“You must strike swiftly,” Adolfo said again, “before a warning can be sounded. Swiftly, Ubel. And then you must leave just as swiftly. I do not want to lose my finest Inquisitor. When Padrick is dead, bring the ships and men back to Wellingsford. From there you can keep any ships from sailing out of the west—and destroy any ships trying to sail to the west.”

“Yes, Master.” Ubel hesitated. “And what will Wolfram’s army be doing?”

You mean, what will I be doing? Perhaps it was an attempt at arrogance, but Adolfo thought the question sounded more like a young boy’s plea for reassurance.

“I will lead the Wolfram army, and the rest of the Sylvalan barons who are decent men, as straight as an arrow to Willows-brook. And after we crush the bastard Liam…” He turned to look at the sun coming out, shining through the last wisps of the storm. “After we crush Liam, the three prongs of our great army will march into the Mother’s Hills and destroy everything that lives there.”

“Will the magic die completely then?” Ubel asked.

Turning back, Adolfo laid his right hand on Ubel’s shoulder, and said softly, “I told you, Ubel. It never dies completely once it’s taken root in a place. But if you destroy all the creatures who have the ability to reach it, then it’s as good as dead.”

Chapter 13

waxing moon

She was a child again. Seven years old, maybe eight. The village wasn’t the one she’d grown up in, but she knew it was supposed to be home. Behind her, the Mother’s Hills rose, looking comforting and close but still a day’s journey away. In front of her, all around her…

The village burned. The fields burned. Animals screamed as they were slaughtered. Women screamed, in anger and in pain. Men roared, in fury and despair.

Confusion and slaughter all around her. She saw the black-coated men riding into the village. The warriors with them spread out as the people in the village rushed to meet the attack. Her father and two of his friends ran past her, armed with bows and knives. The two friends fell a moment later, pierced by enemy arrows. Her father ran on to where the black-coated enemies waited for him.

She heard a woman scream. “Mother?” She turned, frantically trying to see through the smoke.

Another field. But it wasn’t crops the Black Coats were burning. Women and wood. The stench of burning flesh. The screams of agony.

One woman burst through the piled wood, fire eating her legs, turning them black as she tried to run.

“Mother!”

The woman looked at her, pointed to something behind her.

The Mother’s Hills. She would be safe if she could reach the Mother’s Hills.