It was past noon when Jonmarc awoke. His body still ached from the attack, but his head was clear and the pain was manageable. He pulled back the covers and shuddered as the cold air struck him. The fire was banked, and its heat did little to warm the room. Jonmarc dressed quickly. He crossed to the heavy drapes that blocked the sunlight and pulled them back.
Pristine snow-covered hills stretched out around Wolvenskorn, down to the thick forest. Above it all, a bright blue sky was cloudless. A good day for battle. Tonight, one way or the other, the war with Malesh would end.
This was supposed to be our wedding day. He stared out across the snow toward the horizon, and his fists balled tightly as he struggled for control. Come dawn, both he and Carina were likely to be dead.
He turned away from the window and belted on his sword. He strapped on the single arrow launcher, fastening it to his left forearm and fitting it with a fresh arrow. He left his baldric and daggers on the bed, along with his second sword and crossbow. There would be time enough to arm himself later, when they were ready to ride.
A cold breakfast waited on the nightstand, and a pot of kerif simmered on the coals in the fireplace. Jonmarc finished his food and drank down the kerif greedily, looking to clear the last traces of the attackers' drugs from his system. When no one came to fetch him, Jonmarc let himself into the hallway and followed the sound of voices. The vayash moru would be at rest while the sun was high in the sky, so he assumed that it was vyrkin that he heard.
Yestin and Vigulf the shaman were the only two Jonmarc recognized as he entered the great room. Twenty-five men looked up as Jonmarc walked in. Yestin and Vigulf greeted him and welcomed him to the table. Platters of roasted venison looked well picked over as Jonmarc waved off offers of food. "I see we've gotten reinforcements," he said to Yestin.
"I know it doesn't seem like many. But we are fewer than mortals guess. They've sent the women and pups into hiding. These are all the vyrkin males within a two-day's ride of Wolvenskorn. I can give you my word that none of my people have sided with Malesh." Jonmarc could see the fierce pride in Yestin's eyes, even as he noted that the shapeshifter moved with a slight limp, evidence that he was not fully recovered from his injuries. Jonmarc knew better than to comment. Like Yestin, he had no intention of allowing his half-healed wounds to keep him from battle. "And the vayash moru?"
Vigulf answered him. "Nearly thirty vayash moru sleep in the crypts below. Word of the uprising has spread quickly. They've come from across Principality and even some from Margolan. We've promised them we will stand guard."
Fifty-five vayash moru and vyrkin, and one lone mortal. The Lady had a morbid sense of humor when it came to picking champions. "No idea how many have gone over to Malesh's side?"
Yestin shook his head. "Gabriel doesn't know where some of the vayash moru have gone, especially those who belong to Rafe and Astasia. We don't know whether they'll watch from the sidelines, or whether they've sided with Malesh."
"Anyone hazard a guess on how many fledges Uri's made-for argument's sake? And how many might turn out against us if Rafe and Astasia back Malesh? It's an old habit-I like to have some idea of how big the enemy's forces are."
The vyrkin shaman gave the barest of smiles. "I, too, like to know such things. For argument's sake. If they were all to turn against us, we may face a roughly equal number, but they will all be vayash moru." "Meaning 'equal' isn't really equal at all." "They have some advantages. So do we."
An awful thought occurred to Jonmarc. "Are there other vayash moru broods, aside from the Blood Council?"
Vigulf nodded. "There are minor families. Some are indirect fledges, while others owe allegiance to less powerful sires. I don't think they'll enter the fight-at least, not yet." Jonmarc looked at him skeptically. "Why not?"
Vigulf folded his arms across his chest. "Vayash moru, like vyrkin, respect an order of dominance. Right now, this is a Blood Council issue. The others will wait on the sidelines until they see a clear winner before they risk themselves. Malesh may have recruited from the other Blood Council broods, but he would not think to ask help from what he would consider to be inferior bloodlines."
"Yeah, well I'm living proof that street curs are more dangerous than pure bloods." "Indeed."
While the vyrkin were up and about during daylight, Jonmarc noticed that the heavy draperies in the great room remained drawn. Torches lit the room, making it difficult to gauge the passage of time. Jonmarc sat at the huge table between Yestin and Vigulf as the vyrkin worked out their strategy for the fight.
