"How is he?"

"Not much changed from when they brought him here." Coalan brought Tris a bowl of porridge from a pot by the fire and poured him a cup of kerif. The strong, bitter drink cleared his head.

Tris laid a hand on Soterius's arm. Carefully, he reached out to touch the magic. The power was elusive, but no longer wildly convulsing. Tris let himself stretch out, searching for the life thread he knew belonged to Soterius. The thread burned dim but steady. He could feel the remnants of Esme's healing power. Despite the dim blue glow of the life thread, Tris could feel how bad the damage was, and how much pain had been blunted by the healer's drugs.

"You don't look like you should be up," Coalan said.

"It's because of me that they're here," Tris said standing. "It's my burden to get them home again. If we can't beat Curane, we'll have the armies from Trevath and Nargi beating down our gates before summer. If Margolan falls, Isencroft falls with it, and the rest of the kingdoms will be fighting for a generation."

Tris winced as he pulled a tunic over his head and grabbed his cloak. He pulled back the tent flap. The harsh sunlight on the snow made him shield his eyes from the glare. "By the Whore," he whispered, looking out over the camp and the plains beyond it.

Bodies littered the trampled snow between the camp and Lochlanimar. The battering ram remained where it was, charred and useless. The walls of Lochlanimar were blackened and the eastern tower had partially collapsed. The walls were pockmarked from the bombardment and in many places the crenellations had fallen, leaving gaps like missing teeth along the upper walls. The air was still and cold. Tris looked out over the camp.

At the end furthest from Curane's castle, Tris saw the dead stacked on cleared ground, wrapped in whatever was at hand to shroud them. Firewood was too scarce for a pyre and the ground too hard to dig graves, and so men formed a relay line, handing along chunks of the stones hurled by the enemy's trebuchets to make a cairn. A lone piper and a drummer played a mournful tune. Clutching his cloak against the bitter wind, Tris walked through the camp. Soldiers made way for him with deference, but no one spoke.

He wasn't surprised to find Senne overseeing the cairn-building. Senne looked worn, as if he had aged since the start of the campaign. He made a perfunctory bow as Tris approached.

"How many dead?" Tris asked.

"Since we can't safely clear the field, we won't know for certain until a count is complete. If I had to guess, I'd say we lost about three hundred, and at least that number wounded in the battle at the gates. Fever's taken another two hundred. It may kill more than Curane's archers do before this is over."

Tris stepped forward and raised his hands toward the cairn. The crowd and the piper fell silent, and the drummer stopped his drumming. It hurt to reach for the magic, as if the channels of power had been seared. On the nether plain, it took all the power Tris could harness to make the spirits visible for the living.

The spirits of the dead soldiers turned toward him, a formation of gray ghosts rank upon rank. They watched his every move, as if the warmth of his living spirit might offer them comfort in the darkness. "I can't bring you back to life, but I can make your passage to the Lady," Tris said. One of the men stepped forward and struck his chest. As one, the ghosts echoed the salute.

"In life and in death, we'll follow where you lead."

Tris looked out over the faces of the dead. "You know what's at stake." In the distance, he could hear the soulsong of the Lady offering her respite, and he knew that the ghosts also heard that sweet song. "I won't bind you here, but if you wish to remain to fight, we'd welcome your help."

One by one, the spirits of the fallen soldiers knelt. To a man, they remained. "Thank you." Tris spoke the words aloud, and his voice caught. "When this is over, I'll make your passage to the Lady."

The magic wavered and threatened to slip beyond his grasp. Tris turned to face the crowd of soldiers who had assembled. Many of the soldiers were no older than he, and some were several years younger. In their faces he saw the shock and loss of battle. The same innocence that had died in his own heart was gone for them as well. In the faces of the older men, Tris saw quiet acceptance. These were the men who had lost family and entire villages to Jared, men who would not curse Death's coming if it ended memory and dreams.

"We're all that stands between Margolan and the darkness," Tris said, shouting to be heard above the wind. "If we let Curane's forces win, our children and their children will never know anything better than the yoke and the chain. On this thin line, Margolan will stand or fall, and with it, the Winter Kingdoms."

Somewhere in the ranks, one man began to clap. Others took up the beat until the entire camp rang with clapping, wave upon wave breaking the winter stillness. It echoed off the stone walls of Lochlanimar, loud enough to shake the snow from the trees.

"There's your mandate," Senne said quietly. "They know the odds, and the price. And to a man, we'll follow you to the Crone if that's what it will take to save Margolan."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"What in the name of the Crone happened out there?" Curane thundered.

Cadoc looked up. The air mage was badly bruised, and one eye was swollen shut. Beside him, Dirmed, a fire mage, was in worse shape. One arm was badly burned, and his hair was singed from his head on one side of his scalp. "The magic went wild," Cadoc said.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that that damned energy river is going mad," Dirmed said. The right side of his face was peeling from a burn. "It threw our power back on us. The Flow's unstable. All the magic's making it worse."

"And Finten?"

Dirmed shrugged. "Finten was unlucky. We think he struck close to Martris Drayke. Our guess is that, Drayke latched onto the power and used it as a channel for his own magic. Finten was standing next to me when he caught on fire. It wasn't pretty."

"A dozen mages, and the best you can do is make some people down in the ginnels sick," Curane replied.

Cadoc glared. "Blood magic is slow and costly. Every time we do a blood working, one of us is half dead for at least two days. And each time we experiment with another nasty little pox, the Flow gets further out of reach. It's starting to break apart."

"How can a river of energy break apart?" Curane flicked his hand dismissively. "Can the wind break apart? Can the sea split itself down the middle? I'm tired of excuses."

"I've found that magic is the answer to every problem—for people who aren't mages," Cadoc said. He took a step toward Curane, fury in his eyes. "I've lost three apprentices conjuring up poxes for you. We've had to lock down half the ginnels because of it. At least a quarter of the villagers are dead. No one's been in or out of midquarters since we locked the yetts, but from the smell, it's a good bet they're dead. I don't know how many Margolan men the plagues are killing, but they've probably murdered more of our own people than the enemy."

"There's only so much lime we can dump from the walkways," Dirmed said. "And no way to keep the rats and the vultures from spreading what's on the other side of the gates. If the Margolan army does break through the wall, they'll likely find a city of the dead."

Curane smiled. "Let them. Plague's cheaper than soldiers. Your magic protects us."

"For now," Cadoc said. "But if the Flow fails us, the magic dies with it—and so do we."

"This'll be over before that happens." Curane replied.

"Is that why you sent the girl and her baby away? Because you're sure victory is imminent?" Dirmed asked.