Chapter 74. Keening Stones

The first rule of a siege is the same as the last: count what breathes.

Shadowfang’s courtyards did the math in ragged columns—archers at the parapets, runners at the wells, cooks elbow-deep in dough they stretched with ground acorn and oath. The wardstones along the outer wall keened like mouth-harps played too hard. The sound made the back of my eyes ache.

“Water first,” Syra said, walking the line with a slate in one hand and a glare in the other. “Bread second. Vanity never.”

“I heard that,” Neris murmured, materializing from a gap in the wall. Soot kissed her cheekbone. “Their bone engines shed filings when they turn. Bring me a basin and a magnet. And a priest willing to swear at iron.”

“Priest,” Syra called.

“Willing,” Mavienne said, appearing with hands already raw from hauling bandages. “What am I swearing at today?”

“Everything,” I said. “But start with this.”

We climbed to the west wall. The valley lay below like an open mouth. Th