“Did you . . .” She broke off and coughed. A stream of black spittle evaporated into the air. “Did you really think that would stop me?”

“That one?” Ebigail shrugged. “No. I’m sure the rest will.”

The trellis came alive in a storm of petals and dancing leaves. A dozen shots slammed home into Rosa’s body. The night blazed red and black.

Hands twitching, she fell to her knees. Gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, she grasped at one of the bolts. Shuddering fingers refused to close. Hearthguard filed from concealment behind the trellis.

“That how you wanted it, my lady?” asked a grizzled fellow with a captain’s star on his shoulder.

“Exactly right, Captain Farran,” Ebigail replied.

Recalcitrant fingers closed. This time, Rosa screamed as the bolt ripped free. Eleven to go.

Ebigail rounded on her, lips pursed in polite interest. “I imagine that hurts a great deal. I knew there had to be more to you than there seemed. A lucky woman might survive one kernclaw’s assault, but two?” She snapped her fingers. “There’s luck, and then there’s . . . something else.”

A patch of shadow shifted in a world rapidly losing its colour. No. Not shadow. A woman in a feathered cloak. A kernclaw. Keening pain, Rosa wrenched another bolt free.

Metal glinted in the lamplight as the kernclaw handed Ebigail an ornate sword. A Hadari sword.

“Josiri Trelan presented this to the Council as a trophy of his victory. The shadowthorns have such a way with metalwork. Gaudy, yes, but not beyond redemption. Take this, for example. A silvered blade. If you’re what I think, it’ll take the fight all the way out of you.”

She took the sword in a two-handed grip, blade down. Rosa tore another bolt free. Was it her imagination, or was the kernclaw looking away? Not a good sign.

“You . . . you send me to the mists and . . . and . . .” Rosa’s chest shuddered, rendering the words more croak than speech. “I’ll come . . . back.”

Ebigail tutted. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re still of use to me, Roslava. This is just to keep you quiet.”

The sword plunged into Rosa’s shoulder. Her flesh turned to fire and swept her into blackness.

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Five

Sitting in the overgrown gardens beneath Branghall’s terrace, Kurkas could almost believe recent troubles were but figments of his imagination. It was only when he stared beyond the wall, to where the moon faded and darkness became suffocating and oppressive, that truth returned. He could almost feel Malatriant, the Dark gathered as a shroud about her.

He tipped the goblet to his lips. Empty.

“Here.”