The ghosts swirled around him as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Whether the growing cold was from the spirits' presence or his coming death, he didn't know. "Is there anyone else out there? Anyone?" Silence greeted him.

"Well, now I understand about the Ruune Vidaya," he mumbled to no one. Watching the vengeful ghosts shred Pryce's soldiers like starving wolves had been the worst thing he had witnessed in all of his soldiering. "At least I won't lose sleep over it." Nothing would wake him from his next sleep, nothing except the soulsong of the Lady. Soterius drew a long, painful breath. He closed his eyes. I'm ready. It's over.

"Got him."

The man's voice sounded close by, although Soterius couldn't tell whether he heard it or imagined it. Impossibly strong arms lifted him from the rock ledge. He opened his eyes, but the darkness was complete. His rescuer took one step and then lifted from the ground, and the brush of cold air against his skin told him they were moving. "Hang on," a voice whispered. "Rest." The last word sounded with compulsion, an undeniable request. Soterius resigned himself to the darkness.

For the second time, the Margolan army forced its siege machines through the snow toward the walls of Lochlanimar. The heavy battering ram creaked and groaned as vayash moru soldiers added their inhuman strength to the horses' effort. Two rows of archers with long bows kept up a constant cover of arrows to protect their approach. The vayash moru, clad with helms and chest plates, regarded the arrows of the enemy as annoyances, pulling them from their arms and legs as if they were stinging gnats. The heavily armored horses were happy to be rid of their burden just beyond Curane's archers' best firing range, leaving the burden to the vayash moru. Mortal soldiers armed with throwing axes and broadswords kept careful watch along the moat and the castle footings, alert for asheten-erath or the blood-magicked corpses from the moat.

Trebuchets on both sides sent deadly missiles into the air. Bags filled with shards -of metal and nails pulled from fence posts and old barns hurtled through the air, ready to explode with the force of impact and send shrapnel through the bodies of the soldiers behind the walls. Curane's trebuchets hurled flaming corpses, heavy rocks, and splintered glass and pottery. The bombardment was too solid for Tris and Fallon to be able to deflect every one. To his right, Tris saw a hail of broken glass reach its target, cutting down his men in a spray of blood.

Beside Tris, Fallon raised her hands, muttering to herself and raising her face to the winds. The air shifted and the wind came about, favoring the Margolan archers. Tris could feel the magic around them roiling. Even this small magic from Fallon took great skill against the balky Flow. Tris felt the blood magic swell before it struck, a wall of fire erupting down the castle walls, fire that burned men but not rock. Tris could hear the screams of soldiers and vayash moru as burning men jumped into the stinking moat or rolled in the snow to put out the flames. Tris focused his power and struck back, imagining the flames snuffed like a candle wick.

Rum kegs with burning rags stuffed in their tap holes flew through the air, hurled by Curane's forces. They exploded not far in front of the platform where Tris and Fallon stood.

Too late, Tris felt a presence focus on his power. Pain like a sheet of fire descended on both Tris and Fallon, driving them to their knees. Tris struggled against the bucking Flow to send power to his shields. He felt Fallon's shields fail completely and heard her cry out in agony, writhing in the snow.

Tris lashed out, sending all of his magic burning back along the trail the pain spell had left in the Flow. Linked to his tormentor by the pain spell, Tris felt his own magic explode along the channels of magic.

Tris focused his entire being on a single thought: burn.

With a lurch, Tris felt his magic reach its target. Tris felt his power reach the mage's life thread and wrenched the magic in his mind until it consumed the blue glow of the mage's life. Screams echoed in his mind as the fire destroyed both body and soul.

Fallon grabbed him by the shoulders. "What did you do?"

It took all his concentration to focus his eyes. "Evened the odds."

Flames streaked across the night sky like meteors. Anything at hand became fodder for the trebuchets. Tris and Fallon could barely react in time to protect their troops from the worst of the attack. The battering ram kept up its steady thudding. The walls of Lochlanimar were giving way. Crenellations broke loose and fell, crushing men with their deadly rain of stone.

"Do you hear?"

"What?"

"They've stopped launching," .Fallon said, looking up. "Do you think—"

"Shield!"

All of Curane's trebuchets fired at once, sending cauldrons filled with molten lead into the air. As the cauldrons tumbled, they sprayed the ground and the troops with gobs of burning metal that instantly stripped flesh from bones. Tris called for his magic and felt the Flow snap. Strands of blue-white power, like a flail of lightning, whipped toward them. One of the tendrils caught him by the leg, searing into his thigh. There was magic all around him, wild and dangerous. He could hear Fallon screaming but he couldn't see her. The great river of power that was the Flow glowed blindingly bright in his mage sense. Tris knew that if more of the tendrils gripped him he would die.

Dimly, Tris could hear the shouts of soldiers and the thunder of hoof beats. The real world was at the edge of his senses. Raw, wild magic engulfed him like a vortex and Tris was no longer certain whether he was still alive or whether it was his soul the white-hot river of power sought. His own magic was out of reach, further beyond his touch than ever since its awakening. The Flow surrounded him, filled him. In its surging power, Tris heard a howl of pain, as if the Flow knew it had gone mad. He could see nothing but blood, hear nothing but the screams of men and the howling of the Flow.

Tris's entire body ached and he wanted to throw up. A familiar feeling tingled through him. Wormroot?

"Take it easy. You're safe." Esme's voice. "We had to use wormroot to break the hold of the magic. We almost didn't get you clear in time. Our troops broke through part of the outer wall, but the casualties were high. Senne and Palinn ordered the men to fall back and regroup. Rest now."

He grabbed her wrist and forced himself to open his eyes. Even the candlelight was too bright. "How bad?"

"Ana is dead. Whatever happened to the magic consumed her. None of the other mages are in any better shape than you are, and some are considerably worse. Half of Curane's keep is in flames. We lost half a dozen vayash moru and one of the battering rams. As for the rest of the troops—the counts are just now coming in. We may not know the full toll until morn-ing."

"Ban?"

"Trefor found him. He's alive, but he's in bad shape."

"How long until the wormroot wears off?"

Esme looked worried. "You're in no condition—"

"I'm a Summoner and their king. My place is out there, with the soldiers. If I can touch the magic, then I can help you heal, or make the passage for the dying."

"It's going to be several candlemarks until the wormroot works its way out of your system. Why don't you sleep until then? You aren't in any better shape than most of the wounded." "I've been worse. Ask Carina."

Against Esme's advice, Tris dragged himself out of his cot as soon as the wormroot wore off. Only then did he realize that he was in his own tent, and that Soterius lay on a cot nearby. Coalan managed a faint smile in acknowledgement. Tris ignored the pounding in his head and knelt next to Soterius's cot.