Chapter Eleven

Now the deep snow wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fun. It held him back when he needed to run like the wind. Soon his breath was sawing in his lungs. He wasn’t that far away from the hold, only a quarter of a mile, perhaps less, and yet the distance never seemed to close. The bell rang again, then abruptly stopped.

Ignoring the pain in his lungs, Caelan drove his aching legs onward until he reached the edge of the forest. There he stopped, concealed by pine branches. He gulped in deep lungfuls of air. It felt like razors in his lungs.

The pale walls of the hold reflected the sunlight. To the north, the mountains rose mightily, filling the world. And overhead circled black creatures from a nightmare, too many to count, their wingspans as huge as despair. Leathery wings beat a hum that filled the air. And when the wind shifted, Caelan caught a peculiar scorched scent that made his nostrils wrinkle.

The dragons’ long serpentine necks ended in narrow, crested heads and fanged snouts. Their bodies were long and thin as well, with clawed limbs tucked up light against their scaled undercarriages as they flew.

Directed by riders clinging to leather harnesses, the dragons bugled, whipping their long necks around as they sailed low over the hold. Flames shot from their gaping mouths, searing the rooftops within the hold. Smoke was already roiling skyward in a dark column.

The riders carried weapons that looked like spears, only the tips were as long as a man’s arm with jagged edges, and the hafts were short—weapons for stabbing, not throwing.

Dragons dropped into the hold, only to lift again in a constant shifting of motion. The stabbing spears dripped red, and Caelan could hear screams.

Still breathing hard, he gripped his own dagger in his fist and felt fear like a wall around him.

The gates burst open, and Caelan could glimpse smoke and flames inside the courtyard.

A pair of wild-eyed ponies came plunging out, dodging and snorting. Both were badly burned, and the mane of one was smoking. One pony broke for the forest, but the other passed too close to a dragon that was landing.

Unfurling its wings, it whipped its head and struck the pony in the neck.

Screaming, the pony dropped to its knees, still fighting despite the crimson blood that spurted across the snow. With a fierce shake, the dragon ripped open the pony’s throat and gulped down a chunk of meat.

The lifeless pony fell sprawling in the snow, and with roars of greed, other dragons broke off the attack to fall on the carcass. They ripped it apart and gulped hide and steaming flesh, ignoring the riders who beat at them and shouted commands.

Fresh screams came from inside the hold, whether from animals or people Caelan could not tell. Agonized, not sure what to do, he drove himself to think of something that would help. The people inside were helpless since Beva had destroyed all the weapons in the arms room. As for the warding keys, they’d been spell-forged to keep out malevolent spirits, not to prevent physical attack.

Caelan turned and went running through the trees, keeping as much to cover as he could, until he’d circled around to the rear wall of the hold. The standing rule was that all trees and undergrowth were to be kept cleared well away from the walls, but saplings sprouted and grew tall every summer. As Old Farns had aged, more and more chores slipped by without getting done. Raul had plenty of his own work to do and could not get to everything either.

As a result, Caelan found a sapling stout enough to shinny up. At its top, it swayed alarmingly beneath his weight, but he kicked out and managed to get his elbow hooked over the top of the wall. Grunting, he hung there a moment, then swung his legs up. From the sky, he was an obvious target. He knew he had only seconds to move before he was seen by one of the raiders circling overhead.

As though from nowhere, a dragon came hurtling over him, wings tucked, talons raking. It bellowed, giving Caelan a split-second of warning. He dived headlong, flinging himself onto the low roof of the larder, and vicious claws clutched only air where he’d been crouching just seconds before.

Roaring in fury, the dragon could not shift the angle of its descent in time. It passed over, and Caelan scrambled back, yanking his dagger from his belt as he did so.

Another dragon arched its neck and blasted fire from its nostrils, raking the thatched roof of the stables, which were already on fire. The door to the stables stood open, and smoke boiled from inside. Several ponies were rushing about the courtyard in raw panic, an obvious danger to the people trying to dodge them as well as the attackers. Caelan could hear other ponies still trapped inside the burning building, their screams horrible.

More fire raked down from the sky, crossing the roof of the infirmary. It was made of slate, however, and the fire did no damage beyond scoring twin black marks across the surface.

The house also had a slate roof, but the kitchen at the back was thatched. It was also in flames. The stench of smoke and the dragons filled the air.

