There's a flash of sunlight and a cool draft of air and from the corner of my eye I see Schuyler, standing in the mouth of the tent, shaking his head and smirking.

"You're about six hours too late for this kind of send-off," he drawls. "You should have done this last night, along with the rest of camp." A pause; another smirk. "Did you know there's a twenty per centum increase in the number of children born in wartime than in peacetime?"

"Get out," John murmurs against my lips. He doesn't turn away from me, doesn't release me. But Schuyler continues.

"It also nearly doubles the average number of infants born to a single couple. Frightening, considering this one"-he jerks his head at John-"already wants six."

I push away from John then, my mouth dropping open. "You want six children?"

"Quit that," John snaps at Schuyler.

"I'm not listening in. I swear it." Schuyler holds up his hands. "Fifer told me."

"Six?" I repeat.

"I thought it sounded like a nice, even number." John shrugs. "Maybe we can talk about it later? Because as much as I'd like this to be a group discussion, I really don't think now is the best time."

"That's right," Schuyler says. "Because ten minutes before going into battle is the best time to unsheathe your sword and-"

John fires off a stream of curses, all of them aimed at Schuyler. But they're both laughing, and so am I.

"Save your endearments for the bedroom," Schuyler says with a grin. "It's time to go."

John plucks my armor off the ground, helps me back into it. He starts to lead me out of the tent, but I stop him.

"I'll catch up with you in a moment," I say. "I'd like to speak to Schuyler first."

John leans forward and presses his lips against mine, holding them there. Then he leaves, mouthing something to Schuyler as he pushes past. I catch the gist of it, and it isn't pleasant. It makes Schuyler laugh anyway. The tent flap falls, blocking out the sun, a shadow falling across us both.

"How is this going to go?" I say. "Are we marching into victory or into defeat?"

"I'm no seer, bijoux." Schuyler's voice is uneven with honesty. "I don't know what's going to happen. And I wouldn't dare try to read what anyone else thinks will happen, either. I'm prepared for it to go any way. I've made my arrangements."

Revenants rarely die; rarely die again, that is. But it can be done: most often a savagely broken neck, something only another revenant can do, or by fire, something anyone can do. And I know that somewhere, ensconced inside Rochester Hall, Fifer waits with the knowledge that he may not come back.

"What about John, then?" I say. "I'll do whatever I can to keep Blackwell from finding him, we all will. But what if John decides to go looking for him first? He says he's got the stigma under control. Does he?"

"He thinks he does," Schuyler says. "And as much as he's thinking of that, he's thinking of you. That's all I get from him, and it's all I want to know. Don't ask me to listen for any more."

"Schuyler-"

"You can't stop what's going to happen," he interrupts. "For all that you tried, you never could. It was always going to come to this." Fifer's words in Schuyler's mouth.

We slip outside into the bright sunlight. Make our way across the green while a thousand others do the same: filing from their tents, armor glinting in the sun. Squires number in the hundreds, boys in white scurrying behind weapons masters, fitting men with longbows and quiver belts, spikes and knives, axes and swords. A dozen or so men and women, members of the Order of the Rose, carry no weapons. Their magic is enough for them.

I spot Keagan standing in a small group near the jousting pit, her long white tunic bearing the black embroidered outline of a rose. She sees me and waves me over.

"This is Odell and Coll," she says, introducing the boy and girl standing beside her.

"We heard about you." The girl, Coll, looks me over and smiles. She's small, like me, with short dark hair, dark skin, and a bright smile. "Keagan says she calls you sparrow. I like that. It's fitting."

"What magic can you do?" I ask.

"Oh, me?" Coll holds up a hand, wiggles her fingers. Within seconds a red-crested bird alights on her shoulder. It c.o.c.ks its head and watches her closely.

"You can summon animals?"

"And speak to them." Keagan glances at Coll, who seems to blush under her gaze. "We're so lucky to have her. Power like that is exceedingly rare. It comes along only once every ten years, and only to a tenth female born from a tenth female."

"You have nine sisters?"

"Twelve, actually." Coll's grin is as white as her tunic. "There's one now." She points to a girl no older than ten ducked behind the yew alley, half her face poking out from behind a tree. "Her name is Miri. You should see what she can do."

