For Stephanie Smith

… the fairy godmother of Australia’s

speculative fiction scene

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Also by Fiona McIntosh

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

He stirred, his consciousness fully engaged although he was unable to recall the last occasion anything had captivated his interest. How long had he waited in this numb acceptance that a shapeless, pointless eternity stretched ahead, with boredom his only companion? He was inconsequential, a nothingness. Existing, but not in a way that had worth or even acknowledgement … suspended between now and infinity. That was his punishment. Cyricus laughed without mirth or sound.

He was in this limbo because the goddess Lyana and her minions had been victorious several centuries previous, crushing the god Zarab. It had been the most intense confrontation that he could recall of all their cyclical battles, and Zarab’s followers, himself included, had been banished from the spiritual plane to wander aimlessly. He was a demon; not as powerful as his god, Zarab, but not as weak as most of the disciples and certainly more cunning, which is probably why he’d evaded being hunted down and destroyed. He and one other — a mere disciple — had survived Lyana’s wrath.

Cyricus remained an outlaw: a life, but not a life — no longer able to move in the plane of gods and never able to return to it, but he’d never given up hope. One day, he promised himself, he would learn a way to harness the power he needed, but not yet. He was not nearly strong enough and must content himself to exist without substance on the edge of worlds, and only his fury to keep him company.

But it was ill fate that he had recognised a fantastically powerful force emanating from the mortal plane; that force, he learned, was called the Wild. It sprawled to the northeast of an unfamiliar land called Morgravia. He’d been drifting in his insubstantial form for what might have been centuries, finally unwittingly veering into northern Briavel toward the natural phenomenon known as the Wild. It had sensed his evil and his interest long before he’d fully recognised its power: with the help of its keeper, Elysius, the Wild had driven the spirit of Cyricus and his minion into the universal Void. He could do nothing now but watch, bored, over more centuries, while mortals lived and died their short, trivial existences.

And then a young woman in Morgravia had done something extraordinary, fashioning a powerful magic so sly and sinister, so patient and cunning, that if he could he would have applauded her. It dragged him from disinterested slumber to full alertness, amusement even. This village woman, still languishing in her second decade, had crafted an incantation so powerful that she gave it an existence of its own: it had no master but it appeared to obey a set of rules that propelled it toward a single objective. Most curious of all, rather than cursing the man she loathed, Myrren had instead gifted her dark spell to his enemy, a boy.

Cyricus set aside his own situation and yearnings and gleefully focused his attention on the boy — plain, red-headed, forgettable if not for his name and title. He was Wyl Thirsk, the new hereditary general of the Morgravian Legion — forced to accept the role at his father’s untimely death — and he had no idea that his life had just taken a deviant path. Even Cyricus had no idea what the magic could do, but he could see it, shifting as a dark shadow within Thirsk. What would it do? What could it do? And when? Cyricus was centuries old; he was patient and had learned through Lyana’s punishment how to remain that way. Whatever magic it was that the young woman Myrren had cast, he was sure it would, one day, show itself.

It took five annums — a mere blink to him — before Cyricus could see the effect of Myrren’s gift. When it finally quickened within the young man and demonstrated its capacity, Cyricus mentally closed his eyes in awe.

It was a beautiful magic answerable to no-one.

And it was simple, elegant, brutal.

Wyl Thirsk moved haplessly, and savagely, through different lives while the magic of Myrren raged, always seeking that one person its creator hunted. Cyricus watched, fascinated, as the magic wreaked its havoc: changing lives, rearranging the course of Morgravia’s, Briavel’s and even the Razor Kingdom’s history.

And then at the height of his amusement it stopped. The spell laid itself to rest as abruptly as it had begun, although the land in which it had raged was an entirely changed place. Four kings had died in its time — two of those directly because of it — and a new empire had emerged. And the target of Myrren’s gift — and her curse — was finally destroyed.

In spite of the disappointment at his entertainment being cut short Cyricus had developed a respect for the magic. It was not random, it was extremely focused and its goal had been reached … revenge on King Celimus of Morgravia had been exacted in the most fantastic of manners.

The magic eased away from its carrier, Wyl Thirsk. However, it could never die once cast, of course, and Cyricus watched it finally pull itself into a small kernel until it was barely there, drifting around as he once had, attached to no-one and nothing — or so he thought — until his tireless observation refuted that presumption.

The magic did belong somewhere and it wanted to return there — to its spiritual home. But it was not permitted. And almost like an orphaned creature he could sense its longing, he could feel a kinship — they were both seemingly evil, both lost and unwanted, each unable to have substance, and yet both unable to disappear entirely into death.

He felt empathy! A unique moment of awakening for Cyricus.

In following Myrren’s gift, his gaze fell upon the Wild once again, and what he now discovered brought new fury, a rage like he had not felt since he was first defeated alongside Zarab. He learned that Myrren had been the child of Elysius! Her magic was born of him! The Wild protected them! But it repelled her savage, killing magic that she’d designed with only darkness in her intent.

Suddenly Cyricus had a purpose and it was Myrren’s cursed gift that gave him an idea: he would escape this prison of eternal suspended existence. The magic was there — homeless, idle, useless, ignored. He would lure it — make it notice him, welcome it even and then harness it. But he needed help.

He would need Aphra, his willing slave and undeniably adoring minion. He had longed for her carnal ways if not her vaguely irritating company. She had always worshipped him. He had toyed with her when it suited, had controlled her utterly. She would still do anything for him — torch, maim, pillage and kill for him. He liked her pliable emotions, her cunning — which, though no match for his, was admirable — and now he finally had good use for her. She’d been calling to him for decades — so many years he’d lost count and hadn’t cared to know. He’d had no reason to communicate.

But now he could see that dear love-blinded Aphra was his way back into some sort of life. She would provide him with what he lacked once he had captured the magic, understood it and moulded it to suit his needs. Myrren’s magic was his priority; the rest would fall into place.

And so Cyricus remained close to the three realms and began to plot while they became one; he watched the empire rise and flourish, and then begin to wane as factions within its trio of realms erupted to start dismantling what Emperor Cailech and his Empress Valentyna had given so much to achieve. Cyricus couldn’t care less. They could all go to war and he would enjoy watching the carnage … they could limp on, remaining allied but hating one another and it would make not a jot of difference to Cyricus.

All that mattered to him was being able to return to substantial form again — he wanted to be seen again, for his voice to be heard again. And he wanted to make this land — and the Wild that protected it, that had flicked him into the Void — pay for his suffering. His patience knew no bounds and while he tirelessly worked toward his aim he watched as heir upon heir sat on the Morgravian throne, unaware that theirs might be the reign that felt the full impact of his hungry revenge.

ONE

In the stillness that came in the hour before dawn, when Paris was at its quietest, a dark shape moved silently through the frigid winter air.

It landed soundlessly on a balcony railing that was crusted with December frost and stared through the window, where the softest glow of a bedside lamp illuminated the face of a sleeping man. The man was not at rest though.

Gabe was dreaming, his eyes moving rapidly behind his lids as the tension within the world of his dream escalated. It was not his favourite dream of being in the cathedral but it was familiar all the same and it frightened him. He’d taught himself to recognise the nightmare whenever and without any warning he slipped into the scene; only rarely did its memory linger. Most times the details of the dream fell like water through his fingers. Gone in the blink of surfacing to an alertness of his reality.

Here it was again: You’re in the nightmare, Gabe, his protective subconscious prodded. Start counting back from ten and open your eyes.

Ten …

Gabe felt the knife enter flesh, which surrendered so willingly; blood erupted in terrible warmth over his fist as it gripped the hilt. He felt himself topple, begin to fall …

… six … five …

He awoke with a dramatic start.

His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he could feel the angry drum of it against his ribcage. This was one of those rare occasions when vague detail lingered. And it felt so real that he couldn’t help but look at his hands for tangible evidence, expecting to see them covered with blood.

He tried to slow his breathing, checking the clock and noticing it was only nearing six and the sky was still dark in parts. He was parched. Gabe sat up and reached for the jug and tumbler he kept at his bedside and drank two glasses of water greedily. The hand that had held the phantasmic knife still trembled slightly. He shook his head in disgust.

Who had been the victim?

Why had he killed?

He blinked, deep in thought: could it be symbolic of the deaths that had affected him so profoundly? But he also hazily recalled that in his nightmare death had been welcomed by the victim.

Gabe shivered, his body clammy, and allowed the time for his breathing to become deeper and his heartbeat to slow. Paris was on the edge of winter; dawn would break soon but it remained bitingly cold — he could see ice crystals in the corners of the windows outside.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and deliberately didn’t reach for his hoodie or brushed cotton pyjama bottoms. Gingerly climbing down from the mezzanine bedroom he tiptoed naked in the dark to open the French doors. Something darker than night skittered away but he convinced himself he’d imagined it for there was no sign once he risked stepping out onto the penthouse balcony.

The cold tore at his skin, but at least, shivering uncontrollably, he knew he was fully awake in Paris, in the 6th arrondissement … and his family had been dead for six years now. Gabe had been living here for not quite four of those, after one year in a wilderness of pain and recrimination and another losing himself in restless journeying in a bid to escape the past and its torment.

He had been one of Britain’s top psychologists. His public success was mainly because of the lodge he’d set up in the countryside where emotionally troubled youngsters could stay and where, amidst tranquil surrounds, Gabe would work to bring a measure of peace to their minds. There was space for a menagerie of animals for the youngsters to interact with or care for, including dogs and cats, chickens, pigs, a donkey. Horse riding at the local stables, plus hiking, even simple cake- and pie-baking classes, were also part of the therapy, diverting a patient’s attention outward and into conversation, fun, group participation, bonding with others, finding safety nets for the wobbly times on the tightropes of anxiety.

It was far more complex than that, of course, with other innovative approaches being used as well — everything from psychodynamic music to transactional therapies. Worried parents and carers, teachers and government agencies had all marvelled at his success in strengthening and fortifying the ability of his young charges to deal with their ‘demons’.

Television reporters, journalists and the grapevine, however, liked to present him as a folk hero — a modern-day Pied Piper, using simple techniques like animal husbandry. It allowed his detractors to claim his brand of therapy and counsel was not rooted in academia. Even so, Gabe’s legend had grown. Big companies knocked on his door: why didn’t he join their company and show them how to market to teens, or perhaps they could sponsor the lodge? He refused both options but that didn’t stop his peers criticising him or his status increasing to world acclaim. Or near enough.

Fate is a fickle mistress, they say, and she used his success to kill not only his stellar career but also his family, in a motorway pile-up while on their way to visit his wife’s family for Easter.

The real villain was not his fast, expensive German car but the semi-trailer driver whose eyelids fate had closed, just for a moment. The tired, middle-aged man pushed himself harder than he should have in order to sleep next to his wife and be home to kiss his son good morning; he set off the chain of destruction on Britain’s M1 motorway in the Midlands one terrible late-winter Thursday evening.

The pile-up had occurred on a frosty, foggy highway and had involved sixteen vehicles and claimed many lives, amongst them Lauren and Henry. For some inexplicable reason the gods had opted to throw Gabe four metres clear of the carnage, to crawl away damaged and bewildered. He might have seen the threat if only he hadn’t turned to smile at his son …

He faced the world for a year and then he no longer wanted to face it. Gabe had fled to France, the homeland of his father, and disappeared with little more than a rucksack for fifteen months, staying in tiny alpine villages or sipping aniseed liquor in small bars along the coastline. In the meantime, and on his instructions, his solicitor had sold the practice and its properties, as well as the sprawling but tasteful mansion in Hurstpierpoint with the smell of fresh paint still evident in the new nursery that within fourteen weeks was to welcome their second child.

