“Wasn’t my first,” snapped Rikke, well aware of what she’d done, “and I doubt it’ll be my last.”

“Surely. But you might want to spread ’em out a bit.”

“Daresay she’ll be back,” muttered Corleth, though she looked less than convinced and in fact slightly scared.

“Don’t care a monthly bleed whether she is or isn’t,” snapped Rikke. “Away to fuck with you!” she roared after Isern, whose shaggy head was disappearing behind the frozen grass on the hilltop. She didn’t answer.

“A bad time?” came a voice, from behind.

And there he stood. No arcane robes or golden wands. Just a worn old coat and a time-polished stick, the winter sun gleaming on his bald head. He wasn’t breathing hard, though the dead knew there was no way to get to the Heroes without climbing the hill it stood on. It was as if he’d been there the whole time, but they’d only just now noticed him.

“Bayaz!” Rikke stowed her mood away and strolled towards him with a smile, boots crunching in that circle of fresh snow, the Heroes a ring of disapproving giants frowning on their meeting. “First of the Magi! First apprentice of great Juvens! Don’t I feel special to get an audience?”

“Rikke of the Long Eye!” He walked towards her, not seeming quite so smart and smug as he had in the Hall of Mirrors in Adua. He had a hungry look now. Sunken around the eyes. Scratty about the beard. “Daughter of the Dogman, mistress of Uffrith, Carleon and half the North besides. You have grown a great deal since we last saw one another.”

“That’ll be the hood,” said Rikke, “gives me an inch at least.” And as they came together in the centre of the circle she pushed her hood back, and dragged her hair over to the side, and turned her left eye towards him.

For an instant, she saw the flicker of shock. “Grown not so much in stature,” he breathed, eyes flickering over her face with keen curiosity, “as in power. Who tattooed the runes around your Long Eye?”

“A friend. Up in the hills.”

“A friend of rare talent, in these latter days. Eleven wards, and eleven wards reversed. Truly a most potent enchantment! I feel more blessed than ever that you consented to a meeting.”

Rikke wasn’t above being pleased by flattery. But she was above letting it show. “Man o’ your age, outdoors in such bitter weather, figured it must be important.” And she grinned wide. Your best shield is a smile, her father used to say, and she’d a feeling she might need a shield or two in this conversation. “Besides, I was in the neighbourhood. Business in Osrung.” And she waved towards the thin smoke rising from the town’s chimneys, off down the river. “Been taking a little tour of the North. Or the bits I’m in charge of.”

“And how have you found it?”

“Seems I’m more in charge of some bits than others,” she said, casting a frown after Isern. “No easy business, keeping a crowd of Northmen all facing one way.”