“No.” Lilias drew back her hood, blinking against the rain. “Ready the catapults with their pitch-pots,” she said grimly, watching the wall. “And your archers, Ward Commander. We do not need a dragon to set fire to these vile towers.”

He regarded her for a moment before bowing. “As you order.”

Lilias watched him stride away and vanish in the dimness, shouting orders to his wardsmen as he descended the steep incline. Around the base of the wall they obeyed, falling back to regroup around the roofed huts where the warming-fires burned and pitch was kept bubbling in cauldrons. From the fortress, Pietre picked his way out to join her, carrying a waxed parasol, which he raised over her head. Rain dripped off it like silver beads on a string.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked anxiously. “You will take a chill in this rain!”

“Well enough.” Lilias smiled humorlessly. “Let us pray a chill is the worst of it.” And so saying, she pressed her fingertips to her temples, concentrating on the siege-towers and drawing on the power of the Soumanië, exerting its influence in an effort to know the towers and command their substance.

Wood.

Pinewood.

It was fresh-cut, hewn by the axes of Haomane’s Allies. Stout trunks formed the supports and slender ones the platforms. Sap oozed from the shorn, splintered ends. At its heart, where new growth was generated, the wood was pink. Pale wood encircled it, layer upon layer, still springy with moisture. Outside was the encompassing bark, dark and tough, shaggy with flakes and boles. Rain, that should have fallen on rich mast to nurture its roots, fell instead on dead bark, rendering it sodden and slippery, penetrating layer upon layer into the green wood.

Water.

Too much water.

Drawing on the Soumanië, Lilias gathered it.

It was an intricate thing Haomane’s Allies had wrought; four intricate things. Branch by branch, trunk by trunk, she desiccated the siege-towers. Heartwood died, its pink core turning grey. Outward and outward, pale layers growing ashen. A cloud of fog surrounded the towers as the bark weathered and dried, wrapping their assailants in a veiling mist. The soldiers of Aracus Altorus’ army scrambled, disoriented and disorganized. Where booted feet had struggled for purchase on rain-slick wood, brittle bits of bark flaked and fell.

Holding the thought of water in her mind, Lilias moved it, until the air roiled with mist and there was none left in the wooden structures. Sharp, cracking sounds emanated beneath enemy boots as branches cracked and splintered under their weight.

The siege-towers had become tinderboxes.

“Now!” Gergon shouted, waving his arm.