“I’m done, lass,” Staeli said, wiping his hand on a rag and tossing it aside. “The Oath Maidens will fight to defend the king tonight. They’ve trained hard and they’ve trained well. So have you. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about our fate, but we won’t make it easy for them to take this castle. We’ll put up a fight.”

Trynne nodded to him. “I’m glad you are with me,” she said. She dreaded losing anyone else she held dear.

There was a firm rap on the door. Trynne sighed and nodded to Staeli to open it. She used the power of the ring to summon the mirage of her face without the woad, her body dressed in the tunic of Averanche rather than the armor of the Maid of Donremy. She started toward the door as Staeli opened it, revealing Fallon’s herald.

“The king is going to the wall with Lord Fallon,” the herald said. “He wanted you to join them.”

Trynne gave a final curt nod to Staeli and, gripping the hilt of one of her swords, followed the herald into the corridor. Even though it was the middle of the night, no one in the castle was asleep. The great hall was filled with the people from the town, mostly women and children. Every able-bodied man had been given a weapon and a shield and assigned a place to defend the fortress. The air was thick with fear, but people murmured that the king was there with Firebos. They would rally together to fight against the invader.

The torches affixed to the outer wall of Dundrennan cast light on the preparations that were being made. The drawbridge was up, revealing a jagged cleft of rocks separating the defenders from the attacking army. The bailey was crowded with knights, and many of the castle’s braziers had been brought out to provide warmth. Trynne and Staeli followed the herald to a stone staircase leading up to the head of the gate. The king was pacing the battlements, wearing borrowed armor. The hollow crown was welded to his helmet. It was nearly midnight, judging by the stars overhead. The moon had disappeared.

Fallon stood there in his armor, the chain cowl up around his head, his arms folded imperiously. He nodded at Trynne as she reached the top of the wall.

The view filled her with dread. A veritable sea of torches filled the space below, and the golden armor of the warriors of Chandigarl glowed in the light. The ranks of Gahalatine’s soldiers stood in perfectly ordered rows—spearmen, archers, and warriors with glaives. Row after row, phalanx after phalanx, with more coming still. There was no siege apparatus on display, no towers or ladders or ropes with grappling hooks. She knew from her own experience that they did not need them.