The Bitter Crown

Book 2: The Eidyn Saga

by Justin Lee Anderson

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dark Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

'A page-turning adventure propelled by an inventive plot. . . Readers will once again be left clamouring for a sequel' Publishers Weekly

The second novel in Justin Lee Anderson's sensational epic fantasy series where the war for a kingdom exits the shadows now that a terrifying secret has been revealed.

The fog of war is lifted and the conspiracy at the heart of Eidyn finally exposed.

Now they know the truth, Aranok and his allies must find a way to free a country that doesn't know it's held captive.

But with divided loyalties and his closest friendship shaken, can their alliance hold against overwhelming odds? The quest to retake the country begins here.

A fast-paced epic fantasy, filled with swashbuckling action and expansive worldbuilding, The Bitter Crown is the gripping sequel to The Lost War, perfect for fans of Nicholas Eames and RJ Barker.

Praise for The Lost War:

'Rich in action and intrigue, this fantasy adventure with a Scottish flavour is sure to please fans of David Gemmell' Anthony Ryan, New York Times bestselling author

'An exciting, action-packed fantasy' Mark Lawrence, on The Lost War

'Strikingly intense. . . immersive and thoroughly compelling' SFX

'Compelling and entertaining. . . inventive and fun.' SciFiNow

'Genuinely surprised and delighted me' Anna Stephens, author of Godblind

'Highly entertaining fantasy. . .extremely readable' Tom Lloyd, author of Twilight Reign

'Outstanding. . . The Lost War is easily one of the biggest surprises of the year' Novel Notions

'This book has a perfect blend of everything' Spells and Spaceships

Release date: December 5, 2023

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 480

Sample

The old boy scans the busy bar with a mischievous grin and settles back on me with a sparkle in his eyes brighter than the meagre candle lighting our table. He ducks his head as if the dark, low-hanging beams might eavesdrop. A sup of his ale; a conspiratorial glance under bushy eyebrows. When he speaks, his deep voice hums with the excitement of a child bursting to tell a secret.

“Aye, you think you ken the story, don’t ye? We all think we know what happened. But the truth of it? I’ve met people. Heard stories. See if they’re true? Nothing we’ve been told is real. None of it.”

He twitches with anticipation, running a hand over his head, searching the room again for eyes that linger too long, ears that hear too much, hands that reach for weapons, or irons. After a moment, he licks his teeth and, inevitably, the tale spills from him.

“So after a year of fighting off his demons and Dead, Mynygogg was trapped in Dun Eidyn, right? That’s where we start. Aye. So after that’s all done, King Janaeus puts together a new king’s council: Laird Aranok; a soldier by the name of Glorbad; a sailor called Nirea; and Brother Meristan, the head of the White Thorns.”

I nod. I know this. Everyone knows this.

“First thing he does is send them on a secret mission, though. See, apparently, auld Queen Taneitheia of Gaulle was secretly still biding in Barrock Castle and Janaeus reckoned they could help get her back on the throne, and make an ally of Gaulle. Except Meristan hadnae turned up. So it was just the three of them, plus Allandria, Aranok’s bodyguard, and a wee blacksmith Aranok had sort of adopted. Boy called Vastin.

“Now, first they went to Mutton Farm. Killed a demon there. Well, they didn’t. By mad coincidence, Meristan turns up there with a White Thorn—girl called Samily. They’d been on their way to Haven—to Greytoun—but heard about the demon and… anyway, they showed up; Samily killed the demon.

“And she turns out, because Glorbad was hurt in the fight, to be”—he leans forward and waves a performative finger at me—“a healer.”

My mouth puckers involuntarily. There’s no such thing as healers.

“Aye, aye, I ken,” he says, waving away my scepticism. “Just wait.

“So they all head off for Barrock—except Aranok’s got other plans. ’Cause y’see, back at Greytoun, Janaeus told him Mournside, where his family’s from, had been breached wi’ the Blackened. And Aranok wanted to go, but Janaeus said no. And Aranok’s intent on going anyway. But Glorbad’s no having it, so there’s a massive argument and it ends up with Aranok and Allandria going off on their own to Mournside.

