“Beg your pardon, my lord, but it’s true. Every word.” The travel-stained soldier did his best to stand to attention as he spoke but wavered with exhaustion.

“Every word?” Tiredness and worry added bite to Josiri’s tone. “You know this for certain? That my home – my people – are overtaken by the Tyrant Queen of myth?”

He wanted to laugh, but too much of him believed. That was the fate of the Southshires, after all, for hope always to sour. With all mortal enemies exhausted, why should it seem strange that Immortal peril had descended?

“I can’t speak to that, my lord. I only know what Captain Kurkas said. But the Dark? I’ve felt it. Like spiders creeping on the skin. I’m glad to be out of it.”

That much, Josiri believed. The soldier was deathly pale, and the catch to his voice went beyond exhaustion.

“What’s your name, lad?” asked Viktor.

“Dastarov, my lord. Guardsman Dastarov of the 12th.”

Viktor nodded. “The Council thanks you for your service. Get some food, and some rest. Your horse will be seen to.”

Dastarov made an unsteady bow and withdrew. It seemed to Josiri that he took the last vigour with him, for the three men remaining looked suddenly old before their time. Three, not four as it should have been.

“Where’s Hadon?” Josiri asked. Easier to dwell on mundanities than tackle the issue at hand.

“My father hasn’t been seen since this evening,” rumbled Viktor. “I don’t doubt that with Ebigail Kiradin slumbering beneath stone he’s found a warmer bed. I’ve hearthguard out searching, but we’d be fools to expect him before dawn.”

Malachi nodded wearily. “Viktor’s right. We can’t wait.”

Josiri looked from one to the other. Neither of his companions looked wholly at ease, but that was hardly surprising. If even half of Kurkas’ letter was founded in fact, Hadon Akadra’s absence was the least of their concerns. But still, he had the sense of something unsaid – as if the two shared a truth they couldn’t bear to give voice. Under other circumstances, he’d have pursued it. As it was . . .

“Kurkas is your man,” he said to Viktor. “Do you believe him?”

“Yes.” The reply came without hesitation.

Malachi flinched. “But Malatriant? She’s a myth. A name to curse by.”

“And is Rosa a myth?” rumbled Viktor. He turned his gaze on Josiri. “Is Anastacia? The Crowmarket and their kernclaws? For that matter, am I? Or Sidara? Myth is merely a word for history half-forgotten, and our history is malleable as clay.”

“Kurkas must be mistaken,” insisted Malachi.

Josiri stared at the second signature – this one inked in a flowing, elegant hand. Its presence reduced myriad possibilities to a single, horrific certainty.

“I can’t imagine Ana lending her name to a document against her will.”