It was no longer a question of begging their leave. Any obligation they might have had to the earl had been erased by what Grace had witnessed. Now it was just a question of getting out of the keep. Grace could only hope that she was wrong, that what she had seen had taken place in the future after all, and that they still had time to escape.

"They had imprisoned three crewmen from the Fate Runner down there," Grace said. She felt weak, horribly weak, and so empty. "Leweth must have found them on the beach, he must have led them to the keep. I'm not sure, but I think one of them was Captain Magard. And the other body, it was the old steward. They were using the corpses to feed them. Feydrim. They had feydrim in the dungeon. They..."

Beltan laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't think about it, Grace. We're getting out of here. Now."

Falken slung his lute case over his shoulder. "I just wonder why Magard and his crewmen didn't see us there on the beach, and why they went to the keep with Leweth without looking for other survivors. I suppose it's a mystery we'll never know the answer to."

But maybe she did know. Grace thought again of the light that had buoyed her in the water, and the face she had glimpsed: ancient, beautiful. Maybe something had hidden them, protecting them. If so, it was gone now.

"Come," Vani said, peering through the crack she had opened in the door. "The way is clear."

The keep was silent. Grace was acutely aware of every sound as they moved: the scrape of their shoes on the wooden floor, the whisper of her fur-lined cloak as she pulled it more tightly around her. Surely their going would be noticed. Vani led the way, and Beltan brought up the rear. They saw no one as they made their way past several doors to the head of the stairs.

As they started to descend, Grace heard the pounding of footsteps. Someone was running up the staircase. Beltan pushed past Grace and Falken, knife in hand. Vani crouched, ready to spring. Grace saw a shadow lurch across the wall, followed by a figure that came hurtling up the stairs. The runner tripped on the last step and fell sprawling to the floor.

It was Mirdrid, the serving maid. Leweth's sister. Beltan knelt and helped her up. Her gray dress was tangled and torn, and she was weeping, tears making streaks on her dirty face. Beneath the grime, a bruise was clearly forming on her cheek.

Concern dulled the edge of Grace's fear. "Mirdrid, what is it? What's happened to you?" She smoothed the young woman's snarled hair from her face.

"Oh, my lady!" Mirdrid sobbed, clutching at Grace. "I saw them, and they're horrible, and they're going to eat me. They're going to eat all of us!"

"What did you see, Mirdrid?" Grace made her voice sharp, knowing it was the only way to cut through the other's hysteria. "And who hit you?"

The young woman shook violently. "It was the earl. I saw him in the great hall, and he was in a terrible rage. He was talking about death, my lady, about how we all must die, and it was the most frightful thing. I've never seen him so. He struck me, and I fear he might have made ill with me, but I managed to get away. I ran, I wanted to go the village to see my mother, but..." Sobs racked her body.

Grace gripped her shoulders, hard. "What, Mirdrid? You have to tell us."

The young woman's brown eyes were wide. "Monsters, my lady. By the front door of the keep. I saw them in the shadows. They had teeth like knives. Two of them. Perhaps three. I don't know. I ran, but now they're going to eat me!"

"No one's going to eat you, I promise," Grace said, holding the young woman.

Beltan shot a look at Vani. "Is there another way out of the keep?"

"The kitchens!" Mirdrid said before the T'gol could speak. She pushed away from Grace and wiped the tears from her face. "That's where we have to go. It's the only other way out."

Beltan raised an eyebrow. Vani nodded.

Mirdrid started unsteadily down the corridor. "This way. There's a back staircase only the servants use."

They exchanged glances, then hurried after the serving maid. Mirdrid was right; at the far end of the corridor, hidden behind a tapestry, was an opening that led to a narrow staircase.

"Mirdrid!" Grace hissed, but the girl had already started down, vanishing into shadow.

"The girl is right," Vani said. "These steps lead down to the kitchens below the great hall. There is a small side door there that opens to the outside. Hopefully it will not be guarded as the main door."