He was certainly not left poor, plus there was solid income from his famous dead mother’s royalties and also from his father’s company. In his mid-thirties he found himself in Paris with a brimming bank account, a ragged beard, long hair and, while he couldn’t fully call it peace of mind, he’d certainly made his peace with himself regarding that traumatic night and its losses. He believed the knifing dream was symbolic of the death of Lauren and Henry — as though he had killed them with a moment’s inattention.

He thought the nightmare was intensifying, seemingly becoming clearer. He certainly recalled more detail today than previously, but he also had to admit it was becoming less frequent.

The truth was that most nights now he slept deeply and woke untroubled. His days were simple. He didn’t need a lot of money to live day to day now that the studio was paid for and furnished. He barely touched his savings in fact, but he worked in a bookshop to keep himself distracted and connected to others, and although he had become a loner, he was no longer lonely. The novel he was working on was his main focus, its characters his companions. He was enjoying the creative process, helplessly absorbed most evenings in his tale of lost love. A publisher was already interested in the storyline, an agent pushing him to complete the manuscript. But Gabe was in no hurry. His writing was part of his healing therapy.

He stepped back inside and closed the windows. He found comfort in knowing that the nightmare would not return for a while, along with the notion that winter was announcing itself loudly. He liked Paris in the colder months, when the legions of tourists had fled, and the bars and cafés put their prices back to normal. He needed to get a hair cut … but what he most needed was to get to Pierre Hermé and buy some small cakes for his colleagues at the bookshop.

Today was his birthday. He would devour a chocolate- and a coffee-flavoured macaron to kick off his mild and relatively private celebration. He showered quickly, slicked back his hair, which he’d only just noticed was threatening to reach his shoulders now that it was untied, dressed warmly and headed out into the streets of Saint-Germain. There were times when he knew he should probably feel at least vaguely self-conscious about living in this bourgeois area of Paris but then the voice of rationality would demand one reason why he should suffer any embarrassment. None came to mind. Famous for its creative residents and thinkers, the Left Bank appealed to his sense of learning, his joy of reading and, perhaps mostly, his sense of dislocation. Or maybe he just fell in love with this neighbourhood because his favourite chocolate salon was located so close to his studio … but then, so was Catherine de Medici’s magnificent Jardin du Luxembourg, where he could exercise, and rather conveniently, his place of work was just a stroll away.

He was the first customer into Pierre Hermé at ten as it opened. Chocolate was beloved in Britain but the Europeans, and he believed particularly the French, knew how to make buying chocolate an experience akin to choosing a good wine, a great cigar or a piece of expensive jewellery. Perhaps the latter was taking the comparison too far, but he knew his small cakes would be carefully picked up by a freshly gloved hand, placed reverently into a box of tissue, wrapped meticulously in cellophane and tied with ribbon, then placed into another beautiful bag.

The expense for a single chocolate macaron — or indeed any macaron — was always outrageous, but each bite was worth every euro.

‘Bonjour, monsieur … how can I help you?’ the woman behind the counter asked with a perfect smile and an invitation in her voice.

He wouldn’t be rushed. The vivid colours of the sweet treats were mesmerising and he planned to revel in a slow and studied selection of at least a dozen small individual cakes. He inhaled the perfume of chocolate that scented the air and smiled back at the immaculately uniformed lady serving him. Today was a good day; one of those when he could believe the most painful sorrows were behind him. He knew it was time to let go of Lauren and Henry — perhaps as today was his birthday it was the right moment to cut himself free of the melancholy bonds he clung to and let his wife and two dead children drift into memory, perhaps give himself a chance to meet someone new to have an intimate relationship with. ‘No time like the present’, he overheard someone say behind him to her companion. All right then. Starting from today, he promised himself, life was going to be different.

Cassien was doing a handstand in the clearing outside his hut, balancing his weight with great care, bending slowly closer to the ground before gradually shifting his weight to lower his legs, as one, until he looked to be suspended horizontally in a move known simply as ‘floating’. He was concentrating hard, working up to being able to maintain the ‘float’ using the strength of one locked arm rather than both.

Few others would risk the dangers and loneliness of living in this densely forested dark place which smelled of damp earth, although its solemnity was brightened by birds flittering in and around its canopy of leafy branches. His casual visitors were a family of wolves that had learned over years to trust his smell and his quiet observations. He didn’t interact often with them, other than with one. A plucky female cub had once lurched over to him on unsteady legs and licked his hand, let him stroke her. They had become soul mates since that day. He had known her mother and her mother’s mother but she was the first to touch him, or permit being touched.

Cassien knew how to find the sun or wider open spaces if he needed them. But he rarely did. This isolated part of the Great Forest had been his home for ten summers; he hardly ever had to use his voice and so he read aloud from his few books — which were exchanged every three moons — for an hour each day. They were sent from the Brotherhood’s small library and he knew each book’s contents by heart now, but it didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter to him whether he was reading Asher’s Compendium about medicinal therapies or Ellery’s Ephemeris, with its daily calendar of the movement of heavenly bodies. He was content to read anything that improved his knowledge and allowed him to lose his thoughts to learning. He was, however, the first to admit to his favourite tome being The Tales of Empire, written a century previously by one of the Brothers with a vivid imagination, which told stories of heroism, love and sorcery.

At present he was immersed in the Enchiridion of Laslow and the philosophical discourses arising from the author’s lifetime of learning alongside the scholar Solvan Jenshan, one of the initiators of the Brotherhood and advisor to Emperor Cailech. Cassien loved the presence of these treasures in his life, imagining the animal whose skin formed the vellum to cover the books, the trees that gave their bark to form the rough paper that the ink made from the resin of oak galls would be scratched into. Imagining each part of the process of forming the book and the various men involved in them, from slaughtering the lamb to sharpening the quill, felt somehow intrinsic to keeping him connected with mankind. Someone had inked these pages. Another had bound this book. Others had read from it. Dozens had touched it. People were out there beyond the forest living their lives. But only two knew of his existence here and he had to wonder if Brother Josse ever worried about him.

Cassien lifted his legs to be in the classic handstand position before he bounced easily and fluidly regained his feet. He was naked, had worked hard, as usual, so a light sheen of perspiration clung to every highly defined muscle … it was as though Cassien’s tall frame had been sculpted. His lengthy, intensive twice-daily exercises had made him supple and strong enough to lift several times his own body weight.

He’d never understood why he’d been sent away to live alone. He’d known no other family than the Brotherhood — fifteen or so men at any one time — and no other life but the near enough monastic one they followed, during which he’d learned to read, write and, above all, to listen. Women were not forbidden but women as lifelong partners were. And they were encouraged to indulge their needs for women only when they were on tasks that took them from the Brotherhood’s premises; no women were ever entertained within. Cassien had developed a keen interest in women from age fifteen, when one of the older Brothers had taken him on a regular errand over two moons and, in that time, had not had to encourage Cassien too hard to partake in the equally regular excursions to the local brothel in the town where their business was conducted. During those visits his appetite for the gentler sex was developed into a healthy one and he’d learned plenty in a short time about how to take his pleasure and also how to pleasure a woman.

He’d begun his physical training from eight years and by sixteen summers presented a formidable strength and build that belied how lithe and fast he was. He’d overheard Brother Josse remark that no other Brother had taken to the regimen faster or with more skill.

Cassien washed in the bucket of cold water he’d dragged from the stream and then shook out his black hair. He’d never known his parents and Josse couldn’t be drawn to speak of them other than to say that Cassien resembled his mother and that she had been a rare beauty. That’s all Cassien knew about her. He knew even less about his father; not even the man’s name.

‘Make Serephyna, whom we honour, your mother. Your father must be Shar, our god. The Brothers are your family, this priory your home.’

Brother Josse never wearied of deflecting his queries and finally Cassien gave up asking.

He looked into the small glass he’d hung on the mud wall. Cassien combed his hair quickly and slicked it back into a neat tail and secured it. He leaned in closer to study his face, hoping to make a connection with his real family through the mirror; his reflection was all he had from which to create a face for his mother. His features appeared even and symmetrical — he allowed that he could be considered handsome. His complexion showed no blemishes while near black stubble shadowed his chin and hollowed cheeks. Cassien regarded the eyes of the man staring back at him from the mirror and compared them to the rock pools near the spring that cascaded down from the Razor Mountains. Centuries of glacial powder had hardened at the bottom of the pools, reflecting a deep yet translucent blue. He wondered about the man who owned them … and his purpose. Why hadn’t he been given missions on behalf of the Crown like the other men in the Brotherhood? He had been superior in fighting skills even as a lad and now his talent was as developed as it could possibly be.

Each new moon the same person would come from the priory; Loup was mute, fiercely strong, unnervingly fast and gave no quarter. Cassien had tried to engage the man, but Loup’s expression rarely changed from blank.

His task was to test Cassien and no doubt report back to Brother Josse. Why didn’t Josse simply pay a visit and judge for himself? Once in a decade was surely not too much to ask? Why send a mute to a solitary man? Josse would have his reasons, Cassien had long ago decided. And so Loup would arrive silently, remaining for however long it took to satisfy himself that Cassien was keeping sharp and healthy, that he was constantly improving his skills with a range of weapons, such as the throwing arrows, sword, or the short whip and club.

Loup would put Cassien through a series of contortions to test his strength, control and suppleness. They would run for hours to prove Cassien’s stamina, but Loup would do his miles on horseback. He would check Cassien’s teeth, that his eyes were clear and vision accurate, his hearing perfect. He would even check his stools to ensure that his diet was balanced. Finally he would check for clues — ingredients or implements — that Cassien might be smoking, chewing or distilling. Cassien always told Loup not to waste his time. He had no need of any drug. But Loup never took his word for it.

He tested that a blindfolded Cassien — from a distance — was able to gauge various temperatures, smells, Loup’s position changes, even times of the day, despite being deprived of the usual clues.

Loup also assessed pain tolerance, the most difficult of sessions for both of them: stony faced, the man of the Brotherhood went about his ugly business diligently. Cassien had wept before his tormentor many times. But no longer. He had taught himself through deep mind control techniques to welcome the sessions, to see how far he could go, and now no cold, no heat, no exhaustion, no surface wound nor sprained limb could stop Cassien completing his test. A few moons previously the older man had taken his trial to a new level of near hanging and near drowning in the space of two days. Cassien knew his companion would not kill him and so it was a matter of trusting this fact, not struggling, and living long enough for Loup to lose his nerve first. Hanging until almost choked, near drowning, Cassien had briefly lost consciousness on both tests but he’d hauled himself to his feet finally and spat defiantly into the bushes. Loup had only nodded but Cassien had seen the spark of respect in the man’s expression.

The list of trials over the years seemed endless and ranged from subtle to savage. They were preparing him but for what? He was confident by this time that his thinking processes were lightning fast, as were his physical reactions.

Cassien had not been able to best Loup in hand-to-hand combat in all these years until two moons previously, when it seemed that everything he had trained his body for, everything his mind had steeled itself for, everything his emotions and desires had kept themselves dampened for, came out one sun-drenched afternoon. The surprise of defeat didn’t need to be spoken; Cassien could see it written across the older man’s face and he knew a special milestone had been reached. And so on his most recent visit the trial was painless; his test was to see if Cassien could read disguised shifts in emotion or thought from Loup’s closed features.

But there was a side to him that Loup couldn’t test. No-one knew about his magic. Cassien had never told anyone of it, for in his early years he didn’t understand and was fearful of it. By sixteen he not only wanted to conform to the monastic lifestyle, but to excel. He didn’t want Brother Josse to mark him as different, perhaps even unbalanced or dangerous, because of an odd ability.