“Well, they get there and find out Mournside’s fine, right? No Blackened, nothing. But while they’re there, a king’s messenger who’s been reporting stuff that doesnae chime wi’ what Janaeus knows is murdered in the same pub where they’re meeting wi’ Aranok’s pa, just before Aranok can speak to her. Suspicious, right? But they’ve no got time to hang about, so Aranok leaves the town guard to look into it.

“Oh, also, while they’re there, they find out Aranok’s niece is draoidh. That’s important later.”

He pauses to take a long slug from his ale, then wipes the suds from his grey beard. “With me so far?”

I nod, smiling indulgently. He takes the pause to re-evaluate the room—lingers a while on a woman standing by the door, until she turns and stalks out into the dreich night. With a quiet “hmmph” he turns back to me.

“So, next morning, the other lot are heading along the Auld Road, and they run into the Blackened. And they are in deep, deep shite, until Laird Aranok and Allandria show up and bail them out. They make it to an inn—d’you know the White Hart?”

I nod again.

“So with the Auld Road blocked, they reckon the Black Meadows must be clear, right? So they go over the Black Hills and end up at Lepertoun. The place is abandoned. Or so they think.”

Again with the waving hand.

“Because what they miss is a Blackened baby at the river, and both Vastin and Meristan end up Blackened!”

He sits back, eyes wide, waiting for my reaction. I smile and try to give him the mix of surprise and wonder he craves. It seems to be enough.

“But then there’s this woman, see, Morienne, and she’s immune to the Blackening. And she’s got this curse, going back through her family—and because of her, Laird Aranok works out that the Blackening isnae a plague at all… it’s a curse!

“So this leads to another fight, ’cause now he wants to go to Traverlyn and work out how to lift the curse but Glorbad’s still all, ‘We’ve got orders fae the king.’ Anyway, they end up going to Traverlyn.

“Oh, but on the way there—I forgot to say before, when they were going to Mutton Hole, they met these demon things that came out of cocoons, like people, but with four arms and stone skin, but sort of with slatted armour? Anyway, they died in sunlight. Thakhati. So they run into a bunch of these on the road into Traverlyn and damn near get killed, but Aranok’s got this stone that’s been storing sunlight and he blasts them with it, so they get away. But Vastin’s hurt. Bad.

“When they get to Traverlyn, Aranok’s old teachers, Conifax and Balaban, they find a spell to lift the curse. It works on Meristan and they’ve got a plan to do the same to Vastin and then have Samily use her healing powers on Vastin to save him, right? But it doesn’t work out like they thought.”

Again he leans in, and his voice falls to barely more than a whisper.

“Because it turns out, she’s no a healer at all, but a time draoidh. And so both her and the boy end up Blackened! They sort her, but they can’t lift the boy’s curse without him dying from his wounds. So they have to leave him at the hospital.

“So they can cure the Blackening, right, but how do they cure everyone? Well, Conifax finds mention of a relic called the heart of devastation in Caer Amon which is supposed to massively boost a draoidh’s powers and they reckon that might be the very thing. But of course”—he spreads his hands wide—“massive argument. Aranok says they have to go to Caer Amon, Glorbad says they finally have to go to Barrock. In the end, they split up. Aranok, Allandria and Samily go to Caer Amon. Glorbad, Nirea and Meristan go to Barrock.

“Oh, another thing. While they’re there, Aranok hires a tutor for his niece—a metamorph draoidh called Rasa. That’s important later too.

“Right, so, they head off in opposite directions. Aranok’s lot stop off at Mournside and find out they’ve caught a boy who says he’s the dead messenger’s husband and that he killed her. But his story doesnae add up, and he ends up cracking his own skull open, supposedly. All a bit off, ken?

