In any case, Traveller was in no hurry to discover an answer. No, he would invite Hood to find it himself.

It was the least he could do.

Slinging the scabbard’s rope belt over his left shoulder, checking that the sword named Vengeance was snug within it, its plain grip within easy reach, he set out across the barren plain.

In his wake, stripped branches spun and twisted down from the heaving clouds, plunging into the waves, as it torn from the moon itself.

The clearing bore the unmistakable furrows of ploughs beneath the waist-high marsh grasses, each ribbon catching at their feet as they pushed through the thick stalks. The wreckage of a grain shed rose from brush at the far end, its roof collapsed with a sapling rising from the floor, as exuberant as any conqueror. Yet such signs were, thus far, all that remained of whatever tribe had once dwelt in this forest. Fragments of deliberate will gouged into the wilderness, but the will had failed. In another hundred years, Nimander knew, all evidence would be entirely erased. Was the ephemeral visage of civilization reason for fear? Or, perhaps, relief? That all victories were ultimately transitory in the face of patient nature might well be cause for optimism. No wound was too deep to heal. No outrage too horrendous to one day be irrelevant.

Nimander wondered if he had discovered the face of the one true god. Naught else but time, this ever changing and yet changeless tyrant against whom no crea¬ure could win. Before whom even trees, stone and air must one day bow. There would be a last dawn, a last sunset, each kneeling in final surrender. Yes, time was indeed god, playing the same games with lowly insects as it did with mountains and the fools who would carve fastnesses into them. At peace with every scale, pleased by the rapid patter of a rat’s heart and the slow sighing of devouring wind against stone. Content with a star’s burgeoning light and the swift death of a raindrop on a desert floor.

‘What has earned the smile, cousin?’

He glanced over at Skintick. ‘Blessed with revelation, I think.’

‘A miracle, then. I think that I too am converted.’

‘You might want to change your mind-I do not believe my newfound god cares for worship, or answers any prayers no matter how fervent.’

‘What’s so unique about that?’

Nimander grunted. ‘Perhaps I deserved that.’

‘Oh, you are too quick to jump into the path of what might wound-even when wounding was never the intention. I am still open to tossing in with your worship of your newfound god, Nimander. Why not?’

Behind them, Desra snorted. ‘I will tell you two what to worship. Power. When it is of such magnitude as to leave you free to do as you will.’

‘Such freedom is ever a delusion, sister,’ Skintick said.

‘It is the only freedom that is not a delusion, fool.’

Grimacing, Nimander said, ‘I don’t recall Andarist being very free.’

‘Because his brother was more powerful, Nimander. Anomander was free to leave us, was he not? Which life would you choose?’

‘How about neither?’ Skintick said.

Although she walked behind them, Nimander could see in his mind’s eye his sister’s face, and the contempt in it as she no doubt sneered at Skintick.

Clip walked somewhere ahead, visible only occasionally; whenever they strode into another half-overgrown clearing, they would see him waiting at the far end, as if impatient with lagging, wayward children.

Behind Nimander, Skintick and Desra walked the others, Nenanda electing to guard the rear as if this was some sort of raid into enemy territory. Surrounded by suspicious songbirds, nervous indents, irritated insects, Nenanda padded along with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a glower for every shadow. He would be like that all day, Nimander knew, storing up his disgust and anger for when tbey all sat by the fire at night, a fire Nenanda deemed careless and dangerous and would only tolerate because Clip said nothing, Clip with his half-smile and spinning rings who fed Nenanda morsels of approval until the young warrior was consumed by an addict’s need, desperate for the next paltry feeding.

Without it, he might crumble, collapse inward like a deflated bladder. Or lash out, yes, at every one of his kin. At Desra, who had been his lover. At Kedeviss and Aranatha who were useless. At Skintick who mocked to hide his cowardice. And at Nimander, who was to blame for-well, no need to go into that, was there?

‘Do not fret, beloved. I wait for you. For ever. Be strong and know this: you are stronger than you know. Think-’

And all at once another voice sounded in his mind, harder, sour with venom, ‘She knows nothing. She lies to you.’

Phaed.

‘Yes, you cannot be rid of me, brother. Not when your hands still burn. Still feel the heat of my throat. Not when my bulging eyes stay fixed on you, like nails, yes? The iron tips slowly pushing into your own eyes, so cold, such pain, and you cannot pull loose, can never escape.’

Do I deny my guilt? Do I even flinch from such truths?

‘That is not courage, brother. That is despair. Pathetic surrender. Remember Withal? How he took upon himself what needed doing! He picked me up like a rag doll-impressive strength, yes! The memory heats me, Nimander! Would you lick my lips!’ and she laughed. ‘Withal, yes, he knew what to do, because you left htm no choice. Because you failed. So weak you could not murder your sister. I saw as much in your eyes; at that last moment, I saw it!’

Some sound must have riseri from Nimander, for Skintick turned with brows raised.

‘What is wrong?’

Nimander shook his head.

They walked round pale-barked trees, on soft loam between splayed roots. Dappled sunlight and the chattering alarm of a flying squirrel on a bony branch overhead. Leaves making voices-yes, that was all it was, whispering leaves and his overwrought imagination-

Phaed snorted. ‘ “Sometimes being bad feels good. Sometimes dark lust burns like parched wood. Sometimes, my love, you awaken desire in someone else’s pain.” Recall that poet, Nimander! That woman of Kharkanas! Andarist was reluctant to speak of her, but I found in the Old Scrolls all her writings. “And with the tips of your fingers, all this you can train.” Hah! She knew! And they all feared her, and now they will not speak her name, a name forbidden, but I know it-shall-’

No!

And Nimander’s hands clutched, as if once more crushing Phaed’s throat. And he saw her eyes, yes, round and swollen huge and ready to burst. In his mind, yes, once more he choked the life from her.

And from the leaves came the whisper of dark pleasure.

Suddenly cold, suddenly terrified, he heard Phaed’s knowing laugh.

‘You look ill,’ Skintick said. ‘Should we halt for a rest?’

Nimander shook his head. ‘No, let Clip’s impatience drag us ever onward, Skintick. The sooner we are done…’ But he could not go on, would not finish that thought.

‘See ahead,’ Desra said. ‘Clip has reached the forest edge, and not a moment too soon.’

There was no cause for her impatience, merely a distorted, murky reflection of Clip’s own. This was how she seduced men, by giving back to them versions of themselves, promising her protean self like a precious gift to feed their narcissistic pleasures. She seemed able to steal hearts almost without effort, but Nimander suspected that Clip’s self-obsession would prove too powerful, too well armoured against any incursions. He would not let her into his places of weakness. No, he would simply use her, as she had so often used men, and from this would be born a most deadly venom.

Nimander had no thought to warn Clip. Leave them their games, and all the wounds to come.

‘Yes, leave them to it, brother. We have our own, after all.’

Must I choke you silent once more, Phaed?

‘If it pleases you.’