However, in the solitude and isolation of the forest Cassien had sparingly used the skill he thought of as ‘roaming’ — it was as though he could disengage from his body and send out his spirit. He didn’t roam far, didn’t do much more than look around the immediate vicinity, or track various animals; marvel at a hawk as he flew alongside it or see a small fire in the far distance of the south that told him other men were passing along the tried and tested tracks of the forest between Briavel and Morgravia.

Cassien was in the north, where the forest ultimately gave way to the more hilly regions and then the mountain range known as the Razors and the former realm beyond. He’d heard tales as a child of its infamous King Cailech, the barbaric human-flesh-eating leader of the mountain tribes, who ultimately bested the monarch of Morgravia and married the new Queen of Briavel to achieve empire. As it had turned out, Cailech was not the barbarian that the southern kingdoms had once believed. Subsequent stories and songs proclaimed that Emperor Cailech was refined, with courtly manners — as though bred and raised in Morgravia — and of a calm, generous disposition. Or so the stories went.

He’d toyed with the idea of roaming as far as the Morgravian capital, Pearlis, and finding out who sat on the imperial throne these days; monarchs could easily change in a decade. However, it would mean leaving his body to roam the distance and he feared that he couldn’t let it remain uninhabited for so long.

There were unpalatable consequences to roaming, including sapping his strength and sometimes making himself ill, and he hated his finely trained and attuned body not to be strong in every way. He had hoped that if he practised enough he would become more adapted to the rigours it demanded but the contrary was true. Frequency only intensified the debilitating effects.

There was more though. Each time he roamed, creatures around him perished. The first time it happened he thought the birds and badgers, wolves and deer had been poisoned somehow when he found their bodies littered around the hut.

It was Romaine, the now grown she-wolf, who had told him otherwise.

It’s you, she’d said calmly, although he could hear the anger, her despair simmering at the edge of the voice in his mind. We are paying for your freedom, she’d added, when she’d dragged over the corpse of a young wolf to show him.

And so he moved as a spirit only rarely now, when loneliness niggled too hard, and before doing so he would talk to Romaine and seek her permission. She would alert the creatures in a way he didn’t understand and then she would guide him to a section of the forest that he could never otherwise find, even though he had tried.

For some reason, the location felt repellent, although it had all the same sort of trees and vegetation as elsewhere. There was nothing he could actually pin down as being specifically different other than an odd atmosphere, which he couldn’t fully explain but he felt in the tingles on the surface of his flesh and the raising of hair at the back of his neck. It felt ever so slightly warmer there, less populated by the insects and birds that should be evident and, as a result, vaguely threatening. If he was being very particular, he might have argued that it was denser at the shrub level. On the occasions he’d mentioned this, Romaine had said she’d never noticed, but he suspected that she skirted the truth.

‘Why here?’ he’d asked on the most recent occasion, determined to learn the secret. ‘You’ve always denied there was anything special about this place.’

I lied, she’d pushed into his mind. You weren’t ready to know it. Now you are.

‘Tell me.’

It’s a deliberately grown offshoot of natural vegetation known as the Thicket.

‘But what is it?’

It possesses a magic. That’s all I know.

‘And if I roam from here the animals are safe?’

As safe as we can make them. Most are allowing you a wide range right now. We can’t maintain it for very long though, so get on with what you need to do.

And that’s how it had been. The Thicket somehow keeping the forest animals safe, filtering his magic through itself and cleansing, or perhaps absorbing, the part of his power that killed. It couldn’t help Cassien in any way, but Romaine had admitted once that the Thicket didn’t care about his health; its concern was for the beasts.

None, he’d observed, from hawk to badger, had ever been aware of his presence when he roamed. With Romaine’s assistance, he had roamed briefly around Loup on a couple of occasions. Cassien was now convinced that people would not be aware of his spiritual presence either.

Only Romaine sensed him — she always knew where he was whether in physical or spiritual form. The she-wolf was grown to her full adult size now and she was imposing — beautiful and daunting in the same moment. Romaine didn’t frighten him and yet he knew she could if she chose to. She still visited from time to time, never losing her curiosity for him. He revelled in her visits. She would regard him gravely with those penetrating yellowy grey eyes of hers and he would feel her kinship in that gaze.

He straightened from where he’d been staring into the mirror at his unshaven face and resolved to demand answers from Loup on the next full moon, which was just a few days away.

TWO

Gabe strolled to the bookshop carrying his box of cakes and enjoying the winter sunlight. Catherine gave a small squeal and rushed over to hug him as he entered the shop.

‘Happy birthday!’ And not worrying too much about what customers might think, she yelled out to the rest of the staff: ‘Gabe’s in, sing everyone!’

It was tradition. Birthday wishes floated down from the recesses of the shop via the narrow, twisting corridor created by the tall bookshelves, and from the winding staircase that led to the creaking floorboards of the upstairs section. Even the customers joined in the singing.

In spite of his normally reticent manner, Gabe participated in the fun, grinning and even conducting the song. He noted again that the fresh new mood of wanting to bring about change was fuelling his good humour. He put the giveaway bag with its box of treats on the crowded counter.

‘Tell me you have macarons,’ Cat pleaded.

Gabe pushed the Pierre Hermé box into her hands. ‘To the staffroom with you.’ Then he smiled at the customers patiently waiting. ‘Sorry for all this.’ They all made the sounds and gestures of people not in a hurry.

Even so, the next hour moved by so fast that he realised when he looked up to check the time that he hadn’t even taken his jacket off.

An American student working as a casual sidled up with a small stack of fantasy novels — a complete series and in the original covers, Gabe noticed, impressed. He anticipated that an English-speaking student on his or her gap year was bound to snaffle the three books in a blink. Usually there were odd volumes, two and three perhaps the most irritating combination for shoppers.

‘Put a good price on those. Sell only as a set,’ he warned.

Dan nodded. ‘I haven’t read these — I’m half-inclined to buy them myself but I don’t have the money immediately.’

Gabe gave the youngster a sympathetic glance. ‘And they’ll be gone before payday,’ he agreed, quietly glad because Dan was always spending his wage before he earned it.

‘Monsieur Reynard came in,’ Dan continued. ‘He left a message.’

‘About his book. I know,’ Gabe replied, not looking up from the note he was making in the Reserves book. ‘I haven’t found it yet. But I am searching.’

Dan frowned. ‘No, he didn’t mention a book. He said he’d call in later.’

Catherine came up behind them. ‘Did Dan tell you that Reynard is looking for you?’

Dan gave her a soft look of exasperation. ‘I was just telling him.’

‘And did you tell Reynard that it’s Gabe’s birthday?’ she asked with only a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

‘No,’ Dan replied, but his expression said, Why would I?

‘Good,’ Gabe said between them. ‘I’m —’

‘Lucky I did, then,’ Catherine said dryly and smiled sweetly.

‘Oh, Cat, why would you do that?’

‘Because he’s your friend, Gabe. He should know. After all —’

‘He’s not a friend, he’s a customer and we have to keep some sort of —’

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Reynard,’ Dan said and Gabe swung around.

‘Ah, you’re here,’ the man said, approaching the counter. He was tall with the bulky girth of one who enjoys his food, but was surprisingly light on his feet. His hair looked as though it was spun from steel and he wore it in a tight queue. Cat often mused how long Monsieur Reynard’s hair was, while Dan considered it cool in an old man. Gabe privately admired it because Reynard wore his hair in that manner without any pretension, as though it was the most natural way for a man of his mature years to do so. To Gabe he looked like a character from a medieval novel and behaved as a jolly connoisseur of the good life — wine, food, travel, books. He had money to spend on his pursuits but Gabe sensed that behind the gregarious personality hid an intense, highly intelligent individual.

‘Bonjour, Gabriel, and I believe felicitations are in order.’

Gabe slipped back into his French again. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Reynard. How are you?’

‘Please call me René. I am well, as you see,’ the man replied, beaming at him while tapping his rotund belly. ‘I insist you join me for a birthday drink,’ he said, ensuring everyone in the shop heard his invitation.

‘I can’t, I have to —’

Reynard gave a tutting noise. ‘Please. You have never failed to find the book I want and that sort of dedication is hard to find. I insist, let me buy you a birthday drink.’

Cat caught Gabe’s eye and winked. She’d always teased him that Reynard was probably looking for more than mere friendly conversation.

‘Besides,’ Reynard continued, ‘there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s personal, Gabriel.’

Gabe refused to look at Cat now. He hesitated, feeling trapped.

‘Listen, we’ll make it special. Come to the Café de la Paix this evening.’

‘At Opéra?’

‘Too far?’ Reynard offered, feigning sympathy. Then he grinned. ‘You can’t live your life entirely in half a square kilometre of Paris, Gabriel. Take a walk after work and join me at one of the city’s gloriously grand cafés and live a little.’

He remembered his plan that today was the first day of his new approach to life. ‘I can be there at seven.’

‘Parfait!’ Reynard said, tapping the counter. He added in English, ‘See you there.’

Gabe gave a small groan as the man disappeared from sight, moving across the road to where all the artists and riverside sellers had set up their kiosks along the walls of the Seine. ‘I really shouldn’t.’

‘Why?’ Cat demanded.

Gabe winced. ‘He’s a customer and —’

‘And so handsome too … in a senior sort of way.’

Gabe glared at her. ‘No, I mean it,’ she giggled. ‘Really. He’s always so charming and he seems so worldly.’

‘So otherworldly more like,’ Dan added. They both turned to him and he shrugged self-consciously.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gabe asked.

‘There’s something about him, isn’t there? Or is it just me?’ Gabe shook his head with a look of puzzlement. ‘You’re kidding, right? You don’t find his eyes a little too searching? It’s as though he has an agenda. Or am I just too suspicious?’

Cat looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘I know what Dan means. Reynard does seem to stare at you quite intently, Gabe.’

‘Well, I’ve never noticed.’

She gave him a friendly soft punch. ‘That’s because you’re a writer and you all stare intensely at people like that.’ She widened her eyes dramatically. ‘Either that,’ she said airily, ‘or our hunch is right and Reynard fancies you madly.’

Dan snorted a laugh.

‘You two are on something. Now, I have work to do, and you have cakes to eat,’ he said, ‘and as I’m the most senior member of staff and the only full-timer here, I’m pulling rank.’

The day flew by. Suddenly it was six and black outside. Christmas lights had started to appear and Gabe was convinced each year they were going up earlier — to encourage the Christmas trade probably. Chestnuts were being roasted as Gabe strolled along the embankment and the bars were already full of cold people and warm laughter.

It wasn’t that Gabe didn’t like Reynard. He’d known him long enough. They’d met on a train and it was Reynard who’d suggested he try and secure a job at the bookshop once he’d learned that Gabe was hoping to write a novel. ‘I know the people there. I can introduce you,’ he’d said and, true to his word, Reynard had made the right introductions and a job for Gabe had been forthcoming after just three weeks in the city.

Reynard was hard to judge, not just in age, but in many respects.

Soon he approached the frenzy that was L’Opéra, with all of its intersecting boulevards and crazy traffic circling the palatial Opéra Garnier. He rounded the corner and looked for Reynard down the famously long terrace of the café. People — quite a few more tourists than he’d expected — were braving the cold at outside tables in an effort to capture the high Parisian café society of a bygone era when people drank absinthe and the hotel welcomed future kings and famous artists. He moved on, deeper into the café, toward the entrance to the hotel area.

