The Lightborn

Book 3: Tales of the Edge

by Rebecca Zahabi

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Freed from his prison cell, the former slave known as Tatters is finally ready to face his past. Now his true nature is known to all, he can use his Lightborn powers freely. But they come at a price, and his loyalties remain conflicted. The renegades about to attack the city used to be his companions, and both sides have treated him badly. He will have to decide which side to choose.

Isha had thought Tatters was dead, and is overjoyed to see him return. But her master, one of the most powerful mages, has a past with them both, one which might make their reunion impossible. The mages remain divided, and in order to survive they will need to come together, and put aside past arguments. They too have a choice.

And outside the city, the renegades continue to advance. Destruction of the mages is their only goal, and nobody knows if they can be stopped...

Release date: May 9, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 400

Sample

Tatters stepped out of the prison and into the courtyard. He shielded his face with one hand, blinking, trying to make out shapes within the brightness. He rediscovered light. The pale stones reflected the sun, the blades on the weapons’ racks burnt like fire. Passerine waited while Tatters tried to find his footing. He still felt sore, but the warmth of the sun thawed his muscles, lessened the ache inside his bones.

We survived, thought Lal. She was faint, still, in a corner of his mind, but gaining strength by the minute.

I missed you. And he’d missed the sun on his skin. He’d missed being alive.

‘Keep moving,’ Passerine instructed.

Had there always been this much noise – the voices of apprentices, the snorts and neighs of horses, the whistling of servants? Had there always been these smells – manure, sweat, mud licking at the soles of people’s shoes, squelching underfoot? Tatters followed Passerine through the arches leading into the Nest; the shadowed interior was a relief for his eyes. There were kher guards lining the archways, and Tatters could only search vainly for the one kher he’d been trying to find since his first night in the cell. Arushi wasn’t there.

They entered the circular hallway, girdled with steps on either side, leading to a towering balcony. Tatters recognised the inside of the Nest, but only as one recognises a place visited long ago, a memory already faded. He felt as if he had been gone years. Apprentices, mages, everyone seemed to follow him with their eyes, inquisitive, invasive. Robes that shouldn’t have surprised him, deeply dyed blue, grey, and black, were the most luxurious pieces of clothing he’d seen in months. Faces that should have been familiar swam at the edges of his vision, but he didn’t recognise anyone.

Passerine started up the stairs and, as stunned as if someone had punched him, Tatters followed. He made slow progress. He hadn’t walked since he’d been flung in the cells – or only short distances, pacing the darkness. After a few steps, he was out of breath, his legs shaky beneath him. The giant staircase, despite the addition of small wooden steps, was hard work even for someone in good shape.

He was halfway up when he spotted Isha rushing down. She stopped in her tracks, staring as if he were a spirit risen from the underworlds.

‘We thought you were dead,’ Isha whispered.

I thought I was dead too, Tatters nearly answered. She hesitated, fretting, as if not sure whether to come closer or give him space.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she skipped the last few steps and hugged him. He nearly pulled back, out of habit, because no-one had tried to touch him with good intent since the lawmages had burst into his life. But she was warm, vibrant, with a broad hug that squeezed him tightly, with a heartbeat he could feel through her robes. Even the residual fleshbinding ebbed away when she held him. He was out of prison. This truth was sinking in. He squeezed back.

They stood for a while, neither of them speaking, and Passerine didn’t interrupt. Isha broke off the hug first. Tatters noticed the wetness around her eyes; she turned away and wiped them on her sleeve. Happiness flooded her face.

‘You seem well,’ he said, because what else did you say to people? He watched Isha’s full, asymmetrical features, and thought of Yua. Isha had a face no-one had ever tried to break. He could have cried, if he’d had any strength left.

They had drawn a small crowd, apprentices pooling around them at a safe distance.

‘Go to the kitchens and see if they have any leftovers,’ Passerine ordered, dismissing Isha. ‘Bring the food to my chambers.’

Passerine placed a hand on Tatters, holding the nape of his neck in an iron grip. Tatters hadn’t been expecting it; in any case, he was too weak to resist. Passerine held him firmly, as one would an unruly child.

‘We can talk in private later,’ Passerine said.

Isha nodded. It was only once she was headed down, out of sight, that Passerine dragged Tatters up the staircase, and there was nothing Tatters could do but follow. Students parted before them like reeds in a strong wind.

