“Not precisely, dear,” Grandmother replied, “though you may wish it before long. In fact, you may survive, but it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much one of your gods is interested in the welfare of you and your people.”

The chamber felt very full with all the slaves in there at once, almost suffocating with its low ceiling. Cole and his second hung back by the entry to the passage. The silver sphere still floated by Terrik’s corpse and drifted a bit toward the slaves. It wanted more blood, but there were other entities that needed to be sated.

Scrape, scrape. Scratch. Scrape, scrape.

She could feel them massed beneath the seal. When she glanced at Lorilie, she saw that the woman had blanched beneath the dirt of her face. She must sense the dark denizens of the underworld, as well. How could she not? Dread permeated the chamber. Perhaps Grandmother had more faith in Westrion than Lorilie, whose god he was.

“Your empire will never rise,” Lorilie said.

Grandmother was impressed by her conviction. “Oh, it will rise. Sacoridia is dead.” She chuckled at her own joke, but it was a weary sound. It was too much for a woman her age to contend with, and soon she must step back for the younger generation to take over. She just had to see her people through the fall of Sacoridia, and then she could live out the rest of her days resting and teaching the art to any with the talent who would learn it.

But now, the time had come to lure the avatar. She stepped over Terrik’s body and scooped up the sphere into her sore hands. It pulsated more wildly, and she felt it sucking on her blisters, trying to reach the blood beneath.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she told it in a mild tone. “You’ve another purpose.”

She gazed down at the seal, at the sluggish symbols. She stooped and lowered the sphere and felt the attraction between it and the seal like a magnetic force. The scratching beneath the seal grew furious. She gently placed the sphere over the dying symbols. It clicked when it touched the steel of the iire, and she stepped away.

“Come,” she told her guards. “We do not want to be here when the spell erupts.”

“Grandmother, I don’t think you should be here at all,” Cole said as they hastened out of the chamber and up the steep rise in the torchlit passage. She heard crying from the slaves behind them. Some were pleading with her to release them.

“If I am not here,” she replied, “then I cannot finish what I’ve worked so long and hard to achieve.”

She did not speak again until they stepped into the open air. She shivered and was astonished to see snow cascading down. A layer of powder already covered the ground.

“It appears winter has come for another visit.”

In the distance came the sounds of battle, the shouts, the clash of blades. Somewhere through the wall of falling snow was the keep, empty of civilians, but guarded. The assault by the king’s forces was not unexpected, and though Immerez had requested reinforcements from Birch, none had come. Had Birch refused, or had their messenger been slain enroute to his encampment? She would find out in time, and if the former, she would express her displeasure with Birch in no uncertain terms.

“Go now,” Grandmother told her guards. “Go to Captain Immerez to help in our defense.”

“But—” Cole began.

“You will not wish to be nearby when the spell begins.”

“What about—”

“Go.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and they left her alone in the snow. She stood there in silence for a moment, then removed a length of yarn from her coat pocket. It was crusty with Terrik’s dry blood. It was time.

She tied the knot, a complicated chain, more by feel than sight in the dark. The lantern Cole left at the mouth of the passage offered scant light. She felt the power pulling at her as she worked, connecting her to the sphere, felt its pulsations through the yarn. When she tied off the last knot, she unsheathed her knife and cut the length of yarn in half. She checked the wards she had put in place behind a large rock near the entrance to the passage, and hid. Now she would see what came of her great working.

Lorilie Dorran had never liked the feeling of the passage as she and the other slaves cleared it out. The closer they had gotten to the chamber she and the others now stood in, the darker and more oppressive it felt. When Grandmother had placed the sphere on the round metal object she called a seal, the sensation grew even worse.

“I just wanna die, I just wanna die,” Binning said.

Others prayed.

Pitkin said, “The king will come for us. He was with us here. He wouldn’t just abandon us.”

Lorilie was less certain. Royals were more likely to preserve their own hides than risk themselves for someone else, but King Zachary, who they’d known as Dav, had surprised her. He’d helped his fellow slaves if one weakened or needed assistance. It was not for nothing that she and the others had shielded him that day when Second Empire started stoning him. They were not absolutely sure what had become of him after Nyssa’s workshop burned down. They were told he’d burned within, but most believed he had been rescued, and it was because of this rescue that Terrik lay dead at their feet. He’d allowed the king to go free. There was also something else happening—the civilians of Second Empire had left the encampment, along with their belongings and livestock, and the guards had been particularly alert of late. It meant, she believed, that Grandmother was anticipating an attack. Was the king coming back for them as Pitkin suggested?