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not so loud.
    Is that because we made a difference or just because the worst ones died?
    Rowen was tending a young woman with a savage cut above her breast, probably from an Olgish axe. Unlike the other wounded in the crowded temple, this woman gritted her teeth and said nothing. Her plain attire and the feathers in her hair told Briel that she was a Wyldkin. As he drew nearer, he heard Rowen whispering to her in Sylvan.
    I forgot he could do that. Some spell wrought by one of his Dragonkin friends had taught him their language.
    Rowen had rolled up his sleeves, but blood covered him up to the elbow. Briel wondered how many battles the young Human had seen. Rowen had been wounded, but all of those wounds seemed to have vanished when Knightswrath came to life. Briel shuddered, remembering violet fire pouring from the blade, engulfing Rowen’s body. Rowen had screamed then—though in pain or panic, Briel did not know. Since then, though, Rowen had worn the sword without any ill effect. He had even drawn it, holding it in the sun after Fadarah fell, without any flames appearing along the blade.
    Maybe the damn sword’s gone to sleep again. Silwren had poured her power, her very life, into Knightswrath. He wondered again if it could heal, too.
    Briel studied Rowen’s expression—if the sword could heal, Rowen had no idea how to use it. In fact, Rowen had seemed in a trance when he’d fought Fadarah. For all they knew, Rowen was nothing more than the pawn of a living piece of steel. And that made him as dangerous as that Dragonkin, Chorlga. They should kill him—or at least take the sword.
    But what if Chorlga comes back? What if Fadarah’s not really dead?
    Briel considered the second matter first. He’d seen Rowen use a burning sword to cut a swath in Fadarah’s body almost the length of a man’s arm. Fadarah’s disciples had carried him off, probably to try and heal him, but the Shel’ai were not Dragonkin. Their magic was impressive but not limitless. If Fadarah had not died right away, he would soon enough.
    “Let’s hope so.” Rowen straightened, covered the Wyldkin woman with a blanket, said goodbye in Sylvan, and started to walk away.
    Briel followed. The two guards assigned to watch over Rowen fell in behind them. Briel ordered them to wait. Racing after Rowen, he caught him by the arm and jerked him to a halt.
    “You can read minds! That sword—”
    Rowen twisted free with a look so icy that Briel drew back a step and reached for his sword, glad he’d learned to fight with his left as well as his right hand.
    “I… don’t know,” Rowen said at last. “I can’t control it. It just happens.” He rubbed his eyes—still green eyes, Briel noted.
    Green, not purple. He’s still Human. For now.
    Rowen shook his head, and Briel wondered if he’d just heard his thoughts again. “The sword did something to me when… when it burned me. It didn’t make me into a Shel’ai. Not quite. That much is obvious. But Knightswrath’s part of me now.” He glanced down at the sword, and Briel could not tell whether his expression was longing or revulsion. “I can feel Silwren in there, sometimes. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t. But I have to be careful—almost the way Silwren had to be careful.” He smiled weakly. “She was always afraid to use the power because she said it would overwhelm her. I think I understand now.”
    Briel stared at him. Gods, he’s gone as mad as the king, he thought before he could stop himself. “What are you going to do?”
    Rowen straightened. “I have to finish this. I don’t think Fadarah poses any harm now, but I have to hunt down the others—especially Shade. And I have to find that Dragonkin, the one called Chorlga. I have to kill him, if I can. And I have to do it all before… whatever this is… burns me from the inside out.” He looked up sharply.
    Briel gasped. For a moment, he thought the pupils of Rowen’s eyes had gone white, though he