North Star Guide Me Home

Chapter 1

‘Issey, we’re almost there. Just a little further.’ Worry was plain in her voice. ‘Rasten, he’s icy cold.’

The ride back from the ruins had left the crude bandages warm and wet, and when they passed under the shade of the trees around the oasis, Isidro shivered from the sudden chill.

‘It’s the blood he’s lost. Get him down by the fire.’

They dragged as much as carried him to the camp beside the water-hole. Sierra slung his broken arm across her shoulders, but she was too short to give much support. Her aid came from the touch of her bare skin, draining away the pain from the wounds across his chest and his broken bones.

Rasten bore him up beneath his other arm and steered Isidro towards the fire … where had that come from? Before Isidro could work out Rasten had lit it when he returned for the horses, they’d laid him on the warm sand and hurried away. He felt faintly alarmed that they were leaving him, but he couldn’t muster the strength to call after them.

When he roused again it was to a peculiar tugging sensation in his chest. He opened his eyes to find Sierra kneeling over him, sewing up the gashes Kell’s sword had opened across his ribs. She was covered with grime and blood, wearing only a breast-band laced across her chest and with her tangled hair in a rough knot. Isidro felt no sting as she pushed the needle through his ragged skin, only a peculiar tug as the thread was pulled taut.

When he made an effort to lift his head, she paused, straightening to ease the cramped curve of her back.

‘How bad is it?’ Isidro croaked, craning to see the damage.

‘They’re long and ugly, but that’s all,’ Sierra said, wiping away a fresh seep of blood.

The blade had been caught between their bodies when Rasten drove Kell to the ground with Isidro trapped beneath him. He was lucky the sword hadn’t pierced his gut.

Nearby, someone shifted with a rustle of clothing. Isidro stiffened as Rasten leant over him, holding a water-skin. ‘Kell kept you thirsting, didn’t he? Your blood is thick and sluggish. Drink slowly. If you puke you’ll rip the stitches out.’

Wariness made him hesitate. Rasten had tortured him, had done things that even now he tried not to recall … but only a few hours ago they’d fought together to defeat the one who’d tormented them both. Neither could have succeeded alone; it was only because they’d pulled together that Kell lay dead.

He drank in slow sips until Sierra finished stitching and she helped him sit up so she could wrap clean bandages across his chest from collarbone to navel. It was only then that Isidro noticed the bulky bindings covering his right arm and the fresh blood seeping through the bandages. ‘What happened to it?’ he asked, struggling to form the question with his slow and sleepy mind.

Sierra glanced at Rasten, her lips pursed.

‘Your hand was turning black,’ Rasten said. ‘The swelling presses on the veins like a tourniquet. I’ve seen limbs turn gangrenous from it. Cutting relieves the pressure.’

By the time the bandages were tied Isidro’s head was spinning, and he had little choice but to lie down again, glad the cutting had happened while he was unconscious. He might accept water from Rasten’s hands, but if Rasten came towards him with a knife Isidro knew he couldn’t lie still and wait for the blade.

‘Issey, get some rest,’ Sierra said, pulling a blanket over him.

Isidro watched her mix a fresh brew of herbs and water. She seemed … different. There was weariness in every line of her body, but there was more to it than that. The last time they’d been together was in the stronghold of Demon’s Spire. In those long weeks she’d been riven by desperation and anxiety, overwhelmed by the thought of all the souls relying on her for their freedom and their lives as the Slavers railed over the treasure she’d winkled from their grasp. Despite the pressure and fear, she’d seemed utterly driven and determined, willing to do whatever it took to survive and prevail …

But that was before everything went wrong; before her power slipped her control and drained him to a husk; before she stole away and surrendered to Rasten, submitting to his arms and to his bed. So much had changed since that night — through the connection that bound them he’d caught hints of what she’d endured while he’d clung to sanity in the dark caverns beneath the mountain and then set out with the others in a desperate trek south to find Cam before the king’s men did. Even as she knelt beside him, he felt as though she were a million miles away.

Her ordeals had changed her, but she wasn’t the only one. He’d spent months with Kell riding west, half apprentice and half slave. Even with Kell dead, the weight of all he’d seen and done pressed down upon Isidro’s shoulders. He felt as heavy and lifeless as lead, as though when he closed his eyes he’d turn to stone and never wake again.

You’re raving, he told himself. We’re alive and Kell’s dead, and it’s over, at last. Sirri’s right, just get some sleep. Everything will seem better in the morning. He repeated the words over and over, willing himself to believe, until at last he fell asleep and was still once again.

When Kell collapsed the roof during the battle in the ruins, Rasten had taken the brunt of it on his left shoulder. Grit and dust were ground into the wound and, as Rasten lay down on the filthy blankets, Sierra set wet rags over the crust of dirt and dried blood to soften it. While Rasten had fetched the horses, she’d found Kell’s gear and salvaged his packs of medicinal herbs, the clean bandages, the needles and sutures. As she hunted through the cases for a pair of tweezers, she had to fight down a wave of revulsion as she recalled which hands last touched the fine wood and velvet-lined trays. When her shaking fingers dropped the tweezers in the dirt, she cursed herself with a snarl and dropped them into the pot of water simmering over the fire. She had only the most rudimentary knowledge of caring for wounds, although Rasten had years of experience, not just of killing but of keeping prisoners alive as well. He had taught her the importance of cleanliness.

When Sierra turned back from the fire, she found Rasten studying her, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. ‘Your friend will live, I think,’ he said. ‘So long as his wounds don’t sicken.’

She glanced at Isidro, sprawled on a blanket spread over the sand. She’d forgotten how big he was — she always seemed to forget, each time they were apart, just how tall he was and how long his limbs. However, she hadn’t forgotten the warmth of his smile or the feeling of his hand against her back … perhaps, in time, those memories would fade as well.

