glance at one another in alarm. I jolt into motion only to pull up short, remembering my companions.
“For gods’ sake,go!” Carys cries, pushing at my back. “We’ll only slow you down. We can make it the rest of the way without you.”
“But—”
“Rhya.” Farley grips his sword tightly. “There are people who need your protection far more than we do tonight. We are well armed and well trained. We know the way.Go.”
The woman shrieks again, a bloodcurdling wail.
“Just…get to the keep!” I bark at Farley and Carys, blinking back tears. “I’ll catch up as soon as I can!”
“Be careful!” Carys calls after me.
But I am already running. The woman’s screams are fainter now. I follow them down a short alleyway that splits in two, picking the leftward fork at random. Hoping it might lead me to her. In my head, I see that mother with her two tiny children, running for their lives. I see more bodies being added to that pile in the marketplace.
I run faster, bounding on currents of wind. Practicallyflying. Barreling from the mouth of the empty alley, I suddenly find myself on King’s Avenue. Battle rages on all sides. Guild members and common foot soldiers swing broadswords and shields against the Reavers’ double-bit battle-axes. There is no sign of the woman whose cries drew me into the fray, nor is there any chance to find her. The moment my foot hits the street, I am ducking blows and spinning beyond the reach of blades.
My hands move without executive command, firing on autopilot. I let my arrows fly, one after another, taking down more Reavers than I can count. When I spot a fallen Dyvedi archerwith a near-full quiver on his back, I snatch it up without thinking twice.
He will not need it anymore.
In the distance, I spot Cadogan leading a charge of troops toward the tunnel, sword held aloft as they drive the enemy back from whence it came. Jac is by his side, matching his strikes, his axe swinging like a windmill above his head. A bit of the ice encasing my heart cracks open when I see them.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
I waste several precious seconds looking for Penn but cannot find him anywhere. He is likely by the tunnel where the fighting appears thickest, taking on half the invaders singlehandedly—even exhausted nearly to his limits. I can sense only the faintest pulse of his maegic through the bond. It lets me know he is still alive.
For now, that is enough.
I move in the direction of the lake, slipping through pockets of combat like a ghost. My arrows find their marks. I lose track of how many lives I take, how many Reavers I bring down. I no longer care to tally them, even if I know that later, when all this is over, I will carry the weight of their deaths on my heart for the rest of my life.
I have nearly reached the bridge when a shadowy figure appears in my peripheral vision without warning. I whirl around, bow aloft, arrow nocked, string taught. My hands still as I recognize the set of crystalline blue eyes looking back at me.
“Hello, skylark,” Soren practically purrs. Maegic hums in the air around him, thick as syrup. His irises are liquid with it, churning like the deepest ocean currents, the blue striated with silver. He wears no weapons that I can see and seems not at all ruffled by the absolute chaos unfolding to every side.
“Soren,” I say dumbly, staring at him.
“Behind you.”