‘But soldiers—’

Vastala’s hand tightened its grip. ‘Soldiers! They blunt their guilt for every life taken. Their souls bear desperate shields, deflecting every threat away from themselves and towards their leader, king, queen, god or goddess. The one who demands of them the spilling of blood. In defence. Or conquest. Or punishment.’

‘Or disbelief,’ added Hataras. ‘Death to the faithless for the misguided Deniers.’

‘Children inside,’ Vastala said dismissively. ‘Guilt a lie. Wrongness made righteous. Lies to the self, lies to all others, lies to the god worshipped, lies to the children to come. Soldiers play, in the name of goddess or god, king or queen. In the name of generations to come. In the name of all but the true name.’

Hataras gestured ahead. ‘The child self. Cruel without necessity. Cruelty that tastes of pleasure. Such exists among hunters whom we have failed. Such exists among soldiers.’

They were drawing closer. Listar prised his hand loose from Vastala’s grip, felt the cold bite of its absence. ‘And criminals,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘So,’ said Hataras, ‘to the ritual. Dog-Runners do not abide adults who stay children inside. We force truths upon them. To draw aside the veil, this is what we will do.’

‘I told you of the woman, Rance.’

‘Yes, Punished Man. We will examine her.’

‘Be warned,’ interjected Vastala, ‘some things we cannot heal. Some things need to be cut away. Sometimes the one lives, sometimes it dies.’

‘Our captains wish you to begin with her,’ said Listar. ‘And they wish your ritual to be witnessed by all in the camp.’

Vastala smiled. ‘We are to perform. Good. Dog-Runners not shy.’

‘Indeed,’ Listar replied, recalling the night just past.

Vastala drew close to him again and peered into his face, and then she nodded. ‘Hataras, you spoke true. Our children will bear the tilt of his eyes. Our children will carry within them the promise of a life beyond the fate of the Dog-Runners. So. It is an even exchange.’

The notion that he had planted the seeds of children in these two women made Listar flinch. He forced his thoughts away, telling himself that such things could not yet be known, and that their words of payment – for the ritual to come – could not be weighed in flesh and blood.

Ahead, soldiers stationed at the pickets had seen them, and while one set off to deliver the news, others began gathering from the camp, drawn out to the defensive line by curiosity, or, perhaps, boredom.

‘I think,’ said Listar, ‘the secret’s out.’

‘No Azathanai hide in yonder camp,’ said Hataras. ‘Good. They are obsessed with secrets.’

Listar frowned at her. ‘You can sense their presence?’

Both women nodded. ‘We have learned this talent,’ said Vastala.

‘By tasting the fires of the hearth, the breath of smoke.’

‘By lapping the valley between Mother’s legs.’