Freth's attention remained on Magiere, but she didn't come. Her left hand whipped to the side-and flung a stiletto straight at Chap.
The shudder in Magiere's body sharpened. Her grip clenched tight on the falchion. She lunged as Freth took her first charging step.
Magiere caught Freth's other stiletto in her free hand. She felt nothing as she wrenched the blade aside and rammed her falchion straight in. The sword didn't even jump in her hand as its tip sank into Freth's gut.
It happened too quickly. Freth's eyes didn't even widen until Magiere clamped her bloody hand around the woman's neck.
She squeezed until she felt Freth choke, and then shoved hard.
Freth's body arched backward, sliding off the falchion as Magiere jerked it loose, and Freth hit the earth, writhing on her back.
Magiere raised the falchion to finish her.
A shout vibrated through her bones. "Stop!"
en'nish lurched and stumbled before Leesil. A quarrel seemed to sprout suddenly from the back of her right shoulder. She didn't cry out, and only dropped one stiletto as her right arm went limp.
Leesil spotted Wynn kneeling in a flattened bush with the crossbow still against her shoulder. The little sage dropped the weapon and crumpled.
en'nish lunged at him with her remaining blade.
Leesil slipped aside, again and again, staying beyond reach. Then he saw Freth fling a blade at Chap, and the dog tried to duck away.
The blade missed his face and the handle clipped his ear as the weapon tumbled across his back. He snarled sharply.
The next thing Leesil saw was Freth on the ground, holding her belly. A dark stain was spreading quickly through her tunic and between her fingers.
Magiere raised her falchion.
en'nish lunged at Leesil again, throwing her whole weight to take him while distracted. He tried to deflect and brought up the punching blade on instinct.
Its edge sliced the back of en'nish's hand and down her forearm, splitting her sleeve open. She cried out, jerking away, and tried to swing again.
Sgaile appeared, folding her tightly in his arms from behind and pinning her.
Sgaile ran hard toward the sounds of screeching steel and voices.
Brot'an'duive was on the ground, attempting to push himself up. A bludgeoning arrow lay near him. Blood dripped from Wynn's mouth down her chin. en'nish, with a quarrel in her shoulder, still kept at Leesil.
And Magiere ran Freth through with her sword.
Sgaile didn't hesitate. He folded his arms tightly around en'nish from behind, pinning her up against his chest, and shouted at Magiere. "Stop!"
She wavered.
"Leshil, do not let her take Frethfare's life."
Leshil was already running around Magiere to stand in her way. He spoke too softly for Sgaile to hear. Magiere slowly lowered her sword.
Gleanneohkan'thva caught up, trying to get his breath. He faltered at the sight before him.
"Grandfather, see to Frethfare first," Sgaile blurted out.
en'nish still struggled in his arms. He thrust his knee into the back of hers. When her leg buckled, he threw his weight on her. She dropped, and he held her down.
"Enough!" he barked, pressing hard on her until she finally lay still. "What is this? What have you done?"
"Most Aged Father ordered us to dispatch them," en'nish snarled. "And you interfere in our purpose! They deserve to die!"
"And Brot'an as well?" Sgaile snapped. "No! Father would never..."
He looked at Frethfare, blood-stained and curled upon the earth. He did not believe en'nish.
Sgaile had seen the way Frethfare went after Brot'an'duive before the council, all for a challenge of truth as Most Aged Father's advocate. But the patriarch of his caste would not violate his word. No, this had to be Freth-fare's doing-and hers alone. Why else would she bring only en'nish, in the woman's anguished state, in coming after so many with Brot'an'duive?
He went cold inside.
"Sgailsheilleache!" his grandfather snapped, untying Freth's cloak. "Question en'nish later. Frethfare's wound is severe, and the others need attendance. Assist me-now!"
"I can see the bottom," Chane said.
Welstiel trembled but did not answer. After two decades and more of preparation and searching, the end was close. Never would there be another night of hunger, feeding upon the wretched and filthy masses. Only eternity filled with peace and contemplation, with the orb in his possession.
Welstiel gave silent thanks to the patron of his dreams.
He might not be able to enter the castle without Magiere. But still his patron guided his steps. He would find a way to bring Magiere to serve his need.
Welstiel was in control once more.
"Careful," Chane rasped. "These lower steps are much worn, and do not look solid."
Welstiel set his palms firmly against the gorge wall. He was still eager to lay eyes on the six-towered castle of his dreams-to see arched metal gates, the black ravens, and every detail that was engraved upon his mind.
Chane slid down the last few steps and trotted out onto the gorge's bottom filled with rough boulders and stones coated in snow. Welstiel hurried down and strode past when he reached solid footing.
At first there was nothing to see, and he scrambled recklessly over the gorge's floor, until coming upon a cleared path coated in light snow. He heard Chane behind him, but he could not wait and raced on, slipping more than once. The path turned, closing again toward the right face.
Welstiel looked about in the dark. He saw nothing but snow gathered on the craggy bottom of the gorge's expanse. He lifted his gaze, searching.
Switchbacks were carved into the gorge's more gradually sloping face, and the path led upward part of the way.
"No," he whispered, stumbling two more steps.
Chane's harsh whisper filled his ears amid the slow-falling snowflakes.
"What is wrong?"
Welstiel gazed up, unable to answer.
