Josiri didn’t much care either. Not with a span of broken sleep behind, and a surfeit of unresolved worries ahead. Even the clothes he wore were not his but borrowed from Viktor’s possessions – there’d been no saving his own garb. They were by no means a good fit. Even cinched in by a belt, the shirt felt like a sack.

“And I’d rather be sleeping,” he snapped. “Major Keldrov sent me. One of the prisoners requested a meeting.”

“Don’t see her with you, your grace.”

“She’s resting.”

Work parties had dug Keldrov out of the ruin of Blackridge Farm at dusk. Even stitched and bandaged up she looked more dead than alive. Josiri hadn’t found it in himself to drag her broken bones the quarter mile from the camp. Instead, he’d ordered her to sleep.

“Leaves us at an impasse, doesn’t it, your grace?”

“Not at all,” said Josiri. “One of two things is about to happen. Either you let me inside, or I send a herald to Lord Akadra. Which would you prefer?”

The guard beckoned towards the fire. “Dasari? His grace is going inside. You’re his escort. Rest of you, give me a hand with this bloody door, would you?”

The space within was thick with hunched or sleeping men, and others for whom slumber had become something deeper and irreversible. It stank of blood, sweat . . . and despair most of all. It brought to mind the desperate hours after Zanya where he and his uncle Taymor had waited for word of his mother. Just as he now awaited news of his sister.

Josiri shook the memory away. No distractions. There were no weapons in sight, but desperate men didn’t need them.

The gate slammed shut.

“You are his grace, the Duke of Eskavord?”

The speaker was an older man, with accented speech and grey hairs prominent in a dark beard. It also revealed the slightest quiver. Not of fear. Josiri would have bet long odds against that. Anger. Shame. Distrust. The speaker didn’t know what the dawn would bring. Not for himself, nor for those he served.

Josiri inclined his head. “I am.”

The watchful eyes eased. “Thank you, savir. My name is Aedrun. If you follow me, I will take you to the Lady Ashanal.”

Aedrun led Josiri around the perimeter, threading a path until they reached a wood and canvas lean-to set beneath the rampart of the palisade. It wasn’t part of the original construction, as the garrison had no need of cloistered spaces. Melanna Saranal plainly did.

A quick-fire exchange of Hadari came as the group approached the canvas curtain. A woman’s voice from within, and Aedrun’s from without. Josiri understood nothing of the melodic speech, though Aedrun’s unhappiness lurked beneath the words.

“You may go inside, savir,” Aedrun announced. “But you alone.”

Josiri passed into a blanket-strewn space barely large enough to lie down in.