‘Unsuccessfully. But no matter. Eventually, Vix will lose this war of obstinacy and send us on our way once more. I foresee innumerable adventures in the offing.’ She collected up a small wooden carrying case, setting it on her lap before unclasping the lid and opening it. ‘In the meantime, I found a most iridescent breed of beetle on a tropical island, and had Vix collect as many of them as possible.’ She drew out a mortar and pestle, and then a bronze jar. ‘The wings, when finely ground and mixed with a drop of beeswax and olive oil, make for a most delightful kohl, don’t you think?’

‘Very enticing,’ K’rul said.

‘But you look pale. Decidedly too masculine, too, but never mind that. Almost bloodless, one might say. Have you been up to no good again?’

‘I have given freely of my power, Cera, not to any breed of mortal, but to all breeds of mortal. My blood swirls in the cosmos, swims to unmindful currents.’

Her deep blue eyes had narrowed and she now regarded him with vague disappointment. ‘Did you hear that, Vix? And you boasted of profligacy.’

Behind K’rul, Vix said, ‘Beware the Thelomen finding potent magic. Hmm. I shall have to pay them a visit, assuming once more the role of vengeful god.’

‘Do not wait too long,’ K’rul said to the tusked Azathanai behind him, ‘lest they do the swatting down.’

‘What a mess you’ve made,’ Vix said.

Shrugging, K’rul said, ‘It’s done. But now, with Skillen at my side, we set out to force some order upon the maelstrom.’

‘How?’ Cera Planto asked.

‘Dragons.’

‘Oh,’ said Cera. ‘Poor Skillen Droe!’

* * *

At last the mountains were behind Hanako and Lasa Rook, and ahead lay a level plain where even the forest dwindled, giving way to tufts of wiry grasses that looked sickly clinging to the salty clay. Hanako staggered woodenly beneath Erelan Kreed’s slack weight, while at his side Lasa Rook hummed a children’s song the words of which Hanako barely remembered, only that it was a tale of some orphan – and how many of those were there, anyway? – stealing fruit from some orchard, and some old witch who lived in an apple tree. One night the lad reached up and plucked the wrong fruit. Don’t mess with witches! ran the refrain, They’re rotten to the core!

Lasa Rook stopped humming abruptly, and then said, ‘Hanako of the Scars, your burden is exhausting you, leaving you little energy or attention to lavish upon me, and you well know how I enjoy being lavished. The situation, darling, is unsupportable.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Hanako, ‘if you could carry your own bedroll, and this cooking gear—’