He jerked as if she’d appeared in front of him, but she knew he only heard her. “Hawk, is that you?”

  Rowena sighed. Every. Time. “One of these days, I’m going to say no just to see what you do.”

  She’d expected a nervous laugh, his usual response to her sarcasm, but he swallowed. She tried to look around him to see if anyone else was in his shop—perhaps a knight with a sword to his neck—but the fishbowl quality of the ball made searching difficult, and he held it so close to his face. Besides, he didn’t offer the signal they’d come up with for hostage situations. If he didn’t tip her off, she wouldn’t know to rescue him.

  Not that she could, at the moment.

  But he didn’t know that.

  She shook her head to clear it. “Is this a social call or…”

  “I have some bad news,” he said, and she could see the sweat beading on his forehead. “Rather bad news. I’ve heard from the bookseller, and she heard from a librarian, a master researcher, actually, and—”

  Rowena sat forward, heart pounding. “What did you tell them?”

  “It’s what they told me. The bookseller must have mentioned you to the master researcher at some point.”

  “Shit.” Rowena covered her mouth with one hand. Three contacts burned in less than a month. “Did the bookseller tell the knights, too? Abe, you need to leave your shop, and—”

  “You’re not listening. We have more to worry about than knights.”

  “Ha. You’re not going to think that for long if they’re coming for you.”

  “It’s the Kells,” he said, coming even closer to the ball. One brown eye ballooned to fill the entire sphere until she could see the capillaries running through the white and hear his lashes trembling against the crystal. “They’re coming to kill us all. We need your help.”

  Rowena’s ears filled with the sound of nothing, and she sat back, all her other worries evaporating. Arnvild’s most fearsome enemy on top of everything else? Wasn’t that just her luck?

  Chapter Four

  Rowena hurried into her workshop, digesting what her informant had said. The Knights of the Flame wanted her help moving troops to defend Arnvild against the Kells.

  “Bloody hypocrites,” she muttered. Of course they wanted her help now that they found a way for her to be useful, and of course it was a trap, as her informant said. And of course it had to be against the buggery Kells, so Rowena had to help.

  She passed the long wooden table that dominated her workroom. It was dotted with reagents and materials like those she’d used to create Ember: clay, plant fibers, minerals, the occasional pig organ, everything she’d needed to make a fully functional human being.

  Except for the magic. Giving up that much of her life force had nearly killed her.

  But as she felt Ember’s movements in the tunnels above, she knew it was worth it. Closer than a sister, closer than a child, even, Ember was part of her. And if the Kells tore through Arnvild, she’d never get to introduce that part of her to her homeland.

  Once everything was safe and witches had been accepted again.

  That’d be the bloody day.

  Rowena passed through the doorway at the back of her workshop and entered her study, stopping to inhale the comforting scents of old leather, ink, and paper. She kicked off her boots before setting foot on the plush carpet. With a gentle pull of her magic, the lanterns hanging from the chandelier flared to life, as did the two on her desk, illuminating the dark wooden surface and the tall shelves that made up the walls of her study.

  “Dansk,” she said, “bring me any books on the Kells.”

  Slow footsteps whispered across the carpet as the husk standing by the door shuffled into motion. At first glance, Dansk seemed much as she had been in life, the same dark hair and unblemished pale skin. One only had to look at the blank white eyes and the still chest to see that life had fled the body.

  Until Rowena had animated it anew.

  Dansk hadn’t been her name at birth. The villagers who lived below Rowena’s lair never told her the names of their dead. They simply washed them, dressed them in something serviceable like plain tunics and trousers, and gave them to her in a solemn ceremony that she assumed brought them comfort. It was an honor, they’d told her, to give their dead to the witch who tended the sick, drove off bandits, and saved their village from fire.

  At least they knew the value of magic.

  Even if she had to go to them at the base of the mountain because they were too frightened to come up the mountain to her.

