Destiny's Rift

Book 0: Broken Well Trilogy

by Sam Bowring

Genres: Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

'One of the coolest fantasy series to come along in an age' aurealisXpress Sometimes the greatest enemy we face is ourselves - Book Two of The Broken Well Trilogy. ' Prophecy's Ruin may just be the start of the next big thing in Australian Fantasy.' Weekend Australian on Prophecy's Ruin 'Two of the most intriguing protagonists I've encountered in a long time' Bookseller and Publisher on Prophecy's Ruin 'Sam Bowring's debut is the stuff of fantasy writers' fantasies. An epic, enthralling, towering triumph ' aurealisXpress on Prophecy's Ruin The blue-haired man is prophesied to end the age-old conflict between the lands, but with his very soul divided in two, much remains uncertain. On the side of light, Bel sets forth on a journey to find the Stone of Evenings Mild, his only hope of reuniting with his darker half, Losara. But the Stone is lost, hidden away by an undead mage of mutable allegiance, in the lair of an insane dragon. Meanwhile Losara has his own problems. The Shadowdreamer wants him dead, but with war coming he must unite his people for the final battle. His plan is to build a weapon that is unstoppable. How can two men fulfil a fate meant for only one? Is hope lost, or is there a way to close destiny's rift? ** Includes preview chapters of Book 3 in the Broken Well trilogy: SOUL'S RECKONING ** Sam Bowring is a stand-up comedian and author living in Sydney, Australia. As well as the acclaimed Broken Well Trilogy and the Strange Threads Duology, he has also written children's books and for a number of television shows.

Release date: July 1, 2010

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 432

Sample

 

Together they lay at the base of a tree, her head resting on his bare chest. They had only known each other a few days, yet already he felt entwined by her, his former life paled to grey memory. He worried that it was all a dream, that she might disappear into the trees as quickly as she’d arrived. Not to mention the other persistent worry . . .

‘What are you thinking about?’ she murmured, tangling her fingers in his beard.

‘I wonder if they search for me,’ said Corlas. ‘I was supposed to return to the Vale days ago.’

Mirrow sat up with a fiery look. ‘Return to the Vale?’

‘Aye. It gets noticed when a soldier disappears without explanation. Especially one high in the chain of command, as . . .’ As I was, he was going to say. Shouldn’t it be, as I am?

‘But you won’t go, will you?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to,’ he heard himself say, surprised by how naturally the answer came. Would he really abandon his post so readily, risking shame and punishment, for this girl he barely knew?

It seemed he would.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I don’t want you to. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with me?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and she kissed him. ‘But,’ he added, when there was time for breath, ‘are you sure that is what you want? You do not yet know me well.’

‘Shush now,’ she said. ‘I know you better than you think. I know you’re big and strong,’ she thumped his chest, ‘like a man should be. I know you’re brave, for you’re covered in scars. I know you are kind, for you’ve worried over my safety ever since I met you – even though your main worry seems to be that I feel safe with you. Which I do!’ She punched him on the arm and laughed. ‘See? Not going to strike me in return, are you?’

‘No,’ he chuckled.

‘And I know that you are one of my folk, even though you don’t think so. Just like the Lady said you would be.’

‘Who is she?’ he said. ‘This lady?’

‘The Lady of the Wood,’ said Mirrow, as if that explained everything. ‘She’s the one who called me here.’

‘That is how you came to live here all alone?’

Mirrow pursed her lips. ‘I used to live in a city somewhere. I was sold, as an orphan, to a travelling circus. Me, a freak just because of my pointy ears! They said they’d never seen someone with so much Sprite in them, charged gold for people to come and ogle me! Bah!’ Her eyes flashed angrily as she stared into the past. ‘We toured stinking cities of smoke and stone, and I hated being made to turn and twinkle on demand. Then one night, when we camped not far from the wood, I heard the Lady calling me home. I snuck away and came here, where I belong.’

‘How old were you?’

‘I don’t know. Little enough that I didn’t have these!’ She squeezed one of her breasts and laughed.

It was all very mysterious, and Corlas never really got a clear answer from her.

‘So you’ll be my husband then?’ she asked, not making it sound like a question.

‘I will. Though I do not know who will marry us.’

‘You buffoon,’ said Mirrow. ‘We’ll marry each other!’ Then her face turned dark. ‘But wait,’ she murmured. ‘No.’

‘What is it?’

