Yethyr's heart sank. Any chance of peace evaporated before his eyes.

  “Dethur…”

  “I asked you a question, Venerated Victor,” Dethur sneered. “Where is my sister?”

  “Dead,” Jaetheiri said. “The song of the selkies consumed her. She stole from the Prince and attacked me. Dathari was not herself; I do not believe the angels will think less of her for it.”

  Dethur grew pale. “And yet you killed her?”

  “I did.” Jaetheiri did not give excuses or apologies. She just looked sad.

  And tired.

  I could feel her aching exhaustion even through our stretched bond.

  Dethur seemed to cycle through several emotions, confusion and disbelief being chief among them.

  And then resolve.

  He unsheathed his warfang in a daze and went to lunge himself toward Jaetheiri, but Vezemar held him back.

  “Say the proper challenge words first at least, man! Do not taint your justice.”

  “Or do not say them at all!” Yethyr cried.

  “That would be preferable,” Jaetheiri agreed softly. “I do not wish to kill you with what once was your Tezem’s blade.”

  Dethur struggled in Vezemar’s grip. “Then cast it aside and choose a weapon better suited!”

  Yethyr stared up at the dim morning sky. “Can we stop killing one another for a single day? We have a real enemy to fight!”

  “Real enemy?” Dethur rasped.

  “I feel no glory in her death.” Jaetheiri unsheathed Dathari’s sword slowly. “It was forced by the cruel songs and should not have happened.”

  Dethur sneered. “You blame the selkie for her death?”

  “I do not pretend to be blameless,” Jaetheiri said. “But neither should you pretend killing me would sate your grief.”

  They stared at one another with dull eyes and sharp warfangs.

  “Release me, Vezemar.”

  Vezemar let Dethur go and he took a steady step toward Jaetheiri.

  “Don’t do it,” Kettir whispered. “Maethe will not follow you to a pointless death. Live and speak your Tezem’s name into the flames.”

  “Live and finish her final hunt,” Yethyr added.

  Dethur kept on walking. “I am useless to you, Skeleton Prince. There is only one final hunt left in me.”

  He stood before Jaetheiri. Dathari’s warfang gleamed red between them, but Jaetheiri did not swing it, waiting.

  “You were Dath’s hero,” Dethur said flatly and Jaetheiri flinched.

  In all these battles, I had never seen her flinch before.

  “I never meant to be anyone’s hero.”

  “You dare balk at it now?” Dethur curled his lip. “You hold her warfang. Become the Heavenly Fang she thought you would be or cast it aside. Don’t insult my sister by doing anything less.”

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  A strange emotion passed over Yethyr that I could not name. Fervent, almost gleeful, and definitely smug, it eclipsed the exasperation and nervousness that consumed him moments ago.

  He kept his face blank. So did Jaetheiri. She said nothing, no denials or promises, but she held onto Dathari’s sword a little tighter.

  Dethur seemed to take that as an answer. He nodded and walked past her. “Maethe!” He looked up at the sky. “Hear me! Hear my grief as you once heard Oredreir! Let my wails echo through the halls of Heaven as his once did. Weeping Fang!” His voice grew so loud that it shook my steel. “See me now! May my tears be as beautiful as yours had been!”

  He unleashed a war cry that echoed across the lake and then ran off down the sandy shore of the lake, toward the river from whence they came.

  Toward the selkies.

  “What is all that ruckus?”

  Nisari came clamoring out of the bushes. She had lost her windsinger headdress to the lake and her now unbound hair had become wild white waves.

  She looked very annoyed and only Vezemar dared answer her.

  “Dethur has gone to avenge himself upon the selkies for the death of his Tezem.”

  “Dathari’s dead?” She squeezed water out of her boot. “Poor girl. I wish her brother luck then.”

  “Maethe does not stand in his shadow,” Kettir said quietly. “He will not succeed.”

  I was not so certain. The selkie were not warriors and now that I was not involved, their watersong could not touch him, deaf to their beauty as he was.

  Kvelir would be there though, I reminded myself, and he was a warrior who had taken two other hunters to subdue.

  I imagined the likely duel between Kvelir and Dethur over the fate of the selkies. Whatever the outcome, Dethur was not coming back.

  The hunters that remained began searching the lakeshore for supplies that had gotten beached from the selkies storm, but Jaetheiri did not join them; she stood frozen, staring at Dethur’s footsteps in the sand. Yethyr stood silently beside her as she gritted her teeth.

  “Not one word.”

  Yethyr smiled and she glared. “Not one smile either. There is nothing humorous about this.”

  Yethyr agreed but still chose to say wryly, “how frivolous you are with your privileges. There was once a time when my smiles were more rare than dragon horn.”

  “Lucky me then, who is subject to them so frequently.” She gestured flippantly to where Dethur once stood. “This changes nothing.”

  “Of course not,” Yethyr said breezily. “Frankly, I’d be offended if this would move you to piety when I never could.”

  “Not never,” Jaetheiri snapped and then, realizing what she said, sniffed grudgingly, “Your faith moves me occasionally. Very occasionally.”

  I did not really understand what they were talking about, but now Yethyr actually was amused. He buried that humor deep for he thought she was right.

  There was nothing particularly funny about their situation.

  Their ship was wrecked before they had ever reached the Numa Mountains. Yethyr saw those craggy peaks on the horizon and guessed it would take another week to reach them on foot.

  But that was just to reach the base of the first mountain. His quarry could be anywhere in that mountain chain. How was he to find 36 fugitive arcanists in such a wide area?

  And even if he did, what was he supposed to do?

  Most of their hunting party was dead. He had no manpower to confront them, outnumbered in both people and songs. He had no advantage, except perhaps surprise, as he doubted they expected him to come so soon.

  But what use was surprise? He could not draw a Death Circle stealthily when it was fellow necromancers he intended to ensnare. They would surely hear his deathsong before he finished.

  What else did he have? What else did he have?

  Another man would have slipped into despair, but in this, Yethyr’s religious fervor served him well. He believed this whole venture was a divinely sent test. He believed with a certainty bordering on delusion that there was some path of victory Maethe herself had challenged him to find.

  And so he searched for that path with a grim purpose. He commanded those on the beach to look for more survivors and more supplies that had been washed ashore. He would take any advantage, even a waterlogged one.

  “Blessed Maethe, your fangs are bared at me,” he muttered as he rooted through the smashed remains of a crate. “And I am glad for it. May I atone for my cowardice with my deeds.”

  Demons below, he was stubborn and I found myself admiring him for it, just a little. More than that, I knew I could make that stubbornness serve my needs.

  I had to.

  Who do you think is going to win?