The Faery Knight inclined his head. “Lady of the Renardsss,” he sang in his faery voice, “I have no easssy anssswer to sssoothe you. The whole of the wessst isss moving. Beyond the great river, a hundred hivesss of boglinsss are ssspewing forth warriorsss—”

The wight, Exrech, rose from his alien crouch by the table and unfolded like a pocket knife to his full height. His white chiton armour and elongated, insectile head were the most alien things in a hall of aliens, and made Mogon’s great saurians seem comforting and familiar.

When Exrech spoke, he did so by a mixture of exhalation, like a mammal, and the movement of his joints and wing cases that provided the hard consonants. They also provided popping and scratching noises that were—disconcerting.

He was unaware of the uneasiness he generated just by—being.

“I can speak of the west,” he said in his flat, un-human delivery. “Our enemy—our true enemy—works his will on the Delta Hives and leaves our hives alone. Too often has he called on us for war. Our contract with him is expired. I cannot say more. But the west is moving—this war to which we go is only a tithe of what is coming.”

The Faery Knight bowed. “Of all of us, it is possible that this wight and his people are the bravest, marching all the way east to our support when their own homes are at threat.”

“Our contract with the sorcerer is at an end. He used a false scent and must be punished.” Exrech seemed to shiver, and his body emitted a rustling sound like leaves.

“What will protect us here?” Tamsin asked.

“Sssmoke and misssdirection,” Tapio sang. “And twenty million caribou.”

Exrech raised his mandibles, a sign Bill Redmede had come to understand was agreement. “The river of hooves!” Exrech said. “No creature of the Wild—not even a thousand human knights—could cut a path across the river of hooves.”

“Ssso for sssix weeksss, thisss peninsssula isss sssafe,” the Faery Knight said.

That night, Thorn watched the heavens as Tapio Halij shielded his hold. It was a mighty working—almost as if he was moving his whole fortress into another sphere, the working was so deep and mighty.

It was a very odd choice, on the surface—a declaration of power that left Thorn in no doubt that the Faery Knight distrusted him and expected attack. But the more he contemplated the action, the more it appealed to his sense of his own power. Tapio was only confirming what Thorn knew—he was the mightier of the two, even if he lacked the power to destroy the old irk. So he drew into his shell like a turtle, secure that he could not easily be attacked.

“Fool,” Thorn said. “After I take Ticondaga, I will be like a god.” He tasted the moment at which he would subsume Ghause, and he shuddered as the excess of spirit passed down his animated limbs. In as much as the great sorcerer could feel pleasure, the notion of the absolute subjugation of Ghause—her extinction and his accession to her powers—gave him immense pleasure.