"We have to hold Malesh off until seventh bells," Jonmarc said. "We owe Carina that chance. After that, he's mine."
The shaman smiled coldly. "We are agreed to contain Malesh without destroying him, and to keep him from entering the Temple of the Lady. Those who fight beside him," Vigulf said, his elongated eye teeth plain, "can fall at any time and not affect Carina. We will make this a costly lesson."
Jonmarc looked to Yestin. "You've been quiet. Thoughts?" Yestin smiled tightly. "That today is a good day to die."
Jonmarc snorted. "I was thinking that it's a good day to kill the fucking bastard who started this."
Since the vyrkin could move about before sunset, they made ready to leave before the vayash moru arose. Even Gabriel had no idea where Malesh had gone to ground, and Jonmarc and Yestin wanted to be in position at the temple before Malesh could have a chance of reaching his objective.
Just before fourth bells, servants brought flagons of goats' blood in preparation for the vayash moru to rise. Jonmarc went to retrieve his remaining weapons from his room. He touched the amulet at his throat that Carina had given him and closed his eyes. It had never been his way to pray before a battle. Until he met Tris, Jonmarc had stopped believing that the Lady was anything but a myth told by those too desperate to accept the fact that they were on their own. A year with a Summoner convinced him that the Lady existed, but he found it impossible to believe such a being could give a damn about the petitions of mere mortals. He'd made Istra's Bargain out of desperation, and despite what Gabriel said, part of him deeply doubted anyone was listening. But just in case, he had one last favor to ask. "If you must take Carina, let her passage be gentle," he murmured. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Nothing in the room gave any indication that his words had been heard by anyone other than himself. He took up his cloak and fastened it around his shoulders. It was time to fight.
The sky was still a clear, soft blue as the group left Wolvenskorn. The sun was low in the sky, but Jonmarc knew he was the only one who needed the light. Vyrkin loped effortlessly alongside his horse, able to see as well as wolves in the night. Once it was dark, Jonmarc knew the vayash moru's keen senses would recognize a threat long before his sight or hearing registered danger. And by the same token, their enemies would have ample warning that they were on their way.
They reached the Temple of the Lady well before sunset. The sky turned a deep golden-red as the shadows lengthened. Jonmarc and Yestin took up position outside the entrance to the temple. Vigulf stationed the others around the building, and scouts kept watch. Moments after the sun sank beneath the horizon, Jonmarc saw shadows begin to move toward them. "They're coming."
The group of vayash moru seemed to appear in the blink of an eye. Thirty of the undead fighters stood facing them, their clothes and hair whipped by the night wind. At the fore stood a tall, blond man who might have been in his late twenties had he been mortal. He wore a long black coat that flared back from his body in the wind, exposing a wicked sword at his belt.
"Where's Malesh-or didn't he have the stomach for a fight?" Jonmarc shouted.
The blond man's eyes narrowed. "He'll come. He's looking forward to seeing you again."
"Likewise."
The blond man surveyed the line of vyrkin that surrounded the temple in wolf form. The large wolves stood with hackles raised and teeth bared, warning the others not to approach. "Is this the best you can do? Did Gabriel desert you?"
"You wish." Gabriel's voice carried across the snow, and Jonmarc watched as Laisren and the other vayash moru stepped into position in the cordon around the temple. At the same time, more vayash moru walked out of the shadows to join ranks behind the blond man, making their number easily equal to the defenders of the temple.
Like a sudden gust of wind, Malesh's force attacked, moving so swiftly that the snow swirled around them. Half of the vayash moru rose from the ground intending to attack from above only to be met by Gabriel's fighters, who forced the action back to the snowy plain.
Jonmarc was ready with a sword in each hand. Laisren stepped up to stand beside him. Five vayash moru closed on them. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc could see the battle beginning all around him. Yestin snarled and launched himself at one of their attackers, dodging the vayash moru's blade and snapping at his neck. Two of the fighters closed on Jonmarc, while the others ran at Laisren, swords flashing in the moonlight. The cold night air was filled with the clang of weapons and the guttural howls of the vyrkin. Jonmarc was grateful for his training with Laisren as his attackers came at him with full vayash moru speed and strength. None of the attackers were familiar to Jonmarc; he had no idea from which of the Blood Council houses they came, nor whether they were Malesh's fledges or older. The blond man who had hailed them at the start circled Jonmarc. A glint in his blue eyes said that he relished the fight. Jonmarc parried as the second vayash moru swung hard, nearly scoring on his shoulder. The blow made Jonmarc's arm throb but he held his sword, wheeling to meet the blond vayash moru's strike between his own crossed blades.
