His father straightened. His manner, no longer furtive or afraid, belonged to the muster fields he’d not trod in decades. Perhaps just enough of the soldier remained to know that this last battle could not be won.

“I’ll not beg.”

Viktor rose. “I never thought you would.”

His father sprang. They fell, rolling over and over across the cavern, hands locked about one another’s throats. A flailing boot struck the fire-stone lantern. Glass shattered on stone. The golden light died, replaced by the soft phosphorescence of the cavern walls.

And all the while, Viktor’s father grunted and snarled, loosening his grip only to pummel his son about head and body, hammering at old wounds and opening new.

Viktor let his shadow flow free.

Darkness gathered his father up as it had at Freemont a lifetime ago. Heels bounced off stone and skittered back towards the river. Then Viktor was on him once more, his weight bearing them both down at the river’s edge.

His father’s head slipped beneath the inky surface. His body jack-knifed, and he broke spluttering for air. Viktor planted a palm beneath his chin and forced him below once more.

His father thrashed, clawing and punching. River water drenched them both. Through it all, Viktor had the strangest sensation. That the statues’ eyes watched with approval – almost with hunger. He held on as his father’s struggles faded, his own lungs aching in sympathy. Then Hadon Akadra’s desperate vibrancy turned limp and dark.

Sodden garb clinging to his skin, Viktor slid away onto the stony bank and waited for the rush of guilt. It never came. There was only purpose, and a sense of freedom. For he was free. Free to ride south without fear of what would happen in his absence. Free of his father’s selfishness and scorn.

“Goodbye, Father. May the Black River carry you to wherever you most deserve.”

Closing his hand about his father’s belt, Viktor tipped the body into the water. The current dragged Hadon Akadra out of sight and into history.

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Four

Josiri read the letter for the third time in hope that its contents might somehow differ from readings one and two. They remained every inch as impossible.

He let the paper fall and stared across the Council chamber. Weariness, held at bay by anticipation of homecoming for much of the night, returned as vengeful as a Thrakkian lost to a blood-debt. The only bright note was that Kurkas’ account made no mention of Calenne, though the omission was hardly grounds for hope. And Revekah . . . Gone, and by the cruellest road.

“This isn’t real,” he muttered. “It can’t be.”

Malachi stared at the letter much as one might regard an empty vial of poison beside one’s equally empty wine glass. Viktor’s expression gave no clue to his thoughts.