‘I know,’ he said as he built up the tinder round the base of the tree. ‘I know I but send you back into the flames. And in fire there is doubtless no pain for one such as you.’ He splashed oil against the bole of the tree, emptied the flask. ‘Unless … the desire behind the fire has power. I think it does. I think that is why a raider’s firing a house is a crime, an affront. Burning to death – malicious hands touching the flame to life – I think this has meaning. I think it stains the fire itself.’

He drew out his tinder box and found the embers he had this very morning collected from the cookfire. ‘I do this wanting to hurt you, Olar Ethil. And I want that to matter.’

He set the embers down beneath a thick twisted bundle of grasses, watched as the smoke rose, and then, as flames licked to life, Rint stepped back.

The fire spread, and then found the oil. Like serpents the flames climbed the trunk of the tree. The lowest branches, with their nests of black lichen, burst alight.

Rint backed away from the heat. He watched as the flames surged from branch to branch, climbing ever higher. He watched as branches from the trees to either side caught, and the sound was a building roar.

When he heard her begin screaming, he walked back to his horse, climbed into the saddle, and rode away.

Her shrieks followed him down the hill.

* * *

Feren stared up at the burning trees. She could hear the witch’s frantic screams and they made her smile.

When Rint re-joined them they turned as one and made their way back through the village.

This time Azathanai were emerging from their homes, to stare up at the wall of flames commanding the hilltop, and the grey smoke rising from them. Then they turned to watch the Borderswords riding past, and said nothing.

Feren held her smile, and offered it to every face turned her way.

* * *

Father and son rode side by side through the morning, saying little. Shortly after noon Draconus reined in suddenly and twisted in the saddle. He peered eastward, in the direction they had come. Arathan did the same, but could see nothing untoward.

‘Father?’

Draconus seemed to hunch slightly. ‘Raskan is dead.’

Arathan said nothing. He did not want to believe his father’s words, but he did not doubt the truth of them.

‘She saw it as mercy,’ Draconus continued after a moment. ‘Does that make a difference?’

The witch killed him? He thought of the clay figurine in his saddle bag. He had not wanted to take it from his father’s hands. He wished now that he had refused him. When your love is too much to bear. For the fire, boy, for the fire.