Eventually they left the spiral staircase and stepped into a hall, the cold stone disappearing, replaced by timber. Maquin was helped to a bench beside a long table and he realized they were in a feast-hall. He reached for a jug of water, his throat drier than he could ever remember, and began to drink.

‘Only sips,’ Alben said beside him, placing a hand on his wrist.

A tall man stood nearby, ringed by warriors. He was old, grey-haired, his face lined and weary.

‘Father,’ Krelis said as he approached the old man, ‘Fidele has been found.’

So that is Lamar, then. As Maquin studied him he saw an echo of his friend, Veradis. Not so much in the features, more the set of his shoulders, a certain conviction that he radiated, a resolution in the line of his jaw.

‘Good,’ Lamar said, turning to take Fidele’s hand and bowing his head.

‘Welcome to Ripa, my lady.’

Another figure appeared, shorter, whip-cord slim, each muscle a defined striation of fibre. Maquin had seen this man before – the last time chained in the arena at Jerolin, ready for execution.

Peritus, Aquilus’ battlechief, Fidele’s friend. It had been Peritus who had begun the uprising against the Vin Thalun. He dropped to his knees before Fidele and kissed her hand.

‘My Queen, I thought we had lost you, that I had failed you.’

‘You lit the spark that set me free,’ Fidele said, gently tugging him to his feet. To Maquin’s surprise he saw tears staining Peritus’ cheeks.

As Maquin sat there the throbbing in his belly began to grow, becoming impossible to ignore. It pulsed rhythmically with his heart, an organic drumbeat.

I have a gut wound. It will most likely kill me. He felt a wash of anger at that, because death meant he would not get to put a knife through Jael’s heart. As he sat there watching Fidele, though, the desire to destroy Jael burned less brightly than it usually did. His vision dimmed at the edges, painting a dark border around Fidele.

I am glad that I didn’t leave you in the forest, he thought abstractly, watching the bones in her face move as she spoke, the curve of her lips as she smiled, a pattern of fine laughter lines that stretched from her eyes. You were worth saving. Worth dying for. He saw her face turn towards him, her smile evaporate, replaced by concern. He tried to say something, to tell her not to worry, but somehow his mouth refused to work. His hand moved to his sword hilt – for some reason it was important that he feel the hilt in his hand. But his fingers were numb, and suddenly he realized he was cold, shivering, a chill spreading through his bones. He slipped from the chair, as if the strings holding his body upright had been cut.