“Then they stop off to stay with Anhel Weyr, at Wrychtishousis, right? And this is where it gets proper mad.”

This time, he spends an age looking around the room, carefully examining every drinker, deciding that they’re not a threat and moving on. There’s some genuine fear in his eyes now. Maybe regret that he began this story. But he can’t stop now that he’s started.

“So they stop for dinner at Weyr’s,” he whispers, “and he tries to poison them. Because he’s a demon summoner. And in fighting off him and his demons, it’s them that burn down Wrychtishousis.”

Silence and raised eyebrows. He leaves me to take that in. I give him a considered frown; take a drink of my own. When I say nothing, he continues.

“Meanwhile, the other lot make it to Barrock—except there’s naebody there. It’s empty. Has been for months. But what there is, is a demon, and it’s waiting for them. Kills Glorbad. Nearly kills Nirea. Meristan and her barely make it out alive and run back to Traverlyn.

“Aranok and the others get to Crostorfyn kirk and from there down to Caer Amon to look for the relic. Some weird shite happens—time’s sort of broken. But there’s no relic. But then back at the kirk, the priest tells them that he’s got the relic. Except when he goes to get it—it’s no there! Been locked in a keepsafe in a crypt for years, and it’s gone! Just like that.”

A wave of the hand tells me more drama is coming.

“That’s when Rasa arrives—the metamorph. And she tells them the news. Glorbad’s dead. And so is Conifax.” A raise of the eyebrows. “He’s been murdered in the university library! So Aranok’s now convinced Mynygogg must have the relic and he’s behind everything, so he goes off on his own to face him in Dun Eidyn.

“And he gets a fair way through Auldun before the Dead are too many for him, and Rasa has to save him. Then Allandria and Samily catch him up and Allandria is proper pissed off at him for running off. Anyway, they send Rasa back to Traverlyn—because she can fly there, as a bird, aye? She goes off to Traverlyn to tell the others what they know, and the other three go on to Dun Eidyn.

“First they kill a massive lizard demon on the Crosscauseway and Samily has to use her time powers, so she ends up knackered, and then there’s a weird magic barrier that prevents Allandria from getting through the gate, so Aranok ends up having to go in alone.

“Now…”

He sits back again. We’re getting to the interesting bit. He rubs his hands in anticipation. Takes another long sup of ale. The mug is almost empty.

“Here’s where it gets interesting. Because, see, Mynygogg’s no interested in fighting Aranok. He just wants to talk. And the more they talk, the more Aranok starts to feel sick, right? Like his head’s no right. Like something’s really, properly wrong. And finally, eventually, Mynygogg gets him to hold this charm and say a spell and…”

He leans in, grabs my hands and pulls me toward him. I feel the heat of the candle sharp against my lips.

“… Aranok remembers.

“Ye see, the truth is that Mynygogg was the king. Janaeus was a memory draoidh who was in a group with Aranok when they were kids—the Hellfire Club—with Anhel Weyr, an illusionist called Korvin who was Aranok’s best mate and his niece’s real dad, and a necromancer called Shayella. The real draoidh war was against Anhel Weyr and Shayella, and Janaeus won it by using the heart of devastation to change the whole country’s memories.”

He empties the dregs of his ale, sits back triumphantly, crosses his arms like a laird and waits. Does he believe it? Or does he just want to believe it? It’s a seductive conspiracy.

“All right,” I say, smiling, “so then what?”

“Well, then they gathered Allandria and Samily, restored their memories too, and set out to take back the country. If you’re interested to hear, there’s plenty more…” He waggles the empty mug between us suggestively.

I laugh. “All right. Two more.” As I go to stand, he grasps my arm.

“A wee teaser for ye. There was a messenger, back at the beginning, old boy called Darginn Argyll. Got sent to take an urgent message to Baroness de Lestalric. Thought he was lucky she’d offered him sanctuary for the night.

