At last, the night ended, and white light washed over the earth. Lychester Castle stood alone.
Suleiman reined in his warhorse. The knights and soldiers behind him were silent.
He turned his head and spoke calmly. "Lord Lymond."
"Please, go ahead. Your home is waiting for you."
Lymond Lychester's aged face was clouded with doubt. He glanced at Suleiman, then at the silent castle. With a wave of his hand, he signaled his knights and soldiers to tighten their grips on their swords and cautiously surround him as they slowly approached the gate.
Hendry Bracken's face was as dark as the sky before a storm. He didn't understand—not at all. What had this kid said to the Ironborn? How had he done it? Could he use magic, bewitching the Ironborn with some spell?
The heavy drawbridge had already been lowered, and the massive oak gate stood ajar. One Lychester knight gathered his courage and hurried over,
then pushed the gate open with trembling hands.
The sight beyond the gate froze everyone in place: all those who had been on high alert, ready to fight to the death. The courtyard was empty and silent. It was a deserted castle.
Not a soul remained in the courtyard. The weapon racks were bare, and only a little hay remained in the stables. Apart from dozens of women locked in a storeroom,
who now stood in shock, their clothes tattered, there wasn't a single Ironborn in sight.
Lymond Lychester's voice was dry, almost dreamlike. "They... they really left?"
One of the knights beside him hurried up to the arrow tower, then rushed into the keep. Finally, he came running back, dazed, and shouted to Lymond, "My lord! They really left! They're all gone!"
Hendry Bracken stared as if he'd seen a ghost, his gaze