The pair came at him again, and Jonmarc pivoted to miss the worst of the strike, cursing as one of the blades opened a cut on his shoulder. With a cry, he ran at the second man, pounding a furious offense that drove the vayash moru back a pace. Remembering everything Laisren had drilled into him, Jonmarc pressed his advantage, knowing the blond man would strike at any instant. His sword slid against his attacker's blade and slipped free, driving deep into the vayash moru's chest. The fighter's eyes widened in the instant before he slumped to the ground and his body began to deteriorate.
"The traitors taught you well." The blond man came at him at full speed, knocking Jonmarc backward. He regained his balance just in time to stop a swing that was powerful enough to take off a limb.
"Malesh betrayed the Truce. You're the traitors here."
The blond man laughed. His reaction sent a wave of anger through Jonmarc that energized him to charge back through the snow, ready to knock the arrogance from his attacker. The blond man tried to sidestep, but Jonmarc anticipated the move, blocking his enemy's strike and scoring a deep gash on his attacker's upper arm. With a hiss, the man lunged at him, driving him back with a relentless press. Laisren was holding his own against three attackers; help was unlikely from that quarter. Yestin harried another vayash moru a few paces away, dodging the man's blur-fast sword strikes with audacity.
The blond man's sword slashed down, opening a cut on Jonmarc's forearm as he barely managed to hold off the worst of the strike. A cold smile crossed the man's pale features and he pressed his advantage, forcing Jonmarc back another step. Jonmarc pivoted sharply and dove into a low kick, taking the vayash moru down to the ground. He skidded toward the downed attacker, sword ready, and drove his blade in from the side, slipping between the ribs. Black ichor began to ooze from the corner of the vayash moru's mouth, but his body did not disintegrate.
Cursing, Jonmarc withdrew a dagger from his belt and slashed the blond man's throat, loosing a fountain of ichor as the head rolled free. With a grimace, Jonmarc wiped his blade clean on the snow and withdrew his sword barely a moment before two new attackers closed on him.
Malesh isn't old enough to have fledges that can resist a blade through the heart. Damn. That means more outsiders. No wonder that fighter was so good. Malesh is getting help from the other houses, and some of the Old Ones are siding against us. The sharp cry of a wounded vyrkin snapped Jonmarc's attention from the two vayash moru who were fast approaching, swords ready. Yestin was bleeding from a gash in his shoulder, but he had launched himself at his vayash moru attacker and clamped his wolf-bite hard on the sword arm of his foe. Jonmarc ducked low, scything his blade just above the snow to take Yestin's opponent down at the ankles. He rose just in time to meet the new threat of two fresh vayash moru fighters.
Barely a candlemark into the fight, Jonmarc was sure of Malesh's strategy. He'd anticipated their defense, and now he was sending in his lieutenants to wear them down before making his own appearance. If Gabriel was correct, Malesh would attempt to work his blood magic at eighth bells, a nod to the Faces of the Lady. Jonmarc knew he had a tight window of time. He needed to hold Malesh off until after seventh bells to give Carina a chance to heal the Flow. But too close to the next candlemark, and it might not be possible to stop Malesh's working. No movement stirred beyond the moonlit circle around the Lady's Temple, nothing at all to indicate anyone else dreamed that so much hung in the balance on this night's battle.
"Jonmarc, on your right!" Laisren's warning registered an instant before the blade whistled past Jonmarc's ear. Jonmarc parried, sliding in the snow. One attacker pressed forward with a bone-crushing series of blows that drove Jonmarc back on his heels. The other rose off the ground, and then flew downward, sword angled to take Jonmarc through the chest. Jonmarc deflected the first vayash moru's sword strikes and threw himself to the ground,
dropping the sword in his left hand and grabbing for a throwing knife from his baldric. He threw the knife at the vayash moru that was streaking toward him from the night sky and rolled through the snow, grabbing up his fallen sword and curling into a tight ball. The vayash moru's sword struck the ground so close that it tore his cloak, ripping free a hand's breadth of the thick wool.
