“What I need is a Shepherd,” Sir Conall contradicted through gritted teeth. “But we don’t have time for that. Listen closely, Wilsham. I need…I need you…” Eyelids fluttering, the man swallowed hard and tried again. “Take command, Wilsham. Fall back. Save what men you can. Retreat to the inner ring. Send word to the mainland.”
Each of the knight’s words struck Dane like a fresh blow to the stomach, driving him to his knees.Takecommand. But…he couldn’t. He wasn’t a knight.
He was no one. A common-born nobody. Who would follow him? Who would listen?
“I’m not a knight, sir,” he swiftly reminded Sir Conall. “I can’t—”
The other man cut him off with a mad laugh. “You are now. Congratulations on your knighthood, Sir Dane.”
Removing his right hand from his wound, Sir Conall snatched up his sword and pressed the bloody hilt into the grasp of Dane’s fingers. It was a brutishly large weapon—nearly as tall as he was. The weight of it felt odd in his hand.
Wrong, as if the sword itself knew he wasn’t worthy of wielding it.
“Take my blade,” the knight commanded. “And take my…” His hand trembled, falling limp to the floor. “Take my signet ring…”
Dane stared, dumbfounded, at the heavy gold ring bearing the symbol of a winged horse glinting on the knight’s third finger. He wanted to protest again. Who was he to carry a nobleman’s family crest?
But he no longer had the will to argue with a dying man.
Instead, he merely met Sir Conall’s swiftly fading gaze and asked, “What message do you want me to send to the mainland, sir?”
A faint smile hitched on the corner of the knight’s mouth. “Tell my wife I died with honor…rather than like…a butchered pig…”
Dane’s chest tightened. “Done.”
Sir Conall’s smile faded. His eyes finally fluttered closed. “And tell the queen…” he dully rasped, his voice little more than a thread of sound now. “Tell her Drakmor…betrayed us…tell her…”
Bowing his head, Dane quietly prayed for the deliverance of Sir Conall’s soul even as the knight drew in one last shaky breath and exhaled, “Tell her Mysai…will fall.”
Chapter nineteen
Seraphina
Acold wind whipped across the blackened sands, making her shiver. The scents of blood and ash soaked the air. Crimson lightning split the dark sky overhead.
Death was coming.
Rather than race for the Crow as she always did, all simply to fight with his chains in vain, she set off in the opposite direction, determined to try a new path. Perhaps the Lord would show her something new this time if she tried something different.
But the dunes of the wasteland were unfamiliar in this direction. There were no stars to light her way. Soon, she became lost.
In the darkness, a familiar voice emerged.
“That’s right,” that oily rasp whispered, each word oozing directly into her thoughts, “you don’t need that filthy Crow anyway.”
Seraphina’s breath hitched in her throat as she whirled around to face the voice. But there was no one there. Only more darkness. More lightning. More cold.
She wrapped her arms around her midsection in a desperate attempt to keep the cold at bay. This had been a mistake—forging off into the unknown. She should have just run to Aldric as she always did, even if it was ultimately pointless.
He never helped her. He never even tried to escape.
The voice continued. “You’re perfect Seraphina de la Croix, after all. And what is he?”
“Stop,” she whispered. She wasn’t perfect. Nor did she think she was.
“He’s worthless.”
She shook her head. “He’s not.”