Rasten heaved himself up, the movement sending a ripple of echoed pain through Sierra’s shoulder and back. ‘It would’ve gone to gangrene if I didn’t cut, I swear it. Do you believe me, Sirri?’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘You’ve never lied to me. Now, lie down, let me see to that shoulder.’

With a sigh, Rasten settled down onto the blankets again. ‘Are there any bandages left?’

‘Enough for you,’ Sierra said. ‘Enough for tonight, at least.’

It was very early when Sierra shook Isidro awake. It took him long moments to focus on her face as she knelt beside his bed. Her hair was wet, and yesterday’s tangles were combed away.

Someone had rigged a lean-to over him, a long, low shelter, facing the fire. On the far side stood a similar structure with a dark mound lying beneath the blankets. Rasten.

‘Issey, I’m going back to the ruins for more supplies,’ she said. ‘Do you need anything before I leave?’

‘Water,’ he croaked. The blood loss, combined with Kell’s deprivations, left him as parched as a desert. She fetched him a water-skin, and a wooden bowl as well. ‘I made some tea,’ she said.

As he took the bowl from her, Isidro saw her torn fingertips, the wounds barely scabbed over. He didn’t realise how cold he was until he sipped the warming brew.

‘Anything else?’ she asked.

Isidro said nothing, but his eyes shifted to Rasten’s form.

‘He won’t trouble you,’ Sierra said. ‘He’s not the man he was back in midwinter, I swear.’

Rasten was never that man to her. Even at his most brutal, Rasten had cherished her as his only hope for freedom. Isidro was just another sacrifice to feed the ritual.

Sierra must have read something of his thoughts. ‘Issey, I mean it. He’s not like he was … but you can reach for me if there’s any problem. I can send you power if need be.’

‘If you’re so certain why trouble to warn me?’ he hissed.

Sierra bit her lip. ‘I didn’t want you to wake and find yourself alone with him with no explanation. I’m the only one of us fit to carry and lift, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Isidro nodded and closed his eyes. He’d slept soundly during the night, and yet he still felt exhausted. He groped for Sierra’s hand. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re so cold.’ She went to the other shelter, returning with a blanket to spread over him. So, she’d slept beside Rasten, but hadn’t shared his bed.

‘I’m surprised you can stand to lie beside him,’ Isidro said. ‘After all he’s done —’

‘That was Kell’s doing,’ Sierra said. ‘Rasten was just the weapon he used.’

‘So Kell dies and he’s a new man? It doesn’t work that way, Sirri.’

‘I didn’t say that. Ten years of horror doesn’t vanish in a matter of months. I know this is hard, but there’s no other choice. We’re all in this together.’ She started to rise then, but hesitated, biting her lip.

‘What?’ Isidro said.

‘I …’ she looked down, flushing. ‘I know about you and Delphine. She contacted us … oh, a long time ago now, before we left Ricalan. She and Cam had to run, I don’t know why. They were following our trail. That’s all I know.’

‘And she … she told you?’

‘I worked it out. The way she spoke of you … Well, I wanted you to know what’s happened to them, and that you needn’t worry about me finding out. After … after what I did, I don’t blame you.’ She drew a deep breath, blinking shining eyes, and pulled away. ‘I’d best go.’

‘Sirri, wait —’ He reached for her, but the movement pulled on the gashes across his chest and sent a wave of fire rippling over his skin.

Sierra paused and took his hand, and a flood of icy numbness washed the pain away. Isidro shuddered at the sensation. Now that he knew Kell’s darker secrets, and had been initiated into rituals of the blood, he had a more intimate knowledge of what her power was taking from him. Still, he wouldn’t refuse it.

‘Sirri,’ he said with a gasp. ‘There’s something I need you to do for me. There was a device. I dropped it when we were fighting Kell … a metal tube, about a foot long. I need you to destroy it. Please.’

She held his gaze for a moment, and nodded before rising in silence and padding away through the dawn.

Warmer now, Isidro dozed and drank in turn until the water-skin was empty and his bladder full. For a while he tried to sleep once more, but slumber escaped him and he soon grew chilled again. There was nothing for it. He had to get up.

It took great effort to cast the blankets aside and sit up. A square of cloth had been left near his bed for a sling, and Isidro was quite practised at tying the knot with his teeth and one hand. Sierra must have left it there, he thought. Gingerly, he settled his splinted arm into the cradle of cloth, and then sat with his head between his knees until the feeling that he would throw up, or faint, passed. Only then did he make the trek to a stand of trees away from the water-hole. By the time he reached it, he was trembling so badly he had to lean against a tree trunk for support, and when he pissed the flow was dark and stinking.

He started back to the camp, but after only a few stumbling paces he had to rest. It seemed a bad idea — Isidro was certain that once down he wouldn’t have the strength to rise again, but it seemed he must sit or fall. He settled onto the cool, prickling grass and lay back, gazing up at the sky with half-lidded eyes, wondering if the western lands had crows to pick over the dead. What manner of beast would seek out Kell’s carrion in the cool depths of the caves?

Behind him came a sound like cloth flapping in a stiff breeze, and he felt a pulse of power skitter across his nerves. Was Sierra returning? Then he cast his eye across the camp, and his belly shrank to a cold, hard knot. The dark shape under the shelter was gone.

There came footsteps behind him, the rustle of crushed grass. They came within a half-dozen feet and stopped, and Rasten spoke in a rasp. ‘How goes it?’

Isidro forced himself to sit up, breathing deeply to keep from fainting. ‘Could be worse,’ he said.

Rasten was shirtless and barefoot, his left shoulder wrapped in bandages. At the sight of him some instinct forced Isidro to his feet, as though the other man were a beast that would hesitate to take on a larger target, but then he saw that Rasten had his arms full of blankets and clothing.