  Or maybe that was because they didn’t want to see their loved ones…repurposed.

  Oh, well. Keeping some distance between them suited her better, anyway.

  Dansk couldn’t carry on a conversation, but she knew the whereabouts of every book in the library, and she didn’t need the use of ladders. She slowly scaled the shelves, her bare feet squeaking gently on the wood. She climbed down with one book tucked under her arm, set it on the desk, then climbed again.

  Rowena sank into her plush leather chair and opened the book, a true account of Arnvild’s last war with the Kells, written by a soldier who’d escaped the battlefield by hiding under a dead horse. On his return to what was left of civilization, some had called him a coward, but he seemed incredibly sensible to Rowena’s eyes.

  The two armies had met on the battlefield, the Kells whooping and hollering as they stamped like horses, eager to run into battle. They painted their faces and their armor with red streaks and blotches, as if they were already covered in blood. And maybe they were. Rumors about the Kells included everything from infighting to human sacrifice to cannibalism. No matter what was true, the sight combined with the noise afflicted more than a few soldiers, turning their thoughts and their feet toward home.

  The writer referred to some rallying speech from the Arnvild king that made his troops as eager as the Kells, and battle was soon joined. As soon as the two armies were engaged, they found out the real reason for the Kells’ noise, to cover the other half of their army as it flanked the Arnvild troops from a forest to the side.

  No one had suspected such tactics. Out of all the rumors, none ever said the Kells were clever.

  The battle turned into a rout, and the Arnvild king discovered the second surprise of the day. During the battle, the Kells had sent troops to cover the only avenue of retreat, and what remained of the Arnvild forces ran straight into their waiting swords.

  The writer spent a long night on the battlefield, half crushed by his own horse. He’d heard the screams as the Kells toyed with dying soldiers. The Kells laughed as they flayed the wounded, howled along with their cries of agony, and those who spoke Arnvild’s language mocked them all the while.

  One Arnvild soldier had cried for mercy, saying she had a family.

  The Kells had laughed and said, “Dreams don’t have families. Only the Kells are real. The rest of the world is smoke.”

  Rowena shuddered. How could one defend against an enemy who didn’t even believe they existed? One didn’t have to have a conscience in a dream.

  Sitting back, Rowena rubbed her temples. Dansk had set two more books on the desk before retreating to her place beside the door. Rowena drummed her fingers on the table. She knew that other books would have similar accounts, but she read them anyway. The few survivors left in the Kells’ wake had the same stories. After they’d passed through Arnvild, they’d ventured off to attack other “dreams.” Now they’d returned to do it all over again.

  “Shit,” Rowena said quietly. Witches hadn’t been very involved in the Kells’ first attack on Arnvild. There had been fighting among the covens at the time, and the Witch Wars were soon to come, slowing down Arnvild’s recovery and nearly wiping out anyone left.

  Well, that wouldn’t happen this time. Rowena could move Sir Robert’s bloody troops to the border. And she could do it without being caught by that witless moron. But she wondered if the knights would be enough. Everything about them said arrogance. Sir Robert knew the Kells were dangerous, but he’d probably never cracked a book, might not know that the Kells were clever or that they spared no one, not even knights who practiced courteous warfare with prisoner exchanges and free passage for the wounded. No accounts existed from the small villages the Kells had devoured in their march across Arnvild, but others had written of trying to visit relatives in those same villages and finding naught but scorch marks.

  Rowena concentrated on Ember’s life force and called to it, summoning her to her side. Ember spent more time with the soldier husks than Rowena did. It was time to find out which could be deployed if necessary. And if Rowena didn’t have enough husks, well, there had to be plenty of graveyards between her lair and the border.

  * * *

  Ember heard Rowena’s call and was tempted to ignore it. Not because she didn’t love Rowena, no. That love ran deep, deeper than her love for her own arms or legs or eyes, all of which she’d give up to help Rowena, the woman who’d given her life.

