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  Turstan spat on the floor again.

  “Tell me what time you are planning to leave,” Comminor said, “and where you are meeting.”

  Turstan tested his teeth with his tongue. “Beat me all you like,” he said. “I will not tell you anything more.”

  “I have no intention of touching you,” Comminor said. “How is Orla?”

  Turstan stared at him.

  “Yes,” Comminor said, “I am aware of the whore you frequent on a weekly basis. I know that you loved Iriellor, and that since she died you have been lonely. And that you have been keeping Orla company instead. And I encourage that – man was not made to live alone. I know you do not mean to marry her. But equally, I know you have affection for her.” He shifted position to get more comfortable. “Shall I bring her here? Torture her in front of you?”

  Tears filled Turstan’s eyes. “Please. Do not harm her.”

  “I will do it, and I will force you to listen to her screams.” He stood, lifted Turstan’s head by his hair to force him to look up at him. “I am Chief Select, and I am in charge of the Embers. You will tell me everything you know about the Veris. I will not have citizens under my rule thinking they can leave and leading the rest of our society to destruction!”

  Turstan gave a kind of gurgling half-laugh, half-cough. “You really think you know everything, don’t you?” He licked his lips. “Did you know Sarra is a member of the group?”

  Comminor stared at him. Ice slid down his gullet and into his stomach, as cold and chilling as if he had drunk from the Magna Cataracta itself. “Sarra?”

  Turstan’s eyes gleamed. “You did not know.”

  “I…” For maybe the first time in his life, Comminor was speechless. He had not known. His love for Sarra had been completely separate from his role as Chief Select, one of the few pure things he had allowed himself in his life. The moment when she had accepted him willingly in his bed had been one of the best moments of his life. She had a quality that fascinated him, an inner surety and purity that he had had to possess, as if in making her his mate, he could somehow gain a little of it himself. The thought that she was a member of the Veris – that she had kept that secret from him, brought the fire scorching through his veins to flame in his palms.

  Turstan saw his fingers spit sparks and lifted his chin. “The baby is a bard,” he said. “And not just any bard. It knows the way out. It has showed her in a dream.”

  “Where is she?” Comminor grabbed the Select’s throat, squeezing his fingers until the man’s eyes bulged, flames licking from his fingers and scalding the other man’s skin. “Tell me where she is or I swear I will bring Orla here and pull out her fingernails one by one, remove her teeth and slice her into tiny pieces until the room fills with blood!”

  Turstan gurgled. “They have gone,” he managed to say. “They will have left when… they knew you… arrested me. You are… too late…”

  Anger roared through Comminor, bursting from him in a wave of flame that swept over the man before him. Still he continued to squeeze until Turstan’s tongue turned blue and he grew limp, and his skin blackened and bubbled, popped and burst beneath the heat of the fire that burned within the Chief Select.

  Comminor dropped the man, stood back and let the fire roar from him. It engulfed the room, sending the others scurrying outside, billowing in folds of red and orange and gold until the whole room glowed.

  His anger burned, but the hurt at Sarra’s betrayal burned even hotter. He had loved her, and she had deceived him. He would hunt her. He would track them all down, bring them back to the Embers, and then he would make her pay. He was the Chief Select, and the future of the city and its people was his task and his alone. He would not be held accountable for its destruction. He would not be the one responsible for bringing it down.

  He clenched his fists, forced the anger down deep inside him. The fire flared briefly, then died. He stared dispassionately at the charred remains of the man before him, then turned to the door and opened it to see his Umbra, their faces showing their willingness to do whatever he commanded.

  “Come on,” he said. “We are going on a hunt.”

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I

  Procella sat with her back against the wall of the barn and wrapped her arms around her knees. The place was filled with the usual smell of horse and cow dung, and the rustle of animals in the stalls, the skitter of rats across the rafters. But at least in her corner the straw was clean, and the night was warm, so it didn’t matter so much that she didn’t have a bed for the night.

  Not that she could have slept anyway. Although the tiny hamlet was silent, the candles in the dozen or so houses were extinguished, and the Light Moon shone down on the empty streets, the comfort of sleep eluded her. She kept thinking about the events of the previous night, and wondering what was happening to her children.

  Her head fell back on the wooden plank as sadness filled her heart. Although she had done plenty of guard duty at night in Heartwood and on the Wall, she had spent very little time alone in her life. In the Exercitus, army life had always been communal and busy with even basic tasks like eating and bathing carried out together, and she had always found comfort in the presence of others. It didn’t necessarily have to involve speaking – the Militis were brought up to follow rather than question, and talk would revolve around armour and weapons and tactics, or occasionally storytelling in the evenings to pass the time. Emotions were not high on the list of topics discussed, and she had grown used to keeping her feelings to herself.

  Meeting Chonrad had meant a vast change in her daily life. The destruction of Heartwood as she had known it, getting married, having children – her whole way of life had been turned upside down. And she had borne it as best as she could, because there was little place for a soldier in peacetime, and she had enjoyed for a while the task of raising her children and being a wife to the man she loved.

