“On his last visit, he told me that I was the other half of his soul. So no, I don’t believe he would. He’d sooner die, I think. And I . . .” Calenne shook her head and stared down at the book. “It doesn’t matter.”

Josiri frowned. “What? What doesn’t matter?”

Calenne offered a small, resigned smile. “I’ve had bad dreams of late. The Black Knight. Waking up screaming doesn’t do wonders for my mood.”

The Black Knight. Viktor Akadra. The Phoenix-Slayer. The man who’d murdered their mother. He’d taken root in the dreams of a terrified six-year-old girl, and never let go. Josiri had lost track of how often in that first year he’d cradled Calenne as she’d slipped off to broken sleep.

“Is that why you’re back to hiding up here? He’ll not harm you, I promise.”

“I know he won’t.” Her shoulders drooped, and her tone softened. “But thanks, all the same.”

She set the book aside and joined him inside the tower proper. Josiri drew her into an embrace, reflecting, as he so often did, what a curious mix of close and distant they were. The decade between them drove them apart. He doubted he’d ever understand her. Fierce in aspect, but brittle beneath.

“The world’s against us, little sister. We Trelans have to stick together.”

Two

Two

The kraikon loomed through the trees, as implacable as the colossal bronze statue it resembled. Burgeoning moonlight revealed an angular, stylised form more than twice Josiri’s height. Golden magic hissed through lesions in an antiquated frame, crackling across the king’s blue tabard and segmented steel plate. Empty, expressionless eyes swept the undergrowth from beneath an open helm.

Josiri held his breath. He pressed against the black oak and willed the kraikon to continue its patrol of Branghall’s overgrown gardens. There wasn’t a curfew as such. As ever, the bars of the cage were carefully hidden to ease cooperation. But to be caught beneath the estate wall at so late an hour? That would provoke questions he didn’t wish to answer.

The kraikon stomped away through the night, the tip of its horsehair plume scraping against overhanging branches. Josiri allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“Evening, your grace.”

The whisper was so close that the breath of it fell warm on Josiri’s ear. He jumped, the involuntary yelp forming on his lips. A gloved hand stifled the cry, then slipped away.

“Careful.” The whisper returned, leavened with amusement. “Don’t want to upset the lummox.”

Cheeks warming with embarrassment, Josiri pulled away. Revekah Halvor offered a toothy grin and sat carefully on an exposed root.