People burst from the buildings, running, shouting. Caelan saw Anya trying to help old Surva, who could barely hobble.

“No!” he shouted at them, waving his arms. “Stay inside!”

But they could not hear him in the general melee. Beva came running through the smoke, easy to see in his white robes. He was gesturing at the women, shouting something they did not heed.

A dragon passed over Caelan, not attacking him, intent instead on other prey.

It was close enough for him to see the sun glint off the scaly hide, close enough for him to see old battle scars, to see a sparse hank of hair hanging from its lower jaw like a beard. The man astride the dragon was swarthy and small, hardly bigger than Lea. At first Caelan thought he might be a boy, but the rider turned his head to reveal a gray-streaked beard. His teeth flashed at Caelan in laughter. He lifted his jagged spear in mock salute.

Infuriated, Caelan dragged in a breath and went skidding off the roof of the larder. Landing on the ground and staggering at the jolt to his ankles, Caelan looked around swiftly and plucked down the first warding key he came to.

It glowed in his hand, growing hot the moment his flesh touched it. Caelan focused on it in an effort to reach its full power. He’d been able to utilize the mysterious force within the metal once before in driving off the wind spirits. Perhaps it would strengthen him now.

Gritting his teeth, he tried even harder until sweat ran down his face and his hand was afire with pain.

He felt something within him leap, as though he drew in a lungful of fire. Suddenly he was connected with the metal, which became a living, fluid thing in his hand. The power stirred, flowing into him until he was filled with it. His fear dropped away, and he knew only the hum of the Choven force that twisted and stirred within him. Across the courtyard, he saw a flash from the warding key hanging on the side door of the house. Another flash came from the gates, then another and another as all the keys came alive, glowing brightly enough to be seen even through the black smoke.

And Caelan was one with them, a part of the interwoven net of power and protection crisscrossing the hold. He rode it, letting sevaisin join him. Exhilaration swelled into his throat, and he wanted to laugh at the Thyzarenes and their monsters.

Brandishing both the key and his dagger, Caelan ran for the steps leading to the top of the walls. There, he paused and turned around, his clothes whipping in the air stirred up by the dragons’ wings.

One of the raiders flew at him, but Caelan raised the warding key without fear. “We are protected here!” he shouted, his voice deep with the power thrumming through him. “Leave us! Gather your beasts and depart.”

The Thyzarene stared at him in astonishment.

Caelan’s confidence grew. He had defeated a wind spirit. And now he defied a raider. If this was to be his destiny, then he embraced it willingly. He laughed again.

“Fear this!” he cried, bathed in the glow from the warding key. “Go, and come no more to E’nonhold.”

The raider was still staring. Then he threw back his head and bellowed with laughter.

It was scorn, mockery, and contempt all rolled together.

Surprised in turn, Caelan blinked, but he set his jaw and gripped the key harder as its fire raced through his veins. “You cannot harm us here while we have the protection of the Choven,” he said fiercely. “Go!”

The Thyzarene was still laughing, holding his sides and lolling about until it seemed he might fall off his hovering mount.

“Barbarian!” Caelan shouted in fresh anger. “Respect what you do not understand. We are loyal subjects of the emperor, not enemies for you to plunder.”

He tried to hurl the key’s power at this laughing fool, but instead the burning force raged more strongly in himself. No matter what he did, he could not direct it against the other man.

Below in the courtyard, a woman screamed. Caelan whipped around in time to see Anya running for her life, her skirts gathered high and her plump legs churning in thick woolen stockings. Overhead a dragon chased her with little snorts of fire, driving her back and forth for the amusement of its rider. Tongues of flame caught the back of her gown. The wool cloth ignited and suddenly she was on fire, screaming and spinning around in panic. The flames raced up her back, then her hair was on fire.

“No!” Caelan screamed. He started for the steps, but he was too far away to save her.

Beva reached her and hurled her bodily to the ground, making her roll. He grabbed someone’s cloak and threw it over her, trying to smother the flames.

Caelan felt sick. Anya had been like a second mother to him. She had cared for him all his life. He stared at her, rolled up and unmoving in the cloak, and prayed to the gods for her life.

The raider hovering before him laughed afresh. “We take what we please. You are nothing to us,” he said in a taunting voice, his Lingua strangely accented. “How do you make us go from here, little spell master?”