  But Ember was bored. Bored in underlined letters as if in a book. She liked reading. Sometimes. She liked helping Rowena and sparring with the husks and talking with the occasional visitor more, but something still tugged at her like an invisible rope.

  Boredom.

  It was a word that sank into the bones, that sifted through all her memories and found them wanting. That made her feel bad sometimes, like now, when she dragged her feet instead of leaping to Rowena’s call. Rowena might want her to learn something new, which would be nice, but it wouldn’t make her legs still or show her new colors or give her new feelings because books were so…distant. They had people running across pages and space and time, but none of it was here, now. None of it…sang.

  She’d been created in the mountain lair. She’d explored every inch. The spiders were fun. The husks were fun. The workshop was fun. Or they had been fun until Rowena had let Ember see through the crystal ball.

  Ships and waves and pirates and things. She’d asked what those things were so many times that Rowena had finally snapped at her to go play, which she had, pretending she was a pirate on a ship on the waves surrounded by things. But pretending had become boring, too. She wanted to see the ship, ride the waves, meet the pirates. Maybe some would let her touch the things. The point was, there were other places to go.

  But Rowena said they couldn’t. Even the village below was out of bounds for Ember. Rowena only went to the base of the mountain to perform the most solemn of ceremonies when someone died, and she feared Ember would ask embarrassing questions, and then Rowena might not be invited back, and then where would the new husks come from?

  Ember had said that Rowena could make a list of embarrassing questions, and Ember wouldn’t ask them, but Rowena said any questions would be embarrassing at such a time, and she didn’t trust Ember to keep still.

  Ember sighed. That was true. She couldn’t keep still.

  But now she knew there were other places that might not be so solemn, pirates who might welcome questions and touches and other explorations. The whole of Arnvild waited. Rowena couldn’t go anywhere because she was a witch and knights would arrest her, but Ember wasn’t a witch. Rowena said people wouldn’t understand someone who was created rather than born, but Ember was certain she could explain well enough.

  “How many husks do we currently have?” Rowena asked as Ember crossed the threshold into the study.

  “Hello to you, as well,” Ember said.

  Rowena looked up and blinked, then she sighed. “I see you’ve decided to be peevish since last we saw each other.”

  Ember grinned. She’d just learned peevish. It felt right when she was bored. “We have thirty husks if you count the two you have in the workshop.”

  “That’s not many,” Rowena said, tapping her chin with a pencil. “Even if each one is worth ten live fighters, that’s not many.”

  “Some aren’t fighters at all,” Ember said, nodding toward Dansk. “You’d have to retrain them.” Then she brightened. “Are you going to? Are they going to fight someone? I’m a fighter. I know how. Are they going to see the pirates? I could go.”

  Rowena gave her a dark look. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “But I’m practically a husk—”

  “You are not.” Rowena shouted as she stood. “You are so much more than that. I taught you…” The words faded as Ember laughed.

  “I only said it to try to get you to let me go. I shouldn’t have. Now you’re angry.” She frowned. “And I shouldn’t laugh if you’re angry. I’m sorry.” She truly was, but yelling was just so funny. It echoed in her ears.

  Rowena took a few deep breaths, and Ember waited for her to catch her calm. “You are too precious, Ember. You’re unique.”

  “But not made of glass.” She had proven that once by leaping from a cliff. Rowena had been so angry as she’d put Ember back together, but she’d had to concede that Ember did not shatter. Whatever damage was done to her, Rowena could fix.

  “I know.” Rowena came around the desk, and her face pinched, and Ember felt her own face pinch, too. Rowena was sad, and that always made Ember sad. “But I can’t…”

  Ember sighed, still sad for Rowena and sad for herself. It didn’t matter what she was made of if Rowena would never let her go. “You should have more friends,” she said again. “I’ll always be your Ember, but you should have more friends besides me.”

  “You’ve been reading too many stories.”