They had fought side by side only a day ago, but that memory was dulled by pain and exhaustion and it was hard to keep separate from the other recollections of the pain-filled tent last winter.

‘You look like shit,’ Rasten said. ‘You should be lying down.’

He was probably right, Isidro conceded. ‘Are you … doing laundry?’

‘Everything’s filthy and we’ve used all the bandages, unless Sierra finds more. If these wounds turn foul we’ll be in worse straits than we already are.’

‘Kell has lots, given what he meant to do to you and Sirri.’

Rasten narrowed his eyes. ‘Had. Kell’s dead. We saw him die.’

‘Yes,’ Isidro said, pressing his good hand to his forehead. ‘Had.’

‘Go lie down,’ Rasten said. ‘If you fall, and injure yourself more, Sirri will skin me alive.’

Isidro stared at him. He heard the words, but it took an age to make sense of them. What’s wrong with me?

‘You lost a lot of blood,’ Rasten said, making Isidro wonder if he’d spoken aloud. ‘It’s muddled your wits.’

‘Do we have any food?’

‘Kell must have had supplies. Sirri will find them. If everything else fails, we’ll kill one of the spare horses for meat.’

Isidro turned towards the camp, the world swaying around him. ‘She’s not back yet?’

‘No. If she’s not here soon, I’ll go look for her.’

As Isidro crawled beneath the canopy, Rasten took away the blankets, leaving a clean one in their place. As Isidro drifted off to sleep he heard the slosh of buckets drawing water from the spring.

The old man is dead. You saw him die. As Rasten pummelled the sodden mass of cloth he conjured up the sight — the spurting blood, the fading sight in Kell’s shocked and frightened eyes. How many times had he watched a body’s systems falter and the final spark of life wink out? He’d never had trouble believing it in the past. He’s dead, and it’s over. You’re free.

He didn’t feel any different. That was the problem. It didn’t change what had happened, it didn’t erase the years of torture and degradation. He was still the creature Kell had made of him: a twisted, vicious beast who knew nothing but pain and power.

As he scrubbed, he could hear Kell’s voice lecturing on the importance of cleanliness and the care of open wounds. A subject could not be allowed to sicken and die before his master was finished. Rasten had tried it once, before he learnt that resistance only made things worse. He fouled the wounds Kell had made, hoping the fever would carry him off, but Kell had tied him down and cleaned the cuts with the strongest solution he could brew.

It’s finished. It’s over. Rasten clenched his jaw until his head ached. It didn’t matter that Kell had stood over him a thousand times as he’d scrubbed at the stains of his own blood. It needed to be done.

When the last scrap of cloth was clean, he ached from head to toe, and Sierra still hadn’t returned. He reached for her with his mind, found her hoisting a bundle onto a packhorse. Sirri?

I’m almost done. How’s Isidro?

Sleeping. Rasten glanced over at him, and saw his water-skin was empty once more. Do you need help?

No, stay with Issey. I startled a pair of wild dogs tearing at the old man’s body. If they caught Issey’s scent, he’s too weak to fend them off.

After they broke contact, Rasten found himself watching the still figure beneath the blankets. There was a time when even the thought of Isidro’s name would set him burning with jealousy and rage. It had changed so gradually that, looking back, he couldn’t identify the shift — but at some point the anger had faded, and instead of a rival he’d come to view Isidro as a fellow traveller on this road.

Somehow, he doubted Isidro saw it the same way. Rasten had shattered his arm six months ago, and ground hot irons into his back, torturing him until he surrendered his brother. And then, when Cam escaped them, Kell had ordered Rasten to rape Isidro in punishment.

And he’d enjoyed it. Kell had made sure that Rasten’s only pleasure came from bending his victims to his will, and he’d long ago learnt to block out any pity or compassion. With Sierra’s influence he’d started to undo the training, but it was slow going, with faltering progress.

Isidro was his best gauge of what a man of Ricalan should be. Sierra loved him, and more than anything Rasten wanted to become the sort of man Sierra could love. Part of him wanted to beg for forgiveness … but what good would it do? What difference could it make to those who’d suffered? Would it make any difference to him if Kell had bowed his head and admitted his crimes? The damage was done, and a few empty words couldn’t erase those years of torment. It would be an insult.

Rasten wrenched himself away and stalked out of the camp, unable to bear the sight of Isidro any longer. He paced the edge of the water-hole, and finally came to a halt on the bank.

I thought I’d feel different when Kell was dead. For years he’d been fixed on this one goal, and now that they’d achieved it he felt lost … utterly, overwhelmingly lost. What now? He wanted to wrap himself up like a bear wintering in a cave, to sleep until the uncertainty passed and emerge a new man. He wanted Sierra, he wanted to press her body against his and lose himself in her warmth. He felt a desperate urge to cling to her, to control and possess her as the only familiar thing in this new and uncertain world. But that was the old way, the yearning of a broken mind. However much he wanted it, he had to resist the call of the twisted paths he had learnt at his master’s hand.

The water was as clear as glass, sweet and pure. Gazing down at the rippling green weed in the depths, Rasten stripped off his clothes, and even untied the bandages. When he was naked, he plunged in, gasping and shivering. The cold bit deep into his aching muscles, searing the raw wounds, but Rasten closed his eyes and gave in to the chill, letting it chase the thoughts from his head until his roiling mind was quiet at last.

‘Any sign of life out there?’ Isidro balanced his bowl on his knee. He’d found he could stay upright as long as he kept still, but he had to force himself to eat. The meal was nothing more than gruel with shreds of dried meat, though Sierra promised she had also salvaged better supplies. Rasten had prepared the food while Sierra soaked her battered hands.

