Distantly, Viktor acknowledged that he should have been terrified. That he was not . . . ? He told himself it was anger – his determination to see no harm come to Calenne. But there was something else. Something harder to parse. There was a likeness. A bond. Even . . . a kinship? His shadow certainly seemed to believe so. Sated on the darkness he’d earlier drawn from Calenne, it rumbled like a contented kitten.

“Why?”

“Because you are to be my heir.”

“Slow down some, plant pot. Have sympathy for a war hero.”

Anastacia halted. Ahead, the loose column of soldiers and servants pressed on along the road, beneath trees made golden by molten dawn. Branghall was but a memory, lost to murk. There was only the circle of light and a world lost to shadow.

[[What did you call me?]]

Kurkas fidgeted against her shoulders. “This goes on, you’ll pull my damn arm off and leave the rest of me behind.”

[[I can carry you?]] Sarcasm dripped like venom.

“Feel bloody ridiculous, wouldn’t I? Just . . . not so fast.”

[[Your Lieutenant Brask sets the pace.]]

“She’s not mine, and she won’t get ahead of you, will she? Not if she likes seeing where she’s going.”

Kurkas tried not to think on the consequences of Anastacia’s presence pushing back the Dark. It was as good as lighting a beacon. Pursuit would be coming. That it wasn’t on their heels already suggested that Malatriant had been distracted from claiming Anastacia, but Kurkas knew better than to trust to that lasting long. Being carried would soon become the least of his problems.

The gold-and-white head dipped. [[As you wish. But it’s Anastacia, or Milady Herald of the First Circle, not plant pot.]]

“My mistake.”

A new sound rumbled beneath the birdsong and the swish of leaves. Hoof-beats. Kurkas’ heart quickened. Sound travelled oddly in the Dark. Pursuit from Eskavord, or aid from the north? The way his luck had run of late . . .

“Close up!” Brask’s cry echoed back along the road. Three long strides took her up the root-woven embankment. “Shield ring! On me!”

Kurkas nodded approval. Maybe Brask wasn’t so useless. The slope and closeness of the trees didn’t offer much shelter against cavalry, but it was better than an open roadway.

He was about to say so when the world lurched and the ground rushed away. Anastacia struck a brisk walk, leaving his objections trailing on the crisp morning air. Fifty bone-rattling paces later, she set him down in the heart of the shield ring.

Brask’s eyes brimmed with amusement.

“Something funny, lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

Kurkas shook his head, struck by the unmistakeable feeling that Halvor’s spirit was laughing at him from the mists.

The hoof-beats grew louder. Kurkas cast an eye about the make-shift formation. Twenty knackered soldiers, five terrified servants and Anastacia. It’d not be much of a stand.