Seizing the instant's advantage as his attacker pulled his blade free of the frozen ground, Jonmarc brought his twin swords up in a single, fluid movement, impaling the vayash moru through the gut so that the bloodied points thrust out through the back of his long coat. The vayash moru gurgled ichor and shook violently, slipping down Jonmarc's blades until Jonmarc bucked, kicking with both feet to throw the attacker's body clear. It began to decompose before it hit the trampled snow, and the remaining vayash moru closed on Jonmarc with a growl.
Jonmarc was an instant too slow in blocking the sword that came at him, and it sliced into his arm. Blood warmed his skin and Jonmarc saw hunger and satisfaction on his attacker's face as the vayash moru delivered a pounding, two-handed strike. Jonmarc deflected it, but he lost his footing and went down hard as the attacker raised his sword for a killing blow. The whistle of an unseen blade sang through the cold night air, slicing cleanly through the vayash moru's neck. The headless body stood for a moment, and then keeled to the right, following its severed head. Laisren stood behind the dead vayash moru, ichor dripping from his sword.
Jonmarc regained his feet but there was no time for thanks. More vayash moru came toward them, swords at the ready. Around them, the temple grounds had become a battlefield and in the moonlight the snow was dark with blood and ichor. A glance told Jonmarc that the fighting was going hard on both sides. Still, the line held. The clang of swords rang through the night as the fight raged on. The temple bells sounded six times, and Jonmarc scanned the faces of the vayash moru once again for Malesh. "He's not here," Jonmarc said to Laisren as they regrouped after the latest foray. "He'll come. He's likely as anxious to finish you off as you are to kill him." "Not by half."
As quickly as they came, the attackers withdrew. Up and down the cordon, the defenders watched for movement in the moonlight. "Hold your positions!" Jonmarc shouted. With a pause in the fighting, the toll of the battle became more apparent. Several of the vyrkin lay dead on the ground. Dark patches in the snow marked where vayash moru had decomposed after a fatal
strike. From the spacing of the line on the side of the temple he could see, Jonmarc guessed they had lost about a third of their force.
Gabriel's blond hair shone in the moonlight, making it easy to spot him at the far end of the temple. Vigulf was in his place, notable by his sheer size and the unique brown markings on his pelt. Yestin was still on his feet, although his fur was matted with blood in several places. Jonmarc had taken at least half a dozen wounds in the melee. Gashes bled on his arms and upper thighs where his foes had made good their strikes. He glanced at Laisren. The vayash moru's cloak was cut in a score of places, and he had a nasty slash across one cheek. Jonmarc knew that although his undead companion could heal faster than a mortal, the injuries were no less painful. They waited in the silence for the next assault, and Jonmarc scanned the shadows for any hint of movement.
From the darkness, a glimpse of firelight and the twang of bowstrings was the only warning. A hail of flaming arrows arched through the night sky toward the base of the temple. For the vayash moru defenders to hold their positions would be suicide, exposed without cover and trapped against the temple walls.
Jonmarc looked to Yestin. "Take out the archers!" he cried, making for the tell-tale glow at a dead run. The vyrkin ran alongside him, darting and weaving to draw off the arrows that rained fire down from the darkness.
The arrows are concentrated around the door. We're being herded. "Watch your backs! It's a trap!" Jonmarc shouted back to the others just as a new wave of attackers swarmed toward the temple's rear wall. He dodged an arrow that flew past him close enough to warm his skin as he and the vyrkin closed on the line of archers. Jonmarc dropped to one knee and sheathed his swords, grabbing the crossbow that hung at his back. Staying low to the ground, his quarrels felled three of the bowmen in short succession as the vyrkin stalked their prey and sprang for the kill too close for the bows to be of use.
"Jonmarc-the door!"
Firing off one more shot, Jonmarc turned to see Malesh moving toward the temple doorway. Go! Vigulf's voice sounded in Jonmarc's mind.
With a glance to make sure the vyrkin could hold their own against the rapidly decreasing number of archers, Jonmarc slung his crossbow over his shoulder and sprinted back through the
snow, sword in hand. Heavy fighting at the rear corner of the temple had drawn off the cordon. Just as Jonmarc neared the doorway, a dark shape blocked his way. "Going somewhere?" The dark-featured vayash moru was one Jonmarc had never seen before, but it was clear from the man's expression that he was quite aware of who Jonmarc was. His first sword strike was a blur of movement, but Jonmarc blocked it, watching as Malesh neared the temple doors.
