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Not that Andry ever tried.

He swallowed down a spoonful of lumpy stew, attempting to collect himself. “We should be thinking of the march,” he finally said, overly stern. “And planning for whatever Taristan left behind to guard the temple.”

It worked too well, throwing a somber blanket over the table. Even Charlie dropped his grin.

Corayne pushed her bowl away too, going quiet. “Not to mention whatever Spindle he tears next,” she muttered. “Or has already torn.”

“Does he even need the Spindles anymore?” Charlie muttered.

Andry narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You saw the letter from Madrence.” The fallen priest eyed his papers. “King Robart called for an alliance. We are calling for one too. But it may not happen in time. Taristan won’t need a demon god to take over the Ward if his wife has already done it, picking kingdoms off one by one.”

At the windows, Sorasa pulled a face and shrugged. “I suppose Erida’s empire would be better than the apocalypse.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Corayne said darkly. “It’s my head no matter what.”

“Taristan of Old Cor isn’t just fighting to win a crown or even the Ward.” Dom stepped out of the passage to loom over the table, his face twisted with anger. “He owes a debt to What Waits, and so does his wizard. No mortal throne will satisfy his hunger, or his rage.”

Charlie blinked up at him. “How do you know?”

“His eyes. His face,” Andry heard himself answer. Suddenlyhe stood on that hill again, looking down on the temple and his long-dead Companions, watching as Taristan stalked across the clearing. His eyes burning even behind his helmet, the Spindleblade like flame in his hand. “What Waits is in him, and the wizard too. This is still only the beginning of what they want to do. It’s bigger than a simple conquest.”

Andry remembered every second of that morning. It was burned into him like a brand. The smell of the blood, the hot ash blowing from the temple doors. The smallest glimpse of the Ashlands beyond, a burning realm of pain and torment. And the corpses spewing forth, driven by a master Andry could not see.

His hands trembled on the tabletop and he tucked them away, trying to hide the fear as it broke over him.

Corayne’s fingers were suddenly cool in his sweating palm. She gripped hard. He squeezed back. She was an anchor and he clung to her eagerly.

But she clung to him too.

“We need to go,” Andry said, his voice low. But it echoed through the hall, a command as much as anything else.

Snow fell over the city, blown in on a bitter wind.

By noon, the war band made it through the gates of Vodin, with half the city turning out to see Oscovko and his soldiers off. Andry heard little of their cheering, his focus narrowing to the rhythm of his horse’s gait. He remembered leaving Ascal with Sir Grandel and the Norths, the Lionguard knights in their distinct golden armor. Back then, the sun was warm on their faces, the spring air fresh and crisp. It felt like a lifetime ago, oreven a dream, so distant from the reality Andry lived now. Once more, the squire wished he could step back in time. Return with what he knew now. Save the Companions, and stop all this from unfolding.

He glanced sidelong at the many hundreds of soldiers stretching out behind him.How many will meet their ending at the temple?Andry wondered, his mouth filling with a bitter taste.How many more will have to die there?Try as he might, Andry couldn’t get the image out of his head. He saw Corayne, Dom, Sorasa, and the rest all dead before the temple Spindle, cut apart like the old Companions were. Returning to the killing ground felt like madness, like suicide.

But we must,he knew, repeating it over and over again.We must go back.

Oscovko led the long column of riders, all astride strong, stocky horses bred for winter. The snow continued in a steady curtain, coating the landscape in a thickening blanket of white. The army traveled the Cor road for some miles toward the border, but turned off at the banks of the White Lion, riding south along the river. The road carried on west without them, to the Gallish city of Gidastern on the coast, some days away.

Nightfall came on quickly, the sky fading from gray to black as they followed the winding river through the mountain valley. The White Lion formed a clear border, with Trec on the hilly western bank and Galland to the east. Woods clung to both sides of the water, forcing the column to spread out as the paths narrowed. Andry glimpsed only branches and thick undergrowth on the Gallish bank. There were no watchtowers, either Treckish orGallish, not this far from the main roads linking Vodin and the rest of the realm.

Corayne sat the horse next to him, her body turned toward the river. She barely blinked, eyeing the far bank.

“I can’t believe that’s Galland right there,” she said fiercely. The snow looked like stars in her black braid. “I feel like even the trees might reach out and grab us.”

Andry looked over her, to the border. “I don’t think Erida’s lands can do that. Yet,” he added, sighing. “If we hold this course, we’ll be over the border by morning.”

“And caught by nightfall,” she said, her tone too cheerful.

He settled back in the saddle, one hand braced on his thigh, the other holding the reins. “Oh, that’s right, you’re a wanted fugitive.”

“So are you, Andry Trelland,” Corayne shot back.

Andry rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”