Come to me. Those three words pierced his mind again without warning. Dark. Silken.
Skatia. She called to him, just as she had been calling to him since she first arrived at the dunes outside Fort Mysai two days ago.
And each time she called, it grew that much harder to resist.
Slinking back from the roof’s edge, Hedley pressed his brow against the cool marble and clenched his eyes shut as another wave of need crashed through his body. A need to join the viperous witch down in the square. To answer her call at last.
It would be so easy. All he had to do was…submit.
No!He needed her witchblade. That was all he needed. Surely, her witchblade was the key. But then what? Could he smash the jewel embedded in its hilt? Could he melt the accursed blade?
And how was he supposed to get it off her in the first place?
The woman was never alone.
More footsteps pounded against the streets below. More voices. Angry voices. Drakmori.
“That man isourprisoner.”
“And he is our prisoner now.”
“You are not in command here, witch.”
“Neither areyouin command of me. I answer only to Our Lady Below.”
“I don’t care who you answer to, but that man ismine. The ones with him called him the Lord Commander. We can ransom him back to his family.”
Come to me, my wayward witchsworn.Come to me…
Hedley’s stomach churned. His head swam. He had to get away from here—from her—until he could steal her witchblade. But not now. There were too many watching now. He would have to wait for nightfall, when his odds of succeeding would be better.
Dane. Hedley narrowed his focus to that one single flicker of hope still sputtering weakly in his heart. There was a small chance that his brother might be hiding in the city somewhere. Or perhaps he had already fled east toward Drakmor with the rest of the deserters.
Or perhaps he was simply dead.
A gasp rang out from the square below. Something metallic thudded against the cobblestones. “It is the phantom,” a woman’s voice declared.
Hedley’s blood ran cold. He had been spotted. But how?
“No!” Skatia’s voice cracked forth like the snap of a whip. “This man cannot be your phantom, Sister.”
“How would you know?Wehave been the ones plagued by this little rat for months. I have seen his face many a time. I would know it anywhere.”
“I’m not—” a voice started to protest. A voice Hedley knew all too well.
The sound of flesh striking flesh plunged the voice into silence. “Thatis for the trebuchets,” a witch hissed. Another slap. Another strike. “Andthatis for my witchsworn.”
Like a man caught in a dream, Hedley crawled back to the edge of the roof and stared down at the captured Elmorian whose helmnow lay off to the side, revealing his face. A face he knew despite the blood now marring it. It was a face he had known all his life.
Because he wore it, too.
“Dane!” he screamed, his brother’s name ripping forth from some place deep in his fractured soul before he could stop it. Dane was alive. He was alive. Praise the Lord, he was alive.
Time seemed to slow as all eyes lifted his way, including the sky-blue pair belonging to the prisoner. It was like staring into a reflection.Dane. His identical twin. His brother was older by only ten minutes, yet they had been a matched set since birth
Until they arrived in Mysai and were assigned to different units to keep their commanding knights from becoming confused about which Wilsham was which.
His position already compromised, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. Five witches stared back at him. Nine witchsworn. A dozen Drakmori. His brother.
