S olon tried to climb down from the statue. King Logan Verdroekan had been one of the earliest kings of Cenaria, perhaps mythic, and Solon couldn’t remember what he’d done, for all that it must have been heroic to have Regnus Gyre name his son after him. And he must have been special to get a statue of such size, holding his sword aloft in defiance. Solon had chosen it not for its metaphoric significance but simply because he wanted every meister in the garden to see him. Every meister that had used vir within five hundred paces in the few seconds he’d been able to hold Curoch was dead.

Curoch lay on the stones beneath him. Feir was snatching it up and wrapping it in a blanket. He was shouting at Solon, but Solon couldn’t make out the words. He still felt as if he were on fire. Every vein in his body was tingling so fiercely it was hard to even feel Verdroeken’s stone sword under his fingers. Solon had perched on the dead king’s shoulders and held onto the stone sword for balance, holding Curoch aloft the same way when he’d released the magic. He shifted his grip, his legs shaking, and suddenly fell.

Feir didn’t quite catch him, but he at least broke his fall.

“I can’t walk,” Solon said. His brain was burning, his vision flaring every color in the rainbow, his scalp felt afire. “It was amazing, Feir. Such a tiny piece of what it can do . . .”

Feir grabbed him and threw him over his shoulders as a lesser man might lift a child. He said something, but Solon couldn’t quite make it out. He said it again.

“Oh, I got about fifty of them. Maybe ten left,” Solon said. “One on the east bridge.” He was trying to remember what Dorian had told him. Something urgent. Something he hadn’t let Feir hear.

Don’t let Feir die. He’s more important than the sword.

“I’m going to have to set you down,” Feir said. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving you.”

In outrageous hues of green and blue, Khalidoran soldiers were swarming in front of the east gate. Solon couldn’t even remember leaving the garden. He laughed at what he saw. Feir was using Curoch as a sword.

Watching Feir with a sword was more than amazing; it was a privilege. Feir had always been a natural, deceptively quick, unbelievably strong, his movements as precise as a dancer’s. In hues of green and blue and red, Feir demolished the soldiers. There was no extended swordplay. At most, each soldier had time to swing his own weapon once, miss or have it parried, and then die.