Kerrick turned about wearily and Herilak followed as he plodded his way through the heavy sand toward the burnt city. He was bone-weary and wanted only to rest, but could not. Were there Yilanè still alive? It did not seem possible. Fargi and Yilanè both had died when their city died—it was the same as being cast out, discarded. When this happened the Yilanè then suffered an irreversible change—he had seen it himself—that always ended in death. But, yes, there were exceptions, it was possible that some could still live. They could be the Daughters of Life: they did not die like the others. He would have to see for himself.

“We found them coming from one of the half-burnt groves of trees,” Keridamas said. “Killed one but the others scrambled back inside. It was Simmacho who thought you might like to see them, kill them yourself, margalus.”

“Yes!” Herilak said, turning about, an expression of intense hatred stripping his lips from his teeth. Kerrick shook his head with a great weariness.

“Let us see who they are before we slaughter them. Or still better let us take them alive. I will talk to them for there are things that I must know.”

They picked their way through the blackened killing ground, between the still-smouldering trees and past the piled corpses. Their path took them through the ambesed and Kerrick stopped, horrified at the tumbled mounds of Yilanè bodies. They looked uninjured, unburnt—yet all were dead. And all were stretched out and facing toward the far wall of the ambesed. Kerrick looked in that direction too, to the seat of power where Vaintè had sat, now barren and empty. The fargi and Yilanè must have rushed here, trampling each other, seeking the protection of the Eistaa. But she was gone, the seat of power was empty, the city dying. So they had died as well. Keridamas led the way, stepping over the tumbled bodies, and Kerrick followed, numbed with shock. All these dead. Something would have to be done about them before they began to rot. Too many to bury. He would think of something.

“There, up ahead,” Keridamas said, pointing with his spear.

Simmacho was poking at a splintered and scorched doorway, trying to peer inside in the growing darkness. When he saw Kerrick he pointed at the Yilanè corpse before him on the ground and turned it over with his foot. Kerrick glanced at it—then bent over to look more closely in the dying light. No wonder this place looked familiar. It was the hanalè.

“This one is a male,” he said. “The others inside must be males as well.” Simmacho poked the corpse in amazement. Like most of the Tanu he could not quite believe that the vicious murgu they had been fighting, killing, were all female.

“This one ran,” he said.

“The males don’t fight—or do anything else. They are all locked away in this place.”