Was that shock registering on Torne’s face as she blocked a particularly difficult thrust? Was that sweat that dampened his brow?

Oversweep, Crayman’s Circle, three and four and swipe!

She watched in amazement as the tip of her sword slashed across Torne’s leather jerkin. Although it only made a long cut in the leather, his face blanched as if it had been his own flesh.

“Who are you?” Torne panted, his eyes wide in . . . fear.

... two and three and Raven’s Sweep redoubled!

The move threw Torne against a tree, his arms and sword tangling in the evergreen boughs.

Butcher’s Block, one-two-three.

Torne barely avoided being chopped in three. Each swing of the sword caused the pain of arrows in her back to twinge, and the bleeding to start anew . . .

“Who are you?” Torne demanded again.

Burn, brooch, burn! By the flying horse, burn!

Torne screamed. He groped with his free hand for the brooch on his cloak. He grasped it, but jerked his fingers away with a cry. The distraction was enough.

Ice Slide now!

The blade ran through Torne’s jerkin and out through his back, impaling him to the trunk of the tree. His limbs jerked and flailed. Karigan’s nostrils flared with the metallic scent of fresh blood.

“Who are you?” This time it came as a whisper, barely heard over his raspy breaths.

A voice that was Karigan’s spoke words that were not her own. “I am a Green Rider and swordmaster initiate. You are spared Saverill’s fate, traitor.” The hand that held the hilt twisted the sword, and Torne’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. The presence within her turned to Jendara and reached for her dagger.

Stop! Karigan struggled to expel the presence from her, but it was like trying to disgorge her own guts. Leave me.

The presence drained from her, and she sighed as warmth flooded through her body again. F’ryan Coblebay stood before her.

I saved your life, he said. She is a traitor and must die.

“It is for me to decide,” Karigan said, “if she should die.” She gazed at Jendara lying on her back, neck naked to any blade she might draw across it. The blood was drying on the Weapon’s face, but she breathed normally and looked to be asleep. Karigan remembered when Jendara made Torne let her wear her greatcoat against the cold rain. Jendara had let her keep her hidden cache of food and had never told Torne about it. She knew Jendara would have killed Garroty to keep him from hurting her.

F’ryan Coblebay’s form flickered once. You must kill her.

“You kill her.”

I cannot unless I enter—

“I won’t allow that.” Karigan clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides. “I will not be used.”

I saved your life.

The night’s events started to catch up with her. Her body trembled, and she felt cold all over again. The idea of someone else controlling her affairs infuriated . . . and terrified her. “It seems to me you set me on this course in the first place. You and that brooch.”

F’ryan Coblebay dimmed and flickered. No, not I. You were called. He looked up at the sky, then walked away, vanishing completely in the dark, but his voice lingered like an echo, . . . you were called . . .

Karigan sighed, feeling light headed from the whole experience. She wanted to get away from the carnage as soon as she could—Garroty’s crushed face and Torne’s impaled body—but she needed the brooch back, too. Jendara murmured incomprehensibly and twitched on the ground. She would have to be quick.

Torne was pinned to the tree like a cadaverous scare-crow, his arms snagged at odd angles among the evergreen branches. The brooch clung by a thread to his cloak. With a shudder, she plucked it away. It had burned a hole right through his cloak and jerkin, and had branded a red shadow of the winged horse on his flesh.

The Berry sisters had been right in a sense—the brooch would tolerate no others to handle it, except Green Riders. It had merely waited for the most advantageous moment to inflict its wrath, when commanded. She shuddered again and pinned it to her shirt.

She fled the carnage, pausing only to collect the belongings that had been taken from her. She and The Horse galloped away, disappearing as they went. If Immerez was to have met them days ago, he may be nearby. It wouldn’t do to be snared again, just as she was escaping.

Jendara crawled to the edge of the clearing. Something like thunder and lightning crackled through her hurting head, but she was determined to stop the Greenie. It wasn’t revenge. She applauded the end of the miserable Garroty’s life. And though there had once been friendship with Torne, he had gone sour long ago, and tolerance was all that remained. It was the directive of her lord to waylay the message, which meant waylaying the messenger.

Who was this girl who could overpower men so much stronger than she? Torne, pegged to the tree with her own sword, was nothing worse than she had seen in battle, but the expression frozen on his face, an expression of utter amazement, would haunt her for some time to come.

Jen was amazed herself. Who would have thought the girl capable? And the brand on Torne’s skin . . . exactly who were they dealing with?

Jendara’s dagger shone dully in the moonlight as she reached the edge of the road. With the throbbing in her head, standing was impossible. Her stomach knotted in nausea.

She caught a flurry of movement on the road, and the pounding of hooves. She watched the girl and horse leave at a gallop, then fade out into nothingness. Jendara curled up on the ground, resting her head on her arm.