“And the beast . . . I mean, the archimandrite . . . Is he roused?”

She held his gaze, unblinking. “Damn near. But you needn’t fear. He’ll be here to conduct Calenne’s wedding. Were I you, I’d tread carefully once it’s done.”

“His second exodus?” Josiri grimaced for show. With the Hadari drawing ever nearer, exodus no longer held the same threat.

“He’s spoken of it. But I doubt you’ll live to see it.” She smiled mirthlessly. “When only one Trelan remains, the next humiliation may well be the last Makrov tolerates.”

This time, Josiri had no need to pretend surprise. Somehow, he’d never considered that by removing Calenne from the family he’d be jeopardising himself. Would Makrov have the temerity to do as Yanda suggested? Hard to say, but . . .

Below, the manor gate opened. The rider passed beneath the arch and cantered towards the terrace. It wasn’t Calenne’s errant betrothed, but a travel-stained young woman in a herald’s uniform. Anastacia appeared on the terrace and took a letter from her outstretched hand.

“Something wrong?” asked Yanda.

“I don’t know.”

Fresh unease gnawed at Josiri. Urgent news never came directly to Branghall. It went first to Cragwatch, or to Yanda’s own dwelling in the centre of town. For it to come here . . . The Hadari? Josiri almost said as much. He remembered just in time that he knew nothing of the danger in the east – so far as anyone was aware.

The herald, message delivered, rode away. Moments later, the balcony door creaked, admitting Anastacia to the terrace.

“Governor.”

When neither smile nor curtsey occasioned a response – or even an acknowledgement of her presence – she glided past Yanda and pressed the letter into Josiri’s hand.

The envelope was scuffed from its time in the herald’s saddlebags. Taking little note of the curling, spidery hand, Josiri broke the wax seal and began to read.

The writer had laid their thoughts out in distant, but polite, manner. Hardly a surprise, given the author’s identity, and the subject of the missive. Only direst need could have moved Ebigail Kiradin to correspond with a southwealder. He clung to the mental image of her writing at arm’s length. So much easier than engaging with the letter’s content.

A deep breath helped. Steadied him for an altered fate.

Josiri folded the letter.

“Governor Yanda? Please inform his excellency that his services are no longer needed at Ascension.” Josiri eyed the balcony door, little relishing what would follow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to inform my sister that her betrothed is dead.”

Twelve

Twelve

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?”