  “Stories have friends.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Friends who go on adventures.”

  “And die.”

  Ember threw her head back and laughed again. “You’d never let me die.” The very concept was sillier than anything she’d ever heard, and she opened her arms for Rowena to rush inside. The hug was tight, but that was fine since Ember wasn’t made of glass.

  “Come on,” Rowena said. “You can help me plan an adventure. That’s the best I can do.”

  For now, Ember thought, but she used another ability she’d recently learned and kept a secret.

  * * *

  Nothing in Kingston’s library pointed to the witch known as the Hawk, and Sydney was tempted toward relief and despair. If she never found the witch, she wouldn’t have to choose between following orders and doing what she knew was right.

  But without the witch’s help, the Knights of the Flame would never arrive in time to save the border towns from the Kells.

  Camille kept her mind occupied, even as she seemed more than a little distracted herself. They’d been together for three days now, and Camille still hadn’t lost interest. If anything, she seemed to become more interested when she discovered that Sydney wouldn’t carry out Sir Robert’s plan to plead with the Hawk for aid, then betray her once that aid was given. Still, Camille didn’t really seem to want to get to know Sydney. Maybe she was also seeking to keep her mind off their troubles while they still had the liberty to do so.

  Breathless in the library storeroom after one such distracting activity, Sydney fumbled back into her clothes as Camille did the same. “Has Sir Robert been pressing you for progress reports?” Camille asked.

  Sydney frowned as she thought of her recent encounters with the supreme commander. He asked what she’d uncovered, but he never appeared fazed by her failure. “He’s been calm. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him express any other emotion. He takes things in stride.” She sighed. “I always wanted to be like him in that way. Most of us do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Camille said, laying her hand on Sydney’s shoulder. “I know his plans hurt you.”

  “Maybe he won’t betray the Hawk,” Sydney said, hoping it was true. “Maybe he’ll make it clear that she’ll go to prison or be permanently exiled for her witchcraft, and it will be up to her to choose whether she helps or not.”

  Camille stared at her flatly. “Oh yes, making her choose between her freedom and the people of her homeland. How chivalrous.”

  Sydney rubbed her temples, wondering if she’d feel as if she was on the cusp of a headache from now on. “Every time I see him, I want to say something, to ask him why, to protest, but the words just die.”

  “Take me with you next time,” Camille said. “I have more than enough to say for the both of us.”

  She went on to speak a few choice phrases, but Sydney was barely listening. She knew the reason why she hadn’t objected to Sir Robert’s plan. She wanted to walk the thin line of obedience and dedication a little while longer. When the Hawk entered the field, Sydney would have to choose a side, but for now, part of her could pretend that her order was all she’d ever thought it was, a beacon of goodness for all the world.

  Late at night, another part of her whispered that maybe Sir Robert’s plan wasn’t such a bad one. The magic used to move the knights would be the last magic cast in Arnvild. After it was done and the Hawk was dealt with, their kingdom would see an end to witches. If magic was going to have one last act, why shouldn’t it be a righteous one?

  But it was more than the imagined rage on Camille’s face that made Sydney turn from such a plan. Some things just felt wrong in the gut, and asking for help while holding a club ready to strike was one of them.

  “Do you?” Camille asked, leaning into Sydney’s line of sight with a concerned expression.

  Sydney blinked before sighing. “I’m sorry, my sweet. I wasn’t listening.”

  A flash of irritation crossed Camille’s face before she smiled again. “I understand your preoccupation, but…”

  “We have work to do, I know. You hope to find the Hawk so we can warn her what’s to come.”

  Camille’s gaze shifted away. “Isn’t that what you want, too?”

  Sydney kissed her cheek, hoping she didn’t feel unappreciated. “Yes. You’ve been wonderful, darling, and I can’t thank you enough for your sympathy and insight.” Sydney expected a beaming smile, but Camille turned her head away as if embarrassed.