The prince nodded. He looked tired beyond measure, purple hollows beneath dawn-red eyes. ‘I was in attendance of our former Keeper, Shepherd rest her. Duties of state, you understand.’

Matil approached, the chain still dangling from her hand, no evident intention to wear it. Kosh trailed her like a puppy. ‘Prince Tarfel, if you are ready,’ she said, ‘perhaps we should bring the council to order.’

‘My condolences again, Exalted. I can sympathize, of course, my father was ill for a long time … probably.’

Matil ignored him. Her gaze rolled over them as she turned back toward the council, then she paused. ‘Where is Rai?’ It took Chel a moment to realize she meant Loveless.

‘Gone,’ Rennic replied, voice stripped of emotion.

‘Gone? Where?’

‘Through the north-west gate and out into plains, some time before dawn. Bartered for a horse at the gatehouse. That’s all I can tell you.’

Matil nodded, eyes narrow, her reaction controlled. Chel scanned her for emotion, struggling to read her thoughts. As she turned back to enter the chamber, he caught a flash of something he could have sworn was relief.

The commander of the house guards, and apparently, by extension, the defence of the city, was a slick, well-presented man of Rennic’s age or thereabouts, whose gleaming breastplate was almost as ornate as Matil’s had been. His long moustache was oiled and styled to points, and his smooth skin shone like wax. Chel disliked him immediately.

‘In deference to the presence of our honoured guest,’ Matil announced, her accent stronger as she raised her voice over the hubbub, ‘we will conduct our affairs in his language.’

The commander bristled, his moustache twitching, but he offered no dissent. Chel hung back with the others in the outer circle of retainers, hoping they felt no less out of place, as Matil and Tarfel advanced to the tall, circular table at the council’s centre. Kosh went with them, always a step behind Matil.

The new Keeper summarized the situation: the Church’s forces had cleared the rubble of Korowan from their path far faster than anyone had expected, working through the night and detonating black powder – the rumbles that Chel had felt through the evening, no doubt. The confessors were streaming onto the plateau, dragging their engines and supplies, and looked to be forming up to lay siege.

‘We should sally,’ the commander said, his accent less thick than Chel had expected, his voice precisely as smug. ‘They have marched, assaulted, dug through the night, and marched again. Their men will be exhausted. We have the finest cavalry at our disposal, ranks of seasoned spearmen. We advance to the towers, set ranks, and encircle them. They will try to flee, and we will have them, trapped by the neck of the pass.’