Gabe saw Reynard stand as he emerged into the magnificent atrium-like lobby of the hotel known as Le Grand. He’d never walked through here previously and it was a delightful surprise to see the belle époque evoked so dramatically. It was as though Charles Garnier had decided to fling every design element he could at it, from Corinthian cornices to stucco columns and gaudy gilding.

‘Gabriel,’ Reynard beamed, ‘welcome to the 9th arrondissement. I know you never venture far.’

‘I’m addressing that,’ Gabe replied in a sardonic tone.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Reynard said, gesturing around him.

Gabe nodded. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

‘Pleasure. I have an ulterior motive, though, let me be honest,’ he said with a mischievous grin. Gabe wished he hadn’t said that. ‘But first,’ his host continued, ‘what are you drinking? Order something special. It is your birthday, after all.’

‘Absinthe would be fun if it wasn’t illegal.’

Reynard laughed. ‘You can have a pastis, which is similar, without the wormwood. But aniseed is so de rigueur now. Perhaps I might make a suggestion?’

‘Go ahead,’ Gabe said. ‘I’m no expert.’

‘Good, I shall order then.’ He signalled to the waiter, who arrived quietly at his side.

‘Sir?’

‘Two kir royales.’ The man nodded and Reynard turned back to Gabe. ‘Ever tasted one?’ Gabe gave a small shake of his head. ‘Ah, then this will be the treat I’d hoped. Kir is made with crème de cassis. The blackcurrant liqueur is then traditionally mixed with a white burgundy called Aligoté. But here they serve only the kir royale, which is the liqueur topped up with champagne brut. A deliciously sparkling way to kick off your birthday celebrations.’

The waiter arrived with two flutes fizzing with purple liquid and the thinnest curl of lemon peel twisting in the drinks.

‘Salut, Gabriel. Bon anniversaire,’ Reynard said, gesturing at one of the glasses.

‘Merci. A la vôtre,’ Gabe replied — to your health — and clinked his glass against Reynard’s. He sipped and allowed himself to be transported for a moment or two on the deep sweet berry effervescence of this prized apéritif. ‘Delicious. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. It’s the least I can do for your hours of work on my behalf.’

‘It’s my job. I enjoy searching for rare books and, even more, finding them. You said there was a favour. Is it another book to find?’

‘Er, no, Gabriel.’ Reynard put his glass down and became thoughtful, all amusement dying in his dark grey-blue eyes. ‘It’s an entirely different sort of task. One I’m loath to ask you about but yet I must.’

Gabe frowned. It sounded ominous.

‘I gather you were … are … a clinical psychologist.’

The kir royale turned sour in Gabe’s throat. He put his glass down. At nearly 25 euros for a single flute, it seemed poor manners not to greedily savour each sip, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to swallow.

He slowly looked up at Reynard. ‘How did you come by this information? No-one at work knows anything about my life before I came to Paris.’

‘Forgive me,’ Reynard said, his voice low and gentle. ‘I’ve looked into your background. The internet is very helpful.’

Gabe blinked with consternation. ‘I’ve taken my mother’s surname.’

‘I know,’ is all that Reynard said in response. He too put his glass down. ‘Please, don’t become defensive, I —’

‘What are you doing looking into my past?’ Gabe knew he sounded annoyed but Reynard’s audacity made him feel momentarily breathless, its intensity bringing with it the smell of charred metal and blood. He had to swallow his instant nausea.

‘Let me explain. This has everything to do with your past but in the most positive of ways.’ His host gestured at the flute of bubbling cassis. ‘Why don’t you drink it before it loses its joie de vivre?’

‘Why don’t you explain what you want of me first?’

‘All right,’ Reynard said, in a voice heavy with a calming tone, all geniality gone from his expression. ‘Do you know what I do for a living?’

Gabe shook his head. ‘I don’t do searches on my clients.’

‘Touché,’ Reynard said evenly. ‘I am a physician.’

He hadn’t expected that but betrayed no surprise. ‘And?’

‘And I have come across a patient that I normally would not see but no-one else is able to help. I think you can.’

‘I don’t practise any longer … perhaps you’d noticed?’

Reynard smiled sadly as if to admonish him that this was not a subject to jest about. ‘She is willing herself to death. I think she might succeed if we can’t help her soon.’

‘Presumably she’s been seen by capable doctors such as yourself, and if they can’t —’

‘Gabriel. She’s a young woman who believes she is being hunted by something sinister … something she believes is very dangerous.’

‘That something being …?’

Reynard shrugged. ‘Does it matter? She could be afraid of that glass of kir royale. You of all people know how powerful irrational fears can be. If she believes it —’

‘Then it is so,’ Gabe finished for him.

Reynard gave a nod.

‘Why did you search for my background in the first place?’

His companion sipped from his flute. ‘Strictly, I didn’t. I was researching who we could talk to, casting my net wider through Europe and then into Britain. Your name came up with a different surname but the photo was clearly you. I checked more and discovered you were not only an eminent practitioner but realised you were my bookshop friend here in Paris.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry that you are not practising still.’

‘I’m sure you can work out that my life took a radical turn.’

Reynard had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry for you.’

‘I closed my clinical practice and don’t want to return to it … not even for your troubled woman.’

‘I struggle to call her a woman, Gabriel. She’s still almost a child … certainly childlike. If you would only —’

‘No, Monsieur Reynard. Please don’t ask this of me.’

‘I must. You were so good at this and too within my reach to ignore. I fear we will lose her.’

‘So you’ve said. I know nothing about her. And frankly I don’t want to.’

‘That’s heartless. You clearly had a gift with young people. She needs that gift of your therapy.’

Gabe shook his head firmly. ‘Make sure she has around-the-clock supervision and nothing can harm her.’

Reynard put his glass down, slightly harder than Gabe thought necessary. ‘It’s not physical. It’s emotional and I can’t get into her mind and reassure her. She is desperate enough that she could choke herself on her own tongue.’

‘Then drug her!’ Gabe growled. ‘You’re the physician.’

They stared at each other for a couple of angry moments, neither backing down.

It was Gabe, perhaps in the spirit of change, who broke the tension. ‘Monsieur Reynard, I don’t want to be a psychologist anymore. I haven’t for years and I’ve no desire to dabble. The combination of lack of motivation and rusty skills simply puts your youngster into more danger.’ He picked up the glass and drained the contents. ‘Now, that was lovely and I appreciate the treat, but I’m meeting some friends for dinner,’ he lied. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ He pulled his satchel back onto his shoulder, reaching for his scarf.

Reynard’s countenance changed in the blink of an eye. He smiled. ‘I almost forgot. I have something for you.’ He reached behind him and pulled out a gift-wrapped box.

Gabe was astonished. ‘I can’t —’

‘You can. It’s my thank you for the tireless, unpaid and mostly unheralded work you’ve put in on my behalf.’

‘As I said earlier, I do this job because I enjoy it,’ he replied, still not taking the long, narrow box.

‘Even so, you do it well enough that I’d like to thank you with this gift. Your knack for language, your understanding of the older worlds, your knowledge of myth and mystery are a rare talent. It’s in recognition of your efforts. Happy birthday.’

‘Well … thank you. I’m flattered.’

‘Have you begun your manuscript?’

Gabe took a deep breath. He didn’t like to talk about it with anyone, although his writing ambition was not the secret that his past had been. ‘Yes, very early stages.’

‘What’s it about?’ At Gabe’s surprised glance, he apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but what I meant is, what’s the theme of your story?’

Gabe looked thoughtful. ‘Fear … I think.’

‘Fear of what?’

He shrugged. ‘The unknown.’

‘Intriguing,’ Reynard remarked. He nodded at the object in Gabe’s hand. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to open it?’

Gabe looked at the gift. ‘All right.’

The ribbon was clearly satin the way it untied and easily slipped out of its knots. Beneath the wrapping was a dark navy, almost black, box; it was shallow, but solid. It reeked of quality and a high price tag.

‘I hope you like it,’ Reynard added, and drained his flute of its purplish contents. ‘I had the box made for it.’

Gabe lifted the lid carefully. Lying on navy satin was a pure white feather. He opened his mouth in pleasurable astonishment. ‘It’s exquisite.’ He meant it. He fell instantly in love with the feather, his mind immediately recalling its symbolic meanings: spiritual evolution, the nearness to heavenly beings, the rising soul. Native Americans felt it put them closer to the power of wind and air — it was a sign of bravery. The Celts believed feathers helped them to understand celestial beings. The Ancient Egyptian goddess of justice would weigh the hearts of the newly dead against a feather. He knew the more contemporary symbolism of a feather was free movement … innocence, even. All of this occurred to him in a heartbeat.

Reynard smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it. It’s a quill, of course.’ Then added, ‘You British see it as a sign of cowardice.’

Gabe was momentarily stung by the comment that he wasn’t sure was made innocently or harking back to his refusal to see Reynard’s patient. Too momentarily disconcerted to find out which, Gabe noticed that the shaft of the feather was sharpened and stained from ink. Now it truly sang to his soul and the writer in him as much as the lover of books and knowledge.

Reynard continued. ‘It’s a primary flight feather. They’re the best for writing with. It’s also very rare for a number of reasons, not the least of which is because it’s from a swan. Incredibly old and yet so exquisite, as you can see. Almost impossible to find these days.’

‘Except you did,’ Gabe remarked lightly, once again fully in control.

Reynard smiled. ‘Indeed. You are right-handed, aren’t you?’ Gabe nodded. ‘This feather comes from the left wing. Do you see how it curves away from you when you hold it in your right hand? Clever, no?’ Again Gabe nodded. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Very few possessions could excite Gabe. For all his money, he could count on one hand the items that were meaningful to him.

‘Where did you get it?’ he added.

‘Pearlis,’ Gabe thought he heard Reynard say.

‘Pardon?’

‘A long way from Paris,’ Reynard laughed as he repeated the word, and there was something in his expression that gave Gabe pause. Reynard looked away. ‘Apparently it’s from a twelfth-century scriptorium. But, frankly, they could have told me anything and I’d have acquired it anyway.’ He stood. ‘Have you noticed the tiny inscription?’

Gabe stared more closely.

‘Not an inscription so much as a sigil, in fact, engraved beautifully in miniature onto the quill’s shaft,’ Reynard explained.

He could see it now. It was tiny, very beautiful. ‘Do we know the provenance?’

‘It’s royal,’ Reynard said and his voice sounded throaty. He cleared it. ‘I have no information other than that,’ he said briskly, then smiled. ‘Incidentally, only the scriveners in the scriptorium were given the premium pinion feather.’

‘Scriveners?’

‘Writers … those of original thought.’ His eyes blazed suddenly with excitement, like two smouldering coals that had found a fresh source of oxygen. ‘And if one extrapolates, one could call them “special individuals” who were … well, unique, you might say.’

He didn’t understand and it must have showed.

‘Scribes simply copied you see,’ Reynard added.

‘And if you extrapolate further?’ Gabe asked mischievously. He didn’t expect Reynard to respond but his companion took him seriously, looked at him gravely.

‘Pretenders,’ he said. ‘Followers. Scribes copied,’ he repeated, ‘the scriveners originated.’

Again they locked gazes.

This time it was Gabe who looked away first. ‘Well, thank you doesn’t seem adequate, but it’s the best I can offer,’ Gabe said, a fresh gust of embarrassment blowing through him as he laid the feather in its box. He stood to shake hands in farewell, knowing he should kiss Reynard on the cheek, but reluctant to deepen what he was still clinging to as a client relationship.

‘Is it?’ Reynard asked and then smiled sadly.

Gabe felt the blush heat his cheeks, hoped it didn’t show in this lower light.

Reynard looked away. ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he called to the waiter and mimicked scribbling a note. The man nodded and Reynard pulled out a wad of cash. ‘Bonsoir, Gabriel. Sleep well.’

