“What?”

“The proper form of address when speaking to a queen of Wintercraig is ‘Your Grace.’ ” Each clearly enunciated word ended with a sharp clip.

“How’s about I give you the proper form of my fist right across that mouth of yours?”

She smiled, eyes flaring liquid silver. “Oh, by all means, do try.”

“Leave off, Blackwood,” another Summerlander advised. “Get her mad enough, and that one will fry your balls like eggs on a griddle.”

Blackwood shook his fist under her nose. “Saved for now,” he muttered, adding with a sneer, “Your Grace.”

As the men walked off to tend the horses, Kham measured the location of the sun. They’d traveled another thirty miles since breaking camp this morning. The Llaskroner Fjord couldn’t be more than another day or two away. They must be meeting up with the rest of Falcon’s army near there.

A careful glance around the camp told her that wherever Falcon had gone, he’d gone alone. For what purpose, she couldn’t even begin to speculate, but his absence gave her the chance to draw upon her power without alerting him. Time to make a move.

Krysti was chained to a tree fifteen feet away, but Falcon’s men were mostly ignoring him, too. That was a mistake. She saw his fingers working at the hem of his tunic and hid a smile. He kept a set of picks sewn into the hem of each of his tunics because, “A boy never knows when they might come in handy.”

She nodded when Krysti glanced her way, then lowered her eyes and reached out to the source of her power, gathering the sun’s heat and concentrating it inside her. Her body began to warm beneath its lead blanket. She gripped her chains in both hands, preparing to melt them as she had the chains Valik had tried to hold her with.

Once Krysti got safely away, Khamsin would be free to teach her captors the true meaning of her giftname.

The sound of galloping hooves and the feel of hot, angry weathermagic on the wind made her gasp and release her power.

She turned to see her brother leap off his horse almost before it came to a stop. He crossed the short distance to her side in five long strides and yanked her up to her feet.

“Where is it?” His face was contorted in fury, his eyes wild. “What did you do with it?” He shook her so hard she was surprised her head didn’t flop off her neck.

“What did I do with what?” she exclaimed when he stopped shaking her enough that she could speak.

He opened his mouth, then after a hard look at his companions, thought the better of it. Instead, he grabbed her by the arm and frog-marched her into the woods. When they were out of earshot of the camp, he spun her around and yanked Blazing from its sheath.

“No more games, Storm. You tell me what you did with it, or you die right here, and to Hel with any curse on my House.”

“Did with what? What are you talking about?”

“The sword! The real sword of Roland! Not this weak-spelled forgery you put in its place!” He shook the sword furiously and flung it aside. It sank into a drift of snow.

Kham’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe he had just thrown the greatest treasure in the world away like so much rotting garbage. “Are you mad? That is Roland’s sword.”

“Liar!” He slapped her hard, knocking her to her knees. “Where is Blazing? The real Blazing?”

She raised manacled hands to her throbbing cheek. “That is Blazing. You’ve felt its power. You called on it early today, during that first stop. You melted everything around us.” How could he even think the sword was a forgery? Had Blazing not conveyed to Falcon the same history of its creation as it had the moment she first touched it?

Helos bestows his greatest gifts only on the worthy, Heir of Roland.

The low, multilayered voice boomed in her mind, resonating through every cell in her body. She didn’t hear the voice so much as she felt it. Each vast and terrible divine tone. It made her tremble in her boots.

Falcon just kept shouting. “Roland’s sword was capable of calling phenomenal power! All this does is amplify my weathergift. Any half-witted wizard capable of boiling water could lay an amplification spell on a sword!”

He had not heard the voice.

Falcon had not heard the voice. And if he had not heard the voice, that meant . . .

“You are not the Heir,” she breathed.

Falcon stopped in midrant. His body went stiff. His face went hard. “What did you say?”

She stared at Falcon as if she’d never seen him before. And perhaps, until now, she never had. He had tried to call on Blazing’s power that morning. He hadn’t just tried to scare her—he had tried to call upon the sword’s magic to kill her the way she had killed the ice-thralled Elka in the Temple of Wyrn.

And the sword had not answered.

She climbed slowly to her feet, never taking her eyes off her brother.

“You are not the Heir,” she said again. “Blazing doesn’t answer you because you are not the true Heir of Roland.”

Her eyes flashed purest silver in an instant. She didn’t even need to summon a storm this time. The power she’d gathered earlier came roaring back to life. In an instant, she melted the chain binding her hands and punched through the lead-lined fabric of her cloak like a hot coal through silk. Electricity shot from her palms, striking Falcon on the chest and sending him flying into a nearby tree. His skull cracked against the trunk, and he slid down into a crumpled, motionless heap at the tree’s base.