‘No people or horses,’ Sierra said, ‘but that’s west, and if the Akharians are trailing us they’ll come from the east.’

‘They’re coming, I promise you that,’ Rasten said, scowling into his bowl. ‘They’ll hang back until they’re certain the battle’s over, but then they’ll try to strike before we’re recovered. We should move on as soon as we can.’

‘It’d help if we knew the lay of the land,’ Isidro said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any maps?’

‘Kell did,’ Sierra said. She produced a battered map case and shook a furled parchment from the tarnished tube. At Isidro’s side she spread the map out on the sandy ground, and then created a glowing globe to augment the fading daylight. On the far side of the fire Rasten rose and Isidro went still, watching from the corner of his eye, but Rasten kept Sierra between them as he knelt to examine the parchment.

The ruins were clearly marked, and there was only one water-hole nearby. Of course, that meant anyone trailing them would head here too.

‘Alright,’ Isidro said, feeling a touch of dismay at the emptiness of this arid inland plain. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘I want to go home,’ Sierra said. Her hair was harsh and dull, a far cry from the sleek, shining blackness he’d once run his fingers through. She wore the same shirt she’d pressed to his wounds the day before, and his blood had left brown stains on the cloth.

‘Agreed,’ Rasten said.

‘Well, we’ll have to skirt around the Akharians, either north or south.’

‘What lies to the north?’ Rasten asked. ‘We could see some mountains on the horizon …’

‘Those are the trailing edge of our northern mountains,’ Isidro said. ‘As they flatten out, there’s desert and tundra up to the Northern Sea. There’s a bit of forest, but not like home. The Reindeer People will be grazing on the north shore, but soon they’ll bring their herds south.’ He knew of the Reindeer People as distant kin to the folk of Ricalan, with the kind of strained relationship that only distant kin could have.

‘We’d never make it across a desert,’ Sierra said. ‘And if the Slavers caught us there alone, without power … in the south at least, food and water will be nearer to hand.’

‘They’ll find us either way,’ Rasten said. ‘Three Blood-Mages who are enemies of the empire … they have to deal with us quickly. Our best bet is to find people, and hope the Akharians would rather spare their own than see us dead.’

‘Indeed,’ Isidro said, but he was thinking of what Delphine had told him about the Akharians and how they dealt with Blood-Mages. The Slavers might consider the loss of a few villages a fair price to pay. He turned to Sierra. ‘Delphi didn’t reach you again?’

She shook her head, and Isidro frowned. Something must have gone wrong — perhaps she and Cam had been captured. Perhaps they had never made it out of Ricalan.

‘Perhaps she couldn’t,’ Rasten said. ‘She mentioned a stone … you remember, Sirri? She said the stone was melting. It must have overloaded.’

Isidro gave him a sharp look. It grated on his nerves every time he heard Rasten use the intimate form of her name, but Sierra was no longer his in any way, shape or form. If she had a problem with how Rasten spoke to her she would deal with it herself.

Delphine had many stones when he left, but only one of the rarest, the warm milk-white kind shaped like two swollen pyramids joined at the base. The same ones Kell had used in his traps and snares. ‘I collected some stones from the ruins,’ Isidro said. ‘We could leave some for them when we ride out. If Delphi gets in touch, we can meet up. If not, we’ll know the Akharians have them.’

‘I can rig something so that only a mage can take the stones,’ Rasten said. ‘That should keep any wandering herdsmen from interfering.’

For the first time since the battle, Isidro let himself meet Rasten’s eyes, though he had to steel himself to hold his gaze. ‘Good,’ Isidro said, before permitting himself to turn back to the map. ‘This looks like a dried riverbed,’ he said, tracing a line on the parchment. ‘That’s our best chance of finding water.’

‘So, that’s our plan?’ Sierra asked. ‘We head south, riding at night, and if Cam and Delphine make contact, we’ll bed down and wait for them.’ She glanced from Isidro to Rasten and back.

Rasten shrugged and nodded.

‘Agreed, then,’ Isidro said. Just having a plan made him feel better than he had in months.

After they had eaten, Sierra untied Isidro’s bandages to check the gashes across his chest. It was only when Rasten took the bloody rags away that Isidro was able to relax and submit to her ministrations.

‘They look well, I think,’ Sierra said, laying a hand on his shoulder as she leant close with her mage-light. While she was still peering at the wounds, Isidro hesitantly laid his hand over hers. At his touch, she went perfectly still, and her eyes flickered to his face.

‘Issey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, but I couldn’t find any other way.’ As tears welled, she covered her eyes with her hand.

‘Sirri …’ He trailed his hand down her arm, but she was tense, trembling under his touch. Part of him wanted to pull her down and hold her close, but her tension made him hesitate. How long had it been since she had welcomed such a touch? When she gave herself to Rasten amid the chill spring rains, it had been a desperate act of sacrifice, of guilt and fear. He could only imagine what it had cost her. ‘Sirri, it’s alright. You did what you had to do.’

‘Can … can you ever forgive me?’

He tried to speak, but the words refused to come, and after a moment Sierra turned away with a sob.

‘Oh, Sirri, hush.’ He fought his way upright, and would have wrapped an arm around her, but all he could do was take her hand again. ‘I won’t lie. It was a wretched, awful time, with you gone and Cam captured. If it weren’t for Delphine … But you got Cam out unharmed, and don’t think I don’t know the price you paid. Sirri, I don’t blame you. But if I could forget those weeks, I’d do it in a heartbeat. The wound’s still raw, and after these last few months … we both have healing to do.’

Still weeping quietly, with her face hidden behind her hand, Sierra nodded. ‘I … I understand. I deserve that much, at least. I’m just glad you don’t despise me.’