Something in those words left Gabe feeling hollow. He nodded to Reynard as he headed for the doors, toying briefly with finding another bar, perhaps somewhere with music, but he wanted the familiarity of his own neighbourhood. He decided he would head for the cathedral — Notre Dame never failed to lift his spirits.

Clutching the box containing his swan quill, he walked with purpose but deliberately emptied his mind of all thought. He’d taught himself to do this when he was swotting for his exams ‘aeons’ ago. He’d practised for some years as a teenager, so by the time he sat his O levels he could cut out a lot of the ‘noise’, leaving his mind more flexible for retrieval of his study notes.

By the time he reached his A levels, he’d honed those skills to such an edge he could see himself sitting alone at the examination desk: the sound of the school greenkeeper on his ride-on mower was removed, the coughs of other students, the sounds of pages being turned, even the birdsong were silenced. At his second-year university exams, the only sounds keeping him company were his heartbeat and breathing. And by final exams he’d mastered his personal environment to the point where he could place himself anywhere he chose and he could add sounds of his choice — if he wanted frogs but not crickets he would make it so. Or he could sit in a void, neither light nor dark, neither warm nor cold, but whatever he chose as the optimum conditions.

He was in control. And he liked it that way.

Curiously, though, when he exercised this control — and it was rare that he needed it these days — he more often than not found that he built the same scene around himself. Why this image of a cathedral was his comfort blanket he didn’t know. It was not a cathedral he recognised — certainly not the Parisian icon, or from books, postcards, descriptions — but one from imagination that he’d conjured since before his teens, perhaps as early as six or seven years of age. The cathedral felt safe; his special, private, secure place where as a boy, he believed dragons kept him safe within. And at university he believed the cathedral had become his symbol — substitute even — for home. As he’d matured he’d realised it simply represented all the aspects of life he considered fundamental to his wellbeing — steadfastness, longevity, calmness, as well as spiritual and emotional strength. However, in the style of cathedrals everywhere it was immense and domineering, and if the exterior impressed and humbled, then the interior left him awestruck.

Gabe had sat for his Masters and then finished his PhD, writing all of his papers from the nave of this imaginary cathedral. The pews he deliberately kept empty to symbolise his isolation from others while he studied. The only company he permitted in the cathedral was that of the towering, mystical creatures of stone, sculpted in exquisite detail. They supported the grand pillars rearing upwards to the soaring roof and each was different and strange.

A curiosity was that he knew what they were, although he’d never seen them in life. He also allowed that his cathedral — when he wasn’t within its care — was regularly populated by worshippers and knew that every person who entered the cathedral belonged to one of the fabulous creatures. Pilgrims didn’t have to know before they entered which was their totem. They could walk into the cathedral and one of the creatures would call to them … talk to their soul. Gabe had no idea how he knew this, for he had never seen anyone in the cathedral.

But which creature did he belong to? That was the single image he couldn’t evoke. He couldn’t summon a scene in which he saw himself entering the cathedral and feeling the pull of his creature. He was either outside the cathedral admiring it, or within it … but he couldn’t participate in the life of the cathedral. It had never mattered though — the cathedral of his mind had protected him and given him peace and space.

Gabe hadn’t needed the cathedral in a long time. In fact, tonight was the first time in possibly as long as three years that he had thought about his old haven. Was he feeling threatened by Reynard — is that why the cathedral was in his thoughts and why he was drawn to Notre Dame this evening? Gabe understood the clever machinations of the mind — how it could trick and coerce, manipulate oneself and others. And somewhere during the course of this evening he had been left feeling ‘handled’. Gabe gave a soft growl.

He’d been skirting the Tuileries; gorgeous on summer nights, but a little too dark for comfort on a winter eve like tonight. Cars whizzed down the wide boulevard of the rue de Rivoli but he barely noticed them. He was looking for one establishment and there it was, next to the equally celebrated hotel Le Meurice. Angelina was an early 1900s tea salon and café, once known as Rumpelmayers. The rich and famous had frequented it and still did, although these days it was on the pathway of the tourist stampede. It was closed though tonight. Gabe was deeply disappointed, especially since he could already taste his first sip of the famous Chocolat L’Africain and now would have to go without. He strolled by the Louvre, hauntingly lit and knew the cathedral was not far away now.

Notre Dame loomed, floodlit and imposing — especially tonight with the moon so bright and the Seine waters reflecting their own light back onto the structure. Gabe walked around the building; he was particularly fond of the flying buttresses about the nave but he always found something new to enjoy about the gothic structure. Tonight it was cold enough to move him along faster than usual and he was quickly heading for the Petit Pont, the bridge that would take him across the river onto the Left Bank. Perhaps he’d head for Les Deux Magots for the second-best hot chocolate in Paris.

High above, hiding behind one of the structures that Gabe had been admiring moments earlier, the same dark figure that had studied him this morning while he dreamed now watched his retreating back until he was lost in traffic and the darkened streets beyond the river. It blinked, looking into the night, as still as one of the famous ‘grotesque’ sculptures that decorated the cathedral. After a long time the watcher stirred and hopped back along the buttress and onto the part of the building that housed the choir, disappearing into the blackness of the night. No-one saw or heard it. But it had marked Gabe … and now it knew him.

THREE

The next morning at the bookshop passed slowly, but Gabe kept himself busy in the office catching up on paperwork. Eventually his rumbling belly told him it was nearing lunchtime. He emerged from the office stretching, wound his way down the rickety staircase and saw that the shop was all but empty.

‘I’m just ducking out for a baguette,’ he said. He didn’t offer to pick up for anyone else. Didn’t want that becoming a habit.

The day had not improved with age. It was overcast and drizzly. He zipped up his jacket. He didn’t walk along the river, as the cafés here tended to ply their trade — and their prices — for hardy tourists. Instead he walked deeper into Saint-Germain unaware that he was being followed.

‘Bonjour, Gabriel,’ he heard a familiar voice call after him.

He turned. Reynard waved to him. He was not alone. Standing alongside, dwarfed by the tall physician was a fragile-looking girl. Gabe could hardly ignore them. He smiled weakly.

‘Bonjour, Reynard … mademoiselle.’

‘This is Gabriel, whom I’ve mentioned,’ Reynard said to her.

Gabe noticed how Reynard held the girl’s arm. There was something possessive in his stance. Reynard was nervous, too. Gabe took all this in with a brief gaze at the man and then shifted his attention to the reason they were surely paused in a damp, narrow street of Paris. She turned her dark and solemn eyes on him, but said nothing. He felt his breath catch slightly. She looked like a piece of exquisite porcelain; her skin was almost translucent it was so pale. Her ebony-black hair cut bluntly in a bob only accentuated her alabaster complexion as it skimmed the line of her jaw. It was a severe style yet she seemed to wear it with ease, and the texture was shiny and slippery like silk. In that moment he wanted to touch it.

He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, I hadn’t expected to meet anyone,’ he said, cutting a look at Reynard.

‘Gabriel, could you spare us just five minutes of your time?’ the man began, and when Gabe started to shake his head Reynard put a hand up. ‘A quick coffee,’ he appealed. ‘Two minutes … if you could just …’ His words ran out as he gestured at his companion.

Again the dark eyes of the girl regarded him. How odd. He’d thought they were dark brown, but now he noticed they were the smokiest of greys, brooding and stormy … and troubled. In a moment of hesitation, he recalled Reynard’s fear that the girl might kill herself. He felt suddenly obliged.

Just a few minutes couldn’t hurt. The smell of grilling meat and spices of cumin and coriander, anise and cinnamon wafted over from the kebab shops in the narrow streets around Place Saint-André-des-Arts, reminding him he was hungry. His mouth began to water at the thought of lamb with tzatziki, perhaps some tabbouleh and hoummos wrapped in a warm pita. It would have to wait. A swift coffee first.

‘Sure,’ he said, shrugging a shoulder and noticing at once how Reynard’s anxious face lit with surprise. Nevertheless, he appeared tense despite his relief at Gabe’s decision.

‘Over here’s a café,’ he said, pointing, then guiding his companion.

Gabe followed Reynard noticing that his charge was as uninterested in her surrounds as she was in her companions.

He sat down opposite the odd pair and smiled at her.

‘We haven’t been introduced yet,’ he said, but as he’d anticipated, Reynard answered before she could.

‘Oh, my apologies. Gabriel, this is Angelina.’

His mind froze momentarily as though he’d been stung.

‘Gabriel?’

‘Sorry. Er, like the famous tea salon,’ he muttered. Then took a breath and smiled at them. ‘I was only staring at its sign last night.’

She said nothing but fixed him now with an unwavering look. Her expression didn’t betray boredom or even dislike. He felt as though he were being studied. He’d experienced such regard before and allowed her to fixate without showing any discomfort in his expression.

‘Do you believe in coincidence?’ Reynard asked him in English.

Gabe remained speaking in French to let Reynard know that he had no intention of isolating Angelina, if she didn’t understand English. ‘Do I believe in coincidence?’ he repeated. ‘Well, I know it happens too often to not be a reality of life, but I would never count on one, if that’s what you mean.’ He noticed Reynard was trying to catch the attention of the waiter. ‘Er, with milk for me,’ he said.

Reynard nodded, conveying this to the waiter before returning to their conversation. ‘I meant,’ he continued, now in French, ‘do you believe in coincidence or do you believe in fate?’

‘I’ve never thought about it. But now that you make me consider it, I think I’d like to believe in predestination rather than chance.’

Reynard raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s interesting. Most people would prefer coincidence. They don’t like the notion of their lives already being mapped out.’

‘You can change life’s pathway. I’m testimony to that. But then the question was hypothetical. I like the notion of fate. It doesn’t mean I believe it’s what runs our lives or that chance doesn’t have a lot to do with what happens to us.’ He returned his attention to Angelina, feeling highly conscious of her penetrating gaze. The winter sun was filtering weakly into the café and lighting one side of her face. The other was in shadow and just for a moment he had the notion that her spiritually darker side was hidden.

The waiter arrived to bang down three coffees and their accompanying tiny madeleine biscuits.

‘Do you enjoy Paris?’ he tried.

‘I should tell you that Angelina is mute,’ Reynard said. ‘She is not unable to talk, I’m assured, but she is choosing not to talk.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s where you come in, I hope.’

She hadn’t shifted her gaze from Gabe and now — as if to spite Reynard — shook her head and he realised it was in answer to his earlier question. He persisted. ‘If you could be anywhere, where would you go?’ He reached for his coffee.

She blinked slowly as if she didn’t understand the question. Then turned to Reynard and pointed at the sugar up on the counter. Reynard looked in two minds. He cast a gaze around to nearby tables but it seemed sugar wasn’t routinely left on them.

Gabe frowned. ‘Er, I think you’ll have to go to the counter,’ he suggested.

It was clear Reynard didn’t want to get up. Angelina pushed her coffee aside suggesting she wouldn’t drink it without the sugar. It was done gently but the message seemed forceful enough. As a couple, they were intriguing. Gabe felt a tingling sense of interest in unravelling the secrets of the relationship before him.

Reynard rose. ‘Back in a moment,’ he said.

Angelina was astonishingly pretty in her elfin way but she shocked him as his gaze returned from Reynard to her. ‘Help me.’

He coughed, spluttering slightly with a mouthful of coffee. ‘So much for being mute,’ he remarked.

‘You have to get me away from him,’ she urged, fumbling for his hand beneath the small table. ‘Don’t look at it now. Just take this,’ she said, pressing a small note into his hand.

Reynard was back. ‘There you are,’ he said, sliding a couple of sticks of sugar onto the table.

