Silveren was Mirabor Savaric, son of Ralinbor and Aelis, and twenty-five years ago, in this courtyard, Colart Jenicor had brought charges of high treason against his mother. She had died right there, in that courtyard, wrapped in chains, and he had used Hreban to collect on that bloody debt.
It was right there, in front of me, the whole time. I had all the clues. He all but told me who he was, and I did not see it.
Somewhere, a cold, logical part of my brain informed me that Silveren had seen his revenge impaled on a spear and couldn’t handle it. He must not have fully trusted Hreban to pull it off. This was his plan B. He had waited so long for this moment, he wanted it so much, he had imagined it for decades, and now he would not let it slip from his grasp. He would kill the Sun Margrave one way or the other.
The dursan hunched its shoulders. The bladelike scales on its chest and back stood erect. Its triple tail lashed the air, slicing through it like a bladed whip.
How is this real?
The beast raised its wings, aiming the spikes at the Sun Margrave. It clawed the stone, its black talons scraping across it, dipped its huge horned head, and roared. The blast of sound was like a tornado, and Rumian, the Sun Margrave, and the three teenage squires were right in its path.
Run!
The Sun Margrave gaped at the dursan, shocked.
Run! Run away!
My brother spun his spear. Next to the beast, it looked like a toothpick. I was about to see him die.
The dursan swung one massive paw, ready to swat Rumian like a fly.
A searing wall of green light sliced through the courtyard. Somehow the dursan sensed it coming and shied to the side, but the green flames caught it as it turned, slashing through its front paw and stopping three feet short of Rumian.
The dursan screeched. The giant paw fell, cut free from the beast.
Everard stood on the staircase. Black smoke boiled from him, and his sword burned with green fire.
The dursan spun around and charged, going straight for Everard, mouth gaping, sword-sized fangs bared.
Everard spun his sword. His magic shot out of him like a demonic blade. The green streak of the Fatefire slashed toward the dursan, angling to the right and leaving a wall of flames in its wake. The dursan leaped over it, but Everard had already struck again. The second slice singed the dursan’s remaining forepaw.
The beast reared, trying to avoid the lethal inferno.
Everard sliced in a vicious horizontal arc. The flat wave of green flames cut straight across the dursan’s exposed belly. The top half of the beast slid aside, smoking, its guts instantly cauterized.
Nothing moved. The courtyard had turned silent as a tomb.
A dull, layered roar came from above. I looked up.
The sky above us darkened. Dursans rained down, slicing through the clouds. Five, ten, no, more, landing all over the courtyard.
One of them, a giant beast, hung above the cascade. I turned my spyglass up. There was a rider on its back, dressed in black, his face hidden by a hood.
Silveren. It had to be.
On the platforms, people screamed. By the gates, the crowds on the King’s Way echoed the screams and ran, stampeding down the street toward the safety of the city.
Everard started down the stairs, a mass of churning magic, his eyes blazing. His knights streamed from his platform, a wave of black and green, running ahead of him, fanning out toward the dursans.
A deep male roar came from the right. Bors was on his feet, his arms raised, gripping a war axe in his right hand. His body shook, rigid, the motion nearly jerking him off his feet. His eyes turned scarlet. A wave of blood-red glow pulsed out of him, washing over Lady Bors by his side. It jerked her upright, holding her still, and splayed out past her, to their knights. Lady Bors landed back on her feet, glowing with translucent red, and screamed, her voice pure fury, a chorus to her husband’s roar. Behind them the knights howled as one.
Bors leaped over the low platform, landed on the stairs, and charged down. His wife was only a step behind, her sword in her hand, her face deranged. The Conquerors spilled out onto the stairs and tore down, roaring.
Arvel vaulted over the rail of his platform, jogged up the stairs, as if he had all the time in the world, and stopped by Sauven. A bright golden glow flared from him, wrapping around his body like a cocoon of light. For a moment, Arvel levitated, weightless, his face serene. The golden radiance of the Enduring Flame pulsed from him, expanding past the first landing. A wall of translucent gold rose just below the top platforms, sealing them and the top of the perron in a translucent dome.
Sauven sat in his chair, impassive, looking slightly bored. How was he bored? Was he so out of it, he didn’t realize what was happening? Did he not understand that his nephew had come back from the dead?
The Defender Knights spread out across the top two platforms, moving with military precision into a perfect line. A knight with a golden pauldron on his shoulder made a chopping motion with his hand. The Defenders pulled their bows off their backs, nocked arrows, and fired as one. The arrows pierced the golden wall and bit into the nearest dursan, turning it into a hedgehog.
