“No more divided loyalties!” shouted Josiri. “We pick a side, and we remain true to it until the fight is done! And Lumestra help those who choose the wrong cause!”

Anastacia retreated before the flames. Josiri glanced down as his mother’s face blackened to ash. He clung to the balustrade so tightly his knuckles ached. Had he done the right thing? The rising growl of the crowd told him he had, but that didn’t fill the emptiness in his heart, or silence the accusation of a painted stare charring to ash. It was like losing her all over again. But even in the uproar, he fancied he heard Anastacia’s mirth rippling like a mountain stream.

“Katya Trelan – my mother – is dead, but we will go on! In unity! With purpose!”

“Traitor!”

A hunk of soil caromed off the balcony to Josiri’s left, spattering the buccinator with dirt.

The crowd’s growl blossomed into a roar. “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”

A barrage of missiles – rocks and unripe apples from the terrace orchard – whipped at the balcony. A window shattered beneath a stone. Soldiers lifted their shields to shelter Makrov. Josiri set his back to the crowd and stepped in front of Calenne. Her eyes . . . He’d expected horror, or perhaps worry. Instead, they gleamed with excitement – and more than that, with understanding. For the first time, Josiri wondered just how successfully he’d kept his secrets.

“Out of my way!” Yanda shoved the buccinator aside and braced a boot against the balustrade. “Captain Sark! Bring this thrice-cursed crowd to order!”

Her words were wasted. Sark stared slack-jawed across the burgeoning riot, oblivious to all.

“Captain Sark!”

Abandoning her attempt to jolt Sark to attention, Yanda put a hand to the small of Makrov’s back and propelled him towards the balcony door. Josiri ushered Calenne after them and risked a last glance across the terrace. A Tressian sergeant had rallied a knot of soldiers into a rough shield wall. Enough to keep the crowd from the remains of the bonfire, but little more. Josiri caught no sight of Anastacia, but that provoked no concern. She could take care of herself.

“Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”

The chant should have hurt, but instead it awoke determination. Give your people something to hate, Anastacia had said. He’d done that. Let them hate him, if it gave them the strength to fight.

The first kraikon started forward in a crackle of magic. The pitch of the crowd changed from outrage to panic. He’d been wrong. The Southshires were ready. And so was he.

It was only then that Josiri realised his hands no longer shook. With a nod that was equal parts surprise and satisfaction, he passed through into the shelter of the drawing room.

“What have you done?” Makrov had to shout to be heard over the roar of the crowd. He flinched as a stone spanged off a window frame. “What have you done?”