Gabe was in no small state of shock at her outburst. The girl was obviously frightened of the physician.

‘So,’ Reynard began, sipping his drink, ‘Angelina will not mind me saying this, I’m sure, but she is suffering a form of depression. She has feelings of persecution and —’

‘Wait,’ Gabe interrupted. ‘If she’s mute how can you know any of this?’

‘Previous notes from previous doctors,’ Reynard answered. ‘“Delusional” is the word that has been used time and again. Her muteness is a recent affliction. Remember, she’s choosing not to speak.’

‘Since you began treating her, do you mean?’

Reynard sipped his coffee slowly and didn’t give any indication of offence. ‘She’s not prepared to communicate with doctors anymore. I don’t think it’s directed specifically at me.’

Gabe flicked a glance at Angelina and the surreptitious look she gave him over the rim of her cup contradicted Reynard’s claim.

‘Angelina is frightened and capable of harming herself,’ Reynard continued, unaware of the silent message. ‘But if, Gabriel, you can be persuaded, I think you might be the right person to guide her through this.’

‘This what?’ Gabe asked.

Reynard looked at him quizzically, his silvery eyebrows knitted together. ‘This period in her life, of course. You’re my last hope. If I can I’d like to find her family, get her reconnected and hopefully out of enforced care — which is all that she can look forward to unless we can fix this.’

Gabe put his cup down deliberately softly to hide his exasperation. ‘When you say “last hope”, Reynard, what exactly do you mean?’

Reynard sat forward. ‘I’ve saved her from mental health hospitals. I’ve taken her on as a special case with a promise that I will find the right doctor for her. Soon she’ll be returned to the care of institutions and become a ward of the state … and you know what that means. She’ll be lost to the corridors of madness. They’ll drug her, labelling her schizophrenic or bipolar, and they’ll move on to the next youngster. She’ll be tied to a bed, kept like a zombie for most of her waking hours, they’ll —’

‘I work in a bookshop,’ Gabe appealed. ‘I’m writing a book,’ he added, his hands open in a helpless gesture, a desperate attempt to avoid this task.

‘Ah, yes, the scrivener,’ Reynard replied. ‘It’s your distance from your previous profession, perhaps, that makes you all the more valuable. You haven’t forgotten how, surely?’

Gabe sighed. ‘No. I haven’t forgotten.’

‘So you’ll see her?’

He recalled standing opposite Angelina’s last night — it was an omen. He remembered the note crumpled in his left fist, which was now plunged into the pocket of his jacket. He shifted his gaze back to her. In her look was a plea.

‘Yes, I’ll see Angelina.’

‘Excellent. Oh marvellous, thank you, Gabriel … I —’

‘There are conditions —’

‘I understand,’ Reynard said, barely hearing him, Gabe was sure.

‘Don’t be too hasty. Hear me out first. I insist on seeing her alone,’ Gabe said, knowing it would not go down well.

Reynard’s face clouded. ‘Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘Why?’ he asked reasonably.

‘I am responsible for Angelina … for every moment that she is out of hospital.’

‘Are you suggesting she’s in danger with me?’ Gabe asked, without a hint of indignation.

‘Not at all. She’s unpredictable, Gabriel.’

They both glanced at Angelina, who had in the last minute or so seemed to tune out of their conversation. She was staring through the window but with unseeing eyes. Her coffee was cooling, untouched; crystals of sugar were scattered around from her opening the sachets carelessly.

‘Unpredictable?’ he queried, returning his attention to Reynard.

‘Dangerous,’ Reynard replied.

Gabriel tried to school his features but he wasn’t quite quick enough to shield Reynard from the slight slump of his shoulders that clearly conveyed his mistrust of this diagnosis.

‘I don’t feel threatened by her,’ he said as evenly as he could. ‘And Reynard, this is not a request, it’s a condition of me doing the assessment for you. You’re the one asking the favour.’ How quickly that firm note came back into one’s voice, he thought, privately impressed. So many times in his working life he’d had to adopt that calm but implacable stance with parents, guardians, teachers, even other doctors.

‘Where?’ Reynard asked sounding reluctant.

‘It will have to be my studio, I suppose. It is neutral for Angelina. It is also spacious and quiet. You can wait downstairs in the lobby or you’re welcome to sit on the landing outside. But I want to speak to her without interference of any kind.’

‘I will wait on the landing as you suggest. When?’

Gabe shrugged, surprised by Reynard’s continuing possessiveness. ‘It’s my day off tomorrow. Let’s say eleven, shall we?’

‘That’s fine.’

Gabe stood. ‘Bring a book. The landing offers no diversion,’ he said, his tone neutral. He looked at the girl. ‘Bye, Angelina.’ She ignored him. Reynard began to apologise. ‘Don’t,’ Gabe said, ‘it’s okay. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ Reynard said.

Gabe left without another word, unaware of how Angelina’s gaze followed long after most people’s vision would have lost him to the blur of street life.

Brother Josse opened the door to the calefactory and felt the change in temperature. It was the only chamber, other than his private room, where a fire was permitted. But he invariably went without setting a fire in his living quarters as he believed in leading by example, and though his bones were weary — when he lay down these nights his muscles seemed to lock themselves without his permission, then the aches and pains would arrive — and his eyesight failing, he would not capitulate and give himself more comfort than the rest of the Brothers.

The warmth enveloped him like a blanket and he sighed with silent pleasure. He regarded the back of his visitor, who was looking out of the window onto the herb gardens. Spare and small-framed, the man turned at the sound of Josse closing the door.

‘I didn’t hear you arrive,’ the stranger said, soft of voice but with a warm and ready smile.

‘That’s the point, I believe,’ Josse replied, equally genially. All in the Brotherhood could move in silence. ‘It has been a very long time.’

‘It has,’ came the reply. ‘You were not much more than a lad last time we met.’

Josse nodded. ‘And you said one day you would need my help, that you would come,’ he said, taking in his guest’s straight bearing beneath the simple grey robe, the neat hair shot through with silver, but the face surprisingly unlined for one so old. How could that be?

‘I have kept my promise,’ the visitor said gently.

Josse knew he was staring, trying to make sense of the man’s presence. He finally gathered his wits. ‘Er, will you break bread with me?’

‘Thank you. My tastes are uncomplicated though, Brother Josse. I eat no meat.’

‘Ah, that’s right. No living creature; I remember you telling me all those years ago.’

The man smiled again, the echo of its brightness sparkling in his eyes. ‘I think the fruits and vegetables forgive me though,’ he said with a shrug.

‘I have followed in the same steps.’

Surprise registered on the man’s face. ‘Truly? I’m impressed.’

Josse laughed. ‘I believe I’ve been in awe of you since childhood.’

‘I don’t know why,’ came the reply and even the tone was modest.

Josse shook his head. ‘Even now you surprise me with your own humility and yet I know that you are —’

‘Please,’ the man said, ‘do not treat me with any deference. I am, as you see, a simple soul with simple needs.’

‘May I offer you a cup of gleam?’

‘Certainly, it would be a treat. I haven’t tasted the spicy wine in many years. It will loosen our tongues for we have important matters to discuss.’

Josse felt a thrill of excitement. He didn’t know why this man had taken such an interest in his life when he’d been brought to the priory at the age of nine. He remembered him not much differently than how he stood here now: the hair was a little less silvered perhaps, but beyond that the eyes were still sharp and bright, pierced by a curious shot of gold around the pupils.

The jug of gleam arrived, and although they seated themselves by the fire, Josse was sure that his guest did so only out of cordiality rather than need. Josse had asked for them not to be disturbed, and so now they sat opposite one another, but not really in a comfortable silence — because Josse felt nervous.

Josse grabbed his opportunity. It was now or never. ‘May I ask, um … forgive me, I don’t know what to call you. I have never known your name.’

The man smiled and it was as though new warmth filled the room. ‘How remiss of me. My name is Fynch.’

‘Brother Fynch,’ Josse repeated the name, as though testing it on his tongue.

‘Just Fynch,’ his guest said mildly.

Josse took a breath. ‘May I ask another question, er, Fynch?’

‘By all means.’

‘You were a friend of our great King Cailech.’

‘I was.’ He paused to smile in private memory. ‘And of his queen, Valentyna,’ Fynch added.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Josse hesitated, but then decided he had to clarify this or he would die wondering. ‘Um, and yet I am in my winter years and you look like spring.’

They both chuckled at the metaphor.

‘Looks can be deceiving, Brother Josse. I can assure you I am much older than you.’

‘But —’ and something in the look Fynch gave him told Josse to leave it. There was no reprimand, no irritation in Fynch’s expression, just a soft glance that seemed almost painful to behold, so Josse looked away and accepted that the mystery would always remain so. ‘Well, you are an inspiration.’

Fynch smiled. ‘I’m sure you would like to know why I’m here after all this time.’

Josse sat forward, placing his half-full cup of gleam on the small knobbly table that sat between them. He noticed Fynch’s gleam was untouched. ‘Yes, I would. I’m intrigued.’

‘I need the aid of the Brotherhood.’

Josse looked surprised. ‘But you know we are here only in the service of the Crown?’

‘I do.’ Fynch eyed him now and the golden glints in his eyes seemed to glow even brighter. ‘Tell me about the man in the forest.’

‘Cassien? Of all our men, why him?’

‘Because you were asked to prepare him.’

Josse looked astonished. ‘But those were secret instructions, from the desk of —’

‘The royal chancellor. Yes, I know and I’m sorry for the stratagem. It would have prompted too many questions had I approached you directly on this matter when you took over as Head Brother.’ Fynch gave a small shrug of a shoulder. ‘I know it’s confusing, Brother Josse. Tell me all you know about him. And then I’ll tell you why he is so important to me.’

Josse sat back and took a deep breath. ‘All right. Cassien came to us as an infant … an orphan. His mother was a slattern.’ He paused as Fynch smiled tightly at the polite word. Josse cleared his throat. ‘She was nonetheless incredibly beautiful, and it was said rich men from far and wide would journey to see and partake of this woman’s … er …’

‘Services?’ Fynch offered.

‘Yes,’ Josse agreed, relieved to discover that his guest was not stuffy about these things, even though he’d always thought of him as something of a holy man. ‘She lived and worked in Pearlis, not far from the cathedral. She died neither young nor old — in her prime perhaps you might say, ravaged by a disease that no-one had any knowledge of, or cure for. It is believed the sickness was brought from across the oceans, and her body was burned as it frightened everyone so. Cassien knows none of this. He believes his mother died soon after childbirth. She gave him to us when he was little more than nine months. I have to say her attitude sounds cold, but I met her and she was a warm, laughing individual who wanted the best for her son, which she knew she could not give him. I never visited her. She accepted no money for him, asking only that she be allowed to glimpse him from time to time.’

‘And did she?’

‘Every moon until she died. We would take Cassien through the market and past a designated spot where she would be watching him from a close distance. I always felt sorry for her, even though she’d given her child away. There was only ever tenderness and love in that beautiful face of hers. I gave her my word that her son would never know.’

‘The father?’

‘According to her he was a traveller, a wastrel. She loved him, apparently. He was rarely home from what we learned. Again, I never met him.’

‘There were brothers, weren’t there?’

‘An elder brother,’ he corrected. ‘I never saw him and I have no idea of his life.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, the young Cassien charmed us all from his arrival. He was an agile, bright-eyed infant with great curiosity and the sharpest of minds. We all loved him. I most of all, I suspect. I taught him all that I could and ensured that he had the best training. He didn’t disappoint. As he grew he showed himself to be the most adept and willing student. Everything he turned his hand to he did well.’ Josse reached for his spiced wine again. He knew it had cooled but he didn’t mind. His voice became scratchy when he talked for long periods. Fynch’s drink remained untouched.