A snarl sounded behind Jonmarc an instant before a large wolf leaped into the air, heedless of the vayash moru's sword. The wolf's weight carried the vayash moru to the ground, and Jonmarc recognized Yestin. The wolf paused only long enough to give a sharp bark and a toss of its head toward the temple, indicating for Jonmarc to run. Hoping Yestin could hold off the vayash moru on his own, Jonmarc headed for the doorway at a dead run just as Malesh cleared the threshold.
Jonmarc entered the temple. Malesh was nowhere to be seen. Too late, Jonmarc spun around, realizing Malesh was behind him. Malesh slammed into him at full vayash moru speed, knocking Jonmarc halfway across the temple's open court.
Jonmarc had only an instant to get his bearings. The Temple of the Dark Lady was long and narrow. Banks of candles and scores of torches lined the walls. A shallow reflecting pool lay in the center, warmed by magic in the bitter cold. There were no windows or skylights, yet the floor was cast in rich hues of red and gold from a large stained glass image of Istra that hung suspended from the vaulted temple ceiling, backlit by huge torches. Beneath the glass image stood a large statue of the Dark Lady. Both depictions were the same: a sad-eyed Istra, fangs bared, stood with her arms partially outstretched. She was wrapped in a richly- patterned cloak and, in its shadows, cringing multitudes huddled near her for protection. Jonmarc heard heavy wooden doors slam shut and the crosspiece fall into place. He scrambled to his feet, sword ready. Outside, he could hear the sounds of battle and the cries of vyrkin and vayash moru. Inside, there was only the sound of Malesh's footsteps as he slowly circled Jonmarc.
"It seems you're the only guest to witness my ascendance to consort," Malesh said. It was obvious that he had not taken any part in the battle thus far. He looked as if he might have just left court.
"That's what this is about? You want to be a god?"
Malesh smiled, making his eye teeth plain. "Not a god. A consort. One who will rule with the Lady as we were meant to rule. Openly. Taking our rightful place as the top predator." "Not if I can help it."
"All that remains is to best Her champion. That won't be difficult." Outside, the temple bells began to ring the seventh hour.
Malesh rushed at Jonmarc. Jonmarc was ready for the attack, expecting Malesh to strike with his sword. At the last instant, Malesh altered his course, streaking upward toward the high ceiling and landing behind Jonmarc. Jonmarc stabbed backward with his short sword, burying it deep into Malesh's thigh.
Malesh grabbed Jonmarc from behind and flung him against the stone wall. With a growl, he pulled the short sword from his leg and threw it in the opposite direction. Dazed, Jonmarc struggled to his feet as Malesh closed again. He swung hard with his broadsword, connecting with Malesh's blade. Malesh slid his own blade down to lock Jonmarc's grip, and tore the weapon from his hand. The sword skittered across the marble floor and Malesh landed a blow to Jonmarc's ribs with his fist that cracked bone. Before Jonmarc could catch his breath, Malesh grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him hard against the wall. All I've got to do is stay alive long enough to buy time for Carina. Jonmarc fingered the release for the arm quiver. Not yet. Not yet.
"I knew you weren't much of a swordsman," Jonmarc baited. "You know you can't win a fair fight."
He managed to duck the next blow, and twisted beneath Malesh's grip, diving and rolling although the pain of his broken ribs made him gasp. He came up halfway across the marble court, near the base of the reflecting pool, and grabbed his fallen broadsword. Malesh streaked toward him and Jonmarc spun his sword, gritting his teeth against the pain. The tip of his sword caught Malesh's shoulder and Malesh growled as he parried with a blow that nearly snapped Jonmarc's blade.
"How long before you tire?" Malesh taunted as he returned Jonmarc's parry. "What a fool Gabriel was to think that a mortal champion could ever best one of us. Although I do have a use for you. Your blood will seal the magic." He fingered an amulet at his throat. "I'll make sure to leave enough to work the charm."