Furious, Caelan lunged at him. “I’ll drive you barbarians away with this—”

The dragon whipped its black head around to face Caelan’s attack. The dragon’s eyes were crimson, glowing fiercely against the black scales. It lifted its crest at him, and a narrow, forked tongue flickered from its mouth. Caelan nearly gagged on the hot, sulfurous stench of its breath. Then it roared, blasting him with sound, and he saw the rows of vicious teeth behind the fangs.

Holding the warding key as a shield, Caelan struck with his dagger, slashing the tip of the dragon’s snout. Dark, viscous blood welled up. The dragon whipped back its head, squalling in pain. The rider also shouted, but the dragon struck back furiously, hitting Caelan’s hand and knocking the warding key flying.

The triangle of metal sailed through the air, its glow dimming as it went, and it landed far below on the cobblestones. When it hit the ground, it shattered into pieces.

The connection to its power snapped in Caelan like an explosion in his chest. Doubling over, he cried out. Around the hold, in swift succession, the other keys also shattered into pieces.

The wounded dragon roared, making the walls shake, and was barely restrained by its rider.

“Keep your spells for demons,” the Thyzarene shouted furiously, still struggling with his mount. “Stupid Traulander! I’ll teach you a lesson for this.”

“And I’ll open your dragon’s belly!” Caelan shot back. The blood on his dagger stank of sulfur and something worse.

“Ho, Kuvar!” the raider yelled. “Drive him down.”

The dragon beat with its wings, lifting itself above Caelan. Then it came.

With talons raking the air above him, Caelan ducked back and stumbled. Pain ripped along his jaw, making him howl. He felt blood run down his neck, and that drove him to slash back. This time he managed to nick the dragon in the leg. Roaring, it drove him to a corner of the wall, beating its huge wings until Caelan was whipped and buffeted by wind.

When the dragon wheeled, one wing tip struck Caelan and nearly swept him over the edge. Only a quick grab saved him from falling.

Heavy net dropped on him. Twisting around in a panic to fight it off, Caelan found himself hopelessly enmeshed.

The Thyzarene gave the net an expert yank, and Caelan was pulled off his feet. He landed hard with a grunt, and started hacking frantically at the net with his dagger.

The cords were made of some tough material that resisted his knife. He kept cutting, knowing he was done for, but too frightened to give up. Another cord reluctantly parted. Tugging at it, he sawed away.

The dragon extended its wings and lifted, beating powerfully at the air. Caelan felt a sharp yank; then he was flipped upside down.

His dagger slipped through the hole he’d managed to cut and was lost.

Caelan found himself suspended in midair, dangling and spinning in the net, which was fastened to the dragon’s harness.

Sobbing for breath, his fingers gripping the net as the ground fell farther and farther beneath him, Caelan stared down at the burning hold until the dizzying spin of his view made him feel sick. He closed his eyes until an unexpected bump made him open them again.

He found himself on the ground, with the dragon settling itself beside him. In the air, the beast might have extraordinary grace and agility. On the ground, it looked ridiculous and awkward as it folded its enormous wings and balanced on short, stumpy legs. Its barbed tail lashed angrily back and forth, and as Caelan stared at the creature, it turned its head to glare at him with those vicious red eyes. Its crest flared upright, and it hissed with a frightening displaying of fangs.

Caelan didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. His heart was bursting in his chest with fear, but he refused to let himself look away from that evil stare. Dragon fodder or not, he wasn’t going to let this overgrown lizard see that he was afraid.

Dismounting, the Thyzarene stepped between the dragon and Caelan and inspected the dragon’s bloody snout. He spoke to the creature in a low, soothing voice, taking out some salve that stank of rancid fats and something else impossible to identify. Smearing it on the wound, he cooed and crooned to the dragon until it swayed from side to side. Its crest folded flat against its skull, and the red eyes slitted half-closed with apparent contentment.

Disgusted, Caelan looked away.

It seemed the attack was over. More and more raiders landed outside the walls of the burning hold. The dragons formed a stinking, jostling, snapping horde that showed far too much interest in the scant remains of the pony carcass. Those that had eaten looked sluggish and sleepy. The rest sniffed and craned necks and snorted, but their riders chained them away from the food.

