First her arrival, and now this. She had the Judging Eye—she could see not just sorcery, but the damnation it betokened … To think he had convinced himself the Whore of Fate would leave him be!

“And now you’re saying,” she began hesitantly, “that I’m a kind of … proof?” She blinked in the stammering manner of people finding their way through unsought revelations. “Proof of my stepfather’s … falsity?”

She was right … and yet what more proof did he, Drusas Achamian, need? That night twenty years ago, on the eve of the First Holy War’s final triumph, the Scylvendi Chieftain had told him everything, given him all the proof he would ever need, enough to fuel decades of bitter hate—enough to deliver these scalpers to their doom. Anasûrimbor Kellhus was Dûnyain, and the Dûnyain cared for naught but domination. Of course he was false.

It was for her sake that the Wizard trembled. She possessed the Judging Eye!

He thought of their coupling, and the sordid passions that had driven it. A cold sweat compressed the skin and wool beneath his pack. He could feel the pity hanging like wet string in his expression, the way his look saw past what she was now—the pale image of her mother standing small in white light—into the torment that awaited her.

“We have more immediate concerns at the moment,” he said in a rallying voice.

“You mean Cleric,” she replied, her little hands balled into slack fists. She was looking at him with the kind of wilful focus that spoke of contravening interests. Soon, he knew, she would come at him with questions, relentless questions, and he needed to consider carefully the kinds of answers he could and could not give.

“Yes,” he said, drawing her by the elbow after the others. “Incariol.” He thought of how men always did this, managed the thoughts of others, and wondered why it should exact such a toll from him. “His Mark means he’s old … older than you could imagine. And that means he’s not only a Quya Mage, but Ishroi, a Nonman noble …”

He could feel the note of falsity, like a cold coin in the slick palm of his voice. He cursed himself for a fool, even as he sought her gaze, hoping that a sincere look might carry what his words could not. The Erratic and his ability to lead them through this deserted warren was their immediate concern. The fact that Achamian used them to another purpose … Weren’t all words simply tools in the end?

“So he’s Ishroi, then …” Mimara said. The lilt in her tone told him that she knew something was amiss. When had he ever urged her into the murk of his ruminations?