The flames had caught in the pitched wood and were already licking around Mellony’s ankles. Amon had snatched up a long branch and was desperately trying to rake burning wood away from her. But he had to turn and use his sword as Ardenine soldiers flooded back, knowing the archers overhead couldn’t fire into this melee of friends and foes.

Raisa grabbed up her staff and laid about her with it, opening a path to Mellony’s side.

Mellony was screaming, struggling to get free. Raisa stamped at the flames, but they only blazed higher, fed by the pitch-soaked wood. She drew her dagger and slashed desperately at the ropes binding her sister. They defied her small blade.

Raisa caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone she hadn’t noticed before—a young man with a metal collar around his neck. He darted toward them, his hand thrust into his neckline. A wizard wearing Ardenine colors.

“Look out!” Amon surged forward, on a course to intercept him. But a massive Ardenine soldier rose up in front of him, swinging a club. It connected, and Amon went flying.

“Amon!” Raisa screamed, as a wall of flame went up with a whoosh, encircling them. She realized, to her horror, that Karn and his cohorts had laid out a second fire line around the pillar, meant to keep anyone from escaping or coming to their rescue. And this flame burned green. Wizard fire—nearly impossible to put out.

The flames exploded upward, nearly to the ceiling. They were trapped.

If Gerard Montaigne couldn’t torture her at leisure, he’d burn her alive right now.

“Lady of the Battlefield, help me!” Raisa cried, ramming her staff into the burning cordwood, trying to open space around her and Mellony.

As if in answer to her prayers, someone swarmed across the ceiling of the cathedral, swinging from one fixture to another, finding handholds where none existed. He dangled over their heads, arrows pinging all around him, then dropped to the floor next to Raisa.

It was Han Alister.

Raisa stared at him, stunned speechless. His aster-blue eyes shown out from a face blackened by bruises and soot, his fair hair glittering in the firelight. Dressed all in black, silhouetted against flame, he looked rather like a demon, raised from the dead, trading for souls on the other side.

“But—but you—you’re—dead,” she whispered to herself, touching the ring on her finger like a talisman.

“You’re on fire,” he said, and pulled her tightly against him, lifting her slightly, his hands pressing into the small of her back, her head under his chin.

It took Raisa a moment to realize that he meant literally on fire. She smelled burning wool as he smothered her smoldering jacket against his chest. She could feel his heart beating wildly even through the metal between them.