Two more Thyzarenes came along and dragged Caelan bodily across the trampled snow to where the rest of the prisoners huddled. Still wrapped in the net, Caelan found himself sending hopeless looks at his father. Beva sat impassive and calm in the midst of the others. Raul had an ugly burn across his shoulder. He kept trying to chew through the net swathing him, but his teeth were even less successful than Caelan’s knife had been.

The gates of the hold stood wide open, showing flames and smoke still tearing down what had been E’nonhold.

His home. Caelan found his eyes stinging, and he struggled not to let his emotions get away from him. For once he wished he could take refuge in severance like his father. Then it wouldn’t hurt like this.

Picking up a handful of snow, he pressed the wet stuff against his jaw. The cold numbed the pain, giving him relief, but he saw blood drip through his fingers and run down his wrist.

The Thyzarenes chattered and laughed among themselves as they came and went purposefully. They dragged out bulging tarps, which were flung on the ground. Looted contents spilled out for inspection.

They left nothing in the hold unexamined. Clothing, scrolls, herb jars were all rifled. The cooking pots were brought out. The barrels of food stores. Spoons, cloak pins, shaving razors, writing ink, chairs, even the beds were dragged about and scattered. The raiders pawed through the items, selecting and rejecting with grunts and arguments.

Helpless and enraged, Caelan watched them. This was a violation such as he had never known. Home had always been a place of security, of absolute and utter safety. He kept looking at the destroyed ruins, and he couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Imperial auxiliaries were not supposed to kill and pillage imperial citizens. How could the army commanders have turned these barbarians loose on the populace?

Caelan found himself confused, resentful, and angry. For the first time, his belief in imperial right was shaken. He prayed the gods would strike these savages down, but the heavens remained calm and uncaring above him. Were the Thyzarenes merely robbers, it would be bad enough, but they destroyed what they did not want with brutal callousness.

Beva’s earnings chest and strongbox were both found and dragged outside, the men sweating to carry them. Locks were shattered with hammer and chisel and the lids flung back. Parchment scrolls—the deeds to this land—were ripped and flung to the winds. It was the coinage that made the raiders cry out in delight and crowd around.

Their leader drove them back with fierce commands; then he alone crouched over the chests, sifting the glinting coins through his fingers.

Within the strongbox was a small casket of rosewood similar to the one in Caelan’s room. Its contents held a few baubles—an amber necklace, a ring, and a few hair jewels that winked in the fading sunlight.

Caelan kicked at the netting. “Those were my mother’s, you dogs! You can’t have them. They’re for—”

A kick in his ribs shut him up. He collapsed in the snow, hurting and trying not to cry. The other prisoners looked away in sympathy, except for Beva.

When Caelan finally sat up, wincing, he saw his father’s emotionless gaze on him.

“Father—”

“You, quiet!” It was the Thyzarene who had captured him. He cuffed Caelan’s head and glared at him. “No talk.”

Caelan glared back, but he made no further effort to talk to his father. Beva was a man of stone. He probably didn’t even care what was happening. After all, he had severance to console him.

The jewels vanished quickly, shared out and tucked into the belts of the few who were favored. The man who had captured Caelan was one of the recipients. He glanced at Caelan and grinned with a flash of white teeth in his beard.

Beva’s medicines were sniffed and poured out. Then the jars and bottles were smashed. Caelan could see his father’s lantern still hanging over the gate, unlit and forlorn. The sign of a healer was supposed to be respected by thieves. Now it hung over the looters as a symbol of Beva’s futile trust in decency and mercy.

Would it have made a difference if the holdspeople had had weapons with which to defend themselves? Probably not.

Caelan scowled to himself and pulled up his knees against his chest. He wanted to scream, and kick, and fight—anything except sit here and take what was happening.

Then they came and surrounded the prisoners. Raul drew in his breath with an audible hiss. Gunder was trembling, his eyes darting back and forth. Tisa had her face buried in her hands, probably crying. Anya, a burned thing swathed in Beva’s cloak, had already been dragged out. She lay unmoving beside the healer, and now and then his hand touched her with the lightest possible touch, drawing off the agony with an effort that quivered in his face.

One of the raiders shoved Beva aside and bent over Anya. He drew his knife and struck cleanly.

Caelan jumped, and someone else cried out. Caelan closed his eyes, feeding on hate.

Surva and Old Farns were dragged out and dumped on the ground. Both were obviously dead.

