‘Aurvandil,’ he said, gazing over the younger man’s shoulder. ‘Meet my son.’ When the warrior turned, the face did not lie. It was the khan’s, but leaner, the beard longer and tied into twin braids. The eyes, however, had nothing of their father’s humour. Prince Kosmesy. ‘He is upset. Anxious that we might have reached an agreement without his consent.’

‘Is a man in your position beholden to the will of his son?’

The khan laughed. ‘Clearly you have no son of your own. Of course I must indulge him! Besides, he carries great honour among the tribes I hold in alliance.’ He looked at his son. ‘They respect him because he is not me. He still follows the old gods and the old ways, while I follow the Christ. Still, he speaks for many of my people.’

‘Do we have an agreement?’ Erlan demanded.

‘Patience, Aurvandil. I must put it to my son.’ Erlan quietly seethed while father and son spoke in their native tongue, their exchange becoming heated at times, until it was the father who listened and the son who spoke. At length, the khan turned back to Erlan. ‘I said I was almost persuaded. My son, it seems, needs more persuasion.’

‘You mean more gold.’

‘Not gold, man! He wants proof that the omens are in our favour.’

‘Omens?’

‘That if we go to war, the old gods are with us, as well as the new. He demands a sign, Aurvandil, a sign!’

A strange chill of foreboding crept into Erlan’s bones. ‘What sign?’

‘A test as old as our people. It goes back a hundred generations. One man against three wolves. Each represents the mightiest of our gods. Tangra – god of the sky, Kaira – god of the earth, and Arlik – the god of death. Pick a champion to fight the gods!’ the khan crowed merrily. ‘If he lives, then the Bulgar nation will ride to war!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Lilla had given Katāros nothing. And for nothing, he had exacted a heavy price.

Her secret was submission. Submission to everything but him. Submission even to Death, if Death wanted her – though he hadn’t taken her yet. Angels and devils, gods of light and darkness, truth and lies, life and death. These all melded into a single perfect point, an apex where pain reached its purest form.

And still there was not a mark on her.

At times her dread and pain wove together into such a pinnacle of horror that she would have told Katāros anything to stop it. If only she had something to tell. If only he would give her the words he wanted to hear then she could speak them. . . That would be her confession.

But before the silk was removed, always another voice answered her wilting resolve. Hold on. . . hold on.