‘It’s not a matter of deserving a punishment, Sirri. I think you’ve had quite enough of that.’

She drew a deep, hitching breath, and nodded. ‘Let me get some bandages, we shouldn’t leave those wounds open for too long.’

By the time she returned, she’d regained her composure, although her hands still shook. She worked in silence, but there was a question burning in Isidro’s mind. He hesitated to ask, but he had to know. ‘Sirri, is Rasten … is he hurting you? I know you’ve been raising power …’

She faltered then, dropping the roll of cloth, but she caught it with a net of light before it landed in the dirt. It only singed the fabric a little, and she smothered the sparks with the cuff of her woollen shirt. ‘Not since we left the King’s Fort,’ she said as a flush crept over her cheeks. ‘He hasn’t done anything that I didn’t permit. And now I’m taking so much power from you that we won’t need to do it again. Ever since the Greenstone he’s tried to turn away from those old ways, but it’s all he knows, and Kell wounded him far more deeply than either of us.’ She finished tying off the bandages, and turned to his splinted arm. ‘I’d best take a look. You should lie down.’ Anyone else tugging at the bandages would have been agony, but Sierra’s touch stole the pain away the moment it awoke. Isidro swiftly looked away when he saw the black bruises and turgid skin, and the swollen, livid gash that ran the length of his forearm.

‘Issey, I don’t like the look of this. I’m going to get Rasten.’ She closed her eyes, and he felt her begin to reach out with her mind, but before she could make contact, Isidro seized her wrist with his good hand. ‘Sirri, wait. Can he do it? Tell me honestly — can he really leave all that behind?’

She bit her lip, looking away into the still, calm night. ‘Only time will tell.’

Chapter 2

Rain pattered on the leather canopy, pooling around the tent. The morning’s scatter of snow lingered in clumps where there was shelter from the rain, but the brazier lit to burn the sacred incense was enough to keep the chill at bay.

Queen Valeria knelt between a pair of guards. Through the proceedings, she never lifted her eyes from Mira’s face. When brought out to face the priest who would hear the charges against her, and the man in the black leather mask who would carry out the sentence, she’d lunged at Mira with her bare hands and in the struggle her gleaming yellow hair had come loose from its coif. Her hands were now bound behind her back, as Valeria stared with undisguised disgust at Mira’s swollen belly.

‘Honoured priest,’ Mira said, bowing her head to the red-robed man beside the brazier. ‘You have heard the accusations. What is the will of the Gods?’

‘Oh, move it along, girl,’ Valeria hissed. ‘You’re wasting time. If you were in my place I’d have that mongrel whelp out of your belly and crushed under a boot by now.’

‘Be silent, Mistress Angessovar, or —’

‘Or what? You’ll have me gagged, and deny a dying woman her last words? You may think you’ve won, girl, but nothing good will come of a babe born of my son’s rotten seed —’

‘My lady,’ the priest said, ‘there is no need to drag this out. The woman has done all you say and more. She usurped the throne after Queen Leandra’s death, and committed treason against the rightful heir. She has harboured a sorcerer —’

‘Not a sorcerer,’ Mira said. ‘A Blood-Mage, who tortured and killed thousands to secure her stolen throne.’ She’d spent far too long explaining this point already. The priest saw no difference, but Mira insisted her accusations be recorded exactly as she stated.

The priest shrugged. ‘As you say, my lady. The Gods are satisfied — her guilt is clear, and the law of the land states that she must die.’ He turned to the bound woman. ‘Mistress Angessovar, you may have a few moments to make your peace with your gods —’

‘If you’re waiting for me to weep and plead, I’ll die of old age first,’ Valeria spat.

Mira caught the executioner’s eye and he drew his sword with a whisper from the wool-lined sheath.

It was over quickly, but Valeria held Mira’s gaze until the last. Then, as blood filled the air with the scent of butchery, Mira knelt before the altar with its sacred tiger skin while the priest called upon the gods to witness justice done.

While the guards cleared the body away, Mira returned to her tent with shaking hands. She settled into a fur-draped chair as Ardamon strode in, stripping off the leather hood to reveal hair streaked with sweat. Anoa fetched two bowls from the low table behind the stove, but the one she handed him was full of stronger stuff than the tea Mira sipped.

‘Thanks, my love,’ he said, and drained half of it in a gulp. ‘That cursed mask stinks of sweat. I felt like I was suffocating.’

‘Well,’ Mira said, passing a hand across her face, ‘it’s done, at last.’

‘Surely you’re not sad to see her end?’ Anoa said, hooking her thumbs into her belt, a gesture Mira had seen Cam make so often that she wanted to weep. ‘Not after everything the old bitch has done?’

‘I’m not sad at all,’ Mira said, laying her palms on her swelling belly. ‘Valeria would have stopped at nothing to kill this babe, and I know Cam won’t mourn her. But with her gone, the Akharians can turn their attention to hunting us.’

This had been brewing since the spring, when the Wolf Clan made its truce with the Akharian invaders and promised Mira to a man of their choosing to secure the deal. Mira had been raised to do her duty and when Lady Tarya arranged her first betrothal, to the Angessovar heir, she’d swallowed her reservations and bowed to her mother’s will. The call of duty still nagged at her, as did the thought of one of her younger sisters being pushed forward to take her place, but after all that had happened since winter, Mira could no more accept the clan chief’s will than she could sprout wings and fly.

It was all because of Cam.

She’d abandoned him. At the time Mira had thought it was the right thing to do. She was surrounded by enemies disguised as kinsmen, and though there were plenty of folk who despised the alliance her clan had made, it would take time to shift their loyalty to her. Mira couldn’t protect them. Delphine might be an ingénue in the northern lands, but she had the wit and the skill with mage-craft to keep them hidden, while Cam could keep them alive. Even if it took Mira the whole of the summer to build up a core of loyal men, Cam and Delphine should have been safe hiding in these misty hills. But now the bulk of the summer had passed, her own clan hunted her like an outlaw and there was still no sign of her babe’s father.