Passerine didn’t let go when they reached the top of the staircase and turned into an inner corridor, nor when he arrived at the door leading to his chambers. He strode forward, Tatters stumbling beside him, and what stung most wasn’t the pain, but the helplessness, the fact that this was it, he had run from the Sunriser kingdoms to the edge of the world, he had crossed the Shadowpass, he had tried his utmost to escape, yet he had been caught, and broken, again, again.

Passerine pushed open the door of his apartments and hauled Tatters inside. Then he turned gracefully, like a dancer, and slammed Tatters’ skull against the wall. Head ringing, Tatters felt Passerine invade his thoughts – he was too shocked to react.

Hawk’s advice sprung to mind. ‘If you’re going to mindbrawl someone, bash in their heads first. It can’t hurt.’ Her raucous laugh. ‘Well, it can’t hurt you.’

Tatters struggled to regain focus, but his brain felt as if it had been splattered over the wall of Passerine’s chambers. He’s going to kill me.

Not on my watch, snapped Lal.

Passerine strode through his mind as it settled, as bookshelves and tables and scrolls sketched themselves in the imagined space, and Tatters barely had time to create a version of himself to face him down. Passerine didn’t break his stride, but lifted a hand and grabbed Tatters’ collar. In the real world, Tatters felt Passerine’s long fingers around his neck. Both worlds melded, the real world where Tatters was pressed against the wall, his hair damp with blood, Passerine clutching his throat; and the mental landscape, a library of long-kept secrets, where Passerine was also gripping the collar, the cold of metal and the warmth of flesh mingling.

Passerine knew the collar wasn’t active. He was trying to awaken it.

The collar lit up and started shrinking. Tatters found himself struggling for breath.

‘I told you to come grovelling and that, if you didn’t, I would find you,’ Passerine said. His voice was stained with rage. ‘Well, here you are. Did you think I’d forget? Did you think I’d ever forgive you?’

Tatters tried to push back, but Passerine was holding him fast. He must have writhed in the real world, too, because he felt Passerine’s knee connecting with his stomach. He toppled over, but Passerine kept a firm grip on his bind, holding him upwards. All sensations were coming to Tatters sluggishly, and the shock of being hit landed well after the blow.

Lal appeared in the centre of his mindscape. The sound of her voice seemed to echo across the lush chambers, as much as within the mental library.

Let go, she said.

‘You realise you don’t exist, don’t you?’ asked Passerine. His hands were hot around Tatters’ throat. ‘You’re the projection of his guilt at having killed his sister.’

Lal spoke slowly, each word like a leaden arrow: Let. Him. Go.

While Passerine was distracted, Tatters kicked him. He managed to hit his shin hard enough that Passerine’s grip around his neck slipped. But Tatters was weakened by hunger, sleeplessness, fear. His head was pounding, the ache worsening every time he moved. He didn’t know where to run. As he hesitated, unsure if he should attack Passerine, leave the room, ask for a truce, the high mage lunged. Passerine was taller, with a broader build. When he hit, it was the sort of punch a soldier would have landed. Tatters found his legs couldn’t hold him up. His knees buckled and he fell onto the cold stone. His vision was blurring too, maybe because of that first blow to the head.

‘You destroyed everything we’ve ever worked for,’ Passerine snarled. ‘First you nearly destroy the Renegades, everything Hawk has ever achieved. Then you destroy my life’s work. You ruin everything you touch.’

I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tatters mindlinked, too winded to speak.

Passerine hesitated. ‘What?’

He towered over Tatters. For a while nothing happened. Tatters was gasping for breath and trying to convince his legs to hold his weight, but he found he couldn’t move them. Lal was inside his mind, guarding it, fierce enough that, for all his talk of her not being real, Passerine didn’t try to invade. The collar glinted like a hoard of gold people would kill for.

Someone pushed the door open.

Passerine took a step backwards. Lal felt more relieved than Tatters would have liked as she retreated to the back of his mind.

‘Get up,’ Passerine said.

Tatters struggled to his feet, his breathing still laboured. On the other side of the door stood Isha, balancing a tray on one arm.

‘I’ve got some bread, cheese, ham, and …’ She trailed off, taking in their expressions. Her eyes were soft, and the compassion within them would have warmed Tatters, if he hadn’t been in Passerine’s lair, if his collar wasn’t still glowing with the aftermaths of mindlink.

‘What in the underworlds is going on?’ she asked, aghast. She pushed the tray onto the desk before hurrying to Tatters’ side. ‘Are you all right?’

I’ll give you three guesses, snarled Lal.

