“To be fair, Ansell scored the final blow,” you say. “And that was only after one of your miners helped weaken it with a timely volley of flamestone.”

  Clifford looks in shock. He wipes his forehead, then smiles wide.

  “Well,” he says. “Well, well, well, I cannot believe it. I must confess, I feared the two of you would perish, but you Soulkeepers have lived up to your vaunted reputations. Is there anything I can do to repay you for what you have done for our town?”

  Normally you are instructed to turn down any rewards for performing your duty as a Soulkeeper, but not this time.

  “Yes,” you say, and lift your arms so the mess upon your clothes is obvious. “Ready me the hottest bath possible and a change of clothes so I can scrub myself, dress in something clean, and have my first good night’s rest in days.”

  Clifford claps his hands.

  “Of course,” he says, and nods toward the young servant standing patiently in the doorway. “You shall have all that and more!”

  *

  You dream.

  The world is black around you, but somehow still brightly lit. You are in your bed, asleep, surely you are asleep, yet your eyes are open. The world is barren. Though no roof is above you, only darkness, the comforting sound of steady rain upon the rooftop fills your ears.

  You try to move. Nothing happens. Your blanket weighs a thousand pounds.

  You try to speak, but your mouth will not open.

  Gloam.

  The word floats over you, sparking with energy.

  Gloam.

  No one is speaking it, certainly not you, but you hear it in your own voice. Again, and again, that word. That name. It is familiar to you, achingly so, yet you cannot remember why. It has no meaning. It has no purpose.

  Gloam.

  And then the fireflies arrive. They swirl from underneath your bed, hundreds of them, zipping about in disturbing silence. You hear no buzz of their wings despite knowing that, in such a number, they should rival the patter of the rain. They swirl together, first a grand circle, then into a funnel. Their abdomens blink with lights, a yellow so deep and warm it resembles gold.

  Legere tavrum.

  It is not spoken by you, you know that, you feel it. Your lips are closed, your tongue still, but yet it is your voice that thunders in the darkness. The words should be nonsense to you, absolute nonsense, but there is a meaning underneath the syllables that feels perfectly natural.

  Lightning arcs through the fireflies, sparking with life as you repeat the words.

  Gloam legere tavrum.

  The darkness parts. You see a door. Your door, from the outside of your room. A hand, hesitating beside the handle. Shaking. Nervous. Another hand, holding a pistol loaded with lead shot and flamestone.

  Murder.

  Gloam legere tavrum.

  The fireflies coalesce, black forms melding, becoming a shape resembling a human figure. Gold bursts all about its body, lightning arcing silent and fierce among the light.

  Murder.

  Gloam. The being’s name is Gloam, and it has given you its blessing.

  Gloam, grant me thought.

  MURDER.

  The darkness parts.

  Your eyes are open.

  You are alone in your room, accompanied only by the sound of the rain. It is dark. Quiet. Still.

  You hear the turning of your doorknob.

  Your sword is at the foot of your bed, your pistol, unloaded and holstered in your belt hanging from a hook by the door. Despite the pounding of your pulse, you lay still, head tilted slightly and your eyes open but the tiniest sliver. You remember the nervousness of the individual, their hesitation. They don’t want to do this. They’ll be slow. They’ll be cautious.

  The door opens, creaking but a little. You recognize him immediately. It’s the young servant who first guided you to your room. He holds no candle or lantern. He’s fumbling in the dark, denied even moonlight through the window due to the rain. He takes step after tiny step toward your bed, his pistol held in both hands. He’s getting close. Doesn’t trust his aim.

  You wait until he is halfway to your bed to speak.

  “Lower your weapon, son.”

  He freezes in place. The gun vibrates in the air. If he pulls the trigger now, you suspect he has a coin flip’s chance of actually hitting you. He says nothing, too shocked, too uncertain. This wasn’t his idea. Someone put him up to this, and it doesn’t take much to guess who.

  “I said lower your weapon.”