“Lucky, until he woke up strapped to a board wi’ his legs missing…”

Fetid air whipped across the chasm. Only yesterday, Aranok had torn fifteen feet of the majestic, white stone Crosscauseway from its place and remade it as a wall, protecting them from the Dead during their battle with Anhel’s great lizard demon. Then it had been protection. Now it was a barrier.

Once they got to Auldun’s roofs, getting out would be straight-forward. But the path to the rooftops was now across a fatal drop to the Nor Loch and through an agitated horde of Dead.

So he was going to try something he’d never done: use his wall spell to make a second bridge, connecting them directly from the north Crosscauseway to the nearest buildings on land, bypassing the Dead completely.

With his mind clear, Aranok was remembering things lost. If he focused completely on the earth, pictured what he wanted, it should run the path they needed. But if he tore too much from the depths of the loch, he’d unsettle the foundations of the Crosscauseway and dump them all in the freezing water.

A hand on his shoulder.

“Aranok, I’ve seen you do a hundred miraculous things. This is just another one.”

Mynygogg was almost unrecognisable. The king had shaved his striking black hair and beard and wore a simple set of black leathers.

In contrast, Samily appeared hewn from marble—the rock upon which Eidyn could rely. Maybe the greatest warrior he’d ever seen, but for the man who’d raised her or the woman beside her.

Allandria. His own rock. It had been awkward since they discovered Janaeus’s trick—convincing them they were lovers. Instinct said she was angry with him. But they had no time for the kind of discussion she might want—might need. Hopefully that storm would blow itself out, given time.

This was their army. The four of them carried the truth that would restore Eidyn.

Having Mynygogg with him again was comforting. He felt his friend’s confidence in him like air, buttressing his belief. Aranok looked down at the water, up to the rooftops, breathed deep and closed his eyes.

“Balla na talamh.”

Focus.

The loch roiled as sodden earth broke the surface. It rose like a beast from the deep, and Aranok was reminded they’d left a demon’s carcass down there just the night before. In moments, the mound reached the edge of the causeway. Now it had to stop going up, and go out.

Another deep breath and he watched as it extended, mud and rock surfacing in a rough line toward the shore. His mind was barely clinging to the magic. At any moment, it felt as though he’d lose his fragile focus and the bridge would collapse back into the water.

The ground shifted beneath Aranok and a shock of pain stabbed as he dropped to a knee. Someone caught his arm. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t look away. The bridge crashed through the sea wall and he was no longer pulling up loch bed, but stone and cobbles of Auldun street. Almost there.

“Aranok!”

He was yanked back as his makeshift barrier against the Dead came crashing back through its old position, taking several feet of the causeway’s edge with it.

He landed against someone, confused.

Unfocused.

Out of control.

Another rumble.

A festering avalanche of Dead poured into the loch as the other side of the Crosscauseway crumbled.

“Fuck! Move!” Allandria pulled Aranok to his feet as their side of the causeway shifted and lurched to the east, away from the new bridge.

“Go! Go!” Aranok gestured urgently to the others. The new bridge was only about eight feet wide, and they slowed as they reached it. The earth was slick with seaweed—move too quickly and they could fall, too slow and the bridge might collapse before they reached safety.

Allandria reached the edge just before him. She slipped, recognising what he already knew, but her balance was sound. Aranok followed, stepping off the Crosscauseway as it finally lurched away.

He was on. With a sigh of relief he turned to see the north half of the Crosscauseway groan and stretch away.

Then, horrifyingly, it slowed, stopped and swung back.

“Run!” Aranok scrambled to keep his feet. What was left of the northern Crosscauseway battered through the earth bridge, sending debris plummeting back to the depths.

Twenty feet ahead Allandria danced along the ridge, each step finding solid ground. Aranok forced himself only to look forward. If he looked back… He had to keep running, keep moving, keep—

A sickening lurch as the dirt sank beneath his foot.

Aranok fell.

A second of panic, of terror, was all he had. In moments he would hit the freezing water and, if he survived that, be crushed by falling debris. Instinctively he pulled his hands tight into his sides and tensed his arms.

