He nodded. In many ways it was the correct decision – the practical decision. So why then did Josiri have the sense that something else lay hidden behind Malachi’s eyes?

Viktor beckoned. “Come. Time grows short. Be well, Malachi.”

The other nodded mutely and waved them to the gate. “Go. Carry my greeting to Ebigail.”

A heavy tramp of feet. A swirl of dust in the parched courtyard. Then they were gone. Malachi’s grimace, so long held back, stole across his face.

Lily arrived at his shoulder. Her face was pale save for her livid, crusted wounds. His heart went out to her, as it had from their first reunion. The Essamere physician had done her best to stitch them closed, but Lily would bear those marks as long as she lived.

“Are they gone?” she asked.

“They are.” He braced himself for an argument renewed. It wasn’t that Lily didn’t understand. Goddess, but she understood better than he did. But understanding was only ever half the battle. “I should go too.”

Her face fell. “I wish you didn’t have to do this.”

“So do I. But what else is there? Who else is there? Krain?”

“Then I’ll go.”

“We both know that won’t work.” He took her head in his hands. “How many times have you told me to do better?”

Her eyes glistened. “Just once.”

“And how often have you wished that of me?”

Her shoulders trembled with reluctant laughter. “On more occasions than I can count.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. In that moment, he wavered. It would be so easy to remain at the chapterhouse, in the company of his wife and children. To let others fight battles that were his.

“If I’d listened before, maybe none of this would be necessary.” He smoothed a thumb across Lily’s cheek, brushed the tear away. So many years wasted on coldness and quarrel, and now it was too late. “The fault is mine . . . but my heart belongs to you.”

Sorrow hardening to determination, Malachi let his hands fall and strode purposefully to the gate. He halted at Lily’s call.

“I’m proud of you, Malachi Reveque. Come home to me.”

Lily stood framed in the archway, burdened but unbowed. Without a word, he pressed on into the streets.

Fifty-Nine

Fifty-Nine

Josiri heard the low, close-harmony dirge of hymns soon after leaving the chapterhouse. Though distance made the words impossible to sift, the melodies were plain enough. Ridiculous at first, they made disturbing sense on further contemplation. Ebigail intended great change. The hymns offered ties to the past and a promise that the future would not stray.

“Halt!”

The cry rang out from a line of toppled wagons. King’s blue uniforms and worried faces lined the timber crest. Banners fluttered limply overhead, the numerals and spread-winged badge of the 7th Regiment barely visible. Two kraikons stood silently behind, swords held at guard.

Viktor quickened his pace.