  The pistol dips slightly, and then panic takes over. He lifts it back up, his legs bracing and his hands tightening. Your instincts, though, are faster. Even in this dim light, you recognize that moment when a man or woman walks past an edge, knowing there is no going back.

  You lunge forward, your hand closing about the pistol. Your thumb wedges between the hammer and the chamber, preventing the spike from dropping in and puncturing the flamestone. You hold it there, the front of the pistol pressed to your chest, and meet the young man’s eyes. They’re wide with fear, and his mouth drops open as he pulls harder on the trigger.

  “Careful,” you say. The elbow of your free arm strikes him in the forehead, rocking him back a pace. His eyes cross, and the grip of his pistol loosens so that you can pry it from his grasp. You re-cock the hammer and then hold the weapon so it aims toward the ceiling.

  “You could hurt someone with this.”

  He turns to flee, but you lower the pistol so it aims at his back.

  “One squeeze of the trigger,” you say, “and you won’t set foot outside that door. Turn around, now. We need to have a chat.”

  The servant obeys. His hands are shaking, and he holds them at his sides. Sweat has soaked the collar of his suit. He’s so young, so boyish in his features, you’d be surprised if he is older than sixteen. Sixteen, and sent to murder a Soulkeeper in her bed.

  “Three questions,” you say. “First, your name?”

  “Durvin.”

  “All right, Durvin, question two. Who put you up to this?”

  He swallows as if shards of glass are wedged in his throat. “Overseer Hezar.”

  Not a surprise. You’d already suspected Clifford the culprit.

  “Question three. Why?”

  Durvin shakes his head.

  “I don’t know.” His eyes bulge as you lift the pistol so its aim is directly at his forehead. “I swear, he didn’t tell me. He only said it was for the good of all of Roros. Don’t kill me, please ma’am, don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.”

  “Neither do I,” you say, pulling back the hammer halfway so it reopens the chamber. You tilt the pistol toward the ground and pat it against your leg so both flamestone and lead shot come sliding out. They silently hit the carpeted floor, bounce once, and roll to a stop. You toss the disarmed weapon onto your bed and retrieve your sword instead.

  The tip of your sword presses against his breastbone.

  “Let’s go find Clifford, shall we?”

  Together, you step outside to the hallway lit with several evenly-spaced candelabras hanging from the walls. You glance at the door next to yours. Lyssa’s room.

  “Is she..?” you ask. Durvin somehow pales even more at your hard expression.

  “No, you, you were the first,” he insists.

  “Lucky you,” you say and shove him. “Lead the way.”

  The servant takes you to the stairs, and together you climb to the second floor. To your immediate right is another door, the light of a warm fire flickering through the crack underneath it.

  “In there,” Durvin says, careful to keep his voice at a whisper. Smart lad. Sort of.

  “Well,” you whisper back. “Go in and say hello.”

  The servant looks ready to pass out, he’s so frightened and confused. You gesture at the door, and then for some encouragement, nudge him with the hilt of your sword.

  As he opens it, you slip to the side, hiding yourself from view.

  Clifford’s voice immediately calls out.

  “Durvin! I heard no shots. Is the matter settled?”

  Good enough for you. You shove Durvin aside so he tumbles out of the room and enter yourself. It’s a lavishly decorated study, complete with a stocked bookshelf, a padded recliner, and a roaring hearth. Roros’s Overseer stands beside the fire, dressed in a crimson bed robe and holding a half-full glass of wine.

  The moment Clifford sees you, he drops the glass and dives for an end table beside the chair. There’s a pistol resting atop it, and you suspect it is already loaded. You sprint after him, using the reach of your sword to your advantage. One thrust, and you strike the pistol, using the tip to shove it off the table and to the carpet. Clifford’s reaching hands fumble, grabbing blade instead of a pistol grip. Blood splashes across the table and chair as he cuts himself upon your blade.

  One kick, and you tumble the end table over. It lands atop the already fallen pistol, striking it hard enough the cocked hammer dislodges, striking the flamestone. It fires, lodging a ball of lead shot into the nearby wall. The roar of the pistol in your ears, you loop your sword about, ending its motion at Clifford’s throat. He straightens up, anger burning in his bloodshot eyes.