‘The Brotherhood has a knack for finding each of its members’ special talents, does it not?’

‘Indeed, Master Fynch. We pride ourselves on it. Some of our Brothers become specialists at negotiation, while others are skilled poisoners; some have a talent for inciting political instability, while a few down the years have shown a gift for subterfuge and all manner of clandestine activity from spying to assassination.’ He shrugged. ‘It just depends on the individual. We nurture all skills and then we choose which to focus on for a particular individual.’ Josse sighed. ‘Only a few know of our existence — most think we are a small religious sect — but we are at the Crown’s disposal, always ready to meet its needs. We are looked after by the Crown.’

‘And yet you live quietly as monks … frugal, spiritual even.’

Josse nodded. ‘It cannot be any other way or these skilled men could be turned to the wrong side for money or status. Emperor Cailech set us up in this manner. His aim was for us to Opérate as a religious Brotherhood, and ensure our members make their commitment to the Crown as a monk might make his to his god. It is definitely a spiritual undertaking.’

‘Yes, Cailech was inspired in this creation. And you have not let him down.’ Josse nodded his head, pleased with the compliment. ‘And what of Cassien?’ Fynch continued. ‘What is his speciality?’

‘Ah, he could have gone several ways. However, Cassien has become something of a one-man army.’ Josse laughed but there was no mirth in it. ‘He is a living, breathing weapon.’

‘Please explain that to me, Brother Josse.’

‘Quite simply: I defy any man to be his equal in combat. He can run faster, longer, harder than anyone in the empire, I suspect. He can take uncharted levels of pain. His stamina, thinking speed and range of thought are immense — and by that I mean his strategic decisions are usually always right and they are made in a blink, even under pressure. He is strong, flexible and supple; light as air if he needs to be. If you blindfold him, he can still “see” because his senses are so finely tuned. He has developed a method of bouncing sound off hard objects to gauge his nearness to them.’ Josse gave a tight smile. ‘Just as a bat might,’ he added and frowned.

‘What is it, Brother Josse?’

‘There is something else about Cassien that I don’t know how to explain.’

Josse watched Fynch lean forward slightly. ‘Yes?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s an intangible skill. One I cannot put competently into words, but it’s as though he possesses an otherworldly sense that the rest of us don’t know or understand. I know he keeps it secret.’

‘You mean it is an inherent part of him.’

‘Exactly. He alone owns it, wields it, but I know not when or how. He has only admitted once to me of its existence, when he was a child, and even then he could barely explain it. I suspect he’s forgotten ever mentioning it.’

He watched Fynch’s eyes blaze now. ‘Magic?’

Josse felt genuinely uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, sipped his gleam. ‘There is no other explanation, I suppose.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Me? I haven’t seen Cassien for a decade. Our man, Loup, visits him each new moon to put him through various, shall we say, tests. And he is certainly rigorous, Master Fynch.’

‘And?’

‘He is astonishing. Two moons ago Cassien bested Loup for the first time. Loup tells me he now believes our charge to be near enough invincible in a one-on-one fight. We believe he could do a lot of damage to any enemy if he was sent in alone. One of his strengths is his quiet presence. Loup says there are times when …’ Josse trailed off, unsure how to say it, for it sounded so far-fetched.

Fynch’s head snapped up from where he had been staring thoughtfully at the fire. ‘When what?’

‘Er … well, when he believes Cassien is somehow not entirely of this world.’

He watched Fynch straighten, his chest swell as though it was being filled with anticipation and excitement. ‘This is very good news, Brother Josse.’

‘Is it? Frankly, it frightens me, this talk of magic.’

‘One must not fear magic, Brother Josse.’ His guest stood, contemplating. ‘Good …’ Fynch murmured. ‘Very good.’

‘So, this mission you mention suggests the Crown has a specific use for him, Master Fynch?’

‘It does.’

‘Then by all means ask the palace to —’

‘No. This is the most secret mission that any of your men will ever undertake because they will do so without the knowledge of the Crown.’

Josse shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to. I promise you, he will be working for the good of the realm, for the empire it is part of and for the young royal who presides over it.’

Josse blinked.

‘You trust me, Brother Josse?’

‘I do,’ he replied without hesitation.

‘Thank you. I will personally brief Cassien.’

‘Of course. You will need a guide. Loup will take you.’ There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Ah, perfect timing. We can offer a hearty vegetable stew with chesil manchets baked here in our own bakery. We prefer the grainiest of bread … I hope it suits.’

Fynch smiled. ‘Bread is a rare treat in whichever form it is given to me. Thank you.’

Josse pointed to a basin nearby and heard the sound of Fynch washing his hands as he opened the door to young Turc, who brought in two bowls of stew, vapour rising enthusiastically from the brew, and bread still so warm he could smell its escaping steam. A chunk of butter he knew had been churned only the previous day was scattered with salt flakes.

His guest was taking an inordinately long time to dry his hands and Josse realised Fynch did not want to be seen.

‘Leave the tray, Turc. Thank you, lad. I can take it from here.’

FOUR

Gabe had half an hour to kill before Reynard arrived. He paused at the sideboard where the swan quill sat in its box and traced a finger over the feather, watching the individual spines part and then flick back into a soldierly line.

He remembered that Angelina had a sweet tooth and realised he had time to nip out and grab some simple fruit pastries drizzled with white icing, plus a new bag of his favourite coffee beans. He liked a strong roast that hinted of chocolate and licorice, and having invested in a 15bar Italian coffee machine, he enjoyed the ritual of making his coffee to order.

He thought again about Angelina and Reynard’s peculiar possessiveness about her. And then he remembered the note. Hell! He’d left the café yesterday and hurried back to the shop, only to get sucked into a black hole of new stock and paperwork, and had forgotten about Angelina’s piece of paper, which she’d pushed into his hand surreptitiously.

As soon as he was back at the apartment he threw down his packets from the bakery and dipped into the pocket where the note had been stuffed. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table and read it.

Don’t trust him! He is lying to you! Trust only me and what I say!

The three exclamations made her warning look desperate. So her fear was about the physician. He is lying to you! Why would Reynard lie? Lying about what? He presumed he was soon to find out more.

He set out the pastries and put some background music on very softly. It was melodic guitar music, nothing too Latin and upbeat but nothing melancholy either.

At just a minute or so to eleven he heard the security buzzer sound.

‘Reynard … Angelina?’

‘Good morning, Gabriel,’ Reynard’s disconnected voice said through the loudspeaker. ‘Thank you for your emailed directions.’

‘Just push the door,’ Gabe replied and hit the button to let them enter. He walked outside his flat to the landing, where he’d put a chair for Reynard. It was cold and, even though it felt churlish, he didn’t care. He was not permitting the physician inside while he was assessing Angelina. He leaned over the elegant wrought-iron railing that twisted serpentine-like around the shallow white marble stairs between floors and heard the lift crank into use. The lift took its time in its creaky ascent but finally it opened and there they were, the oddest couple.

Reynard was dressed in his habitual pinstripe suit while Angelina looked wan in a short skirt, ankle boots, thick tights, a duffel coat, scarf, gloves, beanie … it was as though she was a child being dressed by a protective grandmother against the elements.

‘Hello again, Monsieur Reynard, Angelina,’ he said warmly to both, but looking at her.

They stepped out of the lift.

‘So how do we do this?’ Reynard asked. He looked nervous.

‘I’ve put a chair here,’ Gabe said, gesturing toward the landing’s window. ‘It’s cold but you’re well wrapped up, I see. Did you bring a book?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Reynard replied. ‘How long?’

‘I’d say we need at least forty-five minutes undisturbed.’ He gave a sympathetic grin but his tone was firm. ‘I can offer you coffee?’

‘I understand. And no, but thank you. I’ve recently had one,’ Reynard said.

‘Angelina, will you follow me, please?’ Gabe offered. She nodded.

Reynard touched his arm. ‘Be careful, Gabriel. Remember my warning,’ he whispered.

Gabe looked over his shoulder with a quizzical frown. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he assured Reynard. He closed the door on the physician and turned to the young woman. ‘It’s warm in here so feel free to take off your coat and put it down over there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. He left it entirely to her. But it pleased him to see that she began peeling off her heavy garments. It was a good start. He turned away. ‘Now, how about a decent coffee?’

She shook her head, dark eyes regarding him far from suspiciously. In fact, he’d describe her look as hungry but not for food. He convinced himself he was imagining it and decided that she was probably relieved to be away from Reynard’s supervision.

‘This is not jar coffee,’ he insisted, mock offended.

Angelina’s face broke momentarily into a grin. She pulled off her beanie and shook out her hair; again, he had the desire to touch it. Without her bulky coat on she looked so vulnerable.

Helena, a female colleague at university during his PhD, was doing her thesis on personality types with regard to romance and/or sex. She had used Gabe as one of her test subjects and had surprised him with a summary of the sort of woman he was most attracted to. He’d argued it, of course, and he’d seen many women since who didn’t fit that bill, but, curiously, Angelina ticked many of the boxes: small, dark, not a chatterbox, someone who seemed slightly remote from the mainstream. She would have to be very pretty, Helena had assured him with a wry smile, but not traditionally so. How thoroughly annoying, he thought now, as he looked at Angelina, that Helena could have been so accurate … or more to the point, that he could be so predictable. He cleared his throat as Angelina stepped closer.

‘I don’t like caffeine in any form,’ she said, and there was lightness in her tone that he had not heard before. He took a private pleasure in thinking that Reynard had probably never heard her voice.

‘Don’t like caffeine?’ he repeated with feigned despair. ‘How do you cope?’

‘I manage,’ she murmured, almost playfully. She ran a hand over the coffee machine. Her nails were trimmed blunt, but neatly, with perfect half-moons above the cuticles. They were free of varnish but still they shone. He was one of those people who noticed. Unbitten, trimmed, buffed and well-kept nails spoke droves.

‘You have lovely hands, Angelina,’ he said, before he could censure himself.

‘I’m not vain but I do take care of them,’ she said, looking at her nails briefly. She gave a rueful laugh that sounded like a soft sigh. She walked away from the coffee machine and him.

‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked solicitously.

She nodded over her shoulder. He didn’t want this time to drift into awkwardness. They’d begun well and he needed to keep that positive energy bouncing between them if he was to make progress with her.

’finish this. ‘Angelina, today we’re just going to talk. Like a couple of old friends, having coffee and,’ he pointed to the small table, ‘sharing some pastries.’

She looked so small and alone he felt an urge to hug her as extra reassurance. It was obvious the young woman was starved of affection, but it was not his role to provide it. Instead he opened his palms to her. ‘Can I get you a soft drink? Mineral water?’

She eyed him gravely. ‘I’m fine, really. Do you want me to sit down?’

He nodded and looked at the comfy chairs by the window. ‘I’ll just

She turned away but paused at the sideboard to look at his boxed quill. ‘This is very lovely,’ she said. ‘May I touch it?’

‘Be my guest,’ he said over the sound of grinding the beans. He watched her pick up the quill and weigh it in her hand before she held it out to admire it in the light. ‘It’s old.’

‘Antique, apparently,’ he replied.

‘Older,’ he thought she said.

‘It’s from a swan, can you believe?’ he called over the noise of the machine gathering steam. He tamped down the coffee and locked the bar handle into place, then pressed the button. The machine responded with its routine noises as the pump now wound up the pressure. He walked away from the groans and grinds for a few seconds so he could hear her properly.

‘Only scriveners are given the swan quill.’

