If she didn’t know . . .

For the first time, Josiri realised she wasn’t the only one. There were two groups of northwealders within the camp. The first, weary and dishevelled, looked on with uncertainty as the second group – travel-stained but otherwise unsullied – wrought capture and oppression. Maybe this wasn’t Akadra’s work. But if not his, then whose?

[[Josiri!]]

Anastacia screamed – a sound so pained and desperate he didn’t at first recognise the voice as hers.

He turned. A proctor dangled from Anastacia’s grip. Three others converged, sun-staves held ready. Golden light flared. She cried out and fell to hands and knees. The captive proctor scrambled free. Anastacia strove to rise. Another jab – another golden bloom – and she collapsed anew.

[[Get out of here! Don’t let them take you!]]

“No!”

Josiri screamed his voice raw and thrust back his heels. His horse surged forward. A proctor made desperate parry, and his sword skittered away. A sun-staff blazed, drowning the grey morning in brilliance. Off-balance and blind, Josiri fell sideways from the saddle.

Muddy water rushed up his nose and into his mouth. He spat it out and grasped for purchase in a splotchy blue-black world. Something cracked against his wrist, jarring the sword from his hand. The butt of a staff thumped into his back, driving him to hands and knees.

“Stay down,” growled a proctor. “Or you get the other end.”

Josiri spat a bitter mouthful into the puddle and stayed down.

“Bind her!” A new, strident voice cut through the tumult. “Fetch silver! By the Holy Dawn I’ll have her back in Branghall where she belongs.”

Blinking furiously to clear his vision, Josiri stared up at a vision in scarlet robes, his fleshy face twisted in satisfaction. Makrov. Of course it was Makrov.

“What is the meaning of this, Makrov?” Josiri demanded.

“The meaning, your grace?” The archimandrite spoke with feigned surprise. “The Council would very much like you and your co-conspirators to answer for your crimes.”

“You mean now we’ve won the victory they could not?” Josiri laughed without humour. “And you wonder why my mother rejected your advances? You’re a coward, Makrov. A feckless, honourless . . .”

Makrov gestured. The staff thumped home. Josiri prised himself free of the mud.

The archimandrite leaned low over his horse’s neck. “You are a traitor, a troublemaker and an embarrassment. You’ve sought solace in the arms of this . . . this . . . demon . . .”

[[Oh Arzro,]] whispered Anastacia, [[does this mean we’re not friends any longer?]]

She convulsed as a sun-staff’s tip touched her shoulder. Her low, hollow moan set Josiri’s teeth on edge and his heart racing. Makrov’s eyes gleamed beneath bushy brows.

“Stop it!” snapped Josiri. “Let her alone!”

Makrov nodded. The light dimmed. Anastacia’s moan faded. She gazed up at Makrov, eyes brimming with murder.

[[Play . . . Play as rough as you like. I’ve a long memory.]]