He had thought he was prepared for anything, but when he reached the room leading to the Tree Chamber, he stopped, his stomach turning.
It was not like the scenes they’d seen elsewhere in the Hall, where Stewards had been killed so quickly they’d barely drawn their swords.
This was the last stand of a champion.
The room had been destroyed, a devastation that Will could not take in all at once. Rubble, cracked walls, smashed flooring: a force so terrible it could raze parts of the citadel had fought here against a single opponent determined to hold it back.
Justice had been the greatest fighter in the Hall, and his attacker had torn the room apart, shredding tapestries, splintering furniture, even shattering stone in an attempt to get at him. From the sheer extent of the destruction, Justice had lasted against his attacker for some time.
His eyes were sightless, fixed on some distant nightmare. His hand was still on his sword. Will remembered the moment he had woken up to Justice’s reassuring presence in the White Hart. Justice had always seemed to know what was right. A lodestar. Someone who would guide you through the night.
Violet was on her knees beside him. She was saying his name as if she could speak with him. She was pressing her hands to his body as if to staunch blood that had stopped flowing, or find some warmth where there was only cold.
Will found himself looking up inexorably at the doors to the Tree Chamber.
Justice would have known better than anyone that he couldn’t win, and he had fought anyway. Delaying the enemy. Delaying him as long as he could.
Will didn’t need Violet’s strength to force the doors. They were already open.
He walked inside alone.
The Tree Stone was dark. Its dead, brittle branches a testament to Will’s failures. No glowing light here, no sweet smell of hawthorn or soft fall of white flowers. Just a dead thing that had once been alive. Will had to lift the torch to light up the room, a bitter irony.
But the enemy they sought was here, its pitch-black form revealed for all to see. It was dead, like the Tree. But it had not left behind a body, just an imprint, burned into the wall.
Looking at it was like looking into the blackest pit from which no light could escape. Darkly unnatural, it loomed over the chamber, taller than any man, monstrous and distorted. It was all that was left of the creature that had destroyed the Hall.
Marcus.
Behind him, he heard Cyprian make an awful sound. Will stumbled slightly as Cyprian pushed past him. Cyprian stared up at the burned outline, and then he put his hands on it, as if by touching it, he could somehow touch his brother. His fingers curled and he slid downward, kneeling, his head dropped in utter despair. For a single disturbing moment, he and his brother seemed like one: a Steward and his shadow cast upon the wall.
Will turned back to the door. And a second wave of horror passed over him, as, lifting the torch, he saw the words carved above the doors, centuries ago, by those who had waited scared in the dark.
He is coming.
‘The Elder Steward fought it off,’ said a voice, and Will whirled.
A figure was stepping out of the shadows. Heart slamming in his chest, he recognised Grace, janissary to the Elder Steward, her face streaked with tear lines, and her clothes torn and stained. Behind her, a second janissary – Sarah, her expression haggard.
‘Now she is dying,’ said Grace. ‘If you wish to see her, come. There isn’t much time left.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE ROOM WAS small, with a pallet laid out on raised stone. Someone had lit a single brazier to warm the space, and brought it close to the place where she lay under a thin blanket. Her face was sunken, her skin almost transparent. Will hadn’t known what to expect, but there was no blood, no sign of injury, just her white hair on the pallet and the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He was not sure he was wanted. From the doorway, he watched as Grace and Sarah moved around her with the surety of attendants. Cyprian fit the moment, an austere figure in a silver tunic. A novitiate and two janissaries: the three of them belonged here. Will felt like an interloper, even as his chest clenched at the sight of the Elder Steward. Violet hesitated beside him, the two of them outsiders in a private moment of Steward grief.
‘The end is close,’ Grace said quietly. ‘The fight took all she had.’
He could see the difficulty that she had in breathing. The act seemed to be a pure effort of will. At Grace’s words she stirred and said, ‘Will?’ Her voice was no louder than the rustle of dried paper.
‘I’m here,’ said Will, and in two strides knelt at her side.