The thrilling conclusion to the “deftly and originally executed” ( Booklist ) New York Times bestselling Raven’s Shadow trilogy from the author of Blood Song and Tower Lord.   After fighting back from the brink of death, Queen Lyrna is determined to repel the invading Volarian army and regain the independence of the Unified Realm. To accomplish her goals she must not only rally her loyal supporters, but also align herself with forces that possess the strange and varied gifts of the Dark, and take the war to her enemy’s doorstep.   Victory rests on the shoulders of Vaelin Al Sorna, Battle Lord of the Realm. However, the Volarians have a new weapon on their side that Vaelin must destroy if the Realm is to prevail: a mysterious Ally with the ability to grant unnaturally long life to his servants. And defeating one who cannot be killed is a nearly impossible challenge, especially when Vaelin’s blood-song, the mystical power that has made him the epic fighter he is, has gone ominously silent… Praise for the Raven’s Shadow trilogy   “Fans of broadscale epic fantasy along the lines of Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series and George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire novels should find this debut much to their liking.”— Library Journal   “All fantasy readers should rejoice.”—Michael J. Sullivan, author of the Riyria Revelations series   “Ryan hits all the high notes of epic fantasy.”— Publishers Weekly   “A powerful epic.”—SFFWorld.com   “Heroic epic fantasy.”—Fantasy Book Critic   “A page-turner.”— Booklist Anthony Ryan is the author of the Raven’s Shadow novels, including Blood Song , Tower Lord and Queen of Fire . PART I The raven knows no rest His shadow ceaseless Upon the earth. —SEORDAH POEM, AUTHOR UNKNOWN VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT He was waiting on the wharf when I arrived with my prisoner in tow. Standing tall as always, angular features turned towards the horizon, his cloak wrapped tight against the seaward chill. My initial puzzlement at finding him here faded as I caught sight of the ship leaving the harbour, a narrow-hulled vessel of Meldenean design, sent to the Northern Reaches with an important passenger, one I knew he would miss greatly. He turned to regard my approach, a tight, wary smile on his lips, and I realised he had lingered to witness my own departure. Our interactions since the relief of Alltor had been brief, somewhat terse in truth, distracted as he was by the ceaseless tumult of war and whatever malady had plagued him in the aftermath of his already legendary charge. The fatigue that turned his once-strong features into a sagging mask of red-eyed lethargy and his strident if coarse voice into a droning rasp. It had faded now, I could see. Recent battle seemed to have restored him somehow, making me wonder if he found some form of sustenance in blood and horror. “My lord,” he greeted me with a sketch of a formal bow then nodded at my prisoner. “My lady.” Fornella returned the nod but gave no response, regarding him without expression as the salt-tinged wind tossed her hair, a single streak of grey visible amidst the reddish brown tumult. “I have already received ample instruction . . .” I began but Al Sorna waved a hand. “I come to offer no instruction, my lord,” he said. “Merely a farewell and my best wishes for your endeavour.” I watched his expression as he waited for a response, the wary smile smaller now, his black eyes guarded. Can it be? I wondered. Is he seeking forgiveness? “Thank you, my lord,” I replied, hefting the heavy canvas bag to my shoulder. “But we have a ship to board before the morning tide.” “Of course. I’ll accompany you.” “We don’t need a guard,” Fornella said, her tone harsh. “I’ve given my word, tested by your truth-teller.” It was true, we walked alone this morning without escort or formality. The reborn court of the Unified Realm had little time or inclination for ceremony. “Indeed, Honoured Citizen,” Al Sorna replied in clumsy and heavily accented Volarian. “But I have . . . words for this grey-clad.” “Free man,” I corrected before switching to Realm Tongue. “Grey-clad denotes financial rather than social status.” “Ah, quite so, my lord.” He stepped aside and gestured for me to continue along the wharf to the quay where the ships waited, a long line of Meldenean war galleys and traders. Naturally, our vessel was moored at the farthest end of the line. “Brother Harlick’s gift?” he enquired, nodding at the bag I carried. “Yes,” I said. “Fifteen of the oldest books in the Great Library, those I could identify as useful in the small time allowed in his archives.” In truth I had expected some argument from the brother librarian when I made my request, but the man had simply given an affable nod and barked an imperious order at one of his attendants to gather the requisite scrolls from the wagons that served as his movable library. I knew his apparent indifference to this theft was at least partly derived from his gift; he could alwa