Before he could answer, Isha rushed to correct herself: ‘No, of course you’re not, forget what I said, what I mean is …’ She trailed off, then turned to glare at Passerine. ‘What were you doing to him?’

Although Tatters wouldn’t have believed it possible, Passerine appeared uncomfortable. ‘Tatters has a lot to answer for,’ he said.

‘I don’t care!’ The anger in her voice seemed to surprise even Isha. She straightened, chin high, fists clenched at her sides. ‘I don’t care what he did, or what you did, or whatever happened in the past. Look at him!’ Tatters expected Passerine to shut her up, relying on his authority as a high mage if need be. But he stayed silent. Isha took a deep breath, her voice growing in strength with each word. ‘Don’t you get it? There’s only us. If we don’t work together, no-one can stop the Renegades. People have suffered, people have died, because you couldn’t put the past behind and just talk. Do you know how much violence we could have avoided, if you’d only made the effort to talk?’

Everything was still. They watched each other like skittish animals who have yet to decide who is predator or prey. The room was vast, yet barren, with only a large, four-poster bed, a desk, two chairs. No tapestries decorated it. The stone walls felt as wispy as spiderweb thread.

‘Thirsty?’

Tatters took time to understand what Passerine was saying. At first it sounded like a short bark.

‘Thirsty?’

‘Yes?’ Tatters wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to.

Passerine picked up an earthenware jug from the tray and poured water into a tumbler. He handed it to Tatters. Tatters took it. He drank. Silence stood between them like a fourth, uninvited guest.

Passerine opened his wardrobe. He took out a small square rag, which he wetted inside the jug. He handed the damp cloth to Tatters. Tatters took it, not knowing what he was supposed to do with it.

‘Your head,’ said Passerine.

Tatters lifted the rag gingerly, tapping at the side of his head with the piece of fabric, pushing his matted hair aside. Isha was watching him, chewing on her lower lip. When he went to rinse the cloth inside the jug, Tatters saw it was red. He touched his temples. He was bleeding. Lightly – nothing that would kill him. But he was bleeding.

Tatters pressed the sodden rag against the side of his head. He thought of Mezyan’s words: So you didn’t make it, after all. He went to sit on the bed. He felt sick. The shock of the last few days was settling in the pit of his stomach. Passerine’s nose scrunched in distaste when Tatters slumped on his covers. Tatters half-expected Passerine to shoo him off the bed, but he let it lie.

‘I agree with Isha.’ Tatters would have liked his voice not to sound so frightened. ‘Could we maybe not fight?’

We never did anything to you, said Lal.

Passerine answered in mindlink. You have no idea what was lost because of you. The sentence was heightened with impressions, faint sounds and smells – paper burning, a man screaming his throat raw, the embers flying out into the night. Books, Tatters realised. A bonfire of books and scrolls, curling and growing black as the words were lost to the fire.

Tatters didn’t know what this meant but he felt, confusedly, that he should. Or that Passerine expected him to understand, at least.

Passerine sighed, as if making a difficult decision. ‘Isha isn’t wrong,’ he admitted.

‘I’m glad that’s been established,’ she said, her tone not quite light enough.

‘I am not one of the Renegades anymore,’ said Passerine. ‘I won’t bring you back to Hawk. We have common goals: we want to stop her.’

‘You were always Hawk’s second-in-command,’ Tatters said.

‘I was. I wanted …’ Passerine cut off abruptly. ‘It doesn’t matter. I tried to avoid violence. It is no longer possible to avoid it. Either we fight Hawk, or we die.’

‘Hawk has crossed the Shadowpass,’ Isha interrupted. It should have upset Tatters more, but it was only one piece of bad news amongst others. Another pebble in a bag of rocks.

‘If you don’t pretend to be under my orders,’ Passerine went on, ‘you will be hanged, and me with you. I have risked my reputation by covering for you.’

Tatters nodded. He was unsure why Passerine had taken such a risk.

Because he thought he could control you, said Lal. He hoped the collar would work.

‘If you are going to leave, I want to know,’ Passerine went on.

‘Will you help us, is what he means,’ said Isha, her voice fierce. ‘Will you stand by us, when our enemies come?’

Tatters wasn’t sure he had much of a choice. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose so.’

Passerine rubbed the palms of his hands together, looking at nothing, avoiding their gazes. He seemed to be waiting for Tatters to add something. After a moment of silence, he got up.

‘You can tell the servants to fill a tub of warm water,’ he told Isha. Then, to Tatters: ‘You need a bath.’

