The swordswoman cocked her head.‘You what?’
‘These people are your enemies as much as they are mine.’
A shout—Harwick fell, blood spurting from his side.The young templar’s sword flashed red.
Though it had been years, Llewyn knew the Grey Lady’s mind.Knew her fears—the deep paranoia that filled her, root and branch.She sent her gwyddien out into the world to prune her rivals because, for all her age, for all she projected knowledge and strength, she was always and ever afraid.
‘When they are done, they will hunt you next.’
The thought was sharp with anger—and with fear.Despite her words, her thoughts flowed through his, a barrage of image and sensation.She had sent her Huntress.One of her eldest, most potent gwyddien.These three mortals had overcome her, buried her in their dungeon, cut the ring from her finger.
‘Enough of this,’ the priest said.
‘Give me strength,’ Llewyn begged.‘I will make them bleed.’
No matter that his reasons and hers diverged.They had a hatred in common.Water and soil for violence and tragedy.
The priest opened his hand while the swordswoman and the young templar slowly converged, blades ready.
the Grey Lady said.
A true warning, he knew.There was no glamour in the words.
He saw Siwan on the altar.Heard her broken voice: ‘Papa… Please…’
At Nyth Fran, he had given up everything he knew to save her.But that had been a reflex.An outflow of his own anger, his own old hurts.This was different.He knew her, now.Had watched herbecome, transforming from a frightened, orphaned child into the bright, talented young woman she was.
The priest closed his hand.Cold flames burned in the air between them, reaching for Llewyn.Coalescing.
Llewyn thought of Siwan on the stage, as alive as anyone had ever been.Gittern in hand, her voice clear and beautiful as summer birdsong.
He would risk anything.Pay any cost.Make any sacrifice so that she might walk a stage again.
‘Give me strength,’ he screamed.‘Now!’
His next breath carried a rush like he had never known, even in Nyth Fran, at the peak of his service.No mere glamour, this.No simple power to draw spirits from stone.Every fibre of his being vibrated and pulsed with life.Exhaustion boiled away like steam—though the burning of raw iron in his wounds redoubled and spread like molten stone.
Llewyn lunged through the cold flames.They closed around him.The air felt thick.Weight like chains settled on his limbs, but he surged through.
His blade hummed as it whipped towards the priest’s neck.
The swordswoman’s fist caught him in the stomach.She grunted, the floorboards groaning beneath her with the impact.The wind left Llewyn—and was replaced by his next pulse, even as he struck the windowsill.His body was carried not by breath, now, but by rage.His own, and the Grey Lady’s.One of his ribs was cracked.Blood seeped from his cheek and gums.His teeth felt loose.He spat blood, rolled to the side and sprang to his feet as the swordswoman’s blade smashed through the wall, shattering the window.
He risked a glance towards the battlement.Siwan lingered there, silhouetted against the forest canopy that stretched towards the distant purple mountains beyond, just visible as shades on the horizon.Damon pulled at her arm, trying to drag her to the ladder of vines behind her.
‘Go!’he roared, his lungs aching, his chest and shoulder burning.Not only from his injuries—the Grey Lady’s power seared his veins like poison even as it strengthened him.There was no knowing how long before the cost of it began to outweigh the power it lent.
The swordswoman wrenched her weapon from the ruined wall.Llewyn gave her no time to attack.Ghostwood met raw iron again and again as he hammered her back, one eye on the robed priest.The priest’s hand flexed, blazing with magical fire, as he struggled to track the pace of their contest.
A wild grin split the swordswoman’s face as she backpedalled towards the door, her iron blade a blur.Llewyn slipped past it twice, thrice, leaving thin weeping cuts through her armour.It would have been over already had he been able to focus entirely on the attack.Instead, his attention was divided as he manoeuvred to keep ahead of the flames that burned from the priest’s grasping hand.Even still, he could feel the tide turning, the pace of her defences slowing.
Hope flowered anew.Bright.Terrible.Full of promise and the risk of that promise breaking.
A few moments more and it would be over.The Grey Lady’s power might consume him, but Siwan would escape.He would spend himself to save her.She would live and grow and be happy, as he had never been.
