‘You have forgotten something,’ said James quietly.

As at a command, the bracelet on Tom’s wrist began to cut deeply into his flesh. He almost dropped the knife.

‘I have power still. It can pierce your veins in a second. What an impasse we are at.’

The pain was deep, reaching his bones. He tightened his grip. Zita and Kit were also clutching at their wrists, red streams of blood flowing down their forearms.

‘Is this how it finishes, James Swinton? You, alone, facing me?’ The Captive was mocking still. The sense of intention from the watching Samdhya was hard to bear.

Tom was giving way. His vision was blurring. The knife was wavering. He would drop it. He would drop it and be killed, and would die on the soil of the house his ancestor had built. The house that should have been his father’s, that should have been his. And Kit would die too, and Zita, at last, as they should have done, and everything would be righted again.

Struggling, he faltered.

He closed his eyes. Everything seemed impossibly far away. He was getting cold. There was a sound like the surge of waves.

He thought of the sea. A different time, when he had sat by the shoreline, his mother encouraging him to paddle, the brightness of the sun so enticing, his father scooping him up when he fell.

Something warm touched his hand. He opened his eyes groggily.

Leana, her soft, pink, warm tongue caressing his fingers. Leana, her bright black eyes looking at him quizzically, ears pricked, body lithe and tense.

Leana. The normality of her brought him back to the moment. James, standing tall on the lawn. The Captive, poised to kill. Kit and Zita, nearly on their knees with pain from their bracelets. Beyond the moat, the rustling of spears and horses. The flash of a scarlet tattoo on a cheek.

And Tom started to think. Why did James ask him here? He was the only one who could kill him. That would mean he must have the same kinds of power as James. He’d said his father had had none, or James would have brought him closer too. Perhaps he had more than anyone in his family since James.

Tom had been making the wards. He had been able to manipulate the illusions on the boat. He had fought and beaten the younger version of Jack.

Keeping his eyes closed, he focused on the bracelet on his wrist. He tested its boundaries. It was alive with dark energy. He could feel it searing into him.

He searched around tentatively, for a kink, for a knot, for a gap.

Ignoring a sudden burst of pain, he continued to test it, gently feeling along it.

The pain was tearing deep into him.

Concentrating hard, he willed himself not to lose control. Come on, he thought. Come on, there must be something.