“Thank you, Captain Kurkas.” The Black Knight’s growled reply contained a hint of humour, despite his glare. “But the matter is in hand.”

Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. His gaze didn’t leave Calenne’s sword. “If you say so.”

“I do. Take the company on to Eskavord. Leave a dozen soldiers and one of the carts. We’ll follow along, assuming our guest is well enough to travel.”

“Certainly has a vigour to her. You sure you don’t . . .”

“That will be all, captain.”

“Right you are.” Kurkas bowed and beat a hasty retreat.

Calenne’s captor – or should that have been rescuer? – waited in silence, hands raised in surrender to a woman little more than half his size, seemingly unworried at the tableau’s inherent ridicule.

“You’re going to Eskavord?” Calenne said at last, raising her voice over the noise of the departing soldiery.

“I’ve business with your brother.” His lips shifted. Not quite a smile, but not wholly not a smile either. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to introduce us? It has been some time since Josiri and I last met.”

Fifteen years was indeed a long time. And yet he’d recognised her. No wonder as to why.

“My name is Viktor . . .”

“Akadra.” Calenne spat the word. “I know who you are. You killed my . . . You killed Katya.”

“So I am told,” he said drily. “But you of all people should know that no truth escapes the Council’s lips unsullied.”

She jerked the sword-point at his chest. “What do you mean?”

“I offered your mother protection. Instead, she embraced the Raven.”

Calenne glared at him. It couldn’t be true . . . could it? The Black Knight was a murderer. She wanted to snarl rejection, but the narrative of a lifetime’s nightmares could offer no rebuttal to the soft-spoken claim. Akadra hadn’t sought to convince, but to relay fact.

“You’re lying.” Even to her, the rejection sounded feeble.

“Why would I do so? I make no apology for those I slay, nor do I feel shame for the deed. Death, after all, is my calling and my duty.”

The desire to believe him was overpowering. Why? She’d lived her whole life in fear of the Black Knight, the cruel revenant from her past. But now he was before her, the mantle didn’t fit. And if that were so . . .

“I always knew she was a coward,” she whispered.

“No. Your mother was a brave soul.” He spoke warmly, almost reverently. “In many ways, I admired her conviction. She taught me much that day. I’ve held the lessons close.”

The compliment, delivered so close behind the accusation of suicide, served only to harden the latter’s veracity in Calenne’s mind. A long-held truth slid away, but another hardened to granite.

Her knuckles whitened on the sword. “She wasn’t my mother!”