Again, while he daydreamed, his thoughts went to Kyle, as they often did. He must have made it to shore – he’d seemed completely confident that he could. And ashore, he must have headed north. If anyone could make it, he could. Perhaps of all of them he would be the only one to succeed.

Wouldn’t that be an irony? And the probable truth, too, given how the gods seemed to relish irony, reversals, and fitting unanticipated rewards for deeds both good and evil. And on that account, Reuth believed they had earned what they had so far received – the very real possibility of an ugly anonymous death on some desolate shore like this.

It had been wrong of them to turn on Whiteblade like that. His uncle should have thought further ahead. Given the dangers, they would have been so much more secure with him among their crew. Reuth did not think much of their chances now. And that was fitting. For he too had known it was wrong, yet he’d shrunk from drawing a blade and standing with his friend.

He was a coward, and he deserved whatever shameful death the gods had set astride the path of his life.

He heard Tulan come stomping up behind him. ‘Are there no rivers marked on this shore?’ he demanded.

Reuth turned round and peered calmly up at his uncle. ‘We’re bound to come across a stream eventually,’ he assured him.

Tulan cocked an eye beneath his tangled bushy brows, as if troubled by the answer in some vague manner that he could not pin down. Then he snorted and lumbered off, muttering darkly beneath his breath.

Reuth returned to contemplating the iron-grey waters. Yes, eventually they would find water. Or they would not. It did not matter. Eventually, just as certainly, they would meet their end.

And there was nothing any of them could do about it.

* * *

Shortly after the Silver Dawn set sail, leading the convoy of four ships into the Sea of Dread, Ieleen became ill. She refused to go below and would not budge from her seat behind the tiller. She sat all day leaning forward, knuckles white on her walking stick, her head bowed, pressing against her hands.

The times Jute had come to urge her to go below and lie down she’d snarled tersely and he’d backed away. They’d been under sail for six days now, although for the majority of the last day the description ‘under sail’ had no longer been accurate. The canvas hung limp. Only the barest of chill breaths brushed Jute’s neck. He ordered the crew to the rowing benches and they carried on.

But he was worried. He’d never seen Ieleen like this. It was as though she was being crushed beneath a terrible weight. Towards evening he went to her once more. He bent over her, but dared not touch her – she didn’t like to be touched when she was casting ahead. ‘Lass …’ he whispered. ‘Where away?’ She seemed to flinch. Her body beneath its layers of shawls shuddered as if in the grip of an ague. ‘What is it, lass?’