Behind him came Peritus and Alben, both men he respected, one whom he loved. Alben had been his weapons-master, and more than that, had shown him more kindness than his father ever had. He smiled at the old man, silver hair tied tight at the nape. Alben returned the smile, warm and open, and then they were both sitting.

Marcellin entered then, with one shieldman at his back, a warrior almost as tall as Krelis. He sat with a nod to Lamar and Peritus and poured himself some wine.

‘Welcome,’ Veradis said, moving to a chair.

‘Not all are here yet,’ Lamar said, holding a hand up.

Then Fidele stepped into the tent.

She paused at the entrance, her eyes fixing on Lykos with clear hatred and scorn.

Hardly the loving wife, then. She was as beautiful as she had always been, though different. There was something hard about her, the bones of her face harsher, muscles shifting in her forearm as she gripped the tent pole. And stronger. She had seemed frail when Veradis had left Tenebral, brittle with grief. Now that was gone. She tore her eyes away from Lykos, who was not looking happy at her presence, and walked to an empty chair.

‘She should not be here,’ Lykos said. ‘She is unhinged, has brought this realm to the brink of war.’

‘I will not leave,’ Fidele said. She looked at Veradis as she said it, not Lykos.

She does not look unhinged to me.

Behind her a warrior entered, not overly tall or muscular, but his presence filled the room, a melding of grace and menace. He was old for a shieldman, streaks of iron in his hair, heavily scarred, one ear just a lump of flesh, and he was not dressed as a warrior of Tenebral, only in a plain linen shirt and leather vest. And knives. Two at his belt besides his sword, a hilt poking from a boot, and Veradis suspected more were secreted about his body. Then the warrior looked at Veradis.

‘Maquin,’ he whispered.

‘Well met,’ Maquin said, his face a cold mask.

The last time I saw him was in Forn. He was wounded, bloody, had been chased to exhaustion, but I still recognized him. Now, though, this is not that man . . .

Maquin stood behind Fidele.

‘So you have tamed the Old Wolf, then,’ Lykos said.

‘Do not speak to her,’ Maquin said.

‘Or what?’ Lykos said good-naturedly. ‘This is a rowan-meet, remember.’

Maquin said nothing, just stared unblinking at Lykos.

‘Perhaps I should speak to you, then,’ Lykos said to Maquin. ‘I see you have grown your warrior braid back.’

‘Hair grows,’ Maquin shrugged.

‘Aye, and can be cut again.’

‘Many things can be cut,’ Maquin said, his gaze radiating hatred as palpable as heat from a fire.

What is going on here?