A pair of king’s blue soldiers scuttled forward, a coil of silver rope in their hands.

“As have I,” said Makrov. “And I’m sure silver will hold you as well in this form as it did in your other. As for you, your grace, declining the Council’s invitation would be a poor choice. I’m certain that bandit Merrik would tell you so . . . were it not for the fact that he’s dining with the Raven even as we speak. The disgraced Proctor Gavamor too.”

Josiri offered silent prayer for his fallen comrades. They deserved better. They all deserved better. Even Melanna Saranal, whose fate he was now to share.

Summoned to Council. Just like his father. So easy now to understand why his mother embraced the Raven. Had Josiri a knife to hand, he’d have taken the same course then and there – though he’d have taken Makrov’s throat first, sun-staves or no.

Thunder rippled across the sky. Josiri caught a glimpse of his sword, just out of reach.

[[Next time,]] Anastacia murmured, [[just run.]]

“No,” said Josiri. “Never.”

He tensed, a shiver running up his spine as the folds of his sodden clothes shifted. One last deed before the mists took him.

The soldiers paused, Anastacia’s wrists still half-bound. Josiri glanced up. A giant loomed through the rain behind Makrov, his face grim as death.

“Arzro Makrov!” bellowed Viktor Akadra. “I would have words.”

For one joyous moment in the hissing rain, Viktor thought Makrov might fall from his saddle in surprise. Alas, the archimandrite steadied himself on the cusp of no return and turned his steed smartly about.

“Lord Akadra, a pleasure to . . .”

“Enough.” Viktor’s fury, building ever since Yanda’s warning, threatened to spill over into unwise action. He buried it deep and gestured sharply at Josiri and Anastacia. “Let them up.”

Makrov flinched but held his ground. “They are malcontents of the first order and will be treated as such.”

“The Council granted me a warrant of pardon,” growled Viktor. “For Josiri Trelan and all others I deemed worthy.” He let his voice carry through the rain. “I proclaim all who fought yesterday to be worthy! Anyone who breaks this decree will answer to me! In private, and with a sword in their hand!”

The sounds of battle faded. Fitful stillness overtook the camp. Southwealders eyed Makrov’s soldiers uneasily and were regarded with suspicion in return. Those northwealders who’d shed blood alongside those Makrov had come to claim stood frozen – uncertain and apprehensive.

Stalemate.

“Major Keldrov!” Viktor shouted. “Kindly escort the archimandrite from the camp. He and his men are leaving. Everyone else stays!”