“All of them!” one of the Krotes commanded. It sounded like the gentle-voiced warrior from the roof. “Every single one!” The hawks swooped down and another dozen doves were shattered in mid-air. Some of the Krote riders took pleasure in the target practice, skewering birds with well-placed arrows. One of the hawks seemed to be in a feeding frenzy, following a small flock of doves, snapping at them, showering bloodied white remnants to the ground.

A Krote appeared before the open screens, short, thick sword drawn. The metal caught sunlight, and Jayke was glad for the brief spear of pain the reflection drove into his eye.

“Dove stew tonight,” the Krote said.

“Fuck you.”

“How erudite.” The Krote stepped inside, trying to tread softly. “This place stinks of shit!”

“Fuck you.”

“So you said.” She leaned forward and slashed Jayke’s throat.

“DID YOU CATCH them all?” Lenora asked.

“We think so, sir.”

“You think so?” She swiped quickly at the corpse’s ear and strung it on a chain around her waist. There were others dried and desiccated there, many others, of all shapes, sizes and colors. But this was the first Noreelan ear to ever grace her belt.

“Sir, I’m positive.”

“Good. Then we still have surprise on our side. Get ready to move out!” The Krote hurried away and Lenora looked around her. And here we are, she thought. This is where it ended three hundred years ago, and this is where it begins again today. She stroked the wet ear on her belt, and smiled.

“I’m home,” she said. And a long-lost voice echoed her words: You’re home.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

RAFE BABURN WAS tired. He sat in the cave mouth and watched the witch out in the rain, her arms outstretched as she communed with the skull ravens. The downpour was tremendous, and yet Hope seemed unconcerned. One raven had its beak pressed hard against her temple. They looked like one merged creature.

Rafe’s eyelids drooped again, the rainfall soporific, his limbs and shoulders aching, his eyes stinging from exhaustion. Whatever he had done the night before had drained him. He felt hollowed out, distanced from everything—the danger, his parents’ deaths, these people around him—and even the voices and whispers had grown quiet.

The Shantasi warrior who had been prepared to die to save Rafe’s life—her skin slashed and torn, her ankle shattered, her face a mask of drying, poisoned blood—was slumped farther back in the cave. Kosar the thief sat watching over her, dripping water into her mouth. She moaned in her sleep and sometimes cried out, but the noise of the storm drowned her voice. She was unconscious. The poison was gone from her system. She bled only good blood now. Rafe had cured her.