Xessa whistled and clicked commands and orders, seeing how much it annoyed the guards and slaves who passed the prison. When they told her to stop, she pretended she couldn’t understand them, gesturing at her ears and shrugging. Their frustration was delicious – and dangerous. She had the broken nose to prove it. She drummed more death rhythms on the wall to farewell those who had returned to Malel and she danced the sacred steps in the confined space.

Eventually, she decided to live – not just gave in to it. Chose it. No one would take Xessa’s spirit but the goddess and not even she could break it. Not now, not ever.

The door opened in the middle of the eleventh day when Xessa was lying on the dirt floor, staring up at the dust dancing in the cracks of sunlight. The door never opened in the middle of the day and so she scrambled to her feet, the sudden movement after so much stillness sending a rush of blood to her head. She blinked and backed away, falling into a fighting crouch.

The man in charge of the estate, whose name she thought was Lock, entered. He was armed but held his hands away from his weapons.

‘You are to be bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. High Feather Pilos wishes to see you. You will not be harmed if you comply. Do you understand me?’

She debated the wisdom of pretending she didn’t, then shrugged and nodded.

‘Can you write?’ Lock asked. Another nod. ‘Good.’

Xessa told him he was a monkey’s mangy, shitting arse and infested with maggots and he watched her hands with blank incomprehension. ‘Finished?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Xessa followed almost at a run and was through the door before she noticed the four warriors guarding it and him. Two reached out and slowed her rush as the other pair slid behind, boxing her in.

The shove in the back was part of the universal language and she stalked between her captors, noting their wrinkled noses at her stench. Their discomfort made her feel disproportionately better, but that lasted only until she glanced down to her right and Ossa wasn’t there.

Xessa balked at the entrance to a small building set in the gardens. She could smell the cold dankness of water. Lock faced her. ‘You go in and wash,’ he said, miming. He held his nose and pointed at her.

She shook her head. ‘Weapon. For Drowned,’ she signed. Lock shrugged. She made stabbing motions and the warriors guarding her tensed. She pointed at the water and repeated the gesture.