They started down the stairs single file. Darkness closed around Grace like a fist. She thought she saw a shadow darting below her. Mirdrid?

They turned a corner, and a square of ruddy light appeared below them. A few more steps, and the four tumbled into the kitchens. Wooden posts supported soot-stained beams; a fire roared in the fireplace, and it was unbearably hot.

Grace pushed her damp hair from her face. "Mirdrid?"

Beltan moved toward the door of iron-banded wood on the far wall, but Vani was faster. She pushed against it.

The door didn't budge.

Now the blond knight had reached the T'gol. He threw his weight against the door along with hers. There was a groan, but the door remained shut.

Falken frowned at Beltan. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure. Something's blocking it."

Laughter sounded behind them; they turned around. Mirdrid stepped from the shadows behind a cupboard and sauntered toward them, flouncing her dirty dress.

"Mirdrid," Grace said. "Is there a way to open the door?"

The young woman smiled, displaying rotten teeth. "Oh, no, my lady. It's barred with iron from the other side. You'll never open it in time."

Grace shook her head, trying to comprehend these words. The young woman only laughed again. In three swift strides, Beltan covered the distance to Mirdrid. He grabbed her wrist and, before she could resist, turned her arm over and pushed up the sleeve of her dress.

On the underside of her forearm was a puckered brand. The rune of the Raven. The Eye of Mohg.

Mirdrid snatched her hand back. "They're coming for her now." She pointed at Grace. "The Master has sent for her. And the rest of you will be meat for the Master's pets."

Grace reached out toward Mirdrid with the Touch, but the heart in her chest was alive, a thing of flesh, not iron. So she was just a Raven cultist, not an ironheart. "Why, Mirdrid?" Grace said, voice shaking.

The young woman only continued to point at Grace, her face solemn now. Then she turned and ran from the kitchens.

"By the Blood of the Seven," Falken said through clenched teeth. "She's led us into a trap. We have to find a way to open that door."

It was too late. Grace heard the echo of grunts, the scraping of talons on stone. Misshapen forms slunk into the kitchens, five, six, seven of them. Their backs were humped, their gray fur matted, their yellow eyes filled with pain and hunger.

The feydrim arranged themselves in a half circle on the far side of the room, looking like nothing so much as spider monkeys crossbred with wolves: feral, intelligent, tortured. What were they waiting for? Beltan had only the small knife, and even Vani could not fight so many in such a small space. Then the half circle parted, and two figures stepped through, one slightly in front of the other, and Grace understood. The feydrim had been waiting for their mistress.

"You cannot escape," the old countess said.

She looked just as she had in Grace's vision: clad in a dusty gown of funereal black, her face a white death's mask, her lips and cheeks smeared with crimson. Just behind her stood the steward, Leweth, a leer on his homely face, blood still oozing from the wound in his chest. Beltan started to move forward, knife ready, but at a sharp look from the countess he stopped. Even Vani stood frozen. The feydrim crouched, ready to spring.

"What do you want from us?" Falken said.

"I want nothing from you, save the flesh from your bones to feed my minions." She ran white-stick fingers over the head of one of the feydrim; it whimpered as if she had struck it a blow. The countess nodded toward Grace. "It is only she that matters. The Master has made it clear He wishes her for His own. I have received the missives, carried by the Master's own ravens, instructing all of His servants to keep watch for a fair-haired woman with a necklace marked by runes. When I saw her from the shadows of the gallery, I could not believe our good fortune. For so long I have sought a way to ensure that my son rises high in the Master's favor. And here she comes to our keep, the very thing He desires."

"Berash, you mean," Falken spat. "The Pale King."

The thick paint on the countess's face cracked. "You are not worthy to speak His name! You will die tonight, just as all who dare to stand against Him shall soon perish. The forces of the Raven will march across the Dominions, and they will purge His foes from the face of the land like dark fire!" She turned toward Leweth. "Take her now. I want her out of the way before I release the feydrim upon the others. They are hungry, and the Master's desire is clear: She must not come to harm."