The bird careens from Coll's shoulder into the air just as a wall of water from the nearby lake rises up, twisting and turning and hurtling toward us. It slams to a stop, hovering above our heads like a shimmering pane of gla.s.s, then squirts a single stream of water into Coll's face. Keagan flicks her wrist and the entire wall of water explodes into mist. Across the field, soldiers break into laughter and applause.

"I haven't seen you around," I say to Keagan.

"Rochester's a big place, is it not? Thousands of people, only fifteen of us. At any rate, they've kept us sequestered. Thought it best for others not to know too much about what we do, so it wouldn't get out."

The trumpets begin blowing then. Calling us to ranks, calling us to orders. The noise stills the air, dissolving the tense exuberance of three thousand men and women armed with magic and weapons into silence.

"See you on the field." Keagan turns and strolls away, her cropped red head held high.

"Keagan," I call after her, but I don't know what to say. I want to tell her to watch out for herself, to watch out for the Order. For Malcolm, who I know despite everything she's grown fond of. "Be careful."

"I will." She turns around. "You be careful, too."

I dive into the crowd, make my way to my company. Soldiers fall into formation around me, bright in their red-and-blue surcoats and Reformist badges burning yellow and orange against the bright blue sky and looming walls of Rochester, the browning hills and greening trees. Horses and shields, pennants and pikes, courage and fear, all of it stretching in front of me, farther than I can see. It's so much more than I thought it would be.

But when John appears by my side, the brightness of his armor tempered against the shadow in his eyes as he surveys the men around us, I know he's wondering, like me, if it will be enough.

We see Nicholas then, cutting through the swath of men, dressed not as a soldier but as a wizard: ivory robes to distinguish him from Blackwell, who will surely be wearing black. Nicholas has no armor, no weapons. He pulls up short before us, glancing at each of us in turn.

"He's vulnerable," Nicholas says. I know without asking he means Blackwell. "But he is still powerful. And he is desperate, which makes him formidable. He needs only one of you, but he will be looking for you both. If he finds you"-Nicholas looks to me-"he will not let you go."

"I know."

Nicholas looks to John then. For a moment they look at each other, something pa.s.sing between them, something I'm not privy to.

"He will not hesitate," he says. "He will not take you back to Upminster, he will not risk the time because he does not have it. He will kill you as quickly as he can."

Caution and premonition tug at me: Nicholas's words don't sound like a warning as much as they do instruction. But John only nods.

Nicholas steps away from us then, takes his place along the front, between the line of men and the barrier. John and I find our place along the middle, behind the spearmen, in front of the bowmen. Between the formations, each of the councilmen sits atop a horse, sheathed in armor, ready.

We march under the Reformist banner: a small sun surrounded by a square, then a triangle, then another circle; a snake with its tail in its mouth. Each symbol has its own meaning: the sun the dawn of a new existence; the square to represent the physical world; the triangle is for fire, a catalyst for change; and the snake-an Ouroboros-for unity.

Today, we fight for all of it.

We march to the barrier, to the edge of it all. I can't see Blackwell's men, but I know they're there. I can feel it the way you can feel an oncoming thunderstorm. The air, still and pregnant with tension, waiting to crack open and rain destruction on us all.

At once, the councilmen raise their hands and begin whispering an incantation, no more than a breath, but then it happens. Dissolving like mist, like clouds in the morning, thick then thin, there then gone.

AT ONCE, THERE'S SOUND. Like a curtain that's been lifted, I can suddenly see and hear everything: every leaf on every tree, every bird in every nest, every man on every horse.

Every enemy in front of me.

They stretch for miles, ten thousand of them in all black, an endless, roiling midnight sea. G.o.d, they're everywhere. The darkness on the ground stretches into the skies: rolling clouds of black, swirling with unleashed menace and peppered with murders of crimson-eyed crows. They press down on us, dissolving the sun and the blue above Harrow.

I don't know who draws first. But someone does, a blade pulled from a sheath, steel singing against leather, a roaring command, a rustled footfall, a shout. And then, with a booming roll of thunder and a flash of lightning, the battle begins.

