A dozen riders peeled out of the northern darkness like oil separating from water. All carried naked swords and wore green surcoats blazoned with white stars. All save one, arrayed in the same black and silver uniform as Kurkas – if one far less worn.

[[Josiri?]]

Leaving Kurkas grasping at a tree for support, Anastacia parted the misshapen shield ring and ran – actually ran – onto the road. Josiri hauled his steed to a halt and dismounted into an embrace so heartfelt it warmed even Kurkas’ sorry soul.

Brask’s shoulders slumped. The shield ring softened. The lead knight walked her horse around the oblivious couple and removed her helm. “Captain Kurkas?”

“Lady Orova.” Kurkas grinned. “Nice to see a familiar face.”

She nodded. “How long has it been? Two years since that squabble at Ardovo?”

“About that. This is worse.” He stared back along the empty road. “Tell me you’ve more coming.”

“Two regiments, and three brotherhoods. Plus every proctor, simarka and kraikon that could be spared. We saw the light and rode ahead.”

Kurkas grunted. “All that on the word of a hearthguard captain? Council must be going soft.”

Lady Orova’s lips tightened. “Let’s just say you’ve missed a lot.”

Words and tone practically screamed to be questioned. Instead, Kurkas stared at the remaining riders. “Lord Akadra not with you?”

Josiri disentangled himself from Anastacia. “He said he’d find his own way here. You’ve not seen him?”

“Not a whisker. Not that we’ve been looking.”

Josiri’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Maybe he never left Tressia.”

“No.” Lady Orova spoke with flat certainty. “He said he’d be here, and by a faster road. He’d not break that promise.”

[[Then where is he?]] asked Anastacia.

“I’ve seen him.”

A new shape emerged from the eastern trees, a dark-skinned young woman clad in Hadari travelling leathers. She had a bow slung across her shoulders, and a hand near to – but not touching – a scabbarded dagger. Kurkas had only ever seen her at a distance, and then in the full scale of an imperial Immortal, but there was no mistaking that combination of willowiness backed by steel.

“You’re looking for Lord Akadra?” said Princessa Melanna Saranal. “I know where he is.”

Viktor hung in the cage of hands, unsure whether to laugh or to weep. “Your heir? You’ve been dead too long. It’s rotted your wits.”

Elda regarded him with disdain, the lid of one glittering eye narrowing to a slit. “Is that so very strange? We all of us long to leave something of ourselves behind – a testament to our deeds when flesh and spirit fail.”

“You have that already. Your name is reviled.”

She shook her head angrily. “Myth. Rumour. Belenzo tore me from history’s pages and unmade my achievements. Now I’m nothing but a name.”