Without warning, Malesh attacked again. His blows were calculated for speed and strength,
raining down in a pounding fury that forced Jonmarc to stretch to the limits of his training to defend himself. The attack came so fast and with enough of an advantage in strength that what Malesh lacked in sword skill or salle form was meaningless for the sheer brutality of his press. After having already endured several candlemarks of relentless fighting, Jonmarc knew that he could not hold out long against the savagery of Malesh's attacks before he was disarmed or dismembered. The glint in Malesh's eyes said that his opponent knew it, too.
Jonmarc gripped his sword two-handed, needing all his waning strength and concentration to parry Malesh's blade. Jonmarc met Malesh's strikes blow for blow. He felt the strength of the sword strikes jolt painfully through his bones, making his teeth rattle and his head throb. With every moment that passed, the likelihood of rescue and the hope of success grew dimmer.
With a snarl, Malesh wheeled, bringing his full strength and the motion of his turn against Jonmarc's sword. The blade bent and snapped, sending the useless shards clattering to the floor. Jonmarc threw the pommel at Malesh and ran, but Malesh grabbed his shoulder with a grip that threatened to rip his arm from its socket. Momentarily stunned by the pain, Jonmarc gasped as Malesh grabbed him by the throat with his other hand. "I've watched you fight. Learned how you move. You deserve your reputation as a fighter. And now, I will deserve mine as the one who destroyed you."
Jonmarc spat in his face. He twisted in Malesh's grip, still too far away to launch his arrow from its hidden quiver.
"I took your woman as the first sacrifice," Malesh said, tightening his grip enough that Jonmarc could barely breathe. "She fought me. Her blood was hot and sweet and she moaned like a whore in my arms when I drank her."
Jonmarc lashed out with his foot, landing a blow with the knife in his boot against Malesh's side that would have felled a mortal. Malesh smiled. "I could easily beat you to death. But that hardly befits such a worthy opponent." He drew back his lips. "I gain the strength of my enemy when I devour him. And I want to taste the fear in your blood as I drain your life." Malesh brought his arm down until Jonmarc's boots touched the floor and drew him closer. With his free hand, Malesh ripped open Jonmarc's shirt and great cloak, exposing his neck and shoulder.
Wait for it. Only one chance. Wait for it.
In one swift movement, Malesh bared his fangs and sank them into Jonmarc's shoulder at the base of his neck.
Jonmarc stiffened at the sudden pain as the teeth tore into his flesh. Struggling to keep his head clear, Jonmarc brought his left arm up so that his palm was against Malesh's chest above his heart and squeezed the trigger.
Malesh tore loose from Jonmarc's neck as the arrow embedded itself, quills deep, in his chest. With a shriek, Malesh staggered backward as Jonmarc fell to his knees. A warm stream of blood flowed from the open gash in Jonmarc's neck. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and sensed it slowing as blood soaked his shirt and dripped onto the floor.
Malesh's heel caught the edge of the reflecting pool as he tore at the arrow that protruded from his shirt. He careened into the bank of candles, ripping it and the torch above it from the wall. There was a flash of fire and Malesh screamed again, engulfed in flame. The fledgling dies the maker's death.
Jonmarc watched in horror as Malesh flailed while the flames consumed him and a black, acrid smoke rose from his charring skin.
Behind him, the door gave way with a crash. I failed, Jonmarc thought as the room began to spin. It was hard to breathe. He fell backward onto the cold marble floor, staring into the amber eyes of the stained glass Lady. I destroyed Malesh but I failed Carina. Strong hands gripped his shoulders. "Get the shaman!" It was Gabriel's voice, but with an edge of panic Jonmarc had never heard before. "Let me die."
"You know I can't do that." "No choice."
The temple around him faded into darkness. Gradually, blackness gave way to a gray dawn, and Jonmarc realized that he stood at the edge of an endless sea. The cold surf lapped at his bare feet and the wind whipped at his hair. A lone figure walked toward him at the water's edge, and as it drew nearer, Jonmarc recognized the same face that had stared down at him from the stained glass in the temple. Istra was even more beautiful than any of Her statues. Wild, dark hair framed dusky features and She moved with a predator's grace. Something innate within him warned him that he should kneel in the presence of the Goddess. Ignoring it, Jonmarc remained on his feet, daring to meet Her amber eyes. "I kept my bargain. Let me die."
"There is a greater darkness coming." Istra's voice seemed to sound inside his mind. "I've done my part. Let me rest."
