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“You are defending it still,” Corayne said, her voice sharpening.

He didn’t reply, and she grabbed his reins, forcing her horse even closer to his. Their knees bumped together, and it took all Andry’s willpower to keep still.

She didn’t let go. “Andry.”

But Oscovko’s high whistle cut her off, the piercing sound echoing over the column. He called out to his horde and reined his horse right, turning the entire column westward, away from the White Lion.

Andry’s heart squeezed in his chest.

“I know the way from here,” he whispered.

He saw the path in his mind.Through woodlands and frozen meadows, below the more rugged foothills of the mountains. Toward the Green Lion, another river. And the pilgrim road to an ancient temple, once forgotten, but no longer.

He looked back, past Corayne, past the haunches of his own horse, to Dom swaying in the saddle, mountainous compared to the soldiers around him. The immortal met Andry’s eye from beneath his hood.

They shared a heavy, grim stare. Andry knew that Dom bled as he did, if not worse. Slowly, the squire forced a nod. His lips moved, soundless, forming words for Dom and Dom alone.With me.

To his surprise, the Elder mouthed them back.

With me.

It was a small comfort, but Andry would take anything he could find. Anything to combat the terror rising in his chest, threatening to push out all else. He tightened his grip, feeling the leather reins through his gloves. Again he tried to anchor himself in something real, in the world in front of him instead of the memories behind.

But still the smell of ash and burned wood filled his nostrils. Andry winced, gritting his teeth against the sensation. It was sharp, stronger even than in his dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the memory away, even as it seemed to surround him.

“What is that?” Corayne’s voice washed over him.

Andry’s eyes snapped open to find that the smell was not part of some waking nightmare, a memory of the temple ruin.

It was real, and right in front of him.

Oscovko whistled again, directing the column to widen as they rode out into a clearing among the trees, where the ground was flat and empty. But it wasn’t a clearing at all, not a natural one anyway. The trees were splintered and burned away to stumps, their branches turned to cold ashes. The fire was long gone, leaving a blackened crater and the lingering smell.

“I don’t know,” Andry murmured, dazed.

He looked back and forth at the jagged gash through the foothills, like a giant black scar dragged through the woods. It wasn’t from a forest fire, or even a passing army. Something had burned these lands to embers, with great force and even greater precision.

Andry turned to Corayne; she was already staring at the scarred landscape.

“Another Spindle?” she breathed. He could see her mind spinning behind her gaze.

“I don’t know,” Andry said again. His stomach twisted. The scorched land felt wrong, the very air like poison on his skin.

Dom urged his horse up alongside them, surveying the obliterated landscape. He frowned, deepening the scars on his face. Under his breath, he cursed in his own immortal language, the words indecipherable.

Sorasa followed, a shadow upon her black horse, barely more than a pair of copper eyes beneath her hood. “What do you see, Domacridhan?”

“It’s not what I see,” he breathed, his shoulders tightening. “It’s what I know.”

Oscovko forced his way into their midst, circling his horse back. “And that is?” he demanded.

Dom raised his chin.

“A dragon is loose upon the Ward.”

21

Sleep and Dream of Death