Page 115 of Keldori By Daybreak

The overwhelming instinct to run forced me halfway to my feet, but Iseult grabbed me by my sleeve and held me at the table. Orla mouthed Caitria at us, and Iseult put a finger to her lips.

Caitria was here, waiting outside and demanding I be turned over to her and her army. Drowning Ferrin hadn’t made a difference. A new threat had simply risen in his place.

“The Saergrim? You mean the kid that attacked Kamryn the other night?” The guard named Dirk snorted. “I thought he was lying about that.”

“If all they need is the Saergrim, they’ve got it covered without us,” Dirk’s fellow guard said through a mouthful of food. “No reason to cut lunch short and rush to the northern wall.”

“I doubt the Baron would see it that way,” the messenger warned.

“That bitch hasn’t been to Willow’s Grave since she became Baron. What does she care?” However, the scraping of chair legs against stone accompanied the shuffling of bodies, and we remained immobile over our plates until the guards had left the plaza in the direction of the northern wall.

“Ciarán,” I hissed through the mental bond. “Did you hear all that?”

“I’m already on my way to check it out. Find that library, Blue. We’re running out of time.”

We abandoned what was left of our food, but word of the army at the northern gate was spreading fast. Guards and anxious townspeople alike filled the streets, either in a rush to get home and find their loved ones or to hurry north for more information.

We jostled against the swarming bodies, linking hands with each other so we wouldn’t become separated in the crowd.

“The Southern Gate is closed and Willow’s Grave is on lock down!” a guard bellowed from a low roof. “Return to your homes until further notice!”

Protesting shouts echoed through the street, and I used my free hand to tug at the hem of my hood again.

It took longer than anticipated to find the textile market, and by the time we arrived, the vending stalls that lined the plaza had been shuttered shut. A few cords of fabric and woven tapestries swayed in the breeze, left out in the rush to vacate the space, and scraps of yarn and samples of fabric littered the cobblestones.

“This is it, right?” Orla asked, turning around in the plaza’s center. “Now we just need to find the bridge with the cat.”

“Right.” I scanned the space. A gurgling river echoed between the building walls, but when I took a step in that direction, my stomach swooped and my vision shifted.

The empty market disappeared, replaced with a bird’s eye view of the petrified forest that surrounded Willow’s Grave. Dark figures lurked between the stone trunks. A flash of green sent me ducking for cover on the parapet where I perched.

The stone cut away, replaced by vine-adorned sky overhead as I opened my eyes back in the empty textile market.

“Wren?” Orla helped me off the ground where I’d fallen. “What’s wrong?”

“Ciarán,” I gasped. “I saw—”

I cut off at the sound of a boom to the north. Green light flashed weakly against the daylight in the farthest reaches of the Great Willow’s branches. Stone cracked and crumbled, raining down onto the buildings below.

“What was that?” Iseult stared at the distant wall that protected the citadel.

My stomach lurched again, and the opal forest reappeared below me. I understood now. Ciarán had climbed the wall surrounding the city to better assess the enemy at the gate, and I was looking through his eyes.

A woman with dark curls stood out of the tree line fifty yards or so to the left to address an unseen someone at the gate. Her wide pant legs tapered into tight ankle wraps, and she spun a rope dart at her hip.

“Sundown, general!” she shouted. “You and your men will bring me the Saergrim by sundown or we will open fire on the citadel and force entry to search the Willow’s Grave ourselves!”

“It’s Caitria,” Ciarán confirmed in a whisper against the fabric of his cowl.

“Crap.” My singular thought echoed through both of our heads.

“I’ll work on an exit strategy with Fana and Tiernan. You three focus on getting the journal.”

I blinked, and Orla’s face swam in front of mine.

“It’s definitely Caitria,” I grunted. “It’s definitely her army outside. Ciarán showed me.”

“And my uncle?” Orla cleared her throat, but it was too late to hide the hopeful lilt to her voice.