But if Malatriant did indeed seek to possess him, that she hadn’t simply done so suggested she needed a measure of cooperation, which in turn offered a chance of resistance. If it came to it, could she do more damage alone than bound to him, with him resisting her every step of the way? There was no way to know.

In accepting, he at least saved Calenne. Even if her love was but a selfish dream, it changed nothing of his own feelings. And he’d save others too – all those who’d otherwise perish in the Tyrant Queen’s last act of spite.

And what of him? He’d been sliding ever since he’d returned to the Southshires. Little by little, he’d used his shadow as it wished to be used – to control, to harm, and even to kill – and perhaps lost pieces of himself along the way. What if Malatriant truly was the only thing standing between him and madness?

Come to that, what if every word she’d spoken was the truth?

The cards were marked. He’d been playing – and losing – all his life, and never known it. Now there was one last hand to be wagered, and the deal had come due.

“Very well,” said Viktor. “I accept.”

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Eight

The cage of hands released him. Viktor fell forward, righted on the slope of dead by Elda’s outstretched hand. Not the grip of an old woman, but something ancient, unshackled by mortality.

“Now,” she intoned, “drink of me. Embrace my gift.”

The Dark flooded over him. Through him. His shadow rose to greet it; cold, coiling and exultant. They were bound, he the river and she the sea. The one impossible without the other.

With that knowledge came fulfilment, and with fulfilment, understanding. The Dark was more than power. It was alive, as his shadow was alive. Viktor found no point at which it ended and Malatriant began. Weapon and wielder were as one.

In that moment, Viktor recognised the lies couched within truth. Yes, the Dark was a tool, capable of miracles untold. But to join with it – to grant it full rein – was to give away the pieces of yourself that no longer belonged. Duty. Honour. Love. These had no place within the blooming shadow, and sloughed away like dead skin.

Viktor felt them go and cared nothing for the loss. He was of the Dark, and the Dark was of him. He lost himself in a black sea of possibility.

Golden sunlight blazed through the stifling murk, white fire blazing in its wake.

He heard voices. The clash of steel. Screams. The wet roar of ragged flesh. Sounds from another life, at once yesterday and for ever ago. And above the tumult, a single voice clear as a clarion.

“Ashanael Brigantim!”