‘Speak, then.’

‘The Legion will not ignore what we have done. They will come for us, and there will be a battle.’

‘Only one?’

‘If we are unlucky.’

‘And if we’re not? Not… unlucky?’

‘Well, yes, that is it, isn’t it. By fortune we would plant a single, bloodied tree, from which we would seed an entire forest.’

The image pleased her. ‘A new home for the Deniers.’

‘Indeed? Would you be pleased to live in it?’

She shrugged to hide a momentary dismay at the bleakness of the promise. ‘Enough battles to end the war. Isn’t that how it works, Yedan Narad?’

He looked away. ‘I hope to meet Orfantal again, one day, to offer him my apology.’

‘He won’t even remember the slight.’

‘No?’

‘No. If he remembers anything, Yedan Narad, it will be the veteran’s fists and boots, beating you unconscious. He’ll remember that.’

‘Ah… that is… unfortunate.’

‘The dog cowers at harsh words, but flinches at a kick. Of the two, only one of them will turn a dog bad.’

‘He struck me, not the boy,’ Narad growled, as if that made a difference.

She turned about, sheathing her weapons, and took a step before pausing to glance back over her shoulder. ‘Do not look at me any more.’

‘Lahanis?’

‘You can’t save me. There’s nothing to save. Nothing to bless.’

He said nothing as she walked away. Returning to her now chilled furs, she curled up beneath them and fought against the shivers of cold shuddering through her.

Priests still did not belong to war, but she’d begun to understand their presence in every army’s camp. It is not the day of fighting that needs blessing, but the night without peace that follows it.

Her wedding dress was rotting, but the smell of her violation was fresh, wafting over Narad as she appeared beside him. He had turned about, when he was certain that Lahanis had lost her desire to murder him, and once more he faced the forest.

She stood close, their arms almost brushing. ‘Someone wore the crown today,’ she said.

‘What crown?’

‘While another must be turned away, and so be made to fail. The royal blood must be thinned, prince.’

He shook his head. Obscure statements were irritating enough, but her insistence upon unearned and unwelcome titles was infuriating. He no longer stared out into a forest. Somewhere, in between blinks, the world was transformed. Before him, riding the coruscating waves of the silver sea, was the carcass of a dragon, rolling up on to the strand, then turgidly flopping as the waves receded. A trail of blood and gore climbed the white sands from the scaled body, wavering drunkenly, ending where Narad stood, punctuated by the point of his resting sword. He was breathing hard, oily sweat cooling on his red-streaked skin.

‘Her name was Latal Menas.’

‘Who?’