Kanin turned away. He could not stand and listen to this, for fear that his innermost thoughts would burst free and condemn him in the eyes of the Lore. Walking away, he had never been so alone. All that had surrounded him throughout his life – his Blood, his faith, his sister – was gone, burned off like a mist consumed by the sun’s unforgiving gaze. He moved through an empty landscape, one he did not recognise, populated by people whose language he no longer understood.

The straggling host that came to Hommen the next day was as strange as any that Kanin had ever seen. He could see no order in it, no columns or ranks. It came down the coast road from Kolglas like a huge, leaderless herd of cattle. Standing with Fiallic and Goedellin, amidst the assembled might of the Battle Inkall and his own Blood’s warriors, he looked out through softly falling snow and saw Kyrinin – scores of them – coming along the higher ground on the landward side of the road. He saw Tarbains milling about on the flanks of the moving mass; standards and pennants of his own Blood, and Gyre and Fane, lurching along in its dark heart. And Shraeve at the forefront, her ravens around her. Aeglyss rode beside her, small in the saddle; limp.

Something else came with this ragged army. Something that Kanin could not see, or hear, but that stole across his skin and shadowed his mind. This host drove a bow wave of foreboding before it, and Kanin felt it wash over him, felt the idea take root in his mind that this was more than a mere assembly of warriors; that it was somehow fate itself, given form. He doubted all his certainties in that moment. He saw his loathing for Aeglyss clearly for what it was: the futile, foolish ravings of a child standing in the path of one of the Tan Dihrin’s grinding glaciers, commanding it to turn aside from its chosen path.

It was the thought of Wain that drew him back. The clear memory of her, riding away from him that last time they had spoken, was handhold enough for him to keep his grip upon his self. Aeglyss was only a man, his resilient hatred insisted. He would die like any other.

The whole eastern side of Hommen, from the crumbling watchtower all the way down to the sea, was defended. A thicket of spears and shields and swords barred the way. Kanin heard the uncertain murmuring that rippled through the ranks as Aeglyss drew near. He even saw a few of his own warriors shuffling backwards, looking around with hunted, fearful eyes. He shouted at them. Most, but not all, obediently resumed their places in the line.

Aeglyss dismounted. He moved like an old man whose brittle bones might snap under his own weight, Kanin thought. When the halfbreed walked slowly forwards, Shraeve flanked him on one side, a powerfully built Kyrinin warrior on the other. Kanin had eyes only for Aeglyss, though. He stared, and knew his hatred would be shining, obvious. He could not have concealed it, even had he wished to.

Aeglyss lifted his arms and spread his hands. Shraeve and the woodwight stopped, letting him take a few paces beyond them. The na’kyrim faced Fiallic, but the Inkallim ignored him; looked beyond him, and spoke to his fellow raven.

“This man is to be surrendered to the Hunt,” he said to Shraeve. “He goes no further than this.”

“No,” Aeglyss said.

Fiallic continued to address Shraeve. “And the Shadowhand, as well, if you have him here.”

The na’kyrim grimaced. “We have him. He is bound for Vaymouth. Nowhere else. He carries a message from me to the Thane of Thanes.”

At last Fiallic turned his gaze upon Aeglyss.

“You will be sending messages to no one. We require the Shadowhand. And you. It is not a matter of choice.”

“Nothing is about choice to you, is it? Your miserable, gloomy little creed does not… ah.” He flicked a dismissive hand at the Banner-captain and turned, began to walk away.

Now he dies, thought Kanin, with both a shiver of anticipation and a twist of regret. It would not be his own hand that took the halfbreed’s life, but the fact of his death was the most important thing.

“Where is my sister?” he shouted after Aeglyss.

He thought he saw the na’kyrim ’s head lift a little at his call, but Aeglyss did not look around or slow his stride. Fiallic stepped forwards after the halfbreed, and set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Aeglyss paused at Shraeve’s side, leaning on her shoulder. It looked like a moment of feebleness. He stretched his head up and whispered something to her. She was watching Fiallic, and did not seem to react to the na’kyrim ’s words. Fiallic came on. And Shraeve blocked his path, putting Aeglyss at her back.

The two Inkallim faced each other, snowflakes tumbling about them. Kanin frowned. He had a sudden, lurching sense of disorientation, as of a man poised on the brink of a precipice. But this was not the dizziness of height; it was an imbalance of the world, a twisting away, out of reach, of possibilities and hopes.

“Stand aside,” Fiallic said quietly.

Shraeve only shook her head, stirring little accumulations of snow from her shoulders.

Aeglyss was still walking away, stoop-shouldered, frail. “She sees what you cannot, raven,” he said. He turned, amongst his woodwights once more. “You think it is the sun of your power, your authority, that still illuminates the clouds, but your eyes deceive you. It is only afterlight, Fiallic: the fading echo of a day that’s already passed. Shraeve has set her face towards the new dawn.”

“With regret,” Shraeve said, “I challenge you, Banner-captain. I make a claim to your rank and your standing in the Battle. I ask that we reveal fate’s intent, in this matter that comes between us.”

“No,” Kanin heard Goedellin saying behind him. The old Lore Inkallim pushed forwards, stabbing his crooked stick into the soft snow. His hooked back held his head no higher than Kanin’s chest, but Goedellin’s voice was clear, with all the vigour of his authority. “This is not a fit time for such an issue to be tested, Shraeve. Later, if you must, but first this half-wight is to be-”

“This is a matter for the Battle,” Shraeve said levelly. “The fitness of the time is no concern for the Lore, or for any of us. I have seen things… I believe that this na’kyrim is here because he has a great purpose to serve, a great fate to live out. I have seen enough to leave me without doubts in this. If you mean to kill him, I must oppose you. I am entitled.”

Fiallic shifted sideways. Shraeve matched his movement. Beyond them, Aeglyss was watching. There was such contemptuous confidence on his inhuman face that Kanin felt a flicker of alarm.

“I make a claim on the place of Banner-captain,” Shraeve insisted. “Fate’s judgement is infallible. Let us face it together, Fiallic. There is nothing improper in my challenge.” She bowed low, bending from the waist, her head almost brushing Fiallic’s chest in its descent.

Again Goedellin thumped the butt of his walking stick down, punching a hole into the snow. Fiallic looked round to the Lore Inkallim, and in the raven’s expression Kanin saw the betrayal of everything he had hoped for from this day.

“She is entitled,” the Banner-captain said. “The rule of the Battle permits it.”

“No,” Kanin said before he could help himself, but no one paid him any heed. Shraeve was still bent over, perfectly poised and still. Fat snowflakes dotted her back.

“It will be no service to the creed for either of you to die today,” Goedellin growled.

“Do you fear to let fate play itself out, old man?” Aeglyss shouted. “I do not. Let the ravens dance their dance. If she fails, you can have my life, and welcome to it.”

Fiallic was already backing away. He settled himself a spear’s reach from Shraeve, and slowly bowed down. Goedellin gave an irate snort and stamped away. Shraeve straightened.

“Choose the field, Banner-captain,” she said.