He looked upon a small construction chiseled out of the gorge's rock face.
A glowing torch or lantern, mounted upon a pole before its small single door, lit up wood-shuttered windows. The building seated deep into the rock face, no higher than two floors tall, was some kind of ancient and forgotten barracks or a long-lost stronghold in the middle of nowhere.
There was no castle. There were no gates. No ravens. No courtyard. No magnificent ice-fringed spires.
"No," he whispered again.
Cold numbness melted under sorrow and began to burn away in outrage. Welstiel spun around, raising his face to the dark sky.
"For this?" he shouted.
All the nights of trudging hopefully through snow and rocks and cliffs, dragging half-dead horses, and pushing Chane onward. Was his patron amused? Did it sleep, laughing, waiting for him to return to hollow dreams?
He had fallen under his own father to wake from death in a vile existence. And for more than two decades he had searched for release with only his patron's teasing whispers in his slumber. More than once he had grown weary of it, and turned to potions and arcane drugs to keep him from dormancy. But in the end, he had always relented and gone back to the scaled patron of his dreams.
This was the end of it.
He would dream no more... listen no more.
"Do you hear?" Welstiel called out to the stars.
They shone down upon him, distant and unconcerned. So much like an unseen light glinting upon the scales of massive coils turning in the dark.
Chane stared at him. "Who are you talking to?"
Welstiel barely heard him.
"No more!" he cried out to the sky, and grew more spiteful at the anguish in his own voice. "I am finished with you! Go back to where you hide. Find another toy... to cheat!"
Somewhere in the still night he heard a scrape of footsteps echo softly through the gorge.
Another small flicker of light wormed up the last switchback before the stone structure with its decrepit wood shutters. Welstiel's anger broke his self-control, and hunger widened his sight.
A figure stepped out the structure's narrow door. Dressed in a pale blue tabard over a dark robe with a full cowl, it lifted a torch high, as if calling the other light rising up the path.
That other light reached the narrow level shelf before the structure, and below it came two more figures wearing similar attire. The two met the one, and all three figures went inside.
Welstiel could not remember where he had seen such clothing before. A monastery, perhaps? It did not matter. Here was opportunity for his outrage.
How many years had he listened to his patron's mocking words?
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Very well then. But he no longer put faith in such things. She might lead, but he would not need her in the end. There would be others to serve him.
"Lock them in..." he whispered. "All of them."
Chane stepped around into his sight, glancing up to the stronghold before looking into Welstiel's face. He cocked his head as if not certain of what he had heard.
"Lock them all in," Welstiel repeated. "Feed if you must, but leave them alive... for now."
Chane's eyes glinted in anticipation.
Welstiel just stood there.
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Yes, she would still do that. But he would not be alone when he came after her-the puppet of his deceiver.
Leesil reluctantly assisted Sgaile in holding en'nish down. Gleann severed the quarrel's shaft and pushed the remainder through.
Freth was more fortunate than she deserved. Magiere's falchion had not damaged any vital organs, but Most Aged Father's pet anmaglahk would be weakened for a long while. Maybe for life, unless Gleann had tricks and skills beyond what Leesil had seen.
Magiere had taken a stiletto through the side, but Gleann claimed it wasn't serious. He scowled suspiciously at the wound, which had already stopped bleeding.
He dressed everyone's wounds with leaves and a strange lemon-yellow moss, and he hummed softly with eyes half-closed as he traced fingertips around Freth's bandaged injury.
Wynn's jaw wasn't broken, but the inside of her mouth was cut and her gums still seeped blood. She grimaced each time she flushed her mouth with cold water, and made a sour face when Gleann forced her to chew some of the moss. She hoped that the abrasion of Freth's boot wouldn't leave scars on her face.
Brot'an complained of dizziness and bore a large lump at the base of his skull.
Leesil waited until he was certain his own companions were well cared for, but then all he could think of was pressing onward. His mother still waited. Magiere got up, dark eyes full of understanding.
"We'll get there," she said quietly.
Leesil looked to Brot'an. "Can you still lead? If not, Chap can take us."
"No," Sgaile said. "Brot'an'duive and my grandfather will make a litter for Frethfare. Her wound must be sewn. They will take her and en'nish back to Crijheaiche. I will take you to Cuirin'nen'a." He turned and looked down at Freth. "Speak of this to no one outside our caste. There will be no more discord among us, and you will be dealt with accordingly, Covarleasa!"
Brot'an rose and nodded to Leesil. "Return soon. I wait to see Cuirin'nen'a as well."
Sgaile bowed slightly, and Brot'an headed off to find makings for Freth's stretcher.
It seemed Leesil's return to his mother was finally under way again when Gleann began walking north after Sgaile.
Sgaile halted. "Grandfather, you should return with the wounded."
"There are others who can tend them upon their return," Gleann answered. "As much as it may slow him, Brot'an'duive is hulkish enough to drag Frethfare's litter by himself. And en'nish can do no more than follow in her present state. I am coming with you."
Sensing an argument brewing, Leesil cut in. "Magiere and Wynn may still need him, as it will take us a lot longer to return."
Gleann smiled at Wynn. "Come, child. And do not remove that moss from your mouth until I tell you."
To Leesil's relief, Sgaile just grunted. They headed north once again at a slower pace.