She looked at him then as if she’d never seen him before, and Corlas’s heart turned cold. Suddenly she scrabbled backwards, coming to her feet. He stood also, feeling an unexpected weight in his hands. Looking down he saw his great axe, dripping with blood. Her face filled with fear, and she turned and fled into the trees.

‘Mirrow!’ he cried. ‘No!’

He dropped the axe in disgust and fell to his knees, clutching his head.

‘Mirrow,’ he whispered. ‘Mirrow.’

And he woke.

•

He was sitting with his back to a tree, cushioned by a fall of leaves around its base. Soft ferns brushed his skin, ephemeral in their caress. Corlas remembered well the smell of the wood, earthy and green. He ran his eyes up the trunks of grey trees to a canopy crosshatched with the morning sun. He recalled the soft birdsong even before he heard it – and there it was.

Despite the bad dream, a long-absent sense of peace settled over him. For a merciful time he forgot his weeks on the run from the Open Halls, and the terrible act he’d committed there against his will. Even the sadness of being separated from Bel faded slightly, in this moment a distant trouble, like a stone in the boot of his soul. In his whole life, Whisperwood was the one place he had been truly able to call home.

During his escape, he hadn’t thought much about what he’d do once he arrived. It had seemed like the only place to go, but now that he was here, he wondered how he’d spend his days. He would visit his old hut, and Mirrow’s grave of course, but beyond that he could see no further. Thankfully he didn’t need to rise, not yet, for there was no rush any more. If anyone still pursued him, the wood would not welcome them.

‘Corlas.’

Her voice was as light and soft as the breeze. There was a rustling as dead leaves lifted from the ground, and twigs and stones and bits of bark. He watched, unafraid, as before him formed a figure, composed of the forest floor itself. The dry branches drawn to her awoke and sent out shoots, and roots grew to bundle different parts of her together. The dead leaves that were her eyelids crackled as they opened, revealing green pinpricks of light floating in deep sockets. Awed by the sight, Corlas shifted to one knee.

‘My Lady Vyasinth,’ he said.

He had never seen her before, not really. Mirrow had sometimes mentioned encounters with her during their marriage, but a fleeting glimpse through the treetops was the most Corlas could claim. There was no mistaking her, however, now that she stood before him.

‘I hope I have not offended you with my return,’ he said.

‘No, Corlas,’ she replied, the words seeming to breathe out of her. A tiny red beetle emerged from the crisscrossing twigs of her chest, ran along them, and disappeared again. ‘Rather,’ she continued, ‘it is I who must ask forgiveness. I never came to you as I did Mirrow, for you were so much the Varenkai and not so much the Sprite.’

‘I did not believe, my Lady,’ said Corlas. ‘I had no reason to. But I have grown to think differently.’

‘I am glad. For you were ever one of my people, and even if you’d forgotten it, I should not have. Come, rise. Let us walk together amongst the trees on a morning so fine.’

Her feet made no sound as they went, as if she were wholly supported by the uppermost layer of undergrowth. She herself, however, rustled. Corlas tried not to stare too closely as the roots and leaves that made her shifted about, approximating the shape of a woman as best they could. Her face was smooth, earthy and dark, framed by a mane of twigs. Occasionally flowers bloomed from her, then faded and fell, as if they had seen the passage of seasons in the space of a few moments.

‘I am sorry about your boy,’ she said presently.

‘Yes, my Lady,’ replied Corlas awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’

‘I tried to stop them taking him but was punished by the other gods for interfering in their pointless war.’

Corlas couldn’t think of anything to say. It was hard enough to accept that he was strolling alongside a god; he was hardly going to comment on her relationships with other almighty entities.

‘I know much of what has transpired since that accursed night,’ she continued. ‘I have seen how the gods of shadow and light use your sons as pawns in their own petty play for power.’ The green lights of her eyes flared. ‘It never should have been this way.’

Despite the strangeness of the situation, Corlas could not help being curious. ‘You know of Bel’s other?’ he ventured. ‘The one called Losara?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is strong in the shadow. I suspect he took all of that side from the original Sprite self – yet it is hard to know. Are there traits inherently tied to light or dark? I think not, for there are cowards and heroes on both sides. There are bakers and tinkers and murderers too, for that matter. One thing is certain – Losara got the shadow power.’

The answer wasn’t what Corlas was after – he wanted details of his lost son’s life – but she went on too quickly for him to ask more.

‘You would not know this,’ she said, ‘but shortly after your departure from the Halls, Arkus himself spoke to Bel.’

That caught him by surprise.

‘He has a plan to reunite the two halves, as it were. To bring Losara and Bel back into alignment as one soul, one entity.’