The amber eyes sparked with inner fire, depthless and sorrowful. "Not yet. I need a champion."
"Find someone else."
"There is only one champion in a generation. There is no other."
He shook his head. "If you didn't notice, all your 'children' are out there killing each other.
How can you watch that and not want rid of the lot of us?"
"See what I see." Her voice echoed in his mind as She raised Her arms, revealing what lay beneath the intricate, moving patterns of Her cloak. In the shadows, Jonmarc glimpsed writhing souls, stripped of their pretense and masks, laid bare in fear and pain. For an instant, he could hear their cries of utter anguish and terror and knew that he glimpsed the world as She saw it. He met Her gaze levelly.
"I'm just a blacksmith's son from the backside of nowhere. You've taken everything from me. How can it matter if I die?"
Istra's expression changed as if She were listening to far-off voices, and Her eyes seemed to see into the distance. "Without you, the currents change. Martris Drayke will die before his time. His heir will fall to an assassin's blade. Margolan will be consumed by her enemies within a generation and the Winter Kingdoms will be carved up as spoils among the legions of its attackers."
Jonmarc swallowed hard. "And if I go back, that will change? You swear it?"
Her features softened. "The future is always in motion. I cannot guarantee it. But if you return, there is a chance. Without you, there is none."
Jonmarc closed his eyes. The pain of his battle wounds was gone. He could make good his final vow and find Carina in the Plains of Spirit. But at what cost?
Knowing what he had to do, he opened his eyes. "All right. I'll do it."
Istra reached out Her hand toward him, laying Her palm over his bare chest above the symbol he had traced in ink. Jonmarc gasped as Her palm became hot, searing his skin.
When She withdrew Her hand, the symbol was branded into his flesh.
"Let there be no doubt," Her voice echoed in his mind. "You are mine. Now, return. Your work is not yet finished."
Jonmarc's whole body shuddered as he strained for air.
"I've got him." The shaman's voice sounded close by. Jonmarc felt a hand pressed against his skin where Malesh's fangs had laid open his shoulder. The pain of his wounds returned in a single breath, enough to make his heart skip a beat. "Will he live?" It was Gabriel, still as worried as before.
"He's lost a lot of blood. I'll do what I can to heal him, but I can only do so much to replace blood." Vigulf opened what remained of Jonmarc's shirt to lay a hand on his newly healed- and newly re-broken-ribs. "Look," he said sharply to Gabriel, and Jonmarc knew without
opening his eyes that it was the symbol of the Lady that caught Vigulf's attention.
"You were right when you sensed Her presence just now. I felt it, too."
"Then he truly is Her champion."
Vigulf's laugh was sharp. "You doubted?"
"Only a fool never doubts."
"Are you going to take him back to Wolvenskorn?"
"Not tonight. I don't think either of us is up to it. There's a pilgrim's chamber just off this courtyard. I'll stay with him. The battle's over. And there are others who still need your help." "Aye. I've done all I can tonight for him. Let me see how many of the others I can help, and I'll come back for the both of you at sunset tomorrow."
Jonmarc faded in and out of consciousness as Gabriel carried him to the marble slab that was the only resting place in the pilgrim's chamber. When he was finally able to open his eyes, he saw Gabriel slouched against the wall, seated on the floor of the small room, guarding the door. Gabriel's cloak was torn and darkened with ichor, the same dark substance that matted the blond hair on one side of his head and that marked a gash across his right cheek. His left hand was blistered and the skin was peeling from a bad burn that extended up his arm where flames had burned away the sleeve of his cloak. "You actually look worse than I feel," Jonmarc managed in a whisper. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you faster. Malesh planned his counterstrike well." "How bad was it?"
"Yestin is dead. Laisren will recover, but he had to be carried back to Wolvenskorn. We lost all but a third of our forces." "And theirs?"
"Annihilated."
The enormity of the loss weighed on Jonmarc's heart. So many destroyed out of what was already a small number of Those Who Walk The Night. But the image that would not leave his memory was of Malesh engulfed in flames. He knew Carina felt Malesh's torment. Jonmarc turned his face to the wall and wept silently for her. Istra may have given him no real choice about his service, but Jonmarc grieved for the lost reunion with Carina's spirit. And though he knew Carina would never have wanted him to pay so high a price, he ached knowing that it might be years before Istra would let him take the final rest he sought.