Sheltatha Lore snorted. ‘Historian, look at a map before speaking so foolishly. Our borders are rough things for a reason. We are surrounded by poor land, once home to wild herds that are no more. Wherever settlers tried to break the soil, they failed. To the north are the Jheleck, already pushed as far as they can go – if we renew that war, sir, we will be facing a most desperate enemy and it will be a fight to the death with no quarter possible. But oh, that’s right, we won’t have our legion any more, will we? The east belongs to the Vitr’s foul influence, while the Forulkan are to the south. West? Ah, but you know that path well enough, yes?’

Sagander’s frown was now a scowl. ‘Do not presume to know more than your betters, child. I am well aware of our geographical limits. The push must be south and west. As you say, I do know, firsthand now, the land of the Azathanai, and I tell you: they have yielded it. And to the south, well, the Forulkan are defeated. They live in fear of us.’ He waved a hand. ‘The fighting that may come of that we can leave to the Hust Legion.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Sheltatha smiled. ‘And it will be most informative, I should think, watching them today, these embittered prisoners and cast-offs.’

‘In any case,’ Sagander said, ‘we need only clear the forests to find more arable land.’

‘And the fate of the Deniers?’

‘You have not been paying attention,’ Sagander snapped. ‘Most of the women and children have been slaughtered. No, their time is done, and like so many other forest creatures, they will fade away.’

‘And you admit no pity for them, historian?’

‘Pity? A waste of effort.’

‘Yet not,’ Sheltatha said, ‘when it comes to your own infirmity.’

Sagander glared at her.

‘Be silent, Sheltatha,’ said Syntara with a weary sigh. ‘We all have our appointed roles, after all, to occupy our thoughts. Look to yourself instead, and the destiny soon to find you.’ She smiled across at the young woman. ‘I see you already spreading your legs in a temple cell – shall we make you a gift to Mother Dark?’

‘Well, Syntara, who knows? I’ll see if your old cell is still there, shall I? Though I imagine the sheets will need a thorough washing, with a nice flat rock to beat out the worst of the stains, if such a thing is even possible.’

In cold fury, Syntara lashed out, a sorcerous eruption of raw power meant to strike Sheltatha in the face. Instead, it was somehow shunted aside, slamming into the carriage door’s shutters. Splintered wood exploded within the confines, slivers striking both Sagander and Syntara. Crying out, the High Priestess reached up to her face and felt splinters jutting out from her cheeks. Uncomprehending, she pulled her hands away and stared at the fresh blood covering them.