"Yes, Lady Ursaled." The steward moved forward, his dead gaze paralyzing Grace. "Come, wench. It will be easier for you if you do not resist. The Master wants you alive. I imagine he will care nothing if you are...damaged."

A bellow of rage erupted from Beltan. "Get away from her!"

He lunged forward, driving his knife deep into Leweth's gut. The steward stared dully at the hilt protruding from his stomach as black blood oozed around it. Then, in a mechanical motion, he plucked out the knife and turned it back on Beltan, sticking it into the knight's shoulder.

Beltan moaned and staggered back, his hand curled around the hilt of the knife, blood streaming between his fingers. A howl rose from the feydrim; the scent of blood excited them.

Falken pulled Grace toward the barred door. At the same moment, moving in a blur, Vani gripped Leweth's arm, bent it backwards, and twisted it around. There was a snap, and a ragged white stump pierced the skin of his forearm, jutting outward at a horrible angle.

No, Vani, Grace wanted to say. It's no use. They don't feel pain, not like we do.

There was no time. Leweth lashed out with his other arm, moving with an impossible speed that surpassed even Vani's own. His hand contacted her square in the chest, and she flew backward, striking the stone wall with brutal force. She slumped to her knees.

Leweth clutched the collar of Grace's cloak, pulling her away from Falken. "Now, my lady, you will-"

His words ended in a gush of dark fluid that poured out of his mouth. The steward stood rigid, eyes staring. Then his head toppled from his neck, striking the floor with a thud as his body came tumbling after.

Grace struggled to comprehend what had happened. Then she saw the figure step away from the shadowed mouth of the staircase down which they had come. It was Elwarrd. He gripped a sword in his hand, its edge slick with blood. On his face was a peculiar expression: solemn, thoughtful.

"You idiot!" the countess shrieked, her scarlet lips smearing in rage. "What are you doing?"

"Saving you, Mother." He moved toward her, sword raised before him. "Saving all of us."

The feydrim watched him with yellow eyes, but they didn't attack. Elwarrd bared his own teeth in a sharp grin. He let his free hand run over their humped backs, tangling his fingers in their lank fur. They licked his hand with black tongues, whining and pissing on the floor.

"You trained them well, Mother. They serve you, but they won't attack me if I don't hurt them, will they? They know I'm important. You taught them that much."

The countess stepped forward, reached past the sword, and slapped his face with a withered hand. "Listen to me, insolent boy. Everything I have ever done, I have done for you. The Final Battle comes, and it is the Master who will be victorious. I saw it when your father could not."

Elwarrd pressed his hand to his cheek. "So you killed him."

"He was weak. He did not survive the transformation wrought by the Gift. So I took the Gift upon myself. I did it for you, my son. And when I survived the change, I knew I could dedicate myself to make sure you rose high in the Master's favor when the dark times came." She clutched his shirt with bony fingers. "And now that time has come at last! All we must do is give this harlot, this witch, to Him, and He will surely reward us. There is no need for you to give up your heart. I did that for you, my son. I am your mother, and I have made every sacrifice for you. Now I ask only that you do this one thing for me!"

Elwarrd hung his head, shoulders slumped, and the sword slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. The old countess clasped her hands, her expression exultant. Grace glanced at the others. Vani had regained her feet, and Beltan had pulled the knife from his shoulder. The wound was bleeding freely, but a swift glimpse with the Touch told Grace it was not serious. Falken gave them all a sharp look. If there was a time to act, it was then.

Before they could move, Elwarrd lifted his head. His green eyes shone with sorrow, but his expression was hard. "Mother," he whispered tenderly. "Beloved mother. You have done so much for me. But now there is only one thing I can do for you."

And with a gentle motion, he pushed her backward into the fireplace.

The old countess gaped in surprise. Then, like a piece of magician's flash paper, her black gown went up in a puff of flame. The fire licked at her, melting the white paint that masked her face and bubbling it away, withering and cracking her flesh.