Although Corlas did not understand how such a thing could happen, hope rose in him. Always he had viewed the division of his original son as a travesty, but something he’d been powerless to undo. However, if Arkus himself thought there was a way, perhaps his boys – his boy – would finally be healed.

‘That is welcome news indeed,’ he said.

‘Perhaps,’ said Vyasinth. ‘Arkus claims that such a realignment would create a champion of the light.

Of course, thought Corlas bitterly. His motivation would not be simply to undo a wrong.

‘He says that Bel is the governing personality, that Losara lacks substance. I’m not sure if he lies deliberately, or lies to himself as well as to others.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The gods are not in charge of fate. The truth is no one knows absolutely what’s supposed to happen. What Arkus does know is that while Bel and Losara remain separate, balance persists. If Arkus is to win the war, he must believe there is a way to create for himself a single champion, thus leaving the other side with nothing. If he cannot do this, at best things will go on as they are, and he cares not for such an eventuality. In his arrogance he believes he is supposed to be victor.’

The head of an earthworm poked from her neck and waved around, sensing the fresh air. Corlas avoided staring at it – he was out of his depth, he knew that for certain. He was used to hiding his anger that his boy was being used in this battle not of his making, but Vyasinth’s words were bringing it to the fore. But could it be that in her, he had a sympathiser?

‘Yet,’ she continued, ‘you are right when you say it is welcome news. If Bel and Losara are made whole again, the soul that emerges will be what it was before those fools tore him apart – a Sprite who possesses an internal balance of shadow and light. Corlas, I ask you to imagine what no other has . . . that your son could be a champion for us.’

‘For . . . us, my Lady?’ Corlas was not sure he understood, but he suddenly felt nasty prickles along his arms and down his spine.

‘It was an unnatural thing that the world was ever separated into shadow and light. That is why I never chose a side and thus was banished here, to this sanctuary where Old Magic can still exist – true magic, both sides, in balance. But what if Bel is supposed to end the war by restoring the natural order? Why else would he be born a Sprite?’ Her voice grew hard. ‘That is why we must see that he is reunited with his other half for our cause, no other!’

As Corlas realised what she was saying, his stomach took a slow roll. Already the two great forces of the world tugged at his child, but now a third was entering into play. He found it hard to disguise his anger. He knew it burned clearly in his eyes.

‘You are doubtful,’ said Vyasinth. ‘Allow me then to do something for you. Allow me to awaken your Sprite blood.’

Without waiting for permission she reached out a hand and splayed it on his breast. For a moment Corlas felt nothing but her hard touch. ‘What –’ he began, but there was no time for more. Something deep inside him shook loose, something small and dormant, waking like a seed after winter. His skin tingled as he suddenly felt the breeze, sharp and electric, more intensely than he’d ever felt it before. He could hear the rustling of each individual leaf in the trees, differentiate the thousand smells in the air, feel each crumb of dirt between his toes. His eyes went blank as blood memory overcame him. He saw the wood as it had been generations ago, full of Sprites, practising magic that connected them to the land. Further back, when the land had been whole, his people had been elsewhere, everywhere, free to wander where they pleased, revered as healers and mystics. They had shaped trees into homes, and lived in harmony with nature. How great the cost to the world when their numbers had dwindled! How agonising to be awakened to all that had been lost.

As his eyes refocused, his gaze came to rest on a deer running through the trees. What had once been a simple sight was now a vivid exclamation of beauty. Corlas felt a long life stretching out before him – not the short span of a Varenkai, but a journey only just begun. He was not old, not merely a man of fifty-something years – he was a Sprite, with many more years than that ahead of him.

‘Is this how Mirrow saw the world?’ he asked in wonder.

‘Yes,’ said Vyasinth.

‘No wonder she was so happy.’

‘And remember, you were in her world.’

Corlas understood what she meant – to be with someone loved, with senses alive like this, might make one’s heart explode with joy. The understanding did not bring him joy, however, and Vyasinth seemed to notice this.

‘Keep walking, Corlas,’ she said. ‘There is something I want to show you.’

He fell into step again, but this time he was not just an observer of the environment around him. Now he was a part of it, moving through it like an eddy in a stream.

‘I made you a promise as you left,’ said Vyasinth, ‘though you did not know it. I swore that if you returned, you would not find the wood so sparsely defended as it was before. I have held true to my promise, Corlas. There are many souls in the wood, souls of our people long dead, who do not belong in the Wells of Assedrynn or Arkus – and it is time to see them born again. Thus I have been calling to any alive who still possess the blood. Many have returned, and in the years since you left, many new have been grown from them. And look, Corlas, look.’

