“Kilandrar,” I say softly. “You saw one?”
“Many, Your Highness.” Her voice drops to a whisper, as if she’s afraid she might summon them. “I think…they’re still here.”
A great whirlwind roars through the narrow street outside, tearing apart the remains of the wrecked houses, sending debris hurtling through the air.
The woman screams and gathers her children back into their hiding place. I pull Aren behind the smoldering remains of the hearth. Marcus and the rest of the company fall back and take cover.
I press a finger to my lips at a low hiss outside the crevice concealing me and Aren. She clutches my arm in frozen silence. The Kilandrar passes within arm’s reach. I will myself to remain deathly still, even as the Rings vibrate in recognition, as if calling to the dark creature.
I know it senses me nearby.
I can’t be fearful. If I am, the Whisting will rise and the Kilandrar will see us. But if I stay quiet and calm the Rings, it might go away—just as it has before.Be still, I warn, grasping for control, but the Rings writhe inside me, reaching for the Kilandrar’s magic, itching to be free.
If it senses the Rings and calls them, will the Kilandrar tear them straight out of my body and deliver them into the Usurper’s hands?
But I can’t do anything but hide this power and hope the Kilandrar passes us by.
Aren presses closer, the wall behind us growing hotter by the second as the Kilandrar’s wind stokes the embers. The crackle of fire reverberates through the plaster. We should move, but we can’t. Any sound would draw the Kilandrar’s attention.
We hold our breath, and for a heartbeat, it’s as if time itself freezes. The Kilandrar prowls outside the ruined home. Its presence is a storm of malice, reaching for the Rings with its dark power.
Smoke chokes the air as the Kilandrar whirls through the broken windows. My eyes burn, and I close them.
The Whisting threatens to rise within me, but then Aren suddenly takes my hand. In the darkness, she’s my only link to the world.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my hand is clammy in the warmth of hers.
At the sound of her voice, the Rings stop humming. The Whisting is calm inside me, and I can breathe again.
Slowly, the thick smoke dissipates, the hissing sound recedes, and after an excruciatingly long time, there is silence at last. The Kilandrar is gone.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?” she whispers back. “I didn’t do anything.”
I shake my head, unable to explain my gratitude. I needed her calm presence today, but I can’t let the Kilandrar get this close to her again.
…
I send the mother and her children off to the safety of South Dunston with a couple of my men. I send my fastest rider to Lundenwic with a dispatch of the highest priority for my father and his council. They must know that the Usurper’s army has breached our borders.
We are at war, at last.
I am out of time. My father needs the Rings.Now.
The rest of the company presses onward to Alba, putting as much road as we can between ourselves and the burning carnage. Marcus and I agree it’s too risky to travel past sundown. Now that we’re weeks away from the closest village or outpost, we’ll have to make camp.
We find a spot near the river large enough to accommodate a circle of tents. The soldiers race to set them all up before nightfall. I get the fire going in record time, my anger and frustration feeding the flames.
Marcus remains silent. I look at the men and wish I could tell them about my curse, about the true danger of our mission. They all think that if we keep moving, the Usurper’s dark creatures won’t find us again. They don’t know that I stole the kingdom’s most precious treasure, and the Kilandrar will keep pursuing me until I’m no longer in possession of the Rings.
I drag my tent farther away to separate myself from the rest of the party. I crawl inside and fall into a fitful sleep.
Alone.
My dream is not like the others, yet it feels exactly the same.
It begins with shadows and whispers, with movement out of the corner of my eye. Something calls to me. It’s not a mortal language, but the sounds of life itself: the rustling of leaves in the wind, laughter bursting from healthy lungs, a gasp of pleasure from a lover’s touch, a whistle to call cattle home, the final exhale of a soldier on the battlefield. It’s life, and it’s death. It’s the Whisting.
