Divine squabbles, in other words. Josiri still couldn’t quite believe what Anastacia had at last told him of her past. Nor did he disbelieve it. Of all her tales, this fitted far better than the rest. Or did he simply prefer to think of Anastacia as a serathi, rather than the demon Calenne named her?

Calenne. She could already be dead.

“Josiri?” Gavamor appeared at the stairway. Restless eyes and haggard expression lent urgency to unease. “Why are you here?”

“Same as before, Nials,” said Josiri. “Trying to prevent a terrible mistake.”

Gavamor swallowed. “You don’t know how much of a mistake. Crovan’s . . .”

“Crovan is capable of speaking for himself.”

The Wolf King stepped from the shelter of the trees. Silda Drenn came with him, an arrow nocked but the bow undrawn. Others appeared against the grey skyline. The mismatched leathers of Drenn’s brigands. The wolf-pelts of Crovan’s loyalists.

“I told you my protection had limits,” Crovan said wearily. “You shouldn’t have returned.”

“How could I not?” Josiri tried to forget how close he’d come to doing just that. He spread his arms to encompass the distant sounds of battle. “Our people are dying. Our friends are dying! Our families!”

Agreement swept the glade. Drenn’s sidelong glance at Crovan told a tale all its own.

Crovan batted the accusation aside. “They made their choice.”

Gavamor sat on the edge of a dancer’s plinth. His head hung almost to his knees. His weathered fingers toyed with the amulet about his neck. “Why don’t you tell him the rest, Crovan?”

His tone sent ice rushing through Josiri’s veins. Shrugging off Anastacia’s restraining hand, he approached Crovan. “Tell me what?”

Crovan brushed back his silvered wolf-pelt and laid a hand on his sword. Puzzle-pieces locked into position behind Josiri’s eyes. Crovan wore armour beneath his cloak. The wolf’s-heads were geared for battle. But they’d no intention of fighting? Or at least no intention of fighting the Hadari . . .

The day lost the last of its warmth. Revulsion crowded Josiri’s throat. He closed his eyes and waited for the anger to come. It never emerged from the black, choking cloud of despair.

“And you called me a traitor.”

Crovan jabbed a finger. “I won’t be judged by you! I’ve given everything to this cause! While you sat safe and cosy in Branghall, I suffered for our people. I bled for them! The blood in your veins counts for nothing – only the blood you’ve shed!”

“This isn’t about my pride. Or yours. It’s about freeing the Southshires.”

“Yes, it is,” Crovan replied. “If we don’t side with the Hadari, they’ll leave this place a blasted wasteland and take the children for slaves. Is that what you want?”