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convinced himself it was just a trick of light from the surrounding luminstones.
    “Can I count on your help?” Rowen asked.
    Briel rested his good hand on the hilt of his sword. “What do you need?”
    “I need you to let me leave. I need you to let me take Knightswrath and go after Chorlga.” He hesitated. “And if I have to fight the Dhargots along the way, I need you to honor the Oath of Kin and give me an army.”
    Briel almost laughed, despite the stitches in his cheek. “You want to borrow my army, Locke? There it is.” He pointed to the sea of injured bodies beyond them. “Even if I didn’t have to protect Sylvos—which I do—I’d be lucky if I could muster two hundred swords right now. Last I heard, the Dhargots have tens of thousands. If it’s help you need, go and ask the Isle Knights.”
    Rowen smirked. “Half the Isle Knights probably want me dead. And the other half couldn’t care less what the Dhargots do to the Free Cities… or the Wytchforest, for that matter.”
    Briel caught his meaning. “If the Dhargots come here, we’ll fight them as best we can. But I don’t think they will. Neither do you.”
    “No,” Rowen admitted. “I think they’ll stick to the Free Cities for now. I think they’ll pillage two thirds of the continent before the Isle Knights get involved. And by then, it’ll be too late. And Chorlga… wherever he is, what ever he is… will sit back and laugh.” He paused. “I think I came here for nothing.”
    The Isle Knight stood, exhausted and blood smeared, then went to reclaim his armor. Briel watched him go, glad that Rowen had not pressed him for an answer. After all, he was probably right.
    I should let him leave, then. And he can take that damn sword with him.
    But Sylvos was not yet safe. Doomsayer was still out there. Briel imagined the howls of protest when the people heard he’d sent away their greatest ally. He wondered if those would match the cries of protest if he let Rowen stay: a Human, an Isle Knight at that, tarnished by magic.
    Briel thought back to Fâyu Jinn’s tomb. Just days ago, King Loslandril and the late Prince Quivalen had made a bargain with Chorlga and tried to kill Silwren in exchange for the Dragonkin sparing the city. Silwren had been stabbed. Quivalen, mad, had struck her with some kind of wicked magical blade. She’d fallen, yet something, maybe Fâyu Jinn’s ghost, had saved her.
    The silent, towering figure in ancient armor had appeared out of nowhere to heal her, then vanished. It had all happened so quickly. Even at the time, Briel had scarcely believed his own eyes. Then the madness had increased tenfold.
    Briel shuddered, thinking again of Rowen stumbling down the Path of Crowns after Silwren threw herself onto Knightswrath, after they watched her melt into the blade and set it on fire. Ragged, burning, he’d reminded Briel of the stories about the Nightmare. Was that really the man he was supposed to trust?
    Apparently, Fâyu Jinn—or his ghost, at least—does.
    Briel had gone back later and opened Fâyu Jinn’s sarcophagus, eager but fearful to see what was inside. He’d found the armor that had appeared to have temporarily reanimated itself: the armor of an ancient Knight of the Lotus. But it was smaller, just the size of an average man. With trembling hands, Briel had removed the Shao facemask, expecting to find a thousand-year-old skeleton staring back at him—or perhaps the open, laughing eyes of Fâyu Jinn himself. But the armor was empty.
    Does that mean that on top of everything else, we have the ghost of some ancient Human hero wandering around our city?

CHAPTER THREE
    The Last HousEcarl

    J alist did not know whether to rejoice or curse the fact that the storms had finally stopped. He was tired of running through rain and mud, cold and wretched, as he fled his pursuers. However, his pursuers did not sleep or rest, and he was alive only because the mud slowed them down considerably. But now, the dark clouds