A girl, damned in conception, and when Feren imagined looking upon its newborn face, she saw her own, cheek gashed and bleeding, with eyes that knew only hate.

The torment of her thoughts shredded and spun away when Raskan clambered into view and she saw what had been done to him. He looked aged far beyond his years, his motions palsied and febrile as those of an ancient with brittle bones as he tottered to the fire and slowly sat down. He looked more than shocked; he looked ill, and Feren wondered if the witch’s brutal sorcery had stolen more than peace from his soul.

Rint was stirring a broth on the fire. He did not look up when he spoke and his words were gruff. ‘Every witch has cold hands. The touch wears off, sergeant.’

‘She is Azathanai,’ the sergeant replied, making the statement a rejection of all that Rint had offered him.

‘A witch all the same,’ Rint responded doggedly. ‘Even the Jheleck know of this Olar Ethil, who looks out from flames and yearns to meet your eyes. They call her power Telas. We have all felt it, when the night slumps just before dawn, and we look upon the hearth, expecting to see nothing but embers, and are shocked at the sight of fresh flames.’ He nudged another stick into the fire. ‘And then … other times … who hasn’t fallen silent when sitting round a hearth, eyes trapped by the deadly spirit in the flames? You feel the cold on your back and the heat on your face, and it seems that you cannot move. A trance grips you. Your eyes are locked, and in your mind, moving like half-seen shadows, ancient dreams stir awake.’

Feren stared across at her brother, half in wonder and half in fear. Rint’s face was twisted into a grimace. He stirred the broth as if testing the depth of mud before his next step.

Beside Feren, Raskan’s breathing was harsh and rapid. ‘She has touched you, Rint.’

‘She has, though I knew it not at the time. Or perhaps I did, but kept the truth from myself. We are ever made uneasy by what we do not know, and there is no virtue in recognizing that, since it speaks only of our own ignorance.’

‘Better ignorance than this!’

With that hoarse admission from Raskan, Arathan arrived. He halted a few paces from the fire, and Feren saw how he would not look at her. This was a relief, since the single glance she had just cast his way burned like a knife blade in her chest. She felt her eyes drawn to the flickering flames and quickly looked away, off into the night.

Better ignorance than this! Voice that cry as if the words were holy, for they are surely that. Words to haunt our entire lives, I should think.

Rint rose. ‘Feren, if you would, the bowls are here.’