  It had taken time for her to learn to share herself with someone. Chonrad was probably the best knight she had ever met save the mighty Valens who had trained her, but he had not led the life of a soldier the way she had. He had been married before he met her, had raised two children, had rebuilt Vichton and learned about trade and the economy, had had the responsibility of looking after the people of the town ever since he was a lad, raised to follow in his father’s footsteps. Although he had admitted to her that his relationship with his first wife had not been close, still he had been used to sharing a bed with another, to listening to her dreams and complaints, to helping her through the days, bad and good.

  At first, Procella had baulked at Chonrad’s gentle encouragement to share her innermost thoughts. What was the point? Why burden him with her worries when talking about them didn’t do anything except mean that both of them ended up worried? Physical intimacy was one thing and she enjoyed sharing her body with him, but emotional intimacy was something entirely different, as was adjusting to being part of a couple. She didn’t like compromising and adapting. And she was never sure she liked him knowing what was going on in her head. He had understood her so well it scared her, and she had fought against that closeness for a long time.

  Fights she could deal with and almost enjoyed, and there was no doubt that his temper – although hidden deep inside him – flared with as much brightness and heat as her own. She preferred to tease it out of him, to goad him into a vocal and passionate response when they disagreed, because first they would shout, and then things would turn physical, and then he would kiss her to shut her up. They would end up making love, which she enjoyed and which ultimately diffused the friction between them.

  But Chonrad was calm and patient, and as the years went by, he had learned how to deal with her frustration, and to understand that ultimately she was scared of sharing herself, and of learning to love. In her world, a soldier lived for the day, because no matter how strong and fierce the warrior, a stray arrow could easily take one’s life away in the blink o
f an eye. She had loved and lost Valens, as well as many of the men and women who had served under her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing Chonrad too. And he had understood this and slowly teased her out of her tight shell like a periwinkle. He had encouraged her to express her love for him and her children, and the harsh and regimented soldier had gradually relaxed into motherhood and family life. She knew she had been strict with her children, and that Chonrad probably deserved someone who returned his love with the warmth and affection he himself portrayed, but he had never once expressed regret for taking her as his wife, and she had grown to love him deeply.

  And then he had left her. She closed her eyes and her hands tightened into fists as the grief that she had thought would be long past welled inside her once again. How could the knife of pain still be as sharp as when it had plunged into her ribs the day they brought Chonrad home, inches from death? The force of her feelings had shocked her. She was a soldier – death had always been a part of everyday life. Why had it come as such a blow? But it had shaken her world like an earthquake, and after he died, she knew he had taken part of her with him.

  Her children had gathered around her, but she had turned away from them rather than pulling them close and allowing them to comfort her. Never again would she allow death to affect her so, she had vowed. They were all but dust in the wind, and love was an emotion she had no interest in and no desire to continue to nurture like a seedling.

  She pressed a hand against her heart. It felt hollow, like an old tree stump, a resting place for mice and hedgehogs. She had grown used to being cared about, she realised. To leaning on others like a crutch and letting them support her. To caring. But no longer.

  She thought of her children and wondered where they were. Her daughter, Horada, lost deep in the countryside, tied to the Arbor by the same silken strings as Chonrad, and responding to the tug of the holy tree whenever it felt like pulling, just like he had. Procella knew she was too impatient with her daughter, that she didn’t know how to talk to her, because she was so different to herself. Where was Horada now? Had she got to Heartwood? Or had she been caught by the fire demons Julen had told them about?

  Thinking about her youngest son brought a pang of angst, and she rested her face in her hands. Julen had always been independent and fearless, and she had no worries about him coping alone. He spent weeks travelling by himself doing Gravis’s bidding – preferred his own company, in fact. And she had seen him defend himself, had privately been surprised and pleased at his inherent skills. But still, he was her son. And now he, too, was Arbor-knew-where in the countryside, chasing his sister. Perhaps both of them had already been caught, been killed? Would she know? Would she be able to feel when they left the earthly world?

  And as for Orsin… Procella regretted being so rough with him earlier on their journey. She had embarrassed him – had done it on purpose, impatient with his foolishness and embarrassed by his idle boasting. All he cared about was wine and women, and while she appreciated these things were at the foremost of most normal men’s minds, still she had expected her own son to have some appreciation for the more important things in life. In nearly all ways he fell short of Julen, and she had never bothered to hide her disappointment. Now, though, she wished she had not been so harsh.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and fought back the tears that she had shed so little of throughout the years. She missed Valens. She missed Chonrad. And she missed her children.

  For the first time in her life, Procella was lonely.

  The tears ran silently down her face. In the barn, mice rustled, a horse snorted, one of the working dogs got up and shook itself, turning around a few times before settling back down.

  Procella’s thoughts were turned so inward that for a moment nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As she leaned her cheek on her knees, she could see through a wide crack where a plank had slipped, where a sliver of Light Moon lay on a puddle like the blade of a scythe, stars around it glittering like white stones. Chonrad… she thought, fighting the ache inside her. I miss you…

  It was the age-old warrior’s instinct she had carried for so long that finally made her stiffen, her senses sharpening. For a moment she remained motionless, holding her breath, straining her ears to catch whatever it was that had alerted her. A jingle of horse’s reins. A whisper of conversation on the wind.