“Gaoth.”

The burst of air threw him upwards, back toward the makeshift bridge. He could see the others, looking down at him hurtling toward them. It just had to be enough to reach them. He stretched out as their faces came closer and… went rushing past.

He’d overshot.

Aranok reached the zenith of his rise, slowed and fell again. They were maybe ten feet below him. But he was going to miss the bridge. Gaoth was a blunt instrument. Another uncontrolled burst could overshoot him so far he’d never make it back. Using it to cushion his landing would blow the others off.

Aranok stretched again, willing his arms to reach the edge, hoping he might catch just enough purchase to…

He screamed as his shoulder wrenched out of its socket. Ribs crunched, battering air from his chest, and something in his back popped as he slammed against wet stone.

It took him a moment to realise he was half on the bridge, his legs dangling useless over the edge.

A second pair of hands grasped his free arm and yanked him, agonisingly, the rest of the way on.

“Are you all right?” Allandria asked.

Was he? Half of him screamed in pain, the other was numb. He coughed up a glob of bloody phlegm.

Aranok tried to move, but his back seized, forcing him still.

“No,” he wheezed.

“Where?” Samily’s voice was urgent.

Aranok tried to point with his good arm. An awful, rasping sound and a nauseating sensation in his chest suggested his lung was torn.

“Never mind.” He felt hands on him. “Air ais.” The shoulder clicked back into place, ribs snapped into shape and his back popped in a way that was somehow more painful than the injury. Aranok sucked in a deep breath of damp air.

“Can you move?” the knight asked.

He could. He had to. With a grunt and support from Allandria, Aranok forced himself to his feet. It was another five hundred yards to the edge of the water. The bridge wasn’t perfect. The lurch at the end had cost him, and the wall of earth had carried on too far, carving a great gash into the stone tenements.

“Who caught me?” Aranok moved carefully along the slick surface now that it wasn’t actively collapsing.

“Samily,” Mynygogg shouted. “She’s everything you said.”

“Thank you!” Aranok called to the knight.

Samily did not turn to shout her answer.

“I am sorry I missed you the first time.”

“Bloody Hell.” Aranok stifled a gag as a dank fug of horse effluent seeped from the White Hart’s doorway.

“Good country air.” Mynygogg grinned. He thought he was funny. He wasn’t funny.

Aranok pushed a small solas ball into the dark. Whinnies told him the horses were alive.

“Hey!” Mynygogg slapped his shoulder. He was being bloody annoying about Aranok using magic “unnecessarily.”

“What? It’s a tiny spell—hardly any energy. We need to see.”

“People always need to see.” The king strode into the tavern. “They invented candles. Stop wasting energy.”

“I already have a mother.” Aranok followed him in.

“She’d be on my side,” he answered without turning.

“He’s right. She would,” Allandria agreed. “You need to stop relying on it for everything.”

Now there were two of them. Though it felt as if there was more in her words than the face of them.

After a short search, Samily sparked life into a candle behind the bar. Another few were enough to give them a view of the whole room, and Aranok dropped the solas spell. All three horses were there, disgruntled, but alive.

The hay Aranok had brought in for Bear had been sorely depleted, but not exhausted. Several large empty bowls told him the women had left more water out.

So despite their own fatigue after travelling across Auldun’s rooftops, and the five miles to the inn, they had three well-rested horses. Good. They needed to keep going.

Mynygogg took a seat, pulled out rations and gestured for the rest to join him. Aranok itched to keep moving, but he was not in charge—not in the way he was used to. Nobody there would take his word as an order if it contradicted the king. Hell, nobody there would take his word as an order if they disagreed with him.

Maybe a quick rest and some food was wise. They had a long way to go.

Allandria took a share of the bread and cheese, and leaned on the bar, just across from Mynygogg’s table. She was being evasive, and he could do without it. It was well into the night and for all Mynygogg’s coddling was annoying, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Aranok had used a lot of energy creating that bridge, and worse, Samily had used her time skill twice—once to catch him and once to heal him. Add fighting their way through the Dead at Auldun’s gates and they’d already burned too much.

