“We’re not ready,” he repeated. “The Republic’s done too good a job of keeping the people docile. I’ve done too good a job. We need to shake them from complacency first. I need you to understand that. And I need you to convince Crovan.”

“Of course.” Disappointment coursed thick through Revekah’s voice. “I stood with your mother. My loyalty’s yours until the day I die. But when that day comes I want to face it free, not hiding in the woods, haunted by what might have been.”

Anastacia’s lips curled into a sneer, though she had the good sense to say nothing.

Josiri laid a hand on Revekah’s shoulder. “You won’t. The Phoenix will rise. You’ll be there to see it. I promise.”

“And the Hadari?”

He stared up at the moon. Were the Hadari even now pleading with Ashana for swift victory in the Southshires? Everything had its reflection. Night and day. Ashana and Lumestra. Empire and Republic. All save the Southshires. Where did they belong? And what part did Josiri Trelan have to play?

“The Hadari remain the Council’s problem, until they become ours.”

Revekah set her hand over his, her bony grip firm. “I suppose that will have to do. But you didn’t venture out here to offer a pledge to an old woman. What did you want of Crovan?”

Josiri blinked. Lost in the perils and possibilities of the future, he’d quite forgotten. His wants seemed trivial – even childish – when set against the prospect of invasion. But perhaps – just perhaps – they were precisely what was needed.

“To ask a favour,” he said. “It concerns Makrov.”

“Our good archimandrite?” A smile gleamed. “I’m listening.”

Everything chafed. The shirt, the leather hunter’s coat. The britches . . . the britches most of all. Melanna longed for silken battle-robes. Even one of the embroidered dresses she wore when taking her place alongside her royal peers in the Hadari Golden Court. The latter wouldn’t have been practical among the briars and branches, but at least she’d have been comfortable. She couldn’t conjure how Tressians marched in such constricting garb, much less fought battles.

Melanna was to do neither that night. This was merely another step in familiarising herself with the lay of the land. It was more than her father had sanctioned, but it was far less than she longed for. She enjoyed more freedom than any other princessa before her – let alone one of her tender eighteen winters.

Branches crackled on the darkened slopes. Too much and too often to be creatures of the night. The wind bore voices through the moonlit trees. Urgent. Strident. Pained.

Melanna crouched, hand on the dagger at her belt. She’d have preferred a sword. Alas, such was denied to her.