Reign of Ash by Gail Z. Martin

shuttered lantern. He opened the shutters, and light flooded the room.
    Intricate mosaics covered one wall, while frescoes decorated two more. A tapestry hung against the fourth wall, though it had seen better days, dirtied and soot-streaked from the Fire, stained by whatever goings-on had occurred after the home’s owners had fled. Connor tried to focus on the details to keep himself from passing out. A broken ale cask, filthy blankets, and an old, torn shoe gave him to guess that squatters had laid claim to the house in the aftermath of the city’s fall.
    “Let’s see those gashes,” Penhallow said in a voice that would have brooked no denial, had Connor felt well enough to protest. He pulled open the remnants of Connor’s torn shirt to reveal the deep, bloody cuts.
    “Not as bad as the last time,” Penhallow muttered.
    “I almost died the last time,” Connor argued, his voice weak.
    “As I said.” Penhallow spat into his palm and laid his hand over the worst of Connor’s injuries. Connor cried out and writhed as the energy began to heal his wound.
    “I still don’t know why your magic works and mine doesn’t,” Lowrey murmured, coming to stand behind Penhallow but facing away, watching the door with his staff at the ready.
    “Your magic – the
hasithara
– is external, and its binding to be usable by humans was artificial. The
kruvgaldur
is part of what I am,” Penhallow replied without taking his eyes off Connor. “The power that sustains the immortals is as much a force of nature as the storms and floods – or the wild, untamed magic that you mages call
visithara
.”
    “Yet when the magic, the
hasithara
, moved beyond our grasp, even your
talishte
mages lost their power,” Lowrey responded.
    “But they did not lose the
kruvgaldur
,” Penhallow replied, his attention still on Connor. “It is our essence.”
    Connor dropped back against the mattress, which smelled of rats and mold. He was sweating, and his breathing was shallow and rapid from the pain and blood loss. When Penhallow removed his hand, the shoulder wound had healed. Once more, Penhallow spat into his palm and pressed it against the deep cut in Connor’s forearm. His touch felt like fire, and Connor bit back a curse. After a moment the pain eased and the gash closed, healing without a scar. Connor sank into the old mattress, too spent to care about its smell.
    Penhallow rose and wiped his bloody hand on a rag. “It’s near dawn,” he said. “I must feed, then find shelter.” He looked down at Connor. “We need to reach the castle before the night is spent.”
    Connor nodded, pushing himself up. His wounds were healed and no longer hurt, but his body still reacted to the trauma, arguing for whiskey and a good night’s sleep. Connor shook his head when Penhallow offered him a hand, managing to get to his feet on his own. “I can walk,” he said. “Let’s just hope I don’t have to fight.”
    Penhallow chuckled. “If I’m to be your new master, perhaps some salle training is in order. As soon as people stop trying to kill us, I’ll make arrangements.”
    “Thanks,” Connor muttered. He was hungry and so tired that he would have gladly slept the night on the cast-off mattress, but he knew Penhallow was right: They had to reach the castle before dawn.
    Penhallow scouted the courtyard and signaled for the others to follow him. Connor gritted his teeth and resolved to keep up, knowing that Penhallow was holding himself back to mortal speed for his and Lowrey’s sake.
    The road sloped steeply above the houses of the nobility, leading up the hills to where the ruins of the castle sat at the crest. Just months before, Quillarth Castle had been an imposing structure, a walled fortification hundreds of years old, reigning supreme from its lofty perch. Connor looked up at the dark summit and shuddered. The castle had always been lit like a beacon, its bailey awash in torchlight, its windows glowing brightly. The tall, round