Malachi remained rooted to the spot. How had this happened? What more could he offer? What had Ebigail offered? What was worth more to the Crowmarket than a lord’s ransom in gold?

Only one thing came to mind.

“I’m sorry, Lily,” he whispered. He thrust his head back and stared up at the silent thrones. “I have a new proposal.”

Sixty

Sixty

The Essamere line came forward in a wild barrelling run more suited to the barbaric tribes of old than the flower of Tressian chivalry. Apara hunched her shoulders tight and drew deeper into the fitful shadow of the nearest hayadra tree.

“They’re coming, lady.”

Captain Horden made the pronouncement in a flat, disinterested tone. He and Lady Ebigail stood a half-dozen paces to Apara’s front, in the bright sunlight of the outermost ring of hayadra trees. Apara suspected his thoughts lay more with the dead than the living. Essamere had certainly made a butchery of his constables.

“What a perceptive fellow you are, captain.” Teeth parted, Apara’s mother stared across the field of mournful stumps and felled trees. “Young Viktor was always a brute. Tailinn? You may send in the kraikons.”

Golden robes whispered at Apara’s side as the red-haired proctor set a hand to her control amulet. Metal screeched into wakefulness. The hillside shook. The kraikons strode away, picking up speed.

Apara stared uneasily through the trees. “Are you sure this is wise, lady?”

“They will break. They always do. A firm hand, and they will crumble.” Lady Kiradin gestured to a nearby hearthguard. “Tell Rother and Mannor that I want prisoners for the gallows once the kraikons have done their work.”

The hearthguard scurried away through the trees, towards the motionless ranks of scarlet and blue. Torvan Mannor stood still as a statue among the Prydonis ranks, though out of discipline or from denial, Apara couldn’t readily judge. By contrast, Markos Rother had long abandoned stillness in favour of pacing back and forth.

Apara stared at the giant leading the Essamere charge. Viktor Akadra. Her legs turned to jelly at the thought that her mother might send her against him a second time. And yet . . . once her eyes settled, she found she couldn’t look away . . . as if something called her.

“Apara!”

Lady Ebigail’s command brought Apara up short. She spun around, disoriented. Her mother and Captain Horden now stood several paces behind. In the outer grove, the first kraikon struck the Essamere line. Bodies and broken shields cartwheeled through the air.

Her mother strode forward and took her none too gently by the elbow.

“This is no time for spoiled pride,” she snapped. “I know the humiliation burns, but I need you here. You may have whatever remains of Viktor once the battle is done.”

Apara blinked the fog from her memory. “Of course . . . Mother.”

She gave a sharp nod. “And Captain Horden? Light the pyre. Let them burn.”