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daring to
speak her heart. “I don’t want to wait.”
    His eyes widened. “But I thought?”
    “We’re north of the Dragon Spines.”
    He held her stare.
    Kath struggled to explain.
“Everything’s changed. I’ve lost my home, forced to escape Castlegard, forced
to flee from my own father. I’ve slain knights of the Octagon, traitors to be
sure, but I never thought to slay a knight. Sir Tyrone is dead and my brother
murdered. And now we follow the path of death, chasing the Mordant into the
north.” She struggled to find the right words. “We’ve crossed the Dragon Spines,
passing into nightmares. Whatever happens, whatever lies ahead…I can’t lose you
too.”
    His fingers caressed her face, his
voice full of reassurance. “You’ll never lose me.”
    “It’s more than that. In Cragnoth
Keep I faced death without ever having tasted love.” She met his mismatched
stare, willing him to believe. “I need you…all of you.”
    His breath caught. “As my wife?”
    She felt his heartbeat racing beneath
his leathers, and knew her own raced at the same breakneck pace. Kath dared to
follow her heart. “Yes.”
    He lifted her into his arms,
kissing her with the ardent promise of more.
    Horses clattered into the glade,
the sound of voices emerging from the trees.
    They pulled apart, a quick distance
that was suddenly painful.
    Duncan sent her a fervent whisper, “ Tonight, beneath the trees, while the others
sleep.”
    Nodding, Kath felt her face flame
red, her loins liquid with need. She turned away, busying herself with her
horse’s tack, hoping the others did not notice. Her hands shook as she worked
the buckles. A part of her could not believe her own audacity…but another part,
her heart, soared at the thought of finally knowing Duncan. She clung to his words, repeating
them like a prayer. Tonight…beneath the
trees…while the others sleep. Kath stared at the sky, willing the moon to
rise.

3
    The Mordant

 
    The Darkflamme flew overhead,
snaking against a steel-gray sky, twelve feet of black silk ending in two silken
tails of bright red flecked with gold. The forked banner snapped like a
serpent’s tongue, creating the illusion of darkness on fire, a threat of terror
to the Mordant’s foes, a promise of victory to his legions. Unfurled above the
gathering host, the battle banner announced his return, the na-Mordant, the
ruler of the Dark Citadel, the claimant to the Ebony Throne.
    Like the useless skin of a molting
snake, the Mordant shed the maroon cloak and silver surcoat of the enemy. Clad
in his true colors, black adorned with gold, he chose the trappings of a
soldier over the robes of a priest, sending a message to his followers. Black
gauntlets, a black cuirass emblazoned with a gold pentacle, black leather pants
tucked into knee-high boots, and a sweeping cape of the finest black wool, but
he kept his head bare, awaiting a crown.
    Riding at the head of the gathering
host, he held the dusky stallion to slow trot, turning the journey north into a
stately progress, a monarch surveying his domain. Word of his return raced
ahead, spread by mounted couriers, carrier pigeons, and rampant rumors. With
every passing league, the Mordant’s entourage grew. Officers, soldiers, and
priests, dispatched from every unit and outpost of his army, they flocked to
his standard. Some came to bear witness; others came to enjoy the spectacle,
but most came to curry favor, to gain a place in the new court of a
dictator-king.
    He welcomed them all with an open
smile, keeping the weight of his years hidden, his glorious darkness buried
deep beneath the facade of a young monk’s face. His youthful countenance served
him well. Cloaked in the illusion of inexperience, his appearance emboldened
his entourage, inviting advice, and boasts, and whispered secrets. Only the
graybeards remembered, hanging back, wary with their words, a glint of fear in
their eyes. The Mordant listened and watched, hiding his amusement,