He felt it before he heard it. A slight reverberation in the wood. Then a breeze sprung up, filled with a muffled and rhythmic thwack-thwack. By this point, he was perched about a hundred feet higher up, having crawled through a hole where a branch had rotted. His eyes could make no sense of the sight. It wasn’t a bird, unless birds were made of metal. And yet it hovered over the forest, matte black, almost silent. On top, four blades whirred around so fast, it made Petronio’s eyes blur. The breeze had become a strong wind, almost pulling him off the tree.

“Seen enough, have we?” snarled a voice behind him.

Petronio could have punched himself. He’d been so caught up in the vision before him that his guard had been briefly let down.

“Don’t speak another word. Unless you want your brains spattered over your nice green leaves!”

Petronio felt something cold press into the back of his head. He wanted to know what Mawish weapons could do. Now he would find out. The only thing he couldn’t understand was how perfectly the voice mimicked the Dendran accent. Maybe that was part of their training: the Maw Army Language course: Learn to speak like Dendrans and then kill them! Complimenting the man’s speech was hardly going to save his life.

“No one is supposed to know that we’re here!” The voice paused as if coming to a conclusion. “Which makes you a liability.”

The weapon pressed harder into Petronio’s skull until his head throbbed with pain. He closed his eyes, unable to stop himself begging the Diana he didn’t believe in for help, just this once.

28• A SUDDEN DISCOVERY

For Ark, this was the last scaffield straw, feeding a spark deep within the exhausted boy. To be dismissed as nothing was somehow even worse than the knowledge of the ravens’ hunger. The sun chose that moment to tip itself above the horizon. The first rays pierced the depths of the nest, gilding Ark’s brown face, the hesitant warmth filling him with insane hope.

Without thinking, he drew out the raven feather from his bag, feeling the sharp prick of the quill. Would it work? It was almost as long as his forearm and felt heavy enough. Hold the feather, grab the weather. Ark pulled his arm back and heaved it with all his might. The feather, as if in memory of flight, shot like the wind straight toward the retreating woman’s back.

The quill was as sharp as a throwing knife, soaring through the dawn with perfect aim. He knew with the certainty of the new day that the feather would penetrate cloak, puncture skin, and dig deep into her dark heart. Soon, the woman would cross the River Sticks to meet her own maker.