But nothing was ever ideal. If they didn’t stop Rasa from going to Janaeus, they’d lose before they began. Besides which, she’d saved his life just, what, yesterday? A great bear dropping from the sky. How could he do less than anything to save her?

“Three horses, four riders,” said Allandria. “Bear will take two.”

“Bear’s the big one?” Mynygogg spoke through a mouthful of cheese.

“Aye.” She pointed to the others. “That’s Dancer and Midnight.”

Samily walked to the big horse and stroked his huge face. Bear snuffled amiably and nudged her hand. Aranok doubted he’d get the same reaction, considering how hard he’d ridden the great beast. It was good Bear had had the chance to recover. He was going to work hard again tonight.

Seventy miles, minimal sleep. They could arrive late tomorrow night, at a push. Hopefully.

“Huh,” said Samily. “Bear. I have just realised. That is why it felt familiar.”

Of course. One of Meristan’s nicknames was “the Great Bear.” While she didn’t remember that, the name Bear must have sparked a reaction. Fascinating how memory was entangled with emotion.

“Right.” Mynygogg stood, packing away the remaining rations. “Let’s get moving, then. Samily and I will take the smaller two. Aranok, you ride with Allandria. We could do with your hands free without us having to slow down.”

Allandria’s eyes flickered. She didn’t like it. But she wasn’t going to argue with the king.

“Of course, sire. Makes sense.” She didn’t even look at him as she brushed past to the horses.

Oh good. This won’t be awkward at all.

It was painfully awkward.

Allandria tried to focus on the horse. The ride. The rhythm of the hoofbeats.

But what she felt were Aranok’s hands on her waist and his chest against her back. It was familiar and nice and awful and wrong.

There was no conversation. No banter. No playful nudges. Just nothing. A door had closed that neither of them knew how to open. The awful truth was she’d been happy. It had been good. Right. All of it. Despite hating that little prick Janaeus for lying to them, she missed it.

But was it real? Did she like it because she remembered liking it, or because she actually did? She couldn’t trust her own mind.

Had she had feelings for Aranok before? It was all a muddle. Maybe? Maybe she’d been attracted to him. Maybe she just remembered being attracted to him.

There had been moments, she thought, where it seemed like something might happen. Like there was a spark between them that was… more.

Her memories of the war—the real war—were returned. Instead of fighting Reivers, she remembered the waves of Dead. Running from the Blackened. The Thakhati—the bastard Thakhati and that cocoon. And the demons. Mostly smaller ones. The big ones were usually taken by the Thorns, with help from what draoidhs they could muster. So many chose to stay neutral, stay out of the fight. And who could really blame them in a country where they were despised?

The skilled masters had stayed at the university to protect their students—and the skilled students were children. Allandria had come across three draoidhs other than Aranok that she remembered. What was the physic’s name? Gast? Gost? Gart? Poor bastard had been torn in half by a demon north of Gardille. Held it for a long time, protecting a farm. Allandria and Aranok had arrived with a battalion of soldiers too late to save him. Just in time to hear his spine crack and rip as his strength finally gave out against that huge, red, four-armed thing. They’d forced it back. Aranok threw everything he had at it. He’d seemed to find energy from nowhere. From rage. The soldiers too—flaming arrows had stuck like pins from the thing’s hide, and they’d done their best to hurt it up close, but reaching it was challenging, past all those damned arms. There had been Reivers too. Men and women she’d thought her enemies until yesterday. Hells, she’d hated them; thought them the worst traitors imaginable. But they’d died just like Eidyn’s soldiers, protecting strangers from nightmares.

It was Thorns who saved them. A pair of them. To this day she didn’t know their names. They were gone almost as quickly as they arrived. Green blades cut through the demon’s skin in a way no other weapon did. They worked together so perfectly, their movements coordinated, fluid, like water—two bodies acting with one mind.

