Melanna took leave of Brannor and passed inside. The Immortals within greeted her with the usual mix of curiosity and disdain. Melanna left her weapons in their care and eased aside the bear-pelt screening the inner sanctum.

A fire smouldered at the centre of the chamber. It set the air dancing with rich wood smoke, and the subtle scents of heather and jasmine. Almost enough to mask the earthy aromas of mud and stale sweat – but not quite.

Beyond the fire, crouched low over the generous, map-laden trestle, stood Melanna’s father. Kos Devren, warleader of the host, was a grizzled, unhappy presence at his side, his finger stabbing down at parchment.

“We should march while we can.” Devren delivered the suggestion as tersely as one could to royalty. “We have the passes. Every Tressian within a league is scrambling away west. Sitting here does nothing but rob us of advantage.”

“We’ve been over this, old friend.” Melanna’s father ran a hand through his neat beard and massaged cheeks the colour of weathered teak. Even in silken robes rather than armour, he remained every inch the warrior. A full head taller than the cadaverous warleader and nearly twice as broad, he spoke softly, safe in the knowledge the words would be heeded. “We are here to invite battle, not enter it unwisely. Haste invites defeat.”

“And delay gives Maggad time to seize victory in the north! If he breaches the Ravonn, he’ll have your throne. You’ll have the sword’s kiss. And your daughter – if she’s lucky – will be a bride of brief moonlight.”

Melanna stiffened. Taken as a trophy, then discarded? She’d die first.

She said nothing to alert the men to her presence. Nor did Hal Drannic, her father’s bodyguard, make any move to do so. Drannic wasn’t much given to words, and favoured actions as the vessel of his thoughts. Only the tiniest flicker of his brow acknowledged that he’d seen her at all.

“Maggad is an old man,” said Melanna’s father. “His days of greatness lie squandered. He’ll let caution guide him. One failure is more than he can afford.”

“So why are you here?”

“Hnh.” Melanna’s father grinned, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table. “In case I’m wrong, of course. And because the Golden Court sneers at complacency. Even if Maggad fails, I can expect another challenge within the year. I need a victory to cement my claim.”

“Then we will give you one, savir.” Devren’s lips twisted in thought, then smoothed. Thin fingers danced across the map. “Our outriders estimate no more than a few hundred soldiers between us and Kreska. Konor Belenzo may be long dead, but his tomb and the cathedral remain places of pilgrimage. Whatever else the Tressians abandon, they’ll fight for Kreska, and fight hard.”

“The walls at Kreska are thick,” said Melanna. “It will mean months of siege.”