With prods and kicks, the Thyzarenes gestured for the remaining prisoners to stand up. The netting was pulled off Caelan. He glanced around, but there was no possibility of escape.

Beva tried to speak to the raiders, but one of them slapped him. With blood trickling from a corner of his mouth, Beva made no further attempt to plead for mercy.

“They’ll sell us,” Raul whispered from the corner of his mouth, his gaze nowhere, everywhere. Beneath the grime streaking him, his face was as white as chalk. “Sell us to the slave market.”

Caelan frowned at him. “But we’re freeborn—”

“Don’t matter to these dogs.”

“It’s illegal. The emperor has forbidden it.”

Raul didn’t appear to hear him. “They’ll sell us. We’re the youngest and the strongest. We’ll bring a good price.” He blinked, gazing at the others. “Some of us.”

Caelan tried to go on breathing normally as the raiders examined each of them and argued among themselves, but his lungs were choked by growing fear. At least Lea was safe, he reassured himself.

But for how long? How long would she wait? She had food and shelter for now. When her food ran out, would she be able to follow the stream and find E’raumhold? He didn’t think so. She was too little to be on her own in the dangers of the forest.

Besides, even if she made it to E’raumhold, what if it had been burned out too?

Caelan found himself praying, his lips moving soundlessly. He had promised her he would come back. But he couldn’t. Gault forgive me, he prayed, knowing he had failed her.

Tisa began sobbing, each sound louder and more out of control. The men prodded her breasts, lifted her hair, looked at her teeth. She cringed away from them, screaming. One of them shook her hard, but that only increased her hysteria.

With an oath, the knife came out.

“No!” Caelan shouted.

But it had already struck. Tisa fell to the ground and was kicked aside, her lifeless body rolling across the snow with a bloody trail.

Raul moved closer to Caelan. “The fool,” he whispered angrily, tears filling his eyes. “The stupid little fool.”

Gunder bawled at that moment, and two of the Thyzarenes grabbed his arms. He was dragged away, fighting and yelling, then knocked down where he lay spitting and flailing in the snow. One raider sat on him while another trussed his arms and legs, fitting a collar around his throat. Gunder snapped like a wild dog, and almost managed to bite one of the raiders.

With a snarl the Thyzarene struck him across the face. Sobbing in the snow, Gunder lay there, his brief force spent as quickly as it had come, until they yanked him upright and led him away.

“The master’s next,” Raul whispered.

Caelan’s throat constricted. He looked at his father, and for a moment he saw only a skeleton standing there, the bleached skull white in the sunshine, the robe flapping on exposed bones. A horrified shiver ran through Caelan, and the vision was gone.

He felt dizzy and cold. He didn’t want to believe his vision. Let it be false, he prayed desperately. Let it not happen.

“A healer will bring a good price,” Raul was saying.

Watching the Thyzarene walk toward Beva, Caelan barely heard Raul. “No,” he whispered.

As though he sensed something, Beva turned his head and met Caelan’s gaze. Father and son stared at each other, one expressionless, the other filled with what he could not utter.

In that moment the Thyzarene slashed Beva’s throat.

Blood spurted. His head tipped back.

Screaming, Caelan lunged forward and caught Beva as he crumpled to the snow. His father’s weight carried Caelan to the ground also. The Thyzarenes kicked Caelan back from the body, and he fought them, wild with grief and hatred, spewing obscenities, until his captor pinned him to the ground and slapped him repeatedly.

Head ringing, Caelan finally tumbled out of madness and lay still. Tears choked his throat, and his mind felt numbed with shock. Again and again, as though the scene would be forever frozen in his brain, he saw the slash of the blade, the flare of pain in his father’s face, the brief surprise in those gray eyes. In spite of his philosophy, Beva had not been prepared for the ultimate severance after all.

The Thyzarene hauled Caelan to his feet and dusted him off. “Strong and young,” he said proudly.

The leader of the band faced Caelan, looking him up and down. Caelan barely noticed. He was lost in the fire of his own emotions.

The leader asked a question in a language Caelan did not understand.

His captor translated it. “How old?”

Caelan said nothing. They struck him, but he didn’t care.

“How old?”

There was blood in his mouth. It tasted thick and sweet. His cut face throbbed brutally. “Sixteen,” he replied and felt sick. “Almost seventeen.”

“Ah.”

