It crossed the river, not bothering with a bridge, and plunged through the lines of krul without slowing. It moved too fast to see. Kylar could only judge its progress by the cloud of dust and smoke and blood that trailed it; the shockwave rippling through bodies crashing back to the earth long after it was gone. In seconds, it had gone from the distant pass to the old line where Black Barrow had stood. Kylar realized why Dorian had opened the doors: if he hadn’t, the damn thing would have blasted right through the walls.

The whistling and the magic crescendoed as one. Through Curoch, for a split second, Kylar felt the Hunter as it seized the offered hilt of Jorsin Alkestes’ mighty blade to snatch it away from them. And Kylar knew him.

A crack of thunder leveled everyone in the room. Magic obliterated everything.

98

When Kylar became aware, he was standing on the roof of the Hall of Winds. The Wolf stood next to him, and the world had the indistinct sheen Kylar had come to associate with the Antechamber of the Mystery. “So I’m dead,” he said. He had no passion left in him.

“No,” the Wolf said. “I can come into your dreams, it just takes a lot of magic. I have some to spare now.”

“You’re Ezra.”

He inclined his head.

“Then what’s the Hunter? I felt you in it.”

“It’s my hubris.”

Kylar glanced at him. This was not an explanation.

“I tried to undermine the Dark Lord’s own work by twisting the twisted back on the twister.”

“The Dark Lord? You mean that metaphorically, right?” Kylar asked.

He chuckled. “You are still Kylar, aren’t you? But not to worry, the Hands of Hell are still bound for another fifteen or twenty years. Until then, the Hunter and I will battle for control every day. I can only be here while it sleeps.”

“What?”

“Do you see this, Kylar?” The Wolf—it was still hard to think of him as Ezra—gestured to the city. Kylar gave it a cursory glance.

“This is how it was when you lived here?” It was beautiful, but Kylar didn’t care.

“This is real. This is what you and your friends have done.”