Isha hesitated, glancing towards Tatters. He nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. For now, he could cope with the menial task of keeping himself clean. Passerine went to fetch a black robe from his wardrobe and threw it across the bed. ‘You can wear that.’ Tatters didn’t want to argue, even at the sight of a high mage’s robe.

Isha should have left as soon as her master had given her an order, but she was standing at the door, as if uncertain about leaving them.

‘Promise me you’re not going to fight again,’ she said.

Passerine crossed his arms in front of him. His long sleeves folded over like a bat’s wings. ‘I’ll let him clean up in peace, if that’s what worries you. I’ll follow you out.’

She opened the door for him, and the high mage stepped out, with a meekness that baffled Tatters. It occurred to him that Isha wasn’t scared of Passerine. And Passerine was, if still curt – he was always curt – indulging her somewhat. The authority he could have used to push her around and exclude her, he used to keep her included.

They both left, Passerine stiffly, not gracing Tatters with a farewell; Isha smiling his way, encouraging, obviously trying to convey support before she closed the door behind them.

This is how we go from runaways to slaves, said Lal.

Tatters bathed in the zinc tub the servants brought up. It was a relief to wash off the grime of the prison at last. His muscles relaxed in the hot water, and for the first time in months, he felt, if not safe, then calm. When he stepped out of the water it was brown, with scum floating on the surface, and no doubt grit settled at the bottom. The servants didn’t comment.

He wore Passerine’s black robe. It was too big for him. He folded over the bottom of the robe, asked the servants for thread and a needle, and adjusted the clothes to his smaller size. His fingers were sore and unused to this work. He had never been good at it in the first place; Lal had done it for them both when they lived together. He still swam inside the garment afterwards, and the fabric bulged in places. But it was clothing that hadn’t been soaked in blood and sweat.

If it had been salvageable, he would have kept his old stana. It had been his first piece of dyed clothing. The servants took it away to burn it, then boiled the sheets he’d sat on and dusted the furniture. Tatters wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted, or to revel in such luxury.

When the evening came, he was sitting at Passerine’s desk, staring out at the sun setting over the Edge. On some level, Tatters knew he should be moved by the view. The winter lights were purple like a kher blush, with lines of pink streaking the clouds. The glinting sun caught the foam from the river, drawing a broken, unfinished rainbow arc. It was lovely. The colours were warm. Tatters felt cold.

He looked at his hands. He had scars around his wrists where the manacles had dug in for so long. They were thin lines, like bracelets, neatly printed in his skin.

The visible scars are always smaller, said Lal. It was a saying from the Meddyns fiefdoms.

Tatters closed his fist. When his muscles moved, the scars did too.

Passerine let himself in, the sound of his key preceding him. Tatters noticed for the first time that he’d been locked inside. He hadn’t even thought of testing the door.

He expected Lal’s Maybe you should have, but it didn’t come.

Passerine locked the door behind him, but this time the key was on the inside. He briefly studied Tatters.

‘That’s better,’ he said. He went to his wardrobe to change into a nightgown. Tatters looked away. He heard the rustle of cloth, the low rasp of Passerine’s breathing. He hadn’t shared space with other people in a long time. He remembered the Renegades’ camp, where men changed, pissed, slept and ate together. Women too, although they sometimes went further into the woods when nature – or too much wine – called. He remembered, but only vaguely, what Passerine looked like, half-naked by the campfire, as he stitched back his shirt where it had ripped from the swing of a sword, his skin glistening in the dull light.

The memory prompted something unexpected: Hawk herself, laughing, resting a hand on Passerine’s naked shoulder. Him glancing up and smiling with white teeth. A reminder of the intimacy they’d shared.

When Tatters turned around, Passerine was in bed, a candle next to him and a scroll across his knees.

‘Where am I sleeping?’ he asked.

Passerine shrugged. ‘As you wish. The bed is big enough for two.’

Tatters didn’t answer. He hated this forced closeness, when his instinct screamed to get as far away as possible from Passerine, when he knew that the man could, and would, be violent if he deemed it useful.

Passerine pulled the vellum closer to read. ‘We have slept closer than this before,’ he said, eyes on the scroll.

They had; they’d shared blankets thrown on the ground, travelling an uncomfortable land, piles of soldiers pressed together for warmth.

‘When we were Renegades.’ Tatters amended, ‘When I was a slave.’

Let alone what happened years ago, said Lal. What about what happened this afternoon, when he attacked you?

