“He died.” Mel’s voice is melodious and calm. “But he is alive again. He is an object of worship, Sana – his word holds more sway than ever before, and the people love him and serve him even more faithfully.”

Sana looks about her, at me, at Oscar and Mel, and finally at her people. She smooths out the astonished shock that lines her face and smiles out at the jumble of townsfolk who look on.

“These inked fools will believe anything,” Sana scoffs, addressing her followers. “They come here with their delusions, telling us to seek peace. Just look at them, look at how well-fed they are, look at their clothes and their boots which fit and have not been repaired fifteen times over. They think peace is when we blanks shut our hungry mouths. When we stop fighting for our land. That is servitude, not peace, and it is certainly not justice.” Sana spits at Mel’s feet, who takes a step back. “You have wasted your time, storyteller. And the irony is,” her voice rises and there is a strange undercurrent, underneath the scorn – something manic, strange, “the irony is that in the time you have spent here, setting up your little houses, telling your quaint story, my crew have been riding hard, bound for Saintstone. You came here to build your houses and tell your tale while my riders are in your home weighing out justice. For we are the f ire and water; we are the lightning and flood.” She laughs, and it echoes around the hillside. “Run home, little children, and see what is left of the houses you built.”

I take another look at the crowd and I see that the riders, Sana’s own most faithful lackeys, are not here. Fenn is not here. She’s not making it up, then – they are in Saintstone reaping destruction and we are powerless to stop them.

Not everyone cheers, but those who do are loud and fearsome. I look around for a friendly face, someone who might be kind. I see Kasia, her expression full of dread, and I see Penny and Blake – Penny’s baby must be due so soon. They cower at the edge, looking terrified and miserable, as though they long to help us but know they must first protect themselves. Penny mouths the word, but it’s Blake I hear – he screams at us: “Run!”

Chapter Twenty-seven

We race to where the horses are tethered, with Sana’s mocking laughter echoing in our ears, Oscar refuses to mount, saying we mustn’t let him slow us down. Before we can protest, he slaps the horses and we pelt through the woods.

We slow only when we’re on the furthest edge.

“We won’t be in time to stop them,” I pant, and Mel nods, wiping her sweat-slicked forehead. She takes a look behind us, trying to gauge whether or not we are being followed. Eventually she sighs, her face taut with misery, and we ride on, in time with our heavy breaths.