  “You damned fool,” he says, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest.

  “Perhaps,” you say. “But I’d rather be a fool than a coward attempting to murder sleeping guests in my own home.”

  You strike him across the face with the hilt of your sword. More blood spurts across his bed robe, this time from his split lip.

  “You couldn’t even do it yourself,” you say. “You sent a child, instead.”

  Clifford straightens himself, and he grimaces at the blood on his robe. After a shrug, he grabs its collar and presses it to his lip. Throughout it all, his glare does not break.

  “Judge me all you want, but I’m not the one who just murdered every single man, woman, and child in this town.”

  You arc an eyebrow. “That’s certainly a claim.”

  “It’s no claim.” He sneers at you. “Even the Sisters will judge you a fool after we are all dead.”

  The door opens, and a half-dressed Lyssa enters. She’s armed only with a dagger, which is currently pressed to Durvin’s throat.

  “I heard a pistol shot,” she says. “You all right, Robin?”

  “Perfectly fine,” you say.

  “Good.” She pushes Durvin a little. “Care to explain what in Anwyn’s name is going on?”

  You grin at her. “That’s what I’m here for myself, actually. Clifford tried to have Durvin shoot me in my sleep. He insists it is for the good of Roros, though as for how or why, well…”

  Clifford stands tall and proud despite his bleeding fingers and the clumping bits of blood that are drying in his mustache.

  “You may be fools,” he says, “but you can surely understand that our town cannot withstand the anger of the owls, not when we are so close to the Helwoads. I made a deal with their Queen, one that would spare our lives and buy me some time to figure out an alternate solution.”

  A deal…

  “The flamestone,” you say, making an educated guess. “You agreed to ship no flamestone.”

  “The monster was my excuse,” Clifford says, nodding in affirmative. “Arondel called it a lyndwyrm, the thing that created the flamestone.” He shakes his head. “And now you’ve killed it. You damned fools, you killed it. Arondel said she’d know, and now she does.”

  “Arondel,” you say, the name vaguely familiar to you. “Who is she?”

  Clifford meets your gaze. “The Queen of the Winged. And when she turns her eye from Londheim to here, our whole town is doomed.”

  “Such pessimism,” Lyssa says, and she shoves Durvin further in. “I’d like to think we humans still have a fighting chance.”

  “What is all this commotion?” William asks, his manservant right behind him. It seems you’ve made enough noise to wake the entire house. The auditor turns pale the moment he sees a bleeding Clifford standing beside the hearth. “Overseer? Are you injured?”

  “Yes, he’s injured,” you say. “He tried to have me executed to hide how he made a deal with the owls to prevent flamestone shipments from reaching Londheim.”

  The chubby man’s face goes from pale to a furious shade of red. “You would betray us to the beasts?”

  Clifford stands tall, unbowed even now.

  “I did as the Sisters command of us,” he says. “I protected those I could, consequences be damned.”

  “Yeah, so noble,” Lyssa says. “The question is, what do we do with his noble ass?”

  “First, we lock him up in a room somewhere before he causes any more trouble,” you say.

  “Allow me,” Whistler says from the door. He bows his enormous frame. “I can ensure the Overseer receives proper attention to his injuries.”

  You’re happy to let Whistler handle the man. Having him not around will clear your head. Once the Overseer is gone, William scans the room, finds the half open bottle Clifford had been drinking, and grabs it for himself.

  “This needs to be carefully done,” he says after a long gulp. “Roros’s mayor should be the first to learn, and if possible, we let him take over any sort of trial or punishment for Clifford. Proving him behind the attempt on your life will be tricky, though it helps we have the word of a Soulkeeper on our side.”

  “And a witness,” Lyssa says, nudging a quiet and moping Durvin.

  William glances at the servant. “You made the attempt, and at Clifford’s request?”

  Durvin hesitates, then nods.