I lose John immediately. Men push between us and I shout his name once, twice, but my voice is engulfed by the chaos unfolding around me. The skies open up and freezing rain floods the air, pouring in sheets around us, obstructing our view like a veil.

For a moment I freeze, overcome by what's unfolding in front of me. The enormity of it; the finality of it. But then something takes over: years of training, years of anger, years of fear. I plunge into the seething ma.s.s of bodies, knives yanked from the belt at my waist. I fling one after the other, the scent of blood filling the air around me, red and hot and copper, the sound of men dying.

I need to find Blackwell; it's the only thing I need to do. I know he's here, somewhere. Too cowardly to show himself now, he'll hold back until we're weakened, until half his army is dead and we begin to grow tired and weak, until he can take our advantage and turn it into his.

I don't see her, but Miri makes herself known: The rain abruptly stops, holds unmoving in the air, and with a sound like an incoming tide, roars up and back across the plain. I can't see it, but I hear the water hitting, crashing onto the sea of men in black.

The reprieve isn't long and the rain starts up again, this time coupled with streaks of white-hot lightning. It strikes where the water falls, at the feet of men on both sides: black and blue and red. I watch as they jerk and sizzle, rooted to the spot before slumping to the muddy ground, charred and unrecognizable and dead.

I keep moving, threading through the ma.s.s until I see Malcolm, his dark hair plastered to his face, his skin covered in blood and mud. He's surrounded by his men, locked in battle with the crows that rain and swirl around them, lashing out with beaks, talons, and beating wings, knocking them one by one to the ground.

"Coll!" My shouts disappear into the rain and the screams, but somehow she hears me. In an instant, a mob of owls appears as if from the clouds, a hundred of them feathered in tawny brown, inky black, snow white; each with blazing yellow, enchanted eyes. They dive into the crows, their bodies flapping and screeching; the noise is deafening.

Malcolm rolls away from the fray, gets to his feet. Blood mixed with rain runs down his face; he s.n.a.t.c.hes his blade from the mud and plunges into the fight again. I move alongside him and his men, an eye on what's in front of me and always, always an eye on what's not.

Arrows fire indiscriminately around me, some iron-tipped, others blazing with fire, the latter no doubt Keagan's. They slam into man after man, all of them in black, their cloaks catching ablaze and the stench of burning wool and skin adding to the miasma already in the air. Malcolm, clashing swords with someone, is caught in the crossfire and gets. .h.i.t: the arrow slicing into his unprotected forearm, the sleeve of his tunic turning into flame.

Malcolm twists to try to put it out, the distraction opening up an opportunity for his attacker to end him. He doesn't get it. I yank another dagger from my belt, take aim, and let it fly. The blade impales the man's eye; he drops to the ground in a heap.

I'm at Malcolm's side in an instant, slapping the flames out, examining his wound. It's deep, but it's clean.

"Hold still," I say. "I'll pull it out on three. One, two-" I yank the arrow out. Blood soaks his tunic, but he'll live. "Go," I say. "Your men need you. They-" My words are cut off, along with my air.

I can't breathe. Malcolm pulls at his armor, at his mail; his mouth is open and he's gasping for air but there's none for him, either.

A soldier in black stands before us, his index finger twirling idly in the air, his face twisted in a grin as all around us men drop to their knees, to the mud, holding their throats, gasping, their faces turning blue. Dizziness overcomes me and I stagger to one knee, then the other, my lungs screaming. I claw at my throat, fall to the ground and into the soft, cold mud. I can't breathe, I can't breathe...

Keagan appears from nowhere, and it happens before I blink: the flash of a knife blade, a line drawn across the throat. A fountain of blood and a gargled moan and the wizard slumps to the ground, eyes open, staring unseeing into mine.

"Get up." Keagan reaches down, s.n.a.t.c.hes my arms, pulls me to my feet. "Elizabeth. Get up now."

Malcolm is already on his feet, pale and breathing hard. Men lie all around us, some gasping for air, some so still I think they've died. The owls and the crows have all taken flight, only a few feathered bodies strewn in the mud. Rain continues to pour around us, all of us soaked down to the tunics beneath our mail, cold and rough against our skin.