They discussed him in their own rapid-fire language.

His captor kept shaking his head and pointing to Caelan’s face. “Battle wound,” he announced. “Kuvar clawed him. The nick will heal fast.”

The round of argument continued. Finally his captor grinned and turned to Caelan. “Forty ducats we will ask for you in the marketplace. I am a rich man.”

Laughing, he clapped Caelan on the shoulder.

Another came forward and broke the thong of the medallion around Caelan’s neck. Then he pulled out the pouch from beneath what remained of Caelan’s tunic.

“No!” Caelan yelled in protest, but they ignored him.

Raging, he thought of Lea. She’d said the emeralds were to remind him of her always.

“In the name of the gods, don’t take that too,” he said in desperation. “It’s only my amulet. I—”

The raiders opened the pouch, joking among themselves, and poured out the emeralds.

The fight died in Caelan. Everything was gone. He stared bleakly at nothing.

An exclamation of surprise made him look. Instead of emeralds, two brownish, ordinary pebbles rested on the leader’s palm. The man frowned in disgust and tossed them down along with the pouch.

“Bah!”

As he walked away, trailed by the others, Caelan’s new owner picked up the pouch and the two pebbles. He put the rocks back inside and returned the pouch to Caelan.

“Your amulet, you keep,” he said kindly. “Stupid Traulander bring forty ducats. Me rich man soon.”

Dumbfounded, Caelan took the pouch with nerveless fingers. He didn’t know whether to be more astonished at the pebbles or at the man’s unexpected generosity.

But how . . . what had happened? Was the miracle in the cave just an illusion? Had he and Lea only fooled themselves?

Heartsick, he dug into the pouch and felt the beveled sides of the small, polished emerald.

Astonished, he pulled it out. In the sunlight, it was only a brown pebble. He stared, unable to explain it, then dropped it back into the pouch. Peering inside, he could dimly see the outline of the two emeralds. A glint of green winked out at him.

Caelan opened his mouth, then closed it. Briefly he smelled the soft fragrance of warm earth and blossoms; then it was gone, obliterated by the stench of smoke and death.

The earth spirits were still with him, still protecting the gift they had given him. He did not know why, but he wasn’t going to question it. Hope filtered back through his grief and despair. Only a tiny sliver of hope, but it was more than he’d had a moment before.

Then the Thyzarene put iron shackles on his wrists, and reality returned with all its grim implications. Caelan stared at the chains and could not imagine himself a slave.

His owner grinned at him with admiration. “Plenty tall. Plenty strong. Young. All good things. You best of all those captured. When I am rich, I shall pay dowry for good wife. Best quality wife. See? All good things happening.”

Caelan looked at the forest. His heart ached for his little sister. Perhaps he should tell them about her. Alone, she would die. If taken captive, she would be enslaved and sold, but she would be alive.

“Not too young,” the Thyzarene chattered on, gloating. He took out his smelly salve and began smearing it on Caelan’s cuts. The wound in Caelan’s face stopped throbbing, and suddenly the pain was bearable.

Caelan sucked in a deep breath and refused to feel grateful.

“Too young, go too cheap,” the Thyzarene said. “No profit there. Always trouble with little ones. Easier when they die. You just right.”

Caelan’s throat closed off. He said nothing about Lea.

The Thyzarene yanked on Caelan’s chains. “You come. Come! We have far to go.”

Feeling the unaccustomed clanking weight of the shackles and all their shame, Caelan did as he was told. Following Raul and Gunder, who were also chained, Caelan walked past the dead, and looked down at their beloved faces for the last time. Anya and Tisa, Surva, Old Farns ... his father.

He jerked to a stop. “My fault,” he whispered, staring at his father’s sightless eyes. “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted—”

The Thyzarene pulled him onward. “Come. You come now!”

Bound and helpless, Caelan was taken to where the dragons milled and bugled, sniffing the air and snapping restlessly. His owner put him astride Kuvar and chained him to the beast’s harness.

And when it lurched, lifting into the air with a mighty beating of its leathery wings, Caelan looked down at the forest where he had abandoned his sister. He should have ignored the desire to play hero and stayed with her. He knew that now. As long as he lived, he would live with the chains of that guilt on his soul.

Once again he could see her tear-stained face, could hear her desperate plea ringing in his ears. “Caelan!”

He shut his eyes and wept.