  She pushed herself quietly to her feet, her tears drying on her cheeks. Silently, she crept to the doorway and peeked through.

  At the end of the street, a fire burned. She blinked and focussed, trying to make out the men who stood around it. Several figures, Wulfian obviously as she was still north of the Wall. One she recognised. She would never be able to rid herself of the memory of his huge frame pinning her into the dirt, the smell of his breath on her cheek. Hunfrith would die at her own hand – of that, if nothing else, she was certain.

  Two of the men with him she thought she recognised from Kettlestan – other lords of the lands north of the Wall, greedy and desiring money and land over peace. They must have escaped the burning castle, and now Hunfrith was on the hunt for her.

  She turned to the horses watching her patiently, went over to the one she had decided earlier would be the most suitable for her purposes – a riding horse, a gelding, fifteen hands high, solid and sturdy. She had already selected a saddle and reins from those hanging on hooks to the side, and she took them now and saddled him quickly. An expert horsewoman, it took only minutes before she was leading him out of the wide doors at the back.

  The gelding was dark grey with a black mane and blended nicely in with the long shadows and bleached landscape. Procella led him around the barn to the west and mounted him swiftly. Then, casting a final look over her shoulder, she urged the horse towards the forest.

  Within seconds, she heard a cry behind her. Kicking her heels into the gelding’s flanks, she sent it racing towards the trees.

  Voices yelled behind her. She leaned forward, urging the horse to pick up its speed. Its hooves thundered on the dry ground, and then trees flashed by her, branches tugged at her hair, and the welcoming darkness of the forest closed around her.

  Procella turned immediately south, heading for the Wall. She needed to get back into Laxony, although the nearest fort and passage through was several miles west. The Wulfians would know that was where she was going, and would try to head her off before she got there. She had a long hard ride ahead of her, on a horse she didn’t know, at night, in a land less familiar to her after years spent south of the Wall. The odds weren’t in her favour.

  But those were the kind of odds she loved, the kind of risk that made her heart race and her blood pound in her ears.

  Feeling more alive than she had felt in the past twelve months, Procella hugged the horse’s neck and prepared for a challenging journey.

  II

  Catena had never been so deep into the jungle. The going was tough – they had to fight their way through creepers and vines that laced between the trees, and they were obviously nearing the base of the mountains because sometimes huge boulders forced them to detour. Tropical flowers grew thick and lush, and multi-coloured birds also hopped between the ferns, a kaleidoscope of primary colours amongst the dark green vegetation.

  She was glad she had brought the ointment they used in the mines to counteract insect bites. The oil contained some kind of herb that repelled mosquitoes and other insects, and without it she was sure they would have been eaten alive. Atavus snapped constantly around him, irritated by the buzzing, and eventually she put some drops of the oil on a cloth and tied it around his neck. He seemed better after that.

  She tried not to laugh every time she looked at Demitto. Clearly, he was also hating every minute of their journey west. He had stripped off his leather jerkin, rolled it up and strapped it to his backpack. His linen undershirt clung to his upper body with sweat, and he had pulled his long scruffy hair back off his neck and tied it with cord. Deep frown lines cut into his forehead,
and she could hear him muttering from several paces away.

  Still, in spite of his obvious resentment, he pushed on, and she was pleased that he seemed so determined to rescue the Prince. She had wondered whether he might have told her that, because she had taken the Prince away, he would not help her rescue him and would in fact return to Heartwood to find another sacrifice as she had originally hoped, but he hadn’t. However, he had hardly said two words to her since binding her shoulder, and he was clearly angry with her.

  She rolled her shoulder as they walked. She wasn’t quite sure what he had done to her before binding her shoulder. He said he had ‘directed the Arbor’s love’ when she queried him again, and she had seen him push the pendant into the ground. Was it true that energy travelled beneath the earth from the Arbor? Had he truly channelled that energy into her? Her shoulder was sore, but it should have been throbbing a great deal more, and there was no sign of infection, the skin already healing nicely.

  She mused on the enigmatic emissary as he stopped to hack at a trailing vine with a dagger. He portrayed himself as a sword-for-hire with less spirituality than a piece of rock, but that didn’t explain the way he had healed her, or the fervour that shone through him at times, lighting him up like a lantern.

  He pushed forward through the greenery, Atavus leaping elegantly over a fallen log, and she trailed after them, wondering what Demitto would say if she asked if they could stop for a while. She was thirsty and could do with a bite to eat to keep her strength up, but his rigid spine and stony face discouraged her from asking. She would wait until he had to stop. Surely he would have to stop at some point?

  On cue, he came to a halt so suddenly that she bumped into his back. A query hovered on her lips, but before she could voice it, he sank to his haunches and gestured for her to do the same, putting a hand on Atavus to stop him running forward.