They took the backs of its knees, bringing it down. One attacked head-on, taking the demon’s attention, while the other came around behind and, somehow, leapt high enough to reach the base of its skull, where they buried the blade that ended the fight.

When it was over, the knights didn’t even remove their helms. Allandria couldn’t have told if they were men or women, never mind what they looked like. They slit the thing open, reminded them to burn it, and were mounted and gone again, as if they’d just returned a lost sheep.

They lit the remains next to a pyre for the draoidh (Gort?) and the four soldiers they’d lost. Burning was the best they could do for their fallen. So many were left to carrion and rot—no chance to return and offer them dignity. Precious little dignity in war.

They’d limped back to Gardille to recover, and Allandria remembered that night, lying on a bedroll beside his, looking into his sad, exhausted eyes, she’d felt something. Something more. It had come and gone, but it was there, and it had shifted the world beneath her. In the middle of all the slaughter and death and exhaustion, she’d felt something real. But was it? Was it just a moment of shared emotional extremes between two souls who’d been through a new Hell together every day for months? Of hope for an end? For tomorrow? Was any of it real?

God damn it!

Whatever the truth of it, they’d spent weeks as lovers. They couldn’t put that arrow back in the quiver.

They were going to have to talk about it. Eventually. Not yet. Not until she figured out what was real and what that fucker had put in her head. Not until she could work out what she actually wanted from the conversation. From him.

Aranok’s hands lifted off her waist and she sat upright.

“Gluais.” To her right, a Blackened boy, no more than eight, disappeared back into the darkness. He was the third they’d seen.

Aranok sighed heavily as he replaced his hands. Gooseflesh raised on her neck, the tingle running down her spine. He’d be thinking about how he could have saved the boy, and whether he should have. And then how the time they spent doing that might make them miss Rasa and cost them everything. And how the boy might not survive without a medic anyway. And how he should have found a way to do both.

He was a good man. And an idiot.

Mynygogg slowed ahead and raised an arm. Samily slowed Dancer to match Midnight’s pace, allowing them to ride alongside.

“What?” Aranok asked sharply.

Mynygogg pointed ahead. Just visible from the solas orb was the edge of what looked like a clearing.

“We should stop here. Camp for a few hours and the sun’ll be up. Then we have less to worry about in daylight, right?”

“All right.” Aranok didn’t argue. He must have been exhausted.

A few hours’ rest here would be good for everyone, including the horses. They’d made good ground, but they weren’t even halfway, and it had been a long night. Thank God they’d had no sign of Thakhati. The monsters had probably been on the road into Traverlyn to keep them away from the university. So it was more likely they’d come across them when they got closer. Sometime tomorrow night—or tonight, as it would be. Or tomorrow morning? God, she’d lost all notion of time.

Sleep now.

Just show us the evidence.”

Nirea winced, not so much at Master Opiassa’s booming exhortation as the fact that there was no particularly good response.

It had seemed like such a simple idea.

Tell the masters they had evidence that implicated Conifax’s murderer and would make an arrest once the envoy returned. Then wait and see who came looking for the evidence. But sitting there in her wheeled chair watching Meristan explain to the hastily convened masters’ council why he didn’t just present the evidence was almost as painful as her aching wounds.

The high-roofed chamber was square on three sides and semicircular on the fourth. A stage rose at the square end, where speakers presented themselves in front of the raked rows of seats opposite. Each row held thirteen places, with the senior masters at the front and two rows of junior masters behind. The senior masters’ chairs were high-backed, intricately carved wooden affairs, the juniors’ plain and functional. Up the side walls, previous masters’ names were chiselled into stone.

The thing Nirea could barely look away from, though, was the black velvet sheet draped ceremoniously over a front-row chair. A soft, empty shroud begging justice for its absent master.

Conifax would be sitting there now had he not gone looking in the caibineat puinnsean.