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days. Am I clear?”
    “My lord—” Sucrow started.
    “Begone.”
    MARAK HAD BARELY LEFT THE PALACE BEFORE CASSAK CAME galloping back up the road for him, Marak’s mount in tow. He swung up, knife in hand. His face was flushed, eyes wide, pupils tiny.
    “There’s been a breach, General,” Cassak announced. “The whole building’s coming—”
    “Who is it?” Marak snapped, suddenly frustrated. Sucrow snickered from behind. A chill swept over him. Marak checked his pocket for the amulet as he raced back with Cassak.
    “Don’t know yet, sir. No insignias. We’re assuming Eram.”
    Eram. Cassak had no business making assumptions.
    Marak grumbled. “Who’s on the roof?”
    “Six archers. My men are gone; Reyan’s are divided. We don’t know how they breached the blockade.”
    Bloody Eram. He never should have trusted that half-breed Horde trickster and his bunch of ex–Forest Guard in the first place.
    He and Cassak reached the hall, where men were beating each other down with swords.
    “They’re ransacking everything,” a fighter said.
    “Take a hostage,” Marak growled. He swung off his horse and rushed into the hall. Ran an invader through and rolled him over. Cassak was right—no identifying insignia. But why would Eram go through the trouble to mask his men’s identity?
    Unless it wasn’t Eram after all . . .
    The general whipped around and let fly one of his knives into someone’s temple. He cut down a third.
    Someone was going to pay for this.

five
    S triking the cold, hard floor, Johnis woke. He heard Silvie yelp and tried to sit up.
    “ Let me go!” she demanded.
    Shaeda was quiet, too quiet. Everything was foggy, dreamlike. Another kind of darkness lingered here.
    The Throaters dragged Johnis to his knees and pushed him forward onto his palms. The bag was ripped from his head, yanking strands of hair with it.
    Johnis squinted in the dim candlelight. He’d needed the images that Shaeda’s gift of foresight could offer. Why had she allowed the Throaters to take him? But that was it, wasn’t it? To prove he needed her, not the other way around. He had to find a way to keep her power but get her claws out of him.
    “Bloody priest,” Silvie spat. She was on his left. Her face was tense, lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. A deep, fresh gash oozed blood just over her brow. A red trickle made its way down the side of her pallid cheek and off her jaw to her shoulder and the ground.
    Her knuckles were raw. Her limbs pulled as tightly against her restraints as she could manage. Even on all fours, her snakelike eyes had fixed on someone in front of her and refused to be distracted.
    The door locked behind them. Johnis raised his head to see the object of Silvie’s killing gaze: a skinny, black-hooded Scab with white skin flaking to the point of disfigurement, dripping in gaudy jewelry. His hawkish expression leered at them.
    Sucrow.
    This time he did not need Shaeda’s influence. Nor did he want it.
    Johnis rose to his knees and rolled his shoulders back. His muscles tightened. The invisible claws tore at his back, but he fought through the pain. Shaeda’s talons and Sucrow’s magic pulled him in opposite directions.
    A small metallic sound rang from behind and to the left of Johnis. An apprentice had a silver knife at Silvie’s throat. The only change in her expression was that she looked much angrier.
    Sucrow wanted to play with them. Pungent incense wafted from a bowl on the far side of the room, next to what looked like another shrine and hundreds of feathered serpents that represented Teeleh. Just off center was Sucrow’s altar, much like the one they recently encountered in the Black Forest. Narrow grooves were carved out of the rim to catch blood and guide it into a small silver tray below.
    Johnis tried not to shudder as Shaeda’s fear and hatred of the Shataiki overtook him. A purple-and-blue haze fell on him. He could feel every ounce of her disgust at the winged-serpent