Passerine let the vellum rest against his legs and deigned, at last, to look at Tatters. He held Tatters’ eyes, his voice as deep and serious as an executioner’s. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Then, without transition, he waved one hand towards the wardrobe: ‘I have a travelling nightgown, if you wish.’ He went back to his reading.

The idea of a bed – a mattress, a pillow with feathers inside, a proper cover – was hard to resist. Slowly, skittishly, like an animal unused to human contact, Tatters went to the wardrobe. He removed his robe and pulled on a nightshirt which fell down to mid-thigh. Passerine didn’t look at him or say a word as Tatters slid underneath the covers. They didn’t even touch – there was space enough. But Tatters still felt vulnerable. How could he sleep and be sure to wake up in bed, rather than bundled on a horse headed for the Renegades?

You can’t be sure, said Lal.

He sat, hands crossed in his lap, tenser than he’d been in prison, where at least brutality was expected.

‘I’m leaving in the morning,’ he told Passerine at last.

After an uncomfortable pause, Passerine laid his scroll on his lap. ‘Where will you go?’

Tatters felt sick. Although he was conscious the bed couldn’t be moving, he felt as if it were rocking, floating on tumultuous waters. He had no answer.

So instead, he asked a question of his own: ‘What made you think the collar would respond to you?’

Passerine watched Tatters for a long moment. The sun had set completely now. The chambers were dark, with only the white glow of the moon in the room, painting its angles grey and silver, and the candle, casting an orange light on Passerine’s face. He had short hair, as always. Close shaven, as always. There was more grey in the black curls, but nothing else to indicate time had passed, that they had grown old.

‘Hawk handed over control of the collar to me. I don’t know how you could forget such a thing.’

Memories rose in Tatters like nausea, knotting his throat. One day he will do something, something unforgivable, something you cannot overlook, and you will have to admit I was right, and you will hand him over to me. Passerine’s voice. The flickering of a campfire across his features. The primal, vicious way the collar had reacted to him, the first time Tatters had learnt of his presence in the Nest. Come grovelling for forgiveness, and you might get it. But if you don’t come, I’ll find you.

His head was spinning. He was forced to take deep breaths until the world stabilised.

‘The Shadowpass must have had a price,’ Passerine concluded. He rolled up his scroll, knotting a thread of leather around it to hold it closed. He placed it beside the bed, next to the candleholder.

‘Why would Hawk do that?’ Tatters asked.

Passerine shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe you did well to forget. In a way, you can pretend you are not responsible for the deaths.’

Tell us what happened, Lal urged.

‘I’ll only say this: you nearly killed her. Even with the collar undamaged, you nearly murdered your master.’ When Passerine spoke, his deep tone felt as vast as the plunge beyond the Edge. ‘Which is why I know you’re the one who can kill her.’

Tatters stared at his fingers, knotted on his lap. The scars on the wrists. The fine hairs on the back of his hands.

‘If you want to flee, I can’t stop you,’ Passerine concluded. ‘But you should stay.’

He leant over and blew out the candle.

It took time for Tatters to fall asleep. When he did, he dreamt. It was unpleasant because it wasn’t his dream.

He didn’t realise at first that it wasn’t his. It was set in the Renegades’ encampment, on the road, when they’d had enough people to attack convents. Horses tied to trees on the outside, tents borrowed from khers on the inside, soldiers strewn around half-dying fires, drunk on victory. He knew it was a dream when he spotted Lal walking beside him.

When he reached the edge of the camp, which had been set on top of a hill, he saw the city in the dip of the valley beneath them. High towers, domed palaces, the pier along the silvery lake. It was the convent of the Winged Maidens, the centre of the Wingshade world, which was rumoured to be paved with gold, brimming with treasures. But when Tatters had been part of the Renegades, they had never attacked the Wingshade stronghold.

‘Ugh,’ said Lal. ‘I bet we’re in Passerine’s dreams.’

‘Why are you here?’ Tatters asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be having dreams of your own?’

She shrugged. A breeze lifted her heavy curls, unfurling them behind her like a banner. Red on black, when the Renegades’ flag was black on red. She was wearing a shirt tucked into a pair of trousers and a leather jacket.

‘I don’t think they even made armour your size,’ Tatters said, playfully tugging at the hem of her clothes.

‘Not you again.’

They both turned. Passerine was walking up the slope towards them. He was holding a spear, the weapon he had favoured when warring with the Renegades. As he came closer, Tatters saw the tip was dark with blood.

‘It was obvious this was going to happen,’ Tatters said. ‘We’re too close.’