They passed a tree in which a hut was not so much built as fashioned, with no ladder but many knots protruding from the trunk. Then another, and another, and Corlas saw curious pairs of eyes staring down. So upturned was his gaze, he did not notice they had arrived at the coiled root at the edge of the clearing where he and Mirrow had built their home. When he lowered his eyes, he saw that their old hut, and beside it the flower garden where he had buried her, had been restored. The last time he’d seen it, the garden had been churned up by magic and battle in the storm, the flowers smashed and trampled . . . and later disturbed again, when soldiers from the Halls had come searching for Mirrow’s pendant. It took him a moment to reconcile this memory with the eruption of colour that now greeted his eyes. Flowers jostled for position, reaching high to capture the light, twisting around one another to form a vibrant mound of rampant growth. Looking upon it with his newly heightened senses, it almost seemed to pulse.

‘In honour of her,’ said Vyasinth. ‘And of you.’

After a time, he turned to her, all his doubts fallen away. ‘What must we do, my Lady?’

‘Let Arkus do our work for us,’ she said. ‘He has set Bel a task, to find the Stone of Evenings Mild, an artefact that will allow him to recombine with Losara. You might remember it, Corlas – I gave it to Mirrow, and when she died you gave it to your boy.’

‘Would that I never had.’

‘Nor I, but we are not to blame. It was not us who cast the spells that pulled the child apart. Once Bel finds the Stone, he will try to remake himself . . . when this happens we must try to bring the resulting soul here as fast as we can, so that he is in his proper home with his proper people around him. We may have to convince him to join our cause, but it will be easier here. I can reawaken his blood, as I did yours, and he will remember his true heritage.’

From all sides of the clearing, Sprite people began to emerge, and to approach the root on which Corlas and the Lady stood. The older ones were less visibly Sprite, having lived their lives as Varenkai before answering Vyasinth’s call. The younger, some no more than toddlers, were all pointy-eared and had beautiful multicoloured eyes. They nudged each other, giggling and chortling, and giving playful bows.

‘More than I expected,’ rumbled Corlas. Then his breath caught in his throat. An old feeling came upon him intensely, only felt for years in dreams: that Mirrow was nearby. His eyes were drawn to a girl, no more than eighteen, with long blonde hair and orange–blue eyes. Ashamed at the thoughts her beauty created in him, he blinked and tried to stop staring. She made it no easier by staring back.

‘She isn’t Mirrow,’ said Vyasinth quietly. ‘Souls are not reborn whole, else how would they grow, and return fuller upon death to the Wells, thereby increasing their god’s power?’

‘But . . .’ ventured Corlas.

‘But,’ Vyasinth said, ‘it is possible that part of Mirrow’s soul was used as the seed that gave young Charla the spark of life. It may even be that a certain Lady intervened in the process.’

Corlas felt tears welling in his eyes.

‘She has no memory of previous lives,’ said Vyasinth. ‘And is not exactly the same person. But perhaps you will find peace in her arms?’

‘She is so young.’

‘She is new to womanhood, but a woman nonetheless. Besides,’ it was impossible to see if Vyasinth smiled, but her voice gave that impression, ‘give it twenty years and neither of you shall look older than the other for a long time to come.’

‘How could I ever repay such a gift?’

‘By serving me, and your people,’ Vyasinth said, then raised her voice for the assembled Sprites. ‘Dear folk of the wood, attend! This is he whose return I promised, he who can lead us back into the world. I ask you, spread word throughout the forest that we welcome amongst us Corlas Corinas – Lord of the Wood!’

A cheer went up, and Corlas wasn’t sure what was more stunning – his unexpected elevation, or the smile of the girl with his wife in her eyes.

 

With Skygrip Castle looming on the horizon, Losara felt a touch of melancholy. For weeks he, Lalenda and Grimra had been travelling Fenvarrow on a pilgrimage ordered by the Dark Gods, and although he had never forgotten the immensity of his eventual task, the journey had afforded him some time for peace and reflection. A between time it had been, almost a break from the troubles that threatened the land, and the three of them had flown high and far, content in one another’s company. Then the dream had come, and Losara had seen how Fenvarrow would crumble if his counterpart, Bel, were victorious. So along with melancholy came a sense of relief to see Skygrip still untouched by the forces of light, no rays of sun beating down upon its sceptre peak. It was illogical to have feared otherwise, he supposed, given that he had gone to the lengths of personally invading the Open Halls and murdering the leader of the light, the Throne Naphur, to avert the possible catastrophe. He remembered the open disbelief on the Throne’s face, frozen there even as Losara had frozen his heart. He took no pleasure in the deed, but the man had been bent on destroying his people.

