He jerked a nod, feeling his fingers starting to shake, seeing the growing dread in the young Nort’s eyes. ‘She said … she said it was like a storm. Of flame, and terror. It levelled the port.’ A memory bubbled at the back of his mind, a box-preacher with scarred arms and wild eyes, standing in the empty plaza of Denirnas lowport. A great storm will come, she’d said. The Mother has shown me. The Mother of Storms. The mother of nightmares. He shivered. Was this what she’d meant?

Kosh’s lip was trembling. ‘And my people? The black ships?’

Scoured. Seared. Blasted into the sea.

His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Gone. Sunk.’

The Nort was shaking her head, too hard, too fast. ‘Impossible, impossible. Our vessels are the pinnacle of naval engineering, impervious to inferior concoctions, built to withstand—’

‘I only know what she told me.’

‘Then she lied! It cannot be!’ Already tears sprung fresh from her eyes, her voice choked with a returning sob. ‘Even if it were true, more ships would come. More ships will come!’

Foss reached out his hand again, and this time took her into his arms, cradling her like a weeping child. ‘Hush, my friend,’ he murmured. ‘Of course they will.’

‘Not soon enough for us.’ Rennic had rejoined them at some point during the outbursts, and stood at the edge of the firelight. His voice was low, grim. ‘Storm season in the north could last another month or more, assuming they’d risk the crossing again. In the meantime, we have to face Corvel and his armies, plus Grassi’s people and any other freelances taking the hunting contract …’ He explicitly didn’t look at Tarfel.

Loveless had her head in her hands. ‘Get the prince, cub. This concerns him as much as any of us.’

Chel looked to Rennic. ‘You and Tarfel, you’re … all right? You’re not going to, you know …?’ Rennic had made no mention of their altercation in the mud, no apology, no acknowledgement beyond sparse words to Chel. Whether he bought Chel’s pleadings on Tarfel’s behalf was unclear, but he’d made no move toward the prince since, murderous or otherwise. Perhaps, Chel hoped, he’d genuinely seen sense, but Rennic’s mood was impossible to read. He’d always been distant and moody, but now his natural inclinations were starkly amplified. Whatever passing epiphany he’d experienced in his wood shack was long gone, replaced by something darker.

Rennic met his gaze with a look that did absolutely nothing to reassure.

‘We do what’s right.’

Somehow it didn’t sound right coming from him. Chel went to get the prince.

***

Tarfel was sitting behind the wagon, still wrapped in Lemon’s cloak. His expression was neutral, gazing out into the deepening evening. The bruises on his face were not improved by the twilight.