Shaking his hooded head, Pralt turned away. Temper stared at the man hard. What did this promise for him?

‘They are waiting,’ Jasmine whispered, urgent. ‘We must act now.’

Pralt faced the gate.

‘Soldier!’ Faro called. Temper turned. ‘Do not enter. You’ll not return.’

Temper raised a sword in a farewell salute. ‘Sorry, Faro. Gave my word.’ He spoke with as much bravura as he could muster, though his stomach was clenched in the certainty that he was already more committed than he wished.

The gate rasped under Pralt’s hand, rusted with disuse. Faro fell silent. Trenech hefted his long pike-axe.

A path of slate flags led to the front steps past bare mounds that reminded Temper of hastily dug battle graves. It was quiet so far, the House dark and lifeless. Pralt and Jasmine advanced to either side and Temper followed. They appeared unnaturally relaxed, without any weapons in evidence. About halfway up the walk they stopped. Pralt turned to him.

Temper stared back, uncertain, licked his dry lips.

‘This is as far as we go,’ Pralt said. He sounded strangely solemn. ‘This isn’t what I had in mind, and I’m sorry. Dancer’s orders. Goodbye, soldier.’

Pralt and Jasmine disappeared. Temper spun: the three others were also gone. It was as if he’d walked in alone. The ground to either side of the walk heaved. The moist bare earth crumbled and steamed while above the tree branches flailed, creaking. Blue-green flames like mast-fire danced over them and along the low stone walls. Trenech now blocked the gate, pike-axe lowered. Faro stood behind. Beyond, gathered together once more, stood the cultists – Pralt and Jasmine included – watching, arms folded.

Temper pointed a sword at them to shout that he’d have their hearts out, when a loud grinding rumbled from the House. He turned, flexing, weapons ready. The door scraped open, dust falling from its jambs. Darkness yawned within only to be filled by the advance of a giant figure.

Betrayed. The last assault on Y’Ghatan all over again. He hadn’t learned a damned thing. Temper threw back his head and howled an incandescent rage so consuming that every fibre of his body seemed to take flame.

Agayla and Obo occupied a point of rock suspended within a channel of raw streaming power. The surf had risen over the strand, punishing the rocks above. The wind lashed sleet at them, yet it parted before their small circle of calm like dust brushed aside. Overhead, a roof of clouds skimmed the hilltops, eclipsing the sky, and extended inland to enshroud the island. To the distant south thunderheads towered ever higher, roiling and billowing, lancing the seas in a constant discharge of lightning that lit the lunging dance of the distant Riders.

A sense of presence behind him brought Obo’s head around. He fixed his gaze on the bare hillside where two figures descended. One motioned for the other to remain among the rocks and continued down alone, his dark robes flapping in the wind. The second moved to shelter in the lee of a tall plinth of rock and squatted, elbows at his knees, his shirt shining wetly. ‘Someone’s comin’.’ Agayla did not respond. Obo turned to her: she sat hunched forward, hands clutched at her head as if to hold it from bursting. ‘Your boy, Agayla. Looks like I lose my bet.’