At last, the constabulary gates opened. Two dozen prisoners swelled the column – members of the Grand Council, and a handful of aides. A grey-haired and neat-bearded fellow fell into step beside Malachi, his lips parted in a sardonic smile.

“Well I never. Malachi Reveque. And this, I presume, is the troublesome Duke of Eskavord.”

Malachi nodded. “Josiri? Jardon Krain, councillor for Rackan and the Outer Eastshires.”

“No friend to Ebigail Kiradin, I assume?” said Josiri.

Krain’s green eyes twinkled. “Friends don’t have friends arrested on charges of treason, and certainly not at dawn. Most uncivilised. Would you believe she sent Prydonis knights for me? I suppose I should count that a compliment.”

So Ebigail had the loyalty of Prydonis as well? The chapterhouses were more than looking the other way – they were as complicit as Horden, and likely for the same reason. However readily Ebigail cast her own family aside, she understood the power of blood.

Horden bellowed, and the column moved out.

“You know where they’re taking us?” asked Josiri.

“I hear tell of the Hayadra Grove,” said Krain. “A burning and a forest of gallow-trees. We should make quite the spectacle.”

The road narrowed and climbed into the heart of the old town. Timber-framed houses leaned closer as if to examine the curious parade. Malachi glimpsed worried faces at leaded windows. Worried, or perhaps grateful the day’s events were passing them by.

Josiri drifted closer. “If they get us to the grove, we’re dead.”

Malachi glanced back at their fellow captives without enthusiasm. Twenty-odd manacled prisoners – most of them far older than he – matched against an equal number of guards. Slim odds. Very slim. And that was assuming the others would fight. Most looked too beaten to consider resistance.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

The column lurched to a halt before Josiri could reply.

Malachi stared out over the shoulders of the leading constables. A knight stood in the middle of the road, arms folded. Tan skin betrayed a life lived beyond the city walls, and a hunter’s green surcoat proclaimed his loyalty to Essamere. This last, he shared with the double rank of men and women stood behind.

“Well, well, well,” he said, the eastsider’s hollow vowels and softened consonants echoing along the street. “This is a right shabby parade, and no mistake.”

Horden broke ranks, his hand on his sword. “Stand aside, Izack. We’re under council orders.”

“Is that so?” Izack drifted closer. However nonchalant his manner, Malachi found no levity in voice or expression. “Seems to me you’ve more of the Council in chains than you’ll find on the hill. You sure you’ve the right of all this?”

Horden drew his sword.

“Clear the road,” he growled. “These men are traitors.”