A soft laugh echoed all around the room; it whispered from every shadow. Kiska felt a familiar prickling at her neck and recognized the feeling for what it must be: the accessing of a Warren. She’d felt it a number of times with Agayla, when her Aunt sat with her legs curled under her as she dealt the Dragons deck. This time, however, the sensation was much more intense: dislocating and eerily sentient.

Beside her, Artan breathed deeply and shifted his stance, obviously readying for a confrontation he hadn’t expected or wanted.

‘A wise decision, Tay,’ murmured a voice like fine cloth brushing across itself.

Kiska bit back a yelp as the voice seemed to whisper from every shadow – even from over her shoulder, though her back touched the cold stone wall.

Standing in the open hall, the cultist pushed back his hood. The face and head were unremarkable: bristly short black hair, narrow fine features. No scars. The eyes, though, shone like jewels of jet. He stepped into the room, glanced at Hattar and smiled. The expression, dismissive, set Kiska’s teeth on edge.

Artan’s – Tay’s? – hands clenched into fists at his sides. ‘Evening, Tay’.

‘Evening.’

Kiska shot Artan a quick glance. Tay? Surely not Tay, as in Tayschrenn? Imperial High Mage, greatest of all talents aligned with the Empire!

The robed man chuckled lightly. His one-sided smile deepened. He seemed barely able to contain himself, as if at any moment he’d break out laughing at a joke known only to himself. ‘And what brings you here this night?’

‘As always,’ Artan replied, ‘concern for the Empire.’

The man cocked a brow. ‘So you still cling to that worn conceit of neutrality. Always the dutiful one.’

‘I serve the long term, as always.’

‘The long term? You serve yourself, Tay.’ The eyes flicked to Kiska. ‘And who is this?’

The dark pits of his eyes fascinated Kiska; she wanted to answer. Suddenly she wished to tell this man everything about her. Artan’s hand snatched painfully at her forearm. She winced, kept quiet.

‘She’s with me.’

The smile broadened. ‘Always an eye for talent, hmm, Tay?’

Artan remained silent, clenching his jaw as if hardening himself to the baiting. At that, the man’s smile dulled to a bored expression, the edges set into disappointment. He sighed. ‘Stay here if you mean to stand aside, Tay. Don’t move until it’s over. Anyone upstairs is a participant . . . understood?’ Artan nodded. The man inclined his head. ‘Till morning, then.’

‘Perhaps.’

The secret smile reappeared. ‘Yes. Of course. Perhaps.’ He turned and walked away, through the door and around the corner, as if to ascend the stairs.

Kiska stared at where he’d disappeared. She yearned to check if he’d really gone. ‘Was that really him?’ she whispered to Artan.

Signing to Hattar, Artan pulled out a chair and sat wearily at the long dining table. Hattar closed the door.

‘We should be safe here,’ he said while massaging his brow. The confrontation seemed to have left him exhausted, which surprised Kiska, as earlier she’d witnessed mere irritation and contempt when faced with over fifty cultists.