After the mare shied so violently from a fallen branch that she nearly threw Isobelle from the saddle, Gwen reined Achilles in and turned, ready to suggest they just leave Buttercup and let Isobelle ride with Gwen – evenwith her armour, Achilles could carry both her and Isobelle such a short way.
But she took one look at Isobelle’s face and the words died on her lips.
Isobelle met her eyes as her palm stroked Princess Buttercup’s neck, the horse snorting and trembling. ‘She’s just scared,’ Isobelle murmured. ‘She’s not a bad horse. I won’t leave her behind.’
Gwen’s heart gave such a lurch she feared it might dent her breastplate. She swallowed, noting all at once the light in Isobelle’s eyes, the little smile on her lips, the rhythmic motion of her hand – and the way the skittish mare was settling, regulating herself, until she tossed her head as if shaking off her fright.
‘I know how she feels,’ Gwen whispered, and they set off once more.
They were riding towards almost certain doom. They’d never faced a danger like this one, where they could not know what to expect. This was no magical beast operating on ancient instinct; this was a clever, if mad, human enemy with the ability to plan and think and adapt. An enemy withmagic, a power they scarcely understood. Their only weapon was a spell they’d done themselves, and if it didn’t work, Gwen would be facing a decision she’d never fully allowed herself to think about, not even with Grimshaw.
Tell me, Sir Gwen, Olivia’s voice rang in her memory.How many men have you killed?
And still, despite all of this, which ought to be weighing her down more than the familiar pressure of her armour … Gwen felt as light as the moonlight filtering down through the sparse canopy.
Isobelle was beside her. Their plan might be shaky, but it wastheirplan.
They broke out of the forest all at once. Before them rose the tower, a dark-grey silhouette against the stars, standing apart on its own spire of cliff. A beautifully masoned bridge spanned the gap, and as the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats shifted to clatter against the stone, Gwen’s focus sharpened.
Go time.
She gestured to Isobelle to fall in line behind her, and skirted the moonlit courtyard, keeping the horses to the shadows. If there was any chance the sorcerer didn’t know they were coming, she would keep it that way. She reined in at an old hitching post near a collapsed wooden stable. Achilles gave a loud snort of annoyance as Gwen dismounted, for he had sensed her intention solidifying; he was a warhorse, and he could tell his mistress was preparing to go to war without him.
As Isobelle dismounted beside her and began tying up Buttercup’s reins, Gwen brought Achilles’s head down so she could lay her cheek against his. ‘Next time, love,’ she murmured. ‘Next time, I promise to find a bad guy we can fight on horseback.’
She could hear him muttering to himself as she and Isobelle crept around towards the front doors.
One of them was open a crack, the wood hanging slightly askew on its hinges. Gwen prised it open a little further, with a creak that resounded far too loudly in the eerie silence. She held it open so Isobelle could slip through, then squeezed through herself, armour screeching slightly against the wood as the heavy door tried to clamp shut again.
The entrance was a long hall, with doors on either side, but their destination was obvious: at the far end of the corridor was an archway lined with carvings of owls in flight, and beyond it, the great hall where they’d first seen Bingleton in his role as necromancer. Light poured dimly from that vast chamber.
He was there.
Gwen drew her sword slowly, nodded at Isobelle, and crept down the hallway. Isobelle, who had the spell jar tucked safely in a belt she’d slung across her chest, was on her heels, her steps matching Gwen’s, moving as silently as she.
They reached the archway and Gwen held up a hand; Isobelle stopped as Gwen inched forward and peered around the edge.
The great hall was lined with half a dozen long fireplaces. Only one of them was lit, roaring and bright, though its warmth ebbed away into the shadowy vastness of the hall. The single point of light cast shadows fromthe pillars, great dark bands against the floor that reached towards Gwen like the fingers of a giant hand.
Before the hearth was a large, worn armchair. Its tall back concealed the form that sat inside it, all except for the silhouette of an elbow, which moved every now and then, lifting a few inches and then falling to rest again on the chair’s arm.
Gwen’s breath caught. Was it possible they’d managed to arrive without Bingleton noticing? With the element of surprise, they had a chance. They had only one shot to get this right – miss with the spell, fail at turning his fear curse back on him, and they had no other means of breaking Bingleton’s hold on the town, on Tabitha, or on Gwen herself.
She gestured Isobelle to join her, and they exchanged a long look. Together they slipped into the great hall, approaching the chair with quiet, measured strides. Thirty paces separated them and their target. They passed in and out of the shadows cast by the pillars, moving quickly between each one.
Twenty paces now. Gwen adjusted her grip on her sword, never taking her eyes from the figure in the chair.
Fifteen. Isobelle eased the spell jar out of its holster.
Ten. They could hear a sound now, a muffled crunching, the soft whisper of parchment.
And then, beneath their feet, the large, polished flagstone shifted. Under their weight, the whole thingtipped – just a fraction of an inch, but enough to send up a screech of stone that echoed like a scream of agony in the silence.
The figure in the chair leapt up and whirled to face them. Bingleton’s eyes were wide with shock – he truly hadn’t known they were coming. A book tumbled off his lap and onto the floor, and a bowl of roasted barley puffs cascaded with a clatter across the stone. He was no longer dressed like the foppish, stylish lord – he wore a tunic of deep purple over expertly tailored black trousers of a material that seemed to devour the light, and over his shoulders he wore a mantle of mottled black and white ermine fur, shot through with threads of gold that caught the firelight. Even his eyes seemed more piercing, bright as stars in the gloom.
He glanced between them – Gwen, sword in hand, and Isobelle, her arm raised with the spell bottle aloft – andsmiled.
‘Ah,’ he said, smile widening with sinister delight. ‘Forgive me for not being ready … you’re earlier than I expected. Welcome, Sir Knight, Lady Isobelle, to your doom, for I—’
