Feren had half turned, only to be snared by Arathan’s eyes.

Rint heard her whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’

In a harsh voice Draconus spoke. ‘Olar Ethil, come to my fires.’

The woman nodded, strangely formal. ‘I would never have done so,’ she said, ‘if not invited, Suzerain. Forgive me. I have been too long among the Dog-Runners, who prove so easy to bait that I cannot help myself.’ She cocked her head. ‘It seems that I am a cruel goddess.’

‘Be more mindful, then,’ Draconus replied, but there was no bite in his words; rather, a kind of tenderness. ‘They are vulnerable to deep hurts, Olar Ethil.’

She sighed regretfully. ‘I know. I grow careless in my power. They feed me with such desperation, such yearning! The Bonecasters voice prayers in my name, like biting ants beneath the furs. It drives me mad.’

Draconus settled a hand upon her shoulder, but said nothing.

She sank against him, resting her head against his chest.

Rint was dumbfounded. Draconus … who are you?

‘And,’ Olar Ethil continued, her voice muffled, ‘they make me fat.’

With an amused snort Draconus stepped away. ‘Do not blame them for your appetites, woman.’

‘What will you do?’ she asked him.

‘Where is Hood?’

‘I have heard that his grief has driven him mad. Lest he proclaim war upon the Azathanai, he was subdued by kin and is now chained in a cell in the Tower of Hate.’

‘The Jaghut have gathered? To what end?’

‘None can say, Draconus. The last time they gathered they argued themselves into the abandonment of their realm.’

Draconus seemed distracted for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘I will speak to the Lord of Hate. Tell me, do we know the slayer among the Azathanai?’

‘Not yet, Suzerain. Some are missing, or in hiding.’

Draconus grunted. ‘Nothing new in that.’

‘No.’

As they were speaking, Feren had been pulling at Rint’s grip on her arm. Finally her efforts drew his attention. But she was not interested in leaving his side. Instead, as he released her, she sagged to the ground, leaning hard against his legs. He felt the shudder of her silent weeping.

Rint felt sick inside. He wished they had never agreed to accompany the Consort. He wished that Ville and Galak would finally catch up with them, so they could all leave – break this contract and to the Abyss with the consequences. He wanted no more of this.

Draconus said, ‘Rint, help your sister tend to her wound, and then make camp upon the hill.’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Arathan.’

‘Sir?’

‘Find Raskan. Help him.’

‘Help?’ The boy’s eyes were wide with sudden fear.

Draconus frowned. ‘I meet your eyes. You are the son of Draconus. Go to him.’

* * *

Arathan found Sergeant Raskan crumpled against a wall, his face ravaged by grief. As he drew nearer, the man looked up, wiped roughly at his eyes and made to stand, only to sag once more on the wall. He looked away as if shamed.