What ripples from his actions? he wondered. A delay to invasion, or its hastening? Perhaps the people of Kainordas would rise up in anger over the death of their Throne, rattle their swords and clamour for revenge? Perhaps he had not delayed things at all, but actually started a new landslide of events cascading towards whatever end awaited.

Well, he thought, there’s a notion barely worth contemplation, lest it lead to the doing of nothing.

As they flew along, he noticed that unconsciously, or maybe not, they had all begun to slow down. Beneath them lay Fenvarrow’s capital, Mankow, rambling in parts and grand in others, the last step between them and the castle. Once inside it would become a time for serious action, but did the others fear to return more than he? Lalenda – Battu’s prophet, now Losara’s lover – had been confined to Skygrip almost all her life and had often been tormented by Battu. Despite Losara’s assurances that she was now under his protection, there was trepidation in her cobalt eyes as she glided along. As for Grimra, certainly the ghost did not want his amulet encased in stone at the castle entrance again, thus reinstating him as guardian of the front door, now that he’d had a long-awaited blast of freedom.

Lalenda felt for Losara’s hand as they flew. Even though his own hands were shadow from the wrist, he still felt the tiny points of her retractable claws – another sign of growing tension? He glanced at her beautiful brown face and for a moment considered telling her that everything was going to be all right. Immediately he felt foolish – what dim comfort such words would be to someone who could see the future.

Then again, as far as he was aware, Lalenda had not experienced a vision for some time. They were rarer for her, he knew, than his own dreams of times to come. Were their visions the same? he wondered. What was the point of a Shadowdreamer possessing a prophet when a Shadowdreamer, or indeed a Shadowdreamer’s Apprentice, could himself catch glimpses of the future? The answer, he feared, was that the shadowdream was just that – shadow, possibility, vague impression, shifting and unfixed. Prophecy, on the other hand, would always come to pass. Just a theory, of course – for who really understood the forces that governed the ebb and flow of the world? – but a disquieting one nonetheless.

Lalenda had once described to him the vision that, a hundred years ago, had appeared to every prophet, of a blue-haired man standing victorious atop a hill, his sword held aloft. If that scene was destined to occur, absolutely and without deviation, how could Losara ever hope to win? He had never held a sword in his life. Could he somehow make the vision fit his aims? And what was the point of prophecy if all it showed was something that would happen whether one knew of it or not?

Perhaps the events surrounding such a fixed point were not so immutable. Maybe it could be made to fit them.

‘It will be all right,’ he told her, and she smiled.

They descended towards the castle entrance. Goblin guards watched them approach, showing slight hints of unease. Losara noted one disappearing inside, to bring news of their arrival, no doubt – one of Tyrellan’s comprehensive network of eyes. They landed, and Losara nodded as the guards stood to attention. Then, still holding Lalenda’s hand, he led her into the dark entrance chamber of Skygrip while Grimra wafted after. They moved towards a portal door, a veil of shadow that would instantly transport them further up into the castle. Lalenda hesitated.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Should I . . .’ her eyes turned down, ‘return to my quarters, my lord?’

In truth he had not thought about that side of things, but now that he did, the answer came easily. ‘No. Unless you wish to, of course. But otherwise . . . would you like to stay with me?’

Her grip upon his hand tightened, though her claw tips retracted. She was pleased with his offer, and that pleased him in turn. What a strange thing, that his own happiness could be so closely linked with another’s.

‘And me?’ said Grimra. ‘What be Losara wanting of Grimra?’

Losara reached into his pocket and produced the ghost’s amulet, at which Grimra hissed softly. He held the amulet above Lalenda’s head and let it fall, down around her neck to nestle in her bosom. Instantly the hissing ceased.

‘Keep her safe for me,’ said Losara, ‘when I am not there to do so.’

Perhaps he had managed to ease both their apprehensions, for Grimra gave a chortle, and Lalenda squeezed his hand all the tighter.

He realised he had not asked Battu’s permission about any of it.

•

Standing at the window, Battu did not turn when he heard Tyrellan enter the throne room, for he already knew what information the First Slave brought. While his connectedness to the castle did not make him aware of every last little thing, a mage of Losara’s power walking through the front door was hard to mistake. So, his Apprentice had returned from his pilgrimage.