  “He said I would be saving the whole town if I did it,” he says. “I’d be a hero. It wasn’t my idea, I promise. I didn’t want to do it.”

  “Get him in a room next to Clifford’s,” William says. “And make sure neither leaves.”

  “Gladly,” Lyssa says. A single glare, and the young servant follows the other Soulkeeper out.

  William finishes the rest of the bottle and then lets out a small gasp.

  “Thought the wine would be better than that,” he says, and sets the bottle down. His gaze settles on you, his expression hardening. “This will be tricky, Robin. I sense Clifford was well-liked here, and given the sea of changes around us, people crave stability. Even with witnesses and the truth, it may not be enough.”

  You shake your head. “It will have to be. If he’s telling the truth, and I think he is, the owls will attack in retaliation for what we’ve done.”

  The man sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Fuck.”

  You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah.”

  William stands up straight and claps his hands.

  “Well, that is a task for tomorrow, I’d say. I will handle the political consequences, and lean heavily on your reputations as Soulkeepers. As for you…” His eyes narrow. “Can you organize the town’s defense to make sure we don’t die to a bunch of overgrown birds?”

  Your opinion of the man rises ever so slightly. With a task at hand, even one arriving unexpected in the middle of the night, he seems almost eager to take charge.

  “Can do,” you say. “But first, I’m going back to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a long night.”

  Lyssa finds you halfway there, returning alone.

  “Where you headed?” she asks.

  “To bed,” you answer. “Why? Planning to join me?”

  She smirks slightly.

  “Sorry, not tonight. Not in the mood.” She leans against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. “The Overseer did a piss poor job picking assassins. Hopefully that means he’s not used to underhanded dealings here in Roros. Durvin looked ready to piss himself when Whistler tossed him in the same room as Clifford.”

  “I’m glad for his poor decision making,” you say, and grin at her despite how tired you feel.

  Lyssa chuckles. “Still, it doesn’t take too much skill to shoot a sleeping man. How did you avoid taking a lead shot to the head?”

  You start to answer, something flippant, but then half-remembered memories wash over you. Your dreams…you remember a voice in your dreams.

  “It was the strangest thing,” you say, deciding Lyssa’s dealt with enough strangeness she’ll be open to believing more. “I think I was warned about his coming in a dream.”

  “Warned?” she asks, her expression carefully neutral. “By who? One of the Sisters?”

  “I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s hazy, but I remember a lone word being shouted over and over, and in my own voice. ‘Murder’.”

  Lyssa rubs her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “Robin, please, promise me something, all right?”

  “What’s that?”

  She grins at you. “If you start hearing voices in your head telling you to murder, please, for all our sakes, do not listen to them.”

  29

  The town is abuzz with movement and fright. Too much uncertainty in too short a time. You walk the small market, without any desire to purchase but just to clear your head after your poor sleep. You hear rumors of Clifford’s arrest. Some are frightened. Some are angry. Most, however, are just confused.

  There is little room for talk of the arrested Overseer, though, since all are aware of the coming fury of the owls.

  “There you are,” Lyssa says, spotting you from afar. She pushes past a couple men huddled together that block the center of the road, then tips her hat toward you with her free hand. The other is holding a half-eaten roll of bread smothered with butter. She glances you up and down, not bothering to hide her inspection.

  “Have you eaten yet?” she asks.

  You shake your head. In response, she tears her remaining roll in half and offers it to you.

  “Eat,” she says.

  “Are you my mother now?” you ask, but accept the portion.

  “Only in my nightmares,” she says, stuffing her own half into her mouth. “Now come on, Henli is waiting for us.”

  *

  To your surprise, Henli Fairbough is guard captain of the town, and the one in charge of preparing its defenses. At least, he should be, but it sounds like he’s been more than happy to pass that responsibility off to you and Lyssa. You find him at a firing range set up alongside the far eastern wall. Thirty men and women are with him, taking turns shooting at hay bales set up at varying distances with wood targets bound to their fronts.