Mira bit her lip as she ran her hands over her belly. The child changed everything. Her clan had no use for Cam, but a grandchild fathered by the Angessovar line was the culmination of the chieftain’s dream.

She’d have been wiser to keep them from finding out, but when she’d written that note to Cam at the end of spring, Mira was certain the babe was lost. It had taken her nearly another full month to realise she truly was pregnant after all.

If she’d been quicker on the uptake, she could have kept the knowledge from her mother, but Mira’s serving woman noticed the signs and passed word to the chieftain.

The foreign betrothal had been put on hold at once, and Tarya wrote to Mira promising that all rebellion would be forgiven if she came home.

Mira laughed when she read the request, knowing Tarya never imagined that she would obey. By that point she had dozens of contacts within the clan, both nobles and servants. No doubt some of them were double agents, but not all. Cam was well liked because of everything he’d done to free the slaves. The same messenger who brought Tarya’s letter delivered missives from Mira’s other contacts, warning her that the chieftain was taking steps to force Mira back into her clan’s protection.

So Mira gathered her loyal followers and set out after the old queen, the only one of her enemies she had a hope of defeating.

In the beginning, the Mesentreians’ situation was so desperate that the Akharians could have wiped them out with ease. But the Wolf Clan fed them false information, allowing Valeria to slip away while her forces grew stronger. With each passing day those in the south flocked to her banners, desperate to defend their lands from the Slavers.

This misdirection had one aim — to let Valeria’s forces drive Mira back into the shelter of her clan. The Akharians were still a danger, despite the alliance. The Slavers knew possessing her meant possessing the heir to the Ricalani throne. But the Akharians would keep her alive, whereas Valeria would kill her and the child both. Valeria had had no hope of defeating the Akharian forces, but she had her own candidate for heir: Osebian’s mistress was said to be pregnant as well. It was only a rumour, but Valeria’s entire strategy seemed based around it. She avoided engaging the Akharians and set her men to searching for Mira. Once Valeria killed Mira, they said, she would retreat to Mesentreia and raise a new army to take back her kingdom, or else make a truce with the Akharians and set up herself and the new babe as puppet rulers.

Since a willing puppet was better than an unwilling one, and the Akharians were bound to realise the Wolf Clan was leading them astray, Mira took matters into her own hands. Now, after months of manoeuvring, Valeria was dead, and the remainder of her soldiers were pinned down by Akharian forces. The nearest threat to Mira and her baby was ended, but that only left room for another to step into the gap. Who would come next? The Akharians, seeking legitimacy for the ruler of their puppet province? Or her clan, who would remove the baby from her as soon as it was born?

‘Mira?’ Ardamon said. She vaguely recalled hearing him speak, the words barely registering through her reverie.

‘I wonder if perhaps we should head east,’ Mira said. ‘To the Owl lands and Isidro’s kin. They may shelter us this winter for the sake of our connection with him.’

Ardamon rubbed his chin. ‘Well, we’ll need to be settled when the babe’s due in midwinter.’

‘But what about Cam and Delphine?’ Anoa said. ‘We can’t just leave them.’

‘Anoa, we’ve spent the whole summer searching, and haven’t found so much as a footprint,’ Mira said, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘Something’s gone wrong, and we can’t keep chasing ghosts through these hills.’

‘They haven’t been captured,’ Ardamon said. ‘Everyone else is looking for them too. If they’d been found we would’ve heard.’

Mira nodded, blinking back tears. ‘You must be right.’ She sighed. ‘Anoa, please fetch the captain. We’ve been camped here for days now, waiting for the wretched priest, and it’s time we moved on.’

She settled back into the padded chair and passed a hand over her eyes as Anoa left. By all the Gods, Cam, I hope you’re safe. What will I tell this child if he has to grow up without you?

Anoa huddled into her salmon-skin raincoat as she made her way through the camp. The rain had grown heavier and the hills around them were only a dull grey blur. Somewhere, servants would be preparing Valeria’s body for the pyre, but Anoa suspected the old queen would have to wait for her send-off.

She found Captain Omaldan at the edge of the camp, berating a messenger Mira had sent out a few days ago. Flanked by soldiers was another slight figure, small and childlike in an oversized salmon-skin coat. The figure’s shoulders were slumped and head bowed.

‘You brought her here?’ Omaldan demanded as the messenger squirmed under his gaze. ‘Have you lost the wits you were born with, man? What if she’s a spy? Do you have no care for Lady Mira’s safety? Do you think the cursed Slavers will suddenly learn to treat a woman decently just because she’s with child?’

‘Sir, forgive me, but we didn’t know what else to do with her,’ the messenger protested. ‘I was only going to bring word of her, but then we learnt some of Hespero’s men were coming our way and we couldn’t let them find her. If they took her to Ruhavera they’d only hand her back to the Slavers: if she is a spy, she’d get off scot-free, and if her tale’s true, we’d be sending her back to the folk she escaped from. Sir, I thought it best to let Lady Mira deal with her — if the lass is truthful, she’ll be safe, and if not she’ll get what she deserves.’

‘Truly, sir,’ one of the guards said, ‘if Hespero learnt of her, it could give him a lead to track the lady down. Besides, she’s a city-born southern girl. In this weather, in these mountains, she could be on the moon for all she knows where she is. Give her a cursed signal fire and she still couldn’t lead the Slavers to us.’

