Page 131 of The Tower of the Tyrant

Fola smiled at that.‘I will be, I promise you.’

Though, of course, death meant something different for her than for him, or for Siwan, so long as Frog survived to carry a piece of her soul.

Talk of death drew their attention back to Llewyn.

‘Is there nothing you can do for him?’Siwan asked.

Fola wished there was.Well, who could say for certain that there wasn’t?The City was powerful.

‘Keep his sword,’ Fola said.‘It holds his soul.’

Siwan nodded and scrubbed tears from yellow eyes.

Fola gathered up her spellpaper.‘I place little faith in the Grey Lady.Her power may fail if I wait too long.’

‘Then go.’Siwan’s mouth twitched in an attempt at a reassuring smile—there was too much grief, too much uncertainty, for anything more.

She could have done more for Harwick.His wound had clotted, thanks to Frog’s salve.Still, his breath came shallowly and he had yet to wake.Spil cradled him, tears wetting both their faces, and seemed not to notice Fola in her passing, nor Frog’s leaping to her arm.Harwick would live, she thought, but there was no knowing what the damage would be.

The fighting had ended with the besieging army broken in terror.The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by the distant moans of the hurt and dying.So many lives she could save, or ease—in their passing, or in their survival.Little sacrifices she would make.

It hurt her, this scarcity of time, of her attention, of resources.Solutions came to mind after the fact.Frog might have spent the night filling barrels with healing salve.She might have written spells to reinforce the armour of the Parwysh soldiery.Both better uses of time than the dozens of spells she had prepared, of which she had used only one.

Choices ripple outwards—even made in ignorance, or with little thought beyond instinct in the whirling tumult of battle.They shape moments, lives, histories.All we can do is make an honest accounting of them after the fact, and try to learn from that honesty.

Colm met her in the courtyard, slumped against a wall.‘They got away,’ he said, his chest and shoulders heaving.‘Vanished into the forest.If we hurry, we might catch them.’

Ifan found them on their way to the stables.He sat astride his charger, who stamped and shook his head, still scenting blood.Ifan was speckled with it, though he bore no wounds.

‘What has happened?’he demanded.His retinue held back, nursing their own hurts and watching the sky.Some murmured quiet prayers.

‘The girl,’ Fola said.‘Llewyn is dead.I made a deal with his former master.I need to go to Parwys.’

Ifan blinked.‘You will explain more of this to me on our way.’

Fola glared up at him.‘I don’t want another battle.’

‘Nor do I,’ Ifan said.‘But we rarely live in the world we want.’He put up his hand before she could mount another argument.‘When the sky turned black, Owyn’s army broke, scattering like flies from carrion.Some to the west, some to the south.But they will return when you are done here, whether the haunting is put to an end or no.I have business to finish with Owyn.’

‘I go now, at speed, Ifan.’

‘Without food?Supplies?It is a journey of days over ground recently crossed, and pillaged, I am sure, by an army.’

‘I can provide for myself.’

He considered this and looked back at his retainers.‘Can you provide for five more and their mounts?’

‘I saidno.’

‘I ride west, Fola, with my personal guard.And I, too, ride now, as soon as we change our horses.Feed us to keep us strong and ready for what will come, or do not, and let us grow hungry and weak.’

‘And who will rule here in your stead?’she rejoined, though she could feel herself losing the argument.

He smiled thinly at her, then turned his mount towards the stables.‘Come, Fola, we can afford no more delay.’

* * *

A haze of smoke still choked the air as Fola followed Ifan’s retinue through the city.Though the storm of Siwan’s grief had passed, the city of Glascoed still crouched and trembled.The rains had doused most of the fires, but left blackened, skeletal wrecks where there had once been homes.A few people picked through the wreckage, some wearing their grief openly, others too stunned by the day’s terrors to show anything at all.Some recognised their count in passing by the emblem on his tabard.Most watched him pass in silence.A handful dipped their heads.A few spat on the road behind him.