"Let's move." Keagan grabs the back of my tunic, shoves me across the field. Malcolm's men fall in beside us, still breathing hard but weapons out.

At once, a pack of soldiers step in front of us-no, not soldiers, revenants-weapons and malice bared. Caleb, Marcus, and Linus are not among them, but still I know that's what they are. I can tell by the gray in their eyes and the ferocity on their faces. I can tell by the way the human soldiers in the field give them a wide berth, pouring around them as if they were stones in a river.

But for all I don't know them, Malcolm does. He steps in front of me, hand out as if to shield me. His other hand holds out a sword, useless against them.

"Majesty." One of the revenants dips a clumsy, false curtsy; the others laugh, deep and throaty.

"Bray."

Now I remember who this is, was. Bray, a nickname for Ambrose Courtenay, once one of Malcolm's most trusted courtiers. Malcolm told me he was banned from court after Bray's gambling and drinking and violent behavior became too much for even Malcolm to bear.

"I'm not called that anymore. At least not by you." He breaks from the pack, begins to circle us. He's not armed-doesn't need to be-but his hands, flexing in and out of fists at his sides, promise as much violence as a cannon.

"When did this happen?" Malcolm gestures at him with his sword. "When did you come back to court? When did you..." He trails off. I don't know if Malcolm knows how revenants are created.

"I returned when he summoned me. The king." The other revenants shift around him as he speaks. I know their movement and posture well: They're falling into formation; they're preparing to attack. "The true king."

He's baiting us, I know this. But I can't stop myself from saying, "Summoned you, then killed you."

"Do I look dead to you?" Bray was handsome once, this I can tell. Not by his looks, no; I can tell by the way he is like Malcolm, the way Malcolm was. Confident, as if the answer to everything simply lay around every corner, under every stone, just waiting to be discovered. "We are all very much alive."

"We?" I say. "And how many would that be, exactly?"

"One hundred." Bray grins, his teeth flashing in the dark gray air. "More to come. More every day. Men line up to serve, to serve an eternal king for all eternity."

My heart sinks. One hundred revenants, with more to come.

"Ach. I've had enough of this." Keagan throws up her hands. Palms out, skin already red.

"Down!" Malcolm shouts to his men before s.n.a.t.c.hing the back of my armor and throwing me facedown into the mud. I hear it, even before I lift my head to see it: twin ropes of fire blazing from Keagan's hands, coiling and twisting into knots around the revenants. Their robes erupt into flames, black into red. The rain, still falling, has no effect on them: The water turns to steam around us, the air filled with white fog and gray smoke and unending fire.

But the revenants, they don't scream, they don't fall to the ground, they don't cease. They continue walking, aflame and charred, skin melting into bone, hair singeing from their scalps. They hold their weapons high, and they keep coming.

"G.o.ddammit." Malcolm pushes himself away from me, onto his feet. Pulls his sword. Swings. The blade slices through one revenant's burning neck, then another, then another.

Keagan drops her hands, the fire sputters out. The air is a cloud of burning stench, like Tyburn, s.m.u.ts floating around like charred snowflakes, the scent of burning skin so sickly sweet I could gag on it. A few of Malcolm's men do, retching into the mud.

"Well done, Your Highness," Keagan says.

Malcolm nods by way of acknowledgment, but he's not looking at her, nor is he looking at the heap of smoking bodies around us. His focus is on the field, at the battle that still rages all around.

"Those men. Those revenants." Malcolm glances at his sword, the revenants' black blood dripping into the mud. "The birds. The elemental magic." He looks into the air. "They keep appearing. One thing after the other."

"As things do in battle," Keagan replies, sarcastic.

"No." Malcolm turns to face us. "Look around. Look at what's happening. Look closely."

I do. All around us, battles wage. But I cannot see what's happening, I cannot see who is making ground. I cannot see retreat, I cannot see advance. All I see is chaos, but now I see that it is orchestrated chaos.

"We are fighting in place." Malcolm continues, "It's as if he's trying to keep either side from moving. Uncle. It's as if he's throwing one thing or another at us to keep us from looking beyond the battle-to distract us."

"Misdirection," Keagan says, sharp.