Anoa cleared her throat and Omaldan glanced her way. ‘Captain, Lady Mira wishes to see you —’ Anoa broke off as she took a step closer and caught a flash of honey-coloured skin and fair hair peeking from the hood of the small figure’s coat. Frowning, she stooped to get a better look. Anoa had only seen her a handful of times, but she knew this girl from her months as a slave — it was Alameda, Delphine’s younger student.

At the sight of her, Alameda threw back her hood and dropped to her knees. ‘Madame, I beg you, take me to Lady Mira,’ she said in a rattle of Akharian. ‘I swear by the Good Goddess herself, I’m not a spy! Please don’t send me back.’

A half hour passed before the matter was heard in Mira’s tent. Rhia had been summoned to make sense of the girl’s tale, for Alameda was too overwhelmed to explain it with her limited grasp of Ricalani.

‘My lady, she fled the Akharian camp to escape an unwanted marriage,’ Rhia said.

‘Marriage? She’s barely fifteen,’ Mira demanded. ‘I know how the Slavers make use of young slave-girls, but are their free women really treated the same way?’

‘She’s young, even by Akharian standards. My lady, Alameda was slave-born before joining the Collegium. Delphine was her guardian, but with her defection the role fell to General Boreas. One of the ranking Battle-Mages took a fancy to her and approached the general, seeking marriage.’

‘Why would a ranking mage want to marry a girl of fifteen? If all he wanted was a bedmate, I’m sure he could have his pick from the slaves they’ve taken from the south.’

‘It’s because of her talent, my lady,’ Rhia said. ‘At the battle in the Spire one of Delphine’s students helped the survivors escape, and Isidro said it must have been Alameda. Battle-Mages like to take talented women for wives. I suspect this Presarius was trying to snap her up.

‘Alameda refused, but the general said she was too young to know what was best and granted his permission. Alameda says she got together what gear and supplies she could and ran away. Delphine had told her that the Ricalani people treat their women rather differently than the Akharians do.’

‘Indeed she did, madame,’ Alameda piped up in her heavily accented Ricalani. The physician had given her a bowl of tea brewed with soothing herbs and she had calmed enough to use her limited knowledge of the language Isidro had started to teach her. ‘She said northern people don’t make their women marry if they don’t wish. Please, madame, please let me stay, and I’ll serve you in any way I can. I know I’m only a student, but I can make many enchantments, and I can craft sturdy bridges and walls and the like.’

Ardamon was pacing behind Mira’s padded chair. ‘Does she really expect us to believe that she fled the Akharian army and made it all the way to the ranges on her own?’

‘Well, child?’ Mira asked her in Akharian. ‘Just how did you slip away?’

‘It wasn’t hard,’ Alameda said. ‘Fontaine was jealous, but she went away to the cache in the north, so she couldn’t interfere. Professor Harwin helped … he gave me a bit of coin in front of the servant who was supposed to guard me. I let the man steal it and when he got drunk, Harwin and I got our things and slipped away … he was supposed to come with me, except one of the guards spotted him and took him back to camp. I waited and waited, but he never came back and it was too dangerous to stay any longer. So I went on my own.’

‘Alone,’ Mira said. ‘What did you do for food, for shelter? How did you stay warm?’

‘I had a little bit of food,’ Alameda said. ‘You don’t need much, really. I never had much to eat when I was a slave. Your belly hurts, but if you drink enough water it stops. When I was little, I slept near the fireplace, so I know the stone holds the heat long after the fire dies. Each night I found rocks and made them hot. I met a bear once and it wanted to eat me, but I chased it away. After a while I met some herders, and they took me to some soldiers who brought me here.’

Mira twisted around in her seat to catch Ardamon’s eye. He grimaced and shrugged.

It was too convenient. She wanted to believe the girl, but if the Akharians had sent her to spy upon them, what better story to concoct than one that went to the heart of the divisions between their cultures? The herders hadn’t known what to do with her, and the soldiers had brought her to the ranges for the same reason. If the Akharians had planted her, they couldn’t invent a better story.

But if she was telling the truth, sending her away would be a travesty and a waste. Mira had grown used to having a mage on hand, and since Isidro and Delphine had been lost, she was keenly aware of her disadvantage.

‘Very well,’ Mira said. ‘You may stay. Rhia, can you fit another fledgling in your nest?’

‘I believe we can squeeze her in, my lady,’ Rhia said, and turned to Alameda. ‘You must understand that Amaya is not a slave now. You are to help her with her work, and when I am not there you must do as she says.’

Alameda nodded. ‘I promise, madame.’

‘Amaya,’ Mira said, nodding to the girl standing by the tent door. ‘Show Alameda to your tent. And Alameda, perhaps when we find Delphine again, you can continue your studies.’

At that, Alameda turned to Mira with wide eyes. ‘Do you mean to go west, madame? I’ll go with you if you command, but please don’t make me stay there or they’ll find me.’

‘West?’ Mira said. ‘Why would we go to the empire?’

‘Because you said … madame, that’s where Madame Delphine is. I heard the general talking about it while I was waiting to see him. Madame and the barbarian prince went into the empire after the Blood-Mages.’

Mira studied the girl’s face, searching for any guile in those wide blue eyes. She seemed to be telling the truth, but Mira knew many to whom lying came as easily as breathing — she was one of them, trained from her earliest years for the games of politics. ‘Did they?’ she said. ‘How interesting. Rhia, please stay a moment. Amaya, you may go.’

Amaya bowed, and beckoned the Akharian girl to follow her.

As soon as they were gone, Mira buried her face in her hands. She straightened with tears in her eyes, but she was smiling despite them. ‘Twin Suns be thanked, they’re alive! Oh, by all the Gods …’ She slumped over again, while Anoa hunkered down to rub her back.

‘I knew they had to be safe,’ Anoa said. ‘They’re too bloody-minded to die after coming all this way …’

Mira gulped and swept her hair back from her face, blotting her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Well, this does change matters a little, but first things first. Rhia, what do you think? Can we trust the girl?’

