He had made it clear from the moment she had met him that liquor was second on his list of great loves, wedged neatly between cheap prostitutes and portraits depicting expensive prostitutes. And he had taken great pains to make it clear that there was never any excuse for a rush when enjoying any of those three.

Thus to see him imbibe so, with such reckless desperation, made her pause.

‘Why areyou drinking so much, anyway?’ she asked.

The swiftness with which he turned to regard her was not half as startling as the look upon his face. It lingered for only a breath longer, but she saw it clearly, the same slight slackening in his jaw, the same subtle sinking in his eyes.

And then, even swifter, it was gone, replaced with a grin too fierce to be convincing to either of them.

‘It’s a party, is it not?’ he asked, laughing weakly. ‘Who doesn’t have fun at a party? Besides you, I mean.’

‘I’m not having fun because of the fact that I was violently assaulted and I’m surrounded by drunks’ — she paused and edged away from a flailing, cackling Owauku — ‘of various sizes and pigments.’

‘Perhaps you could try, possibly?’ he suggested. ‘I mean, before toolong, you’ll be back in cold temples, reciting stale vows and flagellating yourself whenever you even think of something mildly amusing. This might be your last chance to do something interesting.’

‘Wait, what?’ Dreadaeleon glanced at Asper, worry plain on his face. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘What did you expect was going to happen when we reached the mainland?’ Denaos answered before the priestess could.

‘I don’t know … find more work or something?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘That’s what adventurers do, isn’t it?’

‘Adventurers take the opportunities they’re given,’ the rogue spat back. ‘And given that only one of us has the opportunity and reputation to return to decent society, why wouldn’t they take it?’

Asper made no response to the tall man beyond a look of intent scrutiny. There was something to his eyes, she thought, a quaver he sought to bury beneath snideness and sarcasm that continually dug its way out. It was as if the minute cracks to his visage had begun to spread, seeping into his voice, exposing something dire and desperate beneath.

‘And what,’ she asked him softly, ‘will you do when we part ways, Denaos?’

She had barely expected to be heard through the din of drumming and raucous cheer that echoed off the valley walls. And yet the expression on his face made it quite clear that he had. It didn’t so much crack as fall off in one great, pale sheet, leaving behind a wild, sunken stare and a long, sleepless face.

He merely stared at her, hollow, as though he weren’t certain whether to search for words or a knife.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.

His words were lost on the smoke of the fires, vanishing into the night air. And he, too, vanished, turning and staggering through the green jubilation. And she simply watched him go.

Against the chaotic festivities and imbibings in the valley, she was starkly aware of Dreadaeleon’s impassiveness. And against his cold expression and folded arms, she was suddenly aware of her own furrowed brow and open mouth.

‘You look calm,’ she said with a hint of envy.

‘Should I not be?’ he asked, glancing over to her.

‘You weren’t at all … confused by what just happened?’

‘A drunken lout is doing things drunken and loutish,’ the boy said, shrugging. ‘He’ll wake up tomorrow with a headache and a desperate desire that we all forget what he said tonight. Shortly after that, we’ll be back to hearing snideness, cynicism and sarcasm until his neurosis demands him to try and drown himself again.’ He glanced over the woman’s shoulder. ‘Speaking of …’

She followed his gaze to a nearby puddle fed by a thin trickle of water, in which an Owauku was passed out facedown, a rapidly fading line of bubbles emerging. She made a move to rise up and help the creature, but Dreadaeleon’s lips were quicker. At a muttered, alien word, the lizardman was flipped over by an invisible force and unceremoniously dropped on his back. Apparently heedless of the roughness, he looked up through eyes as bleary as those the size of fruits could be and grinned.

‘Oh, cousin,’ he burbled through liquor-stained teeth, ‘someone loves me tonight.’

She couldn’t help but smile at the boy. ‘That was rather nice of you.’

‘Oh,’ he said, looking a little surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

‘I thought wizards didn’t waste power, though.’

‘Well … he was probably going to die,’ Dreadaeleon said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I suppose we couldhave pulled him out ourselves, but by then he might have inhaled a lot of water and you’d feel compelled to give him the kiss of life and …’

‘Ah,’ she said, laughing. ‘How noble of you to save me from having to mouth a lizard.’ Her laugh faded, but her smile did not as she regarded him intently. ‘How did you know?’

‘I suspected that it was worth it to spare you having to resuscitate him and-’

‘No, how do you know?’ she interrupted. ‘How are you always so sure?’

‘What?’ He cast her a baffled look. ‘I’m not sure I-’

‘Yes, you are,’ she replied. ‘You always are. You were certain that you could get us to shore when the ship was destroyed, you know Denaos will be fine, you knew you had to save that lizard … how?’

He studied her intently and she suddenly understood that her face mirrored his own; somewhere, her expression had gone from smiling curiosity to careful scrutiny. His voice, however, bore none of the uncertainty of hers.

‘Why,’ he asked, ‘do you wish to know?’

‘Because I’m not sure,’ she blurted out, the answer writhing on her tongue. ‘I haven’t been sure for a long time.’ She glanced down at the earth. ‘It wasn’t always like this. I used to know, because the Gods had to know, and I was content with that.’

‘I know you don’t want to hear it,’ Dreadaeleon replied, ‘but I don’t think you’ll find any answers in gods. I don’t think anyone ever has.’

She should have grown angry, indignant at that. Instead, she looked at him again and frowned. ‘When did you first know?’

‘What?’

‘That you didn’t believe in the Gods?’

‘Ah,’ he replied. Now he stared at the earth. ‘About a year after I was indoctrinated into the Venarium. I was about eleven, then, my parents having said good-bye to me when I was ten.’ He sighed. ‘They were Karnerian immigrants to Muraska, strict followers of Daeon.’

‘The Conqueror,’ she said.

‘Indeed. They raised me to believe that their horned god would descend one day, subjugate the Sainites and lay waste to the bestial races, ushering in a new age of progress for humanity. When I learned of my power by accidentally setting my bed on fire, my father wasn’t furious, nor did he sing praises to Daeon. Instead, a week later, the man who would become my tutor took me away and my father had a thick pouch at his belt.’

‘They soldyou?’

‘It’s not an uncommon practice,’ he replied. ‘The Venarium has the right to demand children who show talent — to preserve the Laws, of course — but an incentive is offered for people who turn theirs in before it comes to hunting them down.’

‘So it was then …’

‘No. I was still saying my prayers as I practised my spells, not taking meals I hadn’t earned, still cursing Sainites. It wasn’t until my indoctrination …’ He stared up at the sky. ‘We all do a task with our mentors to realise our duties to the Venarium. Mine was to hunt down a heretic, someone who practises magic outside our influence.

‘We learned he was a priest, a Daeonist, who had thought to put his talents to help his church: repairing roofs, warding off Sainites, that sort of thing. We tracked him down to his home and burst in, demanding that he come with us. He was weak, having no control over his powers had drained him. So his wife stepped before us, my master and I, and threw her arms out to stop us, saying we could not take him, that Daeon needed him.