“I have one. But I wanted to arrive sooner. There’s someone I have to find.”

He broke off. There’d never been much chance that Calenne had survived the Battle of Davenwood. What hope he’d allowed himself floundered in the darkness.

Apara snarled a short, bitter laugh. “Can it be that you actually care about someone?”

“I care about everyone. Even you.” He fished a coin purse from his belt. She caught it smoothly, despite evident surprise. “For your service. Should I need you again, I’ll find you.”

Eyes narrowed in suspicion. “As easy as that? You don’t want me to stay?”

“I’ve distractions enough without worrying about a knife in the back. Go home.”

She hefted the purse. “This doesn’t excuse what you’ve done to me.”

“I don’t mean it to. If I don’t return, you may consider your debts paid, and a new life earned. Do better with it.”

She gave a slow nod and backed away. One eye ever fixed on him, she traced her fingers across brick, coaxing forth the mists. Greenish-white light spilled into the courtyard. For a time, it vied with the glow from Viktor’s lantern, a curious darkness flickering as a barrier where the two met. Then Apara was gone, and a gust of wind scattered the gate to nothing.

The walls of Cragwatch sat silent. Neither lantern nor flame graced the battlements. If anything moved within it did so hidden from Melanna’s sight. Like the Eskavord road, it seemed wholly bereft of life. Kreska at least had shown signs of activity, if furtive and fleeting.

At first, she’d told herself the quiet of Kreska was merely the aftermath of battle. That, or the fruits of whatever quarrel had broken out between the Tressian factions. But then she’d noted the wreath of bramble and black ivy nailed to the gate. The bonfires raging on the battlements, the sweet notes of duskhazel and fleenroot soured by burning flesh. Charms to ward off witchcraft, and fire to cleanse those suspected of the crime. And fear. Fear above all.

It had taken Melanna every scrap of willpower to press on into the Dark, but she had done so, through fields empty of workers and houses bereft of tenants. Before Kreska, she’d travelled with bow slung and daggers sheathed. After, she did so with arrow nocked. The silver arrowhead, blessed in the crystal waters of high temple, glowed with soft moonfire. Just as well, for she’d never have found her way through the trees without it.

And now she knelt on the ridge above Cragwatch, aged by every whisper of movement and scurry of claw on branch. Eskavord yet lay miles to the west, but already Melanna’s heart had almost failed her on more occasions than she could readily count.