Whatever the reason, the resulting neglect had led to the creation of Satyendra’s favourite hiding place. Nobody else went there, and it was easy to slip within the net of tanglevine and become anonymous. Years ago, when he had faced up to the idea that the rebirth ceremony could not be put off forever, he had begun preparing for the day he might have to flee the castle. This meant gathering supplies: clothes, food, tools, all the things he’d need to survive alone on the road.

The problem was he’d no idea what those things were. Apart from his adventures in the Wild as a baby, he’d never left Lord Rochant’s floating castle.

His mother was coy about that time, but he’d gleaned that road-born who ventured outside of their villages had to wear special clothes, and that they covered their feet, face and hands at all times. When he had exhausted his patience with her, he’d turned to Story-singer Ban, asking about hunts and travel, and then attacking the old man with questions. However, this proved frustrating, as the Deathless were not troubled by simple issues like needing to eat or sleep outside, and if they were, the practical details were dropped in favour of a ‘higher truth’.

Armed with some meagre facts and his imagination, Satyendra had set about gathering what he thought would be needed. Over time, he strategically started to lose things: tops, trousers, even boots, until he had an impressive stash tucked away.

He carefully opened up his hiding place, adding the knife and the other new acquisitions before covering it all up again and slipping back towards his room.

When he arrived the guards seemed relieved to see him, as if they were expecting someone else, someone worse, and there was a strange vibe in the air as he travelled, a tension that made his mouth water.

Yadavendra is here, and he was both cheered and appalled at the thought. It was easier to feed that other part of himself when the High Lord was around which also meant it was harder to resist. He’d told himself in the courtyard when he’d dislocated Chunk’s knee – the pop still resonated deliciously in his mind – that it would be the last time. He tried to remember that he could also enjoy other things, like his mother’s praise. He resolved to resist. To stay focused on the matter at hand: to cancel the rebirth ceremony or escape the castle.

But on the way back to his chambers, when the plan played out in his mind, he could not banish other thoughts – of using his influence to make others suffer – nor deny how they made his stomach grow warm.

The Gardener-smith carefully attached the plate to Pik’s chest.