Sera brushed a hand to Melanna’s cheek. “You have taken a first step today, Ashanal. Now your father will know your true worth, as he will know the worth of the lunassera.”

Ashanal. Daughter of Ashana. A poetic name of which Melanna felt unworthy. And as for her father . . . She dreaded the conversation to come almost as much as she longed for it. Was that now her life? Truths held in opposition?

“Savim.” An older man in Immortal’s scale and a warleader’s midnight silks splashed through the Greshmar’s shallow waters. The impassive mask of his helm stood stark contrast to the vigour of his tone. Head bowed in respect, he dropped to one knee. “You have my thanks for the victory. And for avenging my son, who fell in the first charge.”

Melanna nodded stiffly. “He served Empire and Goddess well, warleader. As does his father.”

The Immortal’s armour shifted as his chest swelled. In pride, or in grief? Probably a little of both. “It is my honour, savim. Please . . . when the pyres are lit, will you lead the prayers, to guide my son on his Last Ride?”

Melanna hesitated. The rites were the business of priests, not princessas. But Sera offered a surreptitious nod, and she found herself echoing it.

“If that is your wish.” She took a deep breath. “But rise. I will not have you shy from me.”

Haltingly, he obeyed. “Yes, savim.”

“Ashanal,” corrected Sera, a warning edge in her voice.

The Immortal nodded. “Ashanal . . . And there is one more thing.”

“And that is?” asked Melanna.

“We have prisoners,” he replied. “Enough to slow us down and too many to set loose to fight again. What is your order?”

Her order? Melanna stared down the gorge to a knot of bloodied and miserable Tressians ringed by spears and watchful eyes. She knew the decision the warleader sought. Too many had died that day for clemency. The warleader’s son, and those who had fallen at his side could not ride into Otherworld without companions. Better it be those who had brought about his death than his surviving kinsmen.

And yet, it was one thing to kill in battle. Quite another to order the deaths of the defenceless. To enter the mists was death, whether you did so through failing mortality, or because magic opened the door and duty bore you through. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.

She had to.

For a heartbeat, Melanna thought she saw the Huntsman watching her from among the trees. She thought she heard his voice. This is what you desired. And now you must make it your own.

She couldn’t show weakness. Not now. The history of the Empire was a history written in blood. If she was not prepared to author that tale . . .

“Put them to death,” she said. “All of them.”

Thirty

Thirty