“Acaelus was a fool. He played the Devil and now I draw the Devil’s due.” Durzo’s voice was raw, husky. He’d been weeping.

“Master Blint,” Kylar said, adding the honorific for the first time since before he’d taken the ka’kari. “Why don’t you join me? Help me kill Roth. He’s outside, isn’t he?”

“Outside with a boatload of meisters and Vürdmeisters,” Durzo said. “It’s over, Kylar. Khalidor will hold the castle within an hour. More highlanders arrive at dawn, and an army of Khalidoran regulars is already marching for the city. Anyone who could have led an army against them is dead or fled.”

There was a distant gong, reverberating up the raw throat of the chimney. Warm air started blowing up from the depths.

Kylar felt sickened. His work had been for nothing. A few soldiers killed, a few nobles saved—it hadn’t changed anything.

He padded over to the small north fan, which was now turning faster. Through its blades, he could see Roth conferring with the wytches.

Durzo was right. There were dozens of wytches. Some were getting back into their boat, but at least a score were accompanying Roth, who also had a bodyguard of a dozen gigantic highlanders.

“Roth killed my best friend,” Kylar said. “I’m going to kill him. Tonight.”

“Then you’ll have to go through me.”

“I won’t fight you.”

“You’ve always wondered if you’d be able to beat me when it came down to it,” Durzo said. “I know you have. And you have your Talent and the ka’kari now. As a boy, you swore you wouldn’t let anyone beat you. Not ever again. You said you wanted to be a killer. Have I made you one or not?”

“Damn you! I won’t fight you! Who’s Acaelus?” Kylar shouted.

Durzo’s voice rose, chanting over the sound of fans and hot wind:

“The hand of the wicked shall rise against him,

But it shall not prevail.

Their blades shall be devoured

The swords of the unrighteous shall pierce him

But he shall not fall

He shall leap from the roofs of the world

and smite princes . . . ”

Blint trailed off. “I never made it,” he said quietly.

“What are you talking about? What is that? Is that a prophecy?”

“That isn’t me, just like the Guardian of Light wasn’t Jorsin. It’s you, Kylar. You are the spirit of retribution, the Night Angel. You are the vengeance I deserve.”

Vengeance stems from a love of justice and a desire to redress wrongs. But revenge is damning. Three faces has the Night Angel, the avatar of Retribution: Vengeance, Justice, Mercy.

“But I don’t have anything to avenge. I owe you my life,” Kylar said.