It had been easier at Branghall, when folk had been distant names and faces seldom seen. When Viktor Akadra had been the murderous Black Knight at the head of an anonymous, oppressive horde. But what good did it do if she hurled herself into this madness? She’d spent her life fleeing her mother’s . . . Katya’s . . . poisonous legacy. If she gave that up, if she abandoned her dreams of untetherment, she might as well be dead.

Viktor’s hand rested on her shoulder. She shook it away.

“Josiri is back at Branghall,” she snapped. “It’s the only home he knows, and he lacks the courage to seek another. I wish you the joy of getting him to listen. He’s certainly never paid me any heed. Not that anyone ever does.”

“Calenne, wait!”

She strode away without reply, and without a backward glance. But though she left Viktor behind, the conflicts he’d awoken remained with her at every step.

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Seven

The door slammed back with a boom that echoed to the rafters. A cold draught swirled wilted flower petals from the flagstones. Josiri glanced tiredly up from the table. He’d hoped wine’s embrace might make Branghall seem less empty, and his life less the punchline to a poor joke. It had only pushed the world behind filthy glass and left him a prisoner with his scalded pride.

“Josiri Trelan! It is past time we had words!”

Viktor Akadra bore down, his shoulders set and his face impassive. Fully armoured and surcoated from neck to boots, he was the spit of Josiri’s memories of that long-ago Ascension night.

Josiri reached for his glass. “I’ve said all I care to.”

“Then listen.”

Gripping the heavy oaken timbers in gauntleted hands, Akadra heaved the table first onto one end, and then tipped it aside. Bottles shattered on flagstones.

Josiri leapt to unsteady feet and swung a fist at Akadra’s face. Into that blow he poured every drop of self-loathing for driving Calenne away. Every ounce of disappointment that Anastacia was gone. Every scrap of worthlessness for having been so easily supplanted by Drakos Crovan.

It flailed to nothing in empty air.

Josiri had a drunken heartbeat to contemplate fresh failure. A hammer-blow struck his ribs. He doubled over, gasping. A heavy hand clamped about his collar and dragged the world sideways.

“Unhand me!”

Akadra dragged him backwards across the hall. Josiri battered at the Black Knight’s forearm and dug his heels against flagstones. He might as well have struck stone or sought purchase on Wintertide ice.

“Unhand me! Guards! Guards!”

Akadra ignored him. No guards came. Of course not. Their allegiance had never been his. Reaching the window, Akadra yanked Josiri to his feet and crushed his cheek against the glass.

“Do you see that?” demanded Akadra. “Do you?”