Chapter Fifty-Four: For Whom the Bell Tolls

“When the bell tolls for a thirteenth time, you know it’s trouble.”

—Dalan Kelethar, Thirteenth General of the Legion

Evaine raced through the corridors with her hair flying behind her, the hem of her robe gathered in her hands. The messenger had arrived a few minutes ago, breathless, drenched in sweat. He’d stumbled through the entrance hall, demanding to see the King.

It was an hour past midnight. Messengers did not demand to see the King an hour past midnight.

She bolted down the stairs two at a time, her ankles jarring in her sockets. She’d been sleeping for a good few hours before the call had come, and her eyes were still sticky with crust. Kedryn ran behind her, and in front was another trio of healers. People poked their heads out of their chambers, bewildered looks on their faces. What was happening? Why was the tower in such a state of unrest?

The bell tolled again from the city square, and they heard it all the way in the Keep. It rang ten times, eleven, twelve, more. It didn’t stop.

“What’s going on?” one of the Songweavers asked, someone of reasonable rank by the authority in their voice. Evaine didn’t check. That wasn’t important right now.

“Get everyone up and ready,” Kedryn cried, flying past. “Everyone. By order of the Grand Songstress.”

The Songweaver blinked, but by the time he could open his mouth again they’d descended another level.

The healers burst into the courtyard, Evaine among them. The lights were on in the barracks, the runner boys flitting around, trying to get everything ready. The cavaliers were by their horses, some of them already mounted. Soldiers ran back and forth in half-plate, dashing into the armoury, the forge, readying their weapons. All the while, the bell tolled.

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They sprinted across the grass, the cool dew wetting their feet. Lampposts lit the path, guiding them. There was no moon—only an impenetrable layer of black clouds, stretching as far as the eye could see. There was a commotion by the gates to the Keep, on the bridge that spanned the moat.

Evaine staggered to a halt, bending over to catch her breath. She drank the air raggedly and looked around, trying to take in what had happened. King Aedon was there, speaking in hushed tones to a sentry while the Queen stood nearby. The Kingsblades were gathered by the watchtower, making quick exchanges with the guards. On the wall above them, Gilfred stared into the distance with his fists clenched.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” one of the guards said, drawing Evaine’s attention. She turned her eyes to the floor and gasped.

It was Bran, with a huge bloody gash in his side and two arrows sticking out from his arm. The healers gathered around him, preparing their medical kits. Gerrard pushed her out of the way and began to sing, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“Bran!” Evaine cried. “Bran! Gods, what happened?”

Kedryn held her back. “Let the healers work on him, girl!”

Evaine struggled to break free, but the big woman was too strong. All the while the bell continued to toll, and the soldiers continued to amass inside the castle walls.

After what seemed like eternity, Gerrard and the healers finally moved away. Bran sat up, his face gaunt and harrowed. Blood soaked his shirt and his bandages, but he was alive. The healers asked him some questions. Another of the Songweavers took over, while the rest scattered back to the Keep.

“What’s happening?” Evaine asked. “What happened to you?” Kedryn had pulled her unit awake without so much as an explanation to what the messenger had said, only that there was someone severely injured in need of their help. The High King was calling out orders now, his face a mask of grim determination. A stable hand brought him his horse, and another tottered across the yard with his sword.

“I… I came here as quickly as I could,” Bran managed. Blood, dirt and sweat caked his forehead. Evaine took a handkerchief from her pocket and gently wiped it clean. “They’re gone, Evaine. They’re all gone.”

“Who? Who’s gone?” she asked. They were alone now, under the shadow of the gate. Everyone was away doing something else.

“The war camp. The relicts killed them all.” Bran rose to his feet, pulling away from her. He looked towards the city, past its walls to the Blight beyond. “They’re attacking.”

Evaine followed his gaze and felt despair settle into her stomach. A seething mass of black shadows spilled through the trees, a river of Worgals and Celadons flowing up the hill. They moved at a brisk trot, not dawdling but in no hurry either. After all, where could their enemy possibly run?

The bell tolled, and Evaine suddenly felt very, very small.