The astonishment of such strangeness held the Followers of the Path oddly still until the first of Avar’s men gutted the nearest Raptor.

A man near Seraph drew his sword, but he was looking toward the far side of the room for his enemy, so he never even noticed Seraph until her knife intersected his belly. A young blue-robed boy drew his sword and finished the job—but gave her white robes a wary look.

“I’m Tier’s wife,” she said, tossing back her hood.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, grunting the last as he used his sword to catch the blade of a Raptor who was a bit quicker than most to realize that the Passerines were as much a threat as the fighting men who’d come through the wall. “I’m Kissel.”

She had to get to Tier. Discarding the robes both because they got in her way and because they might get her killed by one of Tier’s Passerines, she aimed for the most direct path to Tier, whom she still couldn’t see.

The fighting was widespread by now, and the heaviest fighting lay between her and the stage. Seraph called her magic to her.

Blindly, instinctively, Tier tried to rise to his feet, since a down man on a battlefield was a dead man, but something held his wrists and he couldn’t call any strength to his muscles.

“It’s all right, sir,” said Toarsen’s familiar voice. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“The Emperor,” managed Tier, falling back to his damaged knees and biting back a moan. Screams were for people who weren’t as weary as he was.

There was a series of clanking sounds, battle sounds that ended in a grunt and a thunk. Toarsen, panting a bit, said, “Kissel’s with him, and someone cut him loose and gave him a sword. I never knew that Phoran knew how to fight. Never thought”—another thunk and gasp—“someone as fat as he is could move that fast.”

“The Masters?” asked Tier. Seated and calmer, he found that his vision was coming back a bit, but not well enough to sort through the chaos of battle. He wiped his good eye with the back of his hand. His hand came away wet, but he could see again.

“I don’t see ’em,” Toarsen said. “I was watching Avar and his men boil into the room. When I looked back, this place was covered in fighters and I thought I might come up here and bear you company a bit. We’ve a nice view of the fighting up here—those two boys of yours can surely fight.”

Someone in white blundered into the small area of stage that Toarsen was guarding, and he sent the Raptor on his way with a kick that impaled him on a sword held by a man with moon-pale hair.

“Gessa,” said the man.

“Anytime,” said Toarsen.

“Collarn?” asked Tier, his returning vision allowing him to see that the boy’s place was empty.

“Naked as a newborn,” said Toarsen cheerfully. “You’re not able to get high enough to enjoy the sight, but I can see him from here. Remember all those times you told him that he carries his guard too high?”

“Yes?”

“You should have made him fight naked.”

Tier laughed, one short bark, then held his breath and his ribs. “No joking right now,” he managed.

Lehr rolled onto the stage and then bounced up and ran over. “Good to see that you’re alive, Papa. But I think I speak for us all when I tell you that I’d rather not worry about you again for a while. Parents are supposed to worry about their children, not vice versa. Let me get a look at those chains.”

He held the manacles in his hands and closed his eyes. After a moment, the locks clicked open. Lehr grinned at his father’s expression.

“I don’t know how opening locks ties in with being a Hunter either, though Brewydd explained it to me a dozen times.” He sounded pleased with himself. He looked at Toarsen.

“Go ahead,” said Toarsen. “I’ll stay here.”

“Thanks,” said Lehr, and he leaped off the edge of the stage.

Having completed the task Hennea had given him, the Guardian took a quick glance around the room. Lehr was fighting at Avar’s side and accounting for himself quite well. Just as his gaze found Seraph, she raised her hands and tossed a half dozen men into the air. Obviously she was in no need of immediate protection.

He turned to go to his father, but the Sept of Leheigh’s brother was standing over Papa’s crumpled form and seemed to be having no trouble fending off attackers. The wizards, who posed more of a threat, had other things on their minds than hurting his father. A double handful of Passerines were doing their best to get onto the stage and attack the Masters—too many of them to allow the wizards’ magic to be an effective weapon. The Guardian knew—remembered from other battles fought long ago, before Jes’s father’s father had been born—that keeping the Passerines away would soon weaken the solsenti wizards too much for them to be a danger to Tier.

Satisfied that they were all safe for the moment, the Guardian jumped off the stage to return to Hennea’s side, slipping between fighters who mostly moved out of his way without ever looking at him directly.

The noise of swords clashing and men screaming excited him almost as much as the smell of blood.

A man bumped his arm and the Guardian turned on him with a snarl and a flash of fangs. If the man hadn’t retreated, falling backwards over a body on the floor, even Jes could not have held the Guardian back.

Hennea stood alone near the fallen wall. He couldn’t tell if her spells to avoid being seen were working on everyone else, or if they were just smart enough to stay away. Mother had told him that spells usually didn’t work right on him.

There were two men attacking a boy who was stepping back rapidly to avoid being overrun. The Guardian could see that the boy wouldn’t stay away from their blades for much longer. He glanced at Hennea, but she was all right. The Guardian dropped the sword he held and reached for the form of the great cat—he wanted to taste blood, not feel flesh part against steel.

He picked the nearest Raptor and leaped onto his shoulders, driving him down to the floor. As his claws sank deep into meat, the man’s pain and fear washed through Jes. The Guardian reveled in the searing sensations, which only raised his bloodlust further.

The other antagonist paused to stare, but the Passerine recovered a little faster and killed his opponent before beating a rapid retreat. Death and the boy’s fear fed the battle rage and Jes turned his attention to the man who lay beneath him.

“Jes!”

The great cat halted, his mouth already opened to still the struggles of his prey.

“Jes, come back. I need you!” Hennea sounded frantic.

Her hand touched his tense back. “Jes,” she said.

Trembling, fighting, Jes forced the Guardian to step away from the downed man even as the beast roared its thwarted rage.

“What?” he managed, the emotions and pain of the battle raging around him raw without the Guardian’s protection.

Hennea smoothed her hands over him and the worst of the clamor faded until it was manageable. The Guardian would have been better, but Jes couldn’t let him loose until he had a moment to calm down.

“Look on the stage,” Hennea whispered. “What do you see?”

There had been wizards on the stage when he’d carried Hennea’s message to the Emperor. Five stood in plain view, but the other held to the shadows. When his father had lost control of them, they, like Hennea, had stood back from the battle and aided their people as they could.

Now four wizards lay crumpled on the ground, and something—something that caused the Guardian to take control again—fed on the fifth.

“What is that?” asked the Guardian.

“A Raven’s Memory,” she said. “A vengeful ghost—though I’ve never seen one so substantial. It’s almost alive.”

The sixth wizard, anonymous in his robes, slipped off the stage and toward the destroyed wall. No one looked at him, though he passed a few men quite closely.