"My son!" came a piteous cry. Two shriveled arms reached outward from the roaring fire, and the countess stumbled out of the fireplace, groping for Elwarrd. She collided with one of the posts, and flames streaked up the wood. "Help me, my son!"

"Yes, Mother."

Elwarrd retrieved the sword, and with one clean swing he lopped off her head. The grisly orb rolled into a corner, still smoking, and her body fell against another post, setting it ablaze like the first. Grace jerked her head up. Flames ran along the wooden ceiling.

"Go!" Elwarrd said to Grace, his voice hoarse as he shouted over the roar. "All of you. You have my leave."

Fear stabbed at Grace's heart. She moved to the earl. "What about you, my lord?"

"I will see to it these creatures do not follow you. But there may be others at the front door. Take this." He held the sword out toward Beltan, and the knight accepted it.

Panic blossomed in Grace's chest like the fire. The heat was already almost unbearable. "But you can't stay here. The castle is going to burn."

It almost seemed he smiled. "Please, my lady. If you truly do care for me somewhere in your heart, let me do this. Let me do this one noble thing in my life." He gazed at the charred husk of the old countess. "She denied me my chance to be a knight, and my chance to be a man." His sea-green eyes locked on Grace. "Don't you deny me this, my lady."

Anguish filled Grace-as well as understanding. She hesitated, then leaned toward him and kissed his brow. Without waiting to see his reaction, she turned away. In the ED, she had always known when to let a patient go.

"Come on, Grace," Falken said, taking her arm, pulling her toward a doorway. Flames filled half the kitchens now, turning the place into an inferno. "We have to go."

Numb, Grace let the bard pull her forward. They ran down a long corridor as flames raced behind them and hot cinders rained from above. They dashed up a smoke-filled stairwell, then came to the front door of the keep. They glanced around, but if there were any feydrim lurking, they were invisible for the smoke. Grace could feel a great wind as air was sucked into the keep through the doors, feeding the greedy fire. Everything within the keep's stone walls was made of wood. The whole structure was going to burn.

Clutching one another, they stumbled through the doors into the night. They raced down the steps, away from the inferno, to the bailey below. Only when they came to a halt did Grace look back. The keep burned atop its hill like a great torch, sparks rising to the stars.

"Thank you, Sir Elwarrd," Grace whispered.

Beltan let out a grunt. "I think we just found the rest of the countess's feydrim."

Grace turned around. They were clearly visible in the firelight: a dozen lanky forms scattered around the bare ground of the bailey, their maws open in frozen snarls, their fur matted with dark blood.

Vani knelt beside one of the creatures. "It was a sword that slew this creature."

"This one, too," Beltan said, standing back up.

Falken raised a hand. "Listen."

After a second Grace heard it: the pounding of hooves against hard ground. There was no point in running; they could never move fast enough on foot, and the barren moor offered no cover. Moments later, the black horses came pounding into the bailey, forming a circle around the four.

Grace craned her neck to look up at the massive horses. The beasts wore black armor on their breasts, just like their riders. Black helmets covered the faces of the knights, and in their hands were black swords. Their shields were crimson, emblazoned with the symbol of a black crown encircling a silver tower.

Beltan held the sword before him, but his shoulder still bled, and the sword wavered in his grip. Vani's hands were raised, ready, but she couldn't stand entirely straight. Leweth's blow had bruised her ribs badly.

Falken moved in front of Grace. "What do you want?"

One of the knights spurred his horse forward. Grace knew if he stood on the ground, the man would tower over even Beltan. He seemed almost to burst out of his armor. His jet breastplate was marked with three silver crowns. She supposed he was their leader. With his sword, he pointed past Falken, toward Grace. She could see blood on the tip of the blade.

"She's the one we want." His voice was deep, echoing inside his helm. "You know what to do, brothers."

And Grace could only watch as the circle of dark knights closed in.

PART THREE.

THE WHITE SHIP.