Maquin was standing before a stone bridge. It arched over a wide chasm, deep and dark, the bottom, if there was one, lost in shadows. The far side was blurred, a mist infused with a nimbus glow, like the last light of day, pale and golden.

I need to cross over. He didn’t know why, he just knew he should, as if someone pulled upon a cord tied about his waist, so he took a step onto the bridge, realized he was holding his sword. Nothing had ever felt more natural to him. He took another few steps, the bridge feeling strange underfoot, uneven. He looked down and saw the stone was merged with sword after sword beneath his feet. He paused halfway across as a figure took form and approached him through the mist.

It was man-like, but taller. Not like a giant, all slabs of muscle, but finer, more elegant. And it had wings, great wings of white feather that spanned the width of the bridge.

One of the Ben-Elim.

It held a sword in its hand, wisps of flame curling up from the blade.

The wings flexed, a rush of air buffeting him and the creature was airborne, landing gracefully a dozen steps before him. Maquin strode towards it.

‘Are you ready to cross the bridge of swords, child of flesh?’ the Ben-Elim asked him.

Maquin felt a shock go through him at that.

I am dead, then. He did not feel anything, just a cold detachment. Possibly an echo of disappointment.

The Ben-Elim stooped a little, regarding Maquin with dark eyes. It held out its sword, the tip glowing, hovering a handspan before his heart. ‘Hold, something is . . . different.’ He sniffed the air, reached out with one hand and touched Maquin’s face.

Maquin tried to open his eyes but the light was blinding, painful. He gave up.

Where am I?

He moved his hands, or tried. A finger moved, slightly. Maybe.

I’m lying down.

The sound of gulls filtered through to him, a gentle breeze upon his face.

Ripa. I’m in Ripa.

Slowly he became aware of a presence close by, the sound of breathing. A stirring in the air. A hand touched his face.

A door creaked, footsteps getting louder.

The hand on his face disappeared.

‘My lady, how is he?’

‘The same. His fever burns.’

I know that voice. Fidele. It felt nice to hear her, a comfort.

Footsteps approached, a cool, dry hand on his brow. Fingers probed the pulse in his neck.

‘Alben, how long can he survive like this?’

‘He should be dead, my lady. I have not seen anyone cling to life through a fever this severe or that lasted this long.’

‘I’ve done all you said – water, goat’s milk, the herbs you mixed – all dripped through linen into his mouth.’

‘Others can do this, my lady. Lamar has been asking for y—’

‘No. This is where I choose to be.’