Trull felt sweat prickle beneath his clothes. He saw the blood leave his brother’s face. Oh, Father, you deliver a wound deeper than you could ever have imagined. He glanced over at Mayen and was startled to see something avid in her eyes, a malice, a barely constrained delight.

‘I am not so young, Father,’ Rhulad said in a rasp, ‘nor you so old, to let such words pass-’

Tomad’s fist thumped the tabletop, sending cups and plates clattering. ‘Then speak like a man, Rhulad! Tell us all this dread knowledge that coils your every strut and has for the past week! Or do you seek to part tender thighs with your womanish ways? Do you imagine you are the first young warrior who seeks to walk in step with women? Sympathy, son, is a poor path to lust-’

Rhulad was on his feet, his face twisting with rage. ‘And which bitch would you have me bed, Father? To whom am I promised? And in whose name? You have leashed me here in this village and then you mock when I strain.’ He glared at the others, fixing at last on Trull. ‘When the war begins, Hannan Mosag will announce a sacrifice. He must. A throat will be opened to spill down the bow of the lead ship. He will choose me, won’t he?’

‘Rhulad,’ Trull said, ‘I have heard no such thing-’

‘He will! I am to bed three daughters! Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu and Menandore!’

A plate skittered out from the hands of a slave and cracked onto the tabletop, spilling the shellfish it held. As the slave reached forward to contain the accident, Uruth’s hands snapped out and grasped the Letherii by the wrists. A savage twist to reveal the palms.

The skin had been torn from them, raw, red, glittering wet and cracked.

‘What is this, Udinaas?’ Uruth demanded. She rose and yanked him close.

‘I fell-’ the Letherii gasped.

‘To weep your wounds onto our food? Have you lost your mind?’

‘Mistress!’ another slave ventured, edging forward. ‘I saw him come in earlier – he bore no such wounds then, I swear it!’

‘He is the one who fought the Wyval!’ another cried, backing away in sudden terror.

‘Udinaas is possessed!’ the other slave shrieked.

‘Quiet!’ Uruth set a hand against Udinaas’s forehead and pushed back hard. He grunted in pain.

Sorcery swirled out to surround the slave. He spasmed, then went limp, collapsing at Uruth’s feet.

‘There is nothing within him,’ she said, withdrawing a trembling hand.

Mayen spoke. ‘Feather Witch, attend to Uruth’s slave.’

The young Letherii woman darted forward. Another slave appeared to help her drag the unconscious man away.

‘I saw no insult in the slave’s actions,’ Mayen continued. ‘The wounds were indeed raw, but he held cloth against them.’ She reached out and lifted the plate to reveal the bleached linen that Udinaas had used to cover his hands.

Uruth grunted and slowly sat. ‘None the less, he should have informed me. And for that oversight he must be punished.’

‘You just raped his mind,’ Mayen replied. ‘Is that not sufficient?’

Silence.

Daughters take us, the coming year should prove interesting. One year, as demanded by tradition, and then Fear and Mayen would take up residence in a house of their own.

Uruth simply glared at the younger woman, then, to Trull’s surprise, she nodded. ‘Very well, Mayen. You are guest this night, and so I will abide by your wishes.’

Through all of this Rhulad had remained standing, but now he slowly sat once more.

Tomad said, ‘Rhulad, I know of no plans to resurrect the ancient blood sacrifice to announce a war. Hannan Mosag is not careless with the lives of his warriors, even those as yet unblooded. I cannot fathom how you came to believe such a fate awaited you. Perhaps,’ he added, ‘this journey you are about to undertake will provide you with the opportunity to become a blooded warrior, and so stand with pride alongside your brothers. So I shall pray.’

It was a clear overture, this wish for glory, and Rhulad displayed uncharacteristic wisdom in accepting it with a simple nod.

Neither Feather Witch nor Udinaas returned, but the remaining slaves proved sufficient in serving the rest of the meal.

And for all this, Trull still could not claim any understanding of Mayen, Fear’s betrothed.

A stinging slap and he opened his eyes.

To see Feather Witch’s face hovering above his own, a face filled with rage. ‘You damned fool!’ she hissed.

Blinking, Udinaas looked around. They were huddled in his sleeping niche. Beyond the cloth hanging, the low sounds of eating and soft conversation.

Udinaas smiled.

Feather Witch scowled. ‘She-’

‘I know,’ he cut in. ‘And she found nothing.’

He watched her beautiful eyes widen. ‘It is true, then?’

‘It must be.’

‘You are lying, Udinaas. The Wyval hid. Somehow, somewhere, it hid itself from Uruth.’

‘Why are you so certain of that, Feather Witch?’

She sat back suddenly. ‘It doesn’t matter-’

‘You have had dreams, haven’t you?’

She started, then looked away. ‘You are a Debtor’s son. You are nothing to me.’

‘And you are everything to me, Feather Witch.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Udinaas! I might as well wed a hold rat! Now, be quiet, I need to think.’

He slowly sat up, drawing their faces close once again. ‘There is no need,’ he said. ‘I trust you, and so I will explain. She looked deep indeed, but the Wyval was gone. It would have been different, had Uruth sought out my shadow.’

She blinked in sudden comprehension, then: ‘That cannot be,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You are Letherii. The wraiths serve only the Edur-’

‘The wraiths bend a knee because they must. They are as much slaves to the Edur as we are, Feather Witch. I have found an ally…’

‘To what end, Udinaas?’

He smiled again, and this time it was a much darker smile. ‘Something I well understand. The repaying of debts, Feather Witch. In full.’

THE TARANCEDE TOWER ROSE EROM THE SOUTH SIDE OF TRATE’S harbour. Hewn from raw basalt it was devoid of elegance or beauty, reaching like a gnarled arm seven storeys from an artificial island of jagged rocks. Waves hammered it from all sides, flinging spume into the air. There were no windows, no doors, yet a series of glossy obsidian plates ringed the uppermost level, each orie as tall as a man and almost as wide.

Nine similar towers rose above the borderlands, but the Tarancede was the only one to stand above the harsh seas of the north.

The sun’s light was a lurid glare against the obsidian plates, high above a harbour already swallowed by the day’s end. A dozen fisher-boats rode the choppy waters beyond the bay, plying the shelf of shallows to the south. They were well out of the sea-lanes and probably heedless of the three ships that appeared to the north, their full-bellied sails as they drove on down towards the harbour, the air around them crowded with squalling gulls.