A momentous silence swept the room, and Lord Bin Dar stumbled back, aghast. Exposed.
“He’s a Spinner,” someone cried.
“Praise the Creator,” a woman added. “We are wet instead of dead.”
One by one, the Gifted began to reveal themselves. Mistress Lorena spun spoons into swords and the bristles from her broom into hundreds of arrows. A child commanded the broken glass to be whole, and it rose in a million jagged pieces fitting itself together until the windows were covered once more. An old man became an elephant dragging the heavy thrones in front of the garden doors to reinforce them from outside attack, and a heavy-set woman became a dainty bird, flitting in and out of the castle, updating the huddled townspeople on the battle beyond the keep.
The wounded were dragged from the courtyard into the castle’s entrance hall, and women scurried between the broken bodies of the guard stemming blood and separating the living from the dead. Lord Quondoon was among the caregivers, and as I watched he began pressing his hands to wounded limbs and torsos, humming as he moved in and out of the suffering soldiers.
I positioned myself at the entrance to the keep with a thin view of the bailey beyond and did my best to cast words without standing out in the open. There was no safety in the courtyard. The castle walls were high and strong, but the Volgar flew over them, dropping and devouring the outnumbered guard, talons dripping and wings flapping, and for every spell I wrung from my weary mind, another swell would come.
The words seemed to settle on some of the Volgar beasts and glance off others, as if the cacophony of swords and shrieks, of wailing and warrior death, created walls my words had to penetrate. We’d fought the Volgar in open fields, man against beast, but the castle keep and the towering walls put us at a disadvantage. The skies above were filled with smoke, and we couldn’t see what was coming until a wave descended upon us.
“Kjell is at the gates of the city with two-hundred men.” The cry rose, tinging the air with relief as if salvation had arrived, but judging by the number of wounded and dead in the hall, I could not remain where I was, throwing words through the cracks in the doors and the fissures in the walls. I had to get out in the open.
I ducked out the entrance hall and ran through the courtyard toward the upper bailey, hugging the walls until I reached the stairs that led to the siege tower above the town gate. The siege tower was the highest point on the castle’s south wall, and once there, I would have a clear view of the battle and the skies.
Tiras was everywhere at once, a warrior turned lethal weapon. Ferocious and fleet-footed, his wings gave him lift as he scaled walls and flew from one battle to the next, thrusting and swinging, slaying one birdman after another, until his bare chest was coated in Volgar blood.
“Lark!” I heard my name slice through the air like a whip. I turned, still wielding words, and saw my father reach the top of the turret stairs that led to the siege tower, breathless and staggering, dragging a sword that I was certain he didn’t know how to use.
He had followed me, and Lady Firi had followed him.
He said my name again, but my gaze was riveted on the woman moving toward me, her eyes flat and her jaw tight. She didn’t greet me, didn’t speak, and there was no question as to her intentions. One moment she was a woman in a blood-spattered dress, the next she was a black panther on the parapets, sleek and muscular, stalking me on silent paws.
My father cried out in shock, and the sword he carried clattered to the ground.
“Meshara. Oh, Meshara . . . help us,” he gasped.
I could command beasts, but I could not compel the Gifted. In a battle of words versus might, Lady Firi would be the victor. I commanded the parapet to tumble, but she easily avoided falling, leaping from section to section, trusting that I wouldn’t demolish the entire wall. Then there was nowhere to turn, my back against the turret, the stairs beyond reach. She swiped at me, her claws raking my side and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. From the corner of my eye, I saw my father clutch his abdomen and fall to his knees.
An arrow sliced the air, a deadly whisper, and sank into the cat’s side. A young archer stood on the parapets, his eyes enormous, his bow still drawn. The panther yowled, and the air shimmered, the black cat blurring and blending into something new.
The arrow clattered to the stones, expunged, and I began to run, my hand pressed to my side, taking the only opportunity I might get. I took three steps before I was plucked off my feet and drawn up into the sky, rescued from the clutches of one beast by the hands of another.
Liege had entered the fray.
Nothing remained of the man. He was all beast—scales and feathers, talons and wings—breathing fire and sweeping his spiked tail behind him, impaling anyone who came within striking distance.
“Tiras!” The word boomed and echoed, a lion’s roar, released from the cavernous chest cavity of a monster. It undulated in the air, and for a moment the battle around us ceased, the birdmen rose, and all heads turned.
Tiras rose into the air, wings caressing the sky, a sword in each hand, and Zoltev’s scaled arm tightened around my ribs. He didn’t retreat or dart away, but allowed Tiras to take a parallel position, a stand-off above the earth, birds and men, kings and conquerors.
“My son, I have your queen,” Zoltev bellowed. “She bleeds, and I am not a Healer. Join me, and I will let you keep her.”
Tiras’s eyes shot to mine, and his regret was eclipsed only by his resolve. “Even you do not have that power, father,” he murmured.
“But I do! We can have anything we want. We are Gifted. We are kings. You are exactly like me,” Zoltev urged.