The shaft of sunlight through a high window edged its way across the room as highsun came and went, sliding towards sunset. Maquin heard muted voices and the slap of booted feet beyond his door, saw the orange flicker of torchlight through the gaps as twilight seeped slowly into the world, then full dark.

No one came to his room.

He will come.

He felt a flutter of fear at the thought of what was to come, but immediately smothered it.

I may as well rest until it starts.

He lay down upon the bench and closed his eyes.

Keys rattling in the door woke him and Lykos walked in, silhouetted by torchlight that a warrior held behind the Vin Thalun lord.

‘Good evening,’ Lykos said amicably, two, three shieldmen entering the room before the door was shut.

He fears me still, even bound and beaten bloody. He felt a moment’s pleasure at that thought.

Lykos drew a small knife from his belt, sharp and wicked looking.

‘Help him stand,’ Lykos said.

Two of his shieldmen grabbed Maquin, the third standing back, holding his torch high to illuminate the room.

Lykos cut away Maquin’s cloak and woollen layers, exposing a web of bruising and lacerations. The Vin Thalun smiled.

‘You will kneel to me. You will beg for my mercy. You will pledge yourself to me for all eternity,’ Lykos said grimly. ‘You remember Orgull, do you not? Your hulking friend. Do you remember seeing him broken, beaten, wishing only for death. I did that to him.’

You did not break his spirit.

‘This night, you will beg; this night.’ Then, slowly, carefully, Lykos stabbed Maquin with the knife – an incision about a thumbnail deep, starting at his armpit, slowly working its way down to Maquin’s hip.

Maquin grunted, ground his teeth, squeezed his fists together until it felt as if the bones in his hands would crack. He knew better than to writhe or try to pull away, that would only lead to greater injury, worse pain. Instead he endured, stared fiercely into Lykos’ eyes – his look a promise of death should he get free.

Lykos stepped back, a slight scowl creasing his forehead.

‘I will flay you if I have to,’ he growled. ‘Or perhaps an eye . . .’ He raised the knife, rested it on Maquin’s cheek a hair’s breadth below his eyeball.

Maquin was staring at Lykos, but in his mind he was back on the bridge of swords, the Ben-Elim standing before him with his sword of flame.

You must make your choice, the Ben-Elim had said to him.

I did. I came back for three people: two to kill, one to love. If I’d known it would lead me here . . .

Fidele’s face hovered in his mind. For a brief moment he felt her lips brush his, the tickle of her breath, the faint smell of roses.

I’d make the same choice. She is worth a lifetime of pain.