‘I, like many others, had heard the rumours. That she killed my young half-brother, lying to her subjects that she’d sent him away to be schooled by holy men. That she was also responsible for the death of the king. And others. Her evil deeds sent her mad. And her madness made her all the more dangerous. Still, I should have acted against her.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Fleya asked, though there was no note of accusation in her voice.

‘I didn’t want to believe it. That, and the fact that those who opposed the queen in any way over the last year or so are no longer with us. Glaeverssun played his part in her reign of terror. He would have her remove anyone he thought posed a danger. I didn’t act against him either. Does that make me a coward, I wonder?’

‘No. As you said, you were a soldier, sworn to obey, not question.’ Fleya tilted her head. ‘The gods kept you alive for a purpose. Perhaps you are the man to make your kingdom whole again.’

‘We are sorry for what happened here, King Rinkor,’ Lann said. ‘Please know that my friends and I want nothing more than to leave your borders as quickly as possible.’

‘But your work here, and that of the dark blade, is not yet done.’ They all turned in surprise at the sound of the new voice.

The man stepped forth from the shadows. He was dressed in the uniform worn by the royal guards, but Lann recognised him immediately as the red-robed priest who had taken him to the hidden temple in Stromgard.

Rinkor and Astrid, their reactions triggered by years of combat training, drew their swords almost in unison. The man put his hands up to show he was unarmed. He seemed unfazed by this threat of violence. Indeed, the smile on his lips merely broadened.

‘He means us no harm,’ Lann said.

‘Who is he?’ Astrid asked, her sword still trained on the newcomer.

The man addressed her, but his words were for them all. ‘Someone who is interested in the Dreadblade and the safety of its wielder. Please, lower your weapons, my friends.’

Astrid glanced across at Rinkor, who gave her a small nod. The pair held the swords to their sides, although neither was willing to fully sheathe their blade.

‘This man and I met at the feast in Stromgard,’ Lann said.

‘He is no man,’ Fleya said, her voice as calm as the stranger’s. ‘He is the god Storren.’

Rinkor let out a gasp and dropped to his hands and knees, pressing his head to the cold stone of the dais. ‘You honour us, Storren. I know in the old times the gods walked among us,’ the newly crowned king said, his voice hoarse. ‘But I never thought I would come face-to-face with one.’