An old question, pondered too long, arose once more. Was Losara more powerful than he? Maybe he was when he was outside Skygrip, but what about inside, where Battu could draw on the immense power of the castle?

‘My lord,’ began Tyrellan.

‘Save your breath,’ said Battu. ‘I will see him immediately.’

Did his voice betray him, he wondered? Did it crack with weakness, born of restless nights spent in the thrall of the only dream he ever had any more? He slipped out of his body to look upon himself and was appalled. It wasn’t the weight he’d lost, or the thinness of his silken hair, weeded from his scalp in sleep. It was his eyes, once black wells with pupils impossible to see – now, for the first time in years, the whites were visible. If he’d been in possession of his lips, he might have gibbered.

Tyrellan, who was unaware that Battu had left his body, bowed to it and departed. That was something, at least, and he seized upon it. Surely a servant who bowed even when his master’s back was turned was loyal. And why not, why not? He’d treated Tyrellan well, given him rank when he had been nothing, even granted his personal wishes on occasion. The First Slave was the only one he’d ever trusted, so why doubt him now? There was doubt enough elsewhere, doubt enough to go around. As if in answer to this thought, the vision of the dream flashed before him once more, and he fled into his body as if under attack.

‘What does it mean?’ he bellowed from the long window, raking worn, bony fingers down his face. Why would he be walking across fields of grass in the shining sun?

If the dream was a sending from the gods, then they tormented him deliberately – did that mean he was a damned man who had earned their rancour for his disobedience? Perhaps the gods had nothing to do with it; perhaps it was a warning? If he allowed Losara to supplant him as Shadowdreamer, as he was sure the boy desired, was this to be his punishment? Banishment to enemy lands? Either way, one thing was certain: to avoid such a fate he must maintain his power. And the only way to do that was to destroy Losara.

‘Ungrateful cur,’ he muttered. ‘Parasite. All the gifts I have bestowed on him, the knowledge I’ve imparted, my steady hand moulding him to greatness . . . this is how he would repay me?’

The idea of fighting Losara made him afraid, and being afraid made him hateful – of himself, of Losara, of the fear itself. What cause should he, supreme ruler of Fenvarrow, have to fear? It wasn’t fear, he told himself, but righteous anger. Yes, and he would show them all – no god or fate or blue-haired man would steal his hard-won throne.

If I am damned already, he thought, then damn you all. A laugh welled up in him, but it broke across his tongue too soon, and he choked.

•

With both his companions safely ensconced in his quarters, Losara turned to shadow and travelled swiftly up towards the throne room. As he slipped through the maze of winding corridors, he came across Tyrellan making his way downwards. Behind trailed the First Slave’s eternal butterfly companion, flitting merrily through the dark passages. Losara stepped out of the shadows and rippled into being.

‘Hello, Tyrellan.’

The goblin halted abruptly. ‘My lord Losara,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you safely returned.’ As he bowed, the butterfly settled on his shoulder.

‘I’m on my way to Battu.’

‘And I’m on my way to fetch you to him.’

‘Then let us walk together.’

Losara considered asking Tyrellan about Battu’s disposition, but decided it was unnecessary. He would find out soon enough.

Tyrellan cleared his throat. ‘Did you have a . . . pleasant trip . . . my lord?’

Losara smiled faintly. The goblin used the word ‘pleasant’ the way others used the word ‘scurvy’. He wondered if Tyrellan even understood what it meant.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We travelled far and saw many wondrous things. I also averted a possible future in which we all perish.’

Tyrellan shot him a rare look of uncertainty.

They entered the throne room. Battu stood where Losara had so often seen him, a dark hulk staring from his window across the land. Did he love the land, Losara wondered, to watch over it so closely? Or did he watch as a wealthy man watches his purse?

As they approached, Battu turned. He looked drawn, paler than Losara remembered, and had large circles under his eyes. His appearance made his smile seem even more rabid than usual.

‘Ah, my boy,’ he said. Not for the first time, Losara was struck by how his smooth tone and twisted features seemed at odds. ‘I am glad to see you.’

Losara inclined his head, a loose approximation of a bow. ‘Good day to you, lord Shadowdreamer.’

Battu came forward, seeming to force his footsteps, and set a hand on Losara’s shoulder. Losara tensed, ready for an attack, but the false gesture of affection was quickly and awkwardly withdrawn.

‘And has the Dark Gods’ purpose in sending you on your pilgrimage been reveale