‘I … think so, my lady,’ Rhia said. ‘Amaya says the girl never struck her as deceitful.’

‘They must be desperate if they’re sending a fifteen-year-old girl to spy for them,’ Ardamon muttered.

‘Does the fact that she was a slave argue for her telling the truth?’ Anoa said.

Rhia grimaced. ‘Not necessarily. There is a saying in Akhara: no one’s as prideful as a freed slave. Her talent concerns me. How are we to know if she makes contact with her commanders?’

‘Witch-stones,’ Mira said, turning to Ardamon. ‘We must have some, like the ones Mesentreians have on the pommels of their knives. Give some to Rhia and Amaya and they may spot her using power.’

Ardamon nodded. ‘I’ll see to it. And Rhia? Watch her closely. If you see any sign of duplicity, tell us at once.’

‘I will,’ Rhia said. ‘But, my lady, what if she speaks the truth and Cam and Delphine really went into the empire?’

Mira heaved herself up. ‘We can’t keep skulking around these hills forever. We need allies, perhaps Cam and Issey and Sierra do, too … ah, I don’t know. It would seem foolish to look for shelter in the bear’s den. But heading east to shelter with the Owl Clan is a temporary measure, and puts even more distance between us.’

‘We need to think,’ Ardamon said. ‘Let’s just focus on moving camp for now. Once you’re safe, we can come up with a plan.’

Cam lay on his belly, squinting into the yellow dust.

Delphine lay prone beside him, breathing in the baked scent of the soil. For now, she could still lie face down. How much longer would it be, she wondered, before the swelling of her belly began to show? She knew nothing of babies, or bearing them, and she hadn’t dared ask any of the women they’d passed for advice. She hadn’t mentioned her pregnancy to anyone but Cam.

She pushed that thought from her mind. ‘What do you see?’

‘I think it’s just another herd,’ Cam said. ‘There are horses, but no spears or pennants, and no armour or shields.’ Still, he didn’t move away, but lay with his chin on his hand to watch a little longer.

Delphine slowly shuffled backward down the slope, until she could stand without casting her outline against the horizon. She shook her head as she walked over to the tethered horses lipping the last of the grain from their nosebags. A few months ago, she wouldn’t have recognised herself: covered in dirt, wearing layer upon layer like a desert herder, hands calloused with the work of tending the camp and without so much as a spot of ink staining her skin.

Stowing the nosebags, Delphine tipped her head up to watch the last of the morning stars. One day she would look back on this and it wouldn’t be the dirt she remembered, or the smell of horse and old sweat, or the bone-deep weariness of a body that never seemed to get enough rest. In the years to come — if there were years to come — her memories would be coloured by what came next. Kell and Isidro, and Sierra and Rasten, lay ahead of them, and sometimes the anxiety of what she feared to find seemed to tear her apart. Who was dead and defeated, or victorious and alive, would shape the future along two vastly different paths. After so many months of waiting, hoping, wondering and dreading, Delphine just wanted it over with. She wasn’t sure how much more of this uncertainty she could take. As Cam began to descend at last, she tightened the horses’ girths, swatting at Cam’s gelding’s nose as the beast turned to nip at her.

The leather-faced herders watching over skinny goats, stunted cattle and stocky, stubby horses had been their only source of news for months. From them, they’d learnt that Kell had tortured and killed anyone who crossed his path. They’d learnt that soldiers were moving up from the south to surround this arid corner of the country, together with the troops that had followed them east from the border.

But a few weeks ago Delphine noticed one herder peering closely at Cam’s face, asking too-casual questions as to where they were headed and where they intended to make camp. Perhaps she and Cam were worth less to the empire than those they were trailing, but even so the insult of Delphine’s defection would not be overlooked and Cam was too valuable a prize to be left unsecured.

When he joined her, Cam spread out the map against his saddlebags. Delphine looked it over as he measured the distance to the water-hole near the ruins. She had perused every inch of that map so often that she ought to have it committed to memory, but there was a certain comfort to be had in running one’s eyes along the roads and old riverbeds yet again.

‘Two or three days should get us there,’ Cam said, ‘if you think that’s where we should go.’

Delphine wasn’t certain, she just didn’t have any better ideas. ‘Whatever Kell has in mind, he needs Sierra to be isolated —’

‘Delphi,’ Cam broke in, letting the parchment roll shut, ‘I didn’t mean to sound as though I doubt you. It’s our best bet, I agree.’

But what if we’re wrong? Delphine bit her lip to keep from speaking that thought aloud.

‘Cam … it was my suggestion that brought us here …’ Back in the spring, on that rainy morning when she and Cam had found the horses Mira left for them, coming west had been her idea. Now they were trapped and the little lump of guilt that congealed in her chest reminded her constantly that it was her fault.

‘And I agreed to it,’ Cam said. ‘I knew you had no experience of living rough, running and hiding from soldiers. We took the chance, and there’s no use worrying over what might have been. Wherever they are and whatever’s happened, we will find them.’

Chapter 3

Rasten turned the leather sling over in his hands.

‘You must have used one before,’ Sierra said. ‘I had mine the moment I could throw a stone straight.’

It came to him in a flash — a man with warm, calloused hands showing him how to pinch the knotted end between thumb and fingers. For a moment, he saw his face, deep grooves around the man’s eyes crinkling as he smiled encouragement. Rasten tossed his head like a fly-stung horse, and when he turned to Sierra with her hand outstretched, a few rounded stones in her palm, it was all he could do not to slap it away.

Her face fell. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, reaching for him.

‘Don’t touch me!’ he snarled, recoiling. The sling tangled around his fingers and he flung it away, a pathetic length