‘Easier to run,’ she told him. ‘Here.’ She bunched the fabric and dipped it in the stream, then began washing the filth from his back. She gasped and paused a moment as the myriad scars were revealed, telling the tale of the whip as a slave, countless other cuts and reminders from his time in the fighting-pit. She’d seen him earn some of those scars, watched him fight, kill others. Shame filled him at the things he’d done and he bowed his head.

‘Where are you from?’ she asked quietly.

He blinked; for a moment he had to think about that. ‘Isiltir,’ he said, pronouncing it slowly, like a forgotten friend.

‘What is your name? Who are you?’

In the pit I was called Old Wolf, the only name I’ve gone by for a good long while. I am a trained killer. Have become that which I hate.

‘My name is Maquin,’ he said with a twist of his lips, a step towards reclaiming himself. ‘I was shieldman to Kastell, nephew of King Romar.’

‘Oh,’ Fidele breathed. ‘You are a long way from home. How did you end up . . . ?’

‘In the fighting-pits?’ He paused, the silence stretching, thinking back to before his enslavement, to the life he had led, the friends he had known, pulling at memories buried deep within, of the events that had preceded his life as a slave. ‘Jael has usurped King Romar’s throne – murdered the King, crushed the resistance in Isiltir. I fought him as part of that resistance, but Lykos and his Vin Thalun came, allied to Jael . . .’ He shrugged, his voice was a croak, unused to conversations of more than a few words.

Her hands touched his shoulder, hovering, tracing a swirling design, sending an involuntary shiver through him.

‘Lykos gave me that one,’ he said. ‘Branded me as his slave, his property.’

‘Do you think he’s dead?’

Maquin remembered the last time he’d seen the man, fallen to one knee in the arena, a knife hilt protruding from beneath his ribs, blood pulsing. Combat had swept Maquin away, and when he had looked back Lykos was gone.

‘Doubt it. He’s a tough one.’

‘I want him dead,’ Fidele hissed, a flash of rage contorting her face.

He looked at her a long moment, taken aback by the vehemence in her. He had always thought of her as unapproachably beautiful, calm, serene. ‘Bit strange to marry him, then.’

She stepped away, eyes downcast. ‘I was under a foul magic – he had an effigy, a small clay doll, with a lock of my hair cast within it. You crushed it when you fought him. That set me free.’

Fidele shuddered, her eyes closed. Then she straightened and looked him in the eye.

‘I have not thanked you, for protecting me in the riot, for getting me away to safety.’

Maquin looked about. ‘This is not exactly what I would call safe.’

‘It is safer, by far, than the arena.’