Passerine frowned. He seemed annoyed to see them there, although what this place meant to him Tatters could only guess.

Lal waved at the city of a thousand riches. ‘Did Hawk’s predictions go as planned, then?’ she asked. ‘Was it impossible to take without our help?’

‘She didn’t say it was impossible to take,’ Tatters corrected. ‘She said it would be a bloodbath.’

Lal shook out her hair. She was half Tatters’ height, so light that he could have carried her on his shoulders. In all these years, she hadn’t grown.

‘Well?’ she insisted. ‘Was it?’

Passerine sighed through his teeth. ‘Wake up. Leave this place.’

Lal gave him a wicked grin. ‘It must have been pretty bad, if it still haunts your nightmares.’

Tatters was about to advise Lal not to antagonise Passerine too much – they were in his dreams, after all – but Passerine beat him to it. He brought his spear forward, the blade darting downwards, and pushed with both hands in one swift, cruel movement. Tatters felt the shock of the blade against his chest and woke up suddenly, in a cold sweat.

He could feel his heartbeat ringing in his ears. He pushed himself upwards, legs entangled in the sheets, struggling to catch his breath. It was pitch-black inside the room. By killing him, Passerine had forced him out of the dream.

The bastard, fumed Lal.

Tatters was tempted to poke Passerine’s shoulder and forcefully wake him. He was snoozing peacefully, his arms tucked under his cushion, showing no signs that his sleep was troubled. Although Lal was all for getting into a fight in the middle of the night, Tatters decided against it. He forced himself to lie back down. He waited until his breathing was regular again. There was an ache in his chest, even though he knew it had to be phantom pain.

He tossed and turned before managing, at last, to fall asleep again.

When his dreams solidified, stopped following the uncoherent threads of unconscious sleep and became something more vivid, he groaned.

‘Not again …’

It was inside the Coop this time. He was seated at his usual table. Lal was slumped beside him, chin tucked in her hand, a chunk of bread, a breadknife, and some cold meats in front of her. She tore off a piece of bread and a slice of ham, stuffing them both inside her mouth.

‘Your dream includes a sense of taste,’ she said approvingly. ‘I like it.’

‘How do you know it’s mine?’ Tatters asked. He checked the room for Passerine. He couldn’t be far – Tatters could practically smell him.

‘It’s yours,’ Lal said. ‘Why would Passerine dream of the Coop?’

Tatters had to agree with her. After his last awakening, he didn’t particularly want to be run through with a spear again. He kept watching the room until at last he spotted him, a flash of black robes at the other end of the tavern, standing by the counter. Passerine had his back to them.

‘He hasn’t noticed us yet,’ Tatters said, relieved.

Lal grabbed the breadknife. Before Tatters could stop her, she’d crossed the busy tavern, squeezing between the members of the crowd.

She waited until she was behind Passerine to say, ‘Rise and shine!’

As Passerine turned to see who had spoken to him, she stabbed him, pushing the breadknife into his stomach with all her strength. People shouted and moved aside. Blood spurted as he tumbled off his stool, but his corpse never hit the ground. He disintegrated into dust. Lal gave the innkeeper the knife with a sharp: ‘Clean it. And more cheese.’

She walked back to where Tatters was seated, smiling ear to ear. ‘See how he likes it.’

But they didn’t get to enjoy their Passerine-free sleep. Tatters felt someone shaking him and, messily, blinking, confused, he found himself back inside the chambers of the Nest.

‘Do you think this is funny?’ growled Passerine. All Tatters could see of him was the white of his eyes. It didn’t make him any less threatening.

Tatters shoved him away. ‘You’re one to talk. You started this stupid feud!’

He pushed himself upwards. They both sat on their opposite sides of the mattress, not wanting to admit the other person had won. It was the most uncomfortable time Tatters had ever spent in such spacious chambers.

When Passerine spoke, his tone was as cold as the stone walls, as bleak as the starless night. ‘Let’s agree to ignore each other if we share our dreams again.’

‘Agreed,’ said Tatters.

Try me, said Lal.

They both shuffled to lie down. They listened to each other’s breathing.

They didn’t manage to sleep again.

The next morning, Isha met up with Passerine and Tatters. Tatters was wearing a high mage’s robe, which changed him in unexpected ways. It aged him; he blended in more. He didn’t seem that different from the controlling mages who owned the Nest. Of course, he had the collar. Before it had been easily mistaken for something else, covered in grime and scraggy red hair. Now it shone like polished sh