Gabe was astonished by her remark.

‘How would you know that?’ he said with a smile as he returned to the machine to test that it was ready to froth the milk. A burst of steam wheezed. ‘Oh, Reynard, of course,’ he said, before she could reply. It made sense that Reynard would have told her about the quill.

Gabe glanced over and noticed her short skirt ease higher up her stockinged thighs as she sat and stared out of the window. Angelina had a far more voluptuous body than he’d imagined beneath all those layers.

‘Voilà,’ he murmured to himself as he poured the milk into the shot of coffee.

Gabe sipped as he moved to join her, and sighed as he finally seated himself opposite. He put the coffee on the table between them before he leaned back and nonchalantly crossed a leg. It was a series of deliberate actions to make her feel comfortable, to show that he was relaxed and that she should feel the same. At the same time he was thinking how she was beautiful in an almost ethereal way.

‘It wasn’t Reynard,’ she said, brushing some invisible lint from her skirt.

‘Sorry?’ He wasn’t sure what she meant.

‘The swan quill. It wasn’t Reynard who told me. Everyone knows a scrivener needs the quill of a swan,’ she said airily, as though it was of no further interest to her. ‘It’s nice here. How long have you been in this apartment?’

Everyone? He didn’t. But she’d moved on, he could tell. He would think on the quill later. Gabe looked around the apartment. ‘Er … let’s see … it must be coming up to four years. I’m glad you like it. I enjoy living here.’

‘You obviously live alone.’

‘I do. Not even a goldfish for company.’

He thought she might have smiled but her gaze only became more intense. ‘Do you get lonely?’

‘I suppose I should, but I choose this lifestyle. I’m perfectly happy living alone with my coffee machine and working in a bookshop. How about you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Would you like to have a family, friends, a home?’

‘No,’ she murmured.

That surprised him. His gaze narrowed. ‘You want to change your current situation though, I’m sure.’

‘Is that a question?’

He smiled at her dry tone. ‘Do you remember anything about your life before the hospitals?’

‘I remember everything. I just don’t want to share it with doctors.’

Gabe realised too late that he’d reacted far too obviously in sitting forward with a confused expression. Angelina had the grace to look away … far away out of the window.

‘Do you have a family?’ he asked, unable to help the question. The accepted rule was to avoid such directness at the outset, to approach all probing as obliquely as possible. He was so rusty.

‘No,’ she said, unfazed.

Well, if she was happy to answer … ‘So where is home?’

‘A long way from here.’

Before the session had begun, Gabe had not had any intention of going beyond winning her trust. But now he wanted to know everything about her; she was as intriguing as she was seductive. The more he looked and listened to her the more he realised that Angelina was needful, but not needy. It was physical help she was after, he now suspected. She wanted his help to get away from Reynard and the doctors, otherwise she’d never have allowed him to know she was not mute.

She was, however, disarmingly charming and desirable and he was vaguely embarrassed at how she aroused him.

He cleared his throat again. ‘Angelina —’

‘My friends call me by a different name.’

Gabe was ready for her this time. He didn’t react. ‘Tell me about them?’

‘They’re elsewhere.’

‘Have you a plan to return to them?’

Her eyes blazed. His question had fired some hidden desire deep within.

‘Yes,’ she replied, and for the first time since he’d set eyes on Angelina, she gave him her complete attention. Suddenly, it was as if no-one else existed in the world, just the two of them. ‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked.

He realised he was nodding. He hadn’t meant to make any commitment beyond this single hour. But now he was under her spell.

‘Will you tell me why you’re scared of Reynard?’

There it was, the question he’d promised himself he wouldn’t ask. His task was to give Angelina’s doctors a glimpse into the world in which she lived, not explore her fears in this opening session.

Again, she felt none of his unease and replied with candour. ‘I know you think he cares about me, but he doesn’t.’

‘What do mean by that?’

‘I mean that you’re putting your trust in the wrong person. He’s trying to stop me getting home.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he’s scared of me.’

‘Why should he fear you?’

‘His fear is for you.’

Gabe had to repeat that in his mind. Fears for me? he said silently with incredulity.

He had to backtrack. ‘Firstly, why do you scare him?’

‘Because of what I can offer.’

The meaning of her response was clouded, but it was also highly suggestive.

‘And what is it that you offer?’

‘Eternity,’ she replied, a little dreamily.

He didn’t show his irritation at her response but decided to refocus her and deliberately reached forward to pick up his coffee. He sipped slowly, saying nothing, waiting for her attention to return. It tasted terrible. He was off his game. As he knew it would, his silence won her notice.

She blinked, looked at him. ‘What?’ she asked, sounding as though she had missed what he’d said.

‘You wrote me a note. I have it here,’ he said, putting his glass down and digging in his pocket.

‘I know what it says.’

‘Will you explain it to me? Let’s return to the beginning. I mean, why you’re so frightened.’

‘I’m not when I’m here with you.’

‘Good. Why is that?’

‘Perhaps you’ve noticed how he watches my every move? He doesn’t let me out of his sight.’

Gabe shrugged. ‘Well, that’s because he’s your physician and responsible for —’

‘No, Gabe. Can I call you Gabe?’ He wasn’t sure what to say but she’d taken his hesitation as permission. ‘He’s frightened of me leaving.’

‘Leaving?’ He frowned. ‘Paris?’

Angelina threw out her arms. ‘No, here.’

‘My apartment,’ he qualified.

She smiled as though he was simple. ‘This world.’

He deliberately paused, allowing her comment to float around them for a few moments so that she could explain herself.

‘Are you surprised?’ she asked.

‘You demanded that Reynard not accuse you of being delusional. I have to wonder how you think you sound when you say something like you just did.’

‘I realise what I say is hard to grasp. It doesn’t mean I am delusional,’ she replied without hesitation. Her gaze was unswerving. ‘I’m far more sane than Reynard, who, by the way, is out of his mind with fear. Especially today because I am now closer to my goal than I have been in a very long time.’

‘Your goal. To leave Earth, you mean?’ he said, working at sounding reasonable. Yes, indeed, his skills definitely needed brushing up. This sort of interested tone used to come so easily.

‘Not Earth, Gabe. This world,’ she corrected.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘So your goal is to reach a point where you can exit this plane,’ he offered, believing that sounded catchy but also succinct.

‘Not reach a point, but the person who would take me away.’

‘Pardon,’ he said, more confused.

‘I’ve been looking for someone.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve found who I’ve searched for.’

‘Oh, good.’ Now he just sounded patronising. He wasn’t ready to dive back in like this. It made him feel and sound amateurish.

‘You don’t understand, do you?’

‘Explain it to me,’ he encouraged.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Gabe.’

He blinked with consternation. ‘For me?’ She nodded slowly. ‘But until yesterday you didn’t know me.’

‘When we met I knew it was you I had been seeking.’

‘Angelina, forgive me, but do you realise how odd this seems and why people are concerned about you?’

‘I cannot help that.’

‘Yes, but people like Reynard are trying to help.’

‘He’s using you.’

‘Why would that be?’

She smiled and just for a blink he sensed an old cunning.

‘Angelina?’ he prompted, waiting for her to explain.

She glanced toward the door. ‘Reynard is becoming impatient.’

He frowned. ‘I told him to wait.’

‘Any moment the phone will —’

The phone began to ring.

He looked at it startled, then back at Angelina, who was staring out of the window again as if lost in deep thought. He resisted answering it and finally the machine whirred into action. He listened to his automated message being politely trotted out, waited for the caller to speak. The line went dead.

‘He won’t let it be,’ she warned dreamily.

Gabe felt his mobile phone vibrate against his thigh. He ignored it. The main phone rang again. It sounded even more shrill, demanding his attention with an I know you’re in there! screech.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. He stood up and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said, sounding irritated.

‘Gabriel, this is Reynard.’

She turned to give him a slight ‘told you so’ glance and then immediately looked away.

‘Er, yes, Reynard. I thought we had an arrangement about being left quietly.’

‘It’s been forty-five minutes.’

‘I said at least three-quarters of an hour.’

‘I was worried.’

‘For whom?’

‘Are you finished?’

‘We are now. You interrupted us.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll let you in.’ He put the receiver down and walked over to the door to unlock it.

The man came in hesitantly. He gave a small embarrassed smile. ‘Well. How did it go?’

‘We’d barely begun,’ Gabe admitted. ‘I can’t just leap in, Reynard. I’m playing with someone’s life. It has to be approached with caution and a genuine regard for Angelina’s state of mind and what she wants to reveal at this stage.’

‘And what has she revealed?’ Reynard whispered.

‘Nothing I can give any credence to.’

‘It’s hard when she doesn’t speak, I know.’

Gabe shook his head. ‘There is nothing to tell and I must pay attention to her wishes and rights too. This is a therapist–patient session — or so it has turned into.’

‘What can you tell me?’ Reynard demanded.

‘She needs a sense of safety and to be around a therapist she trusts. I’m not sure anyone you’ve chosen so far is providing the confidence for her to open up.’ They walked over to Angelina, who was now ignoring both of them. ‘She’s an intelligent person and needs respect.’

‘Don’t lecture me, Gabriel,’ Reynard snapped. It was the first time Gabe had seen anything but the genial personality of the man. ‘We’re dealing with a girl who can’t express herself in —’

‘Wait. I’ll stop you there,’ Gabe said reasonably. ‘Reynard, you should know that Angelina has spoken to me.’

He watched the colour drain out of Reynard’s face.

Gabe continued. ‘She speaks as easily as you and I are conversing now.’

Angelina was dressing in her warm clothes as she stared outside, entirely unisinterested in the pair of them. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was hooked.

They were still standing by the door, blocking any run for freedom she might suddenly decide to make. ‘Reynard, why are you so scared of Angelina?’ he said, softly enough for their hearing only.

‘Scared?’ Reynard growled, cutting him an incredulous look.

Gabe realised he needed to temper his approach. ‘Perhaps I should say that you are overly anxious for her. Talking briefly with Angelina today she seems, um … “airy” for want of a better word, but not insane and certainly not dangerous.’

‘Then you are seeing a different Angelina. She believes herself threatened by some outward force and would rather kill herself than be hunted down.’

‘How has she told you this?’

‘She wrote it.’

‘Wrote it?’

‘Not once, Gabriel, but hundreds, thousands, maybe a million times. She wrote it on paper, her walls, her floors, her clothes, her skin! She even wrote it on a hamster, a pet of one of our patients at the clinic. She never stops writing it. The girl is unbalanced and definitely suicidal.’

Gabe shook his head, absolutely certain of what he was about to say. ‘She is not suicidal. I assure you.’

‘You have no —’

‘Reynard, you asked for my professional opinion and now you have it. What you do with it is your business. I have done what you asked. In my reckoning, Angelina is thinking clearly and not about death. However, she is moving in a world of her own. I don’t want to call her delusional because it smacks of crazy. She is convinced of a threat, but not the one you think, and she is no danger to herself, let me reiterate that.’

‘I cannot believe she is speaking with you.’

‘Believe it. I’m not shocked. Many youngsters choose their moment to reveal themselves. Sometimes it’s with the most unlikely partner. She obviously feels safe here.’

Reynard stared at him. ‘And your advice is?’

He shrugged. ‘Bring her back. I was on the brink of learning more when you interrupted. Let me have a second session with her and see what can be achieved.’

Reynard looked tired and old suddenly. Gone was the pleasantness and confidence of the previous evening. Now he looked intense and worried.

‘It’s entirely up to you. If you want me to see her again, I will. But I won’t push.’ Reverse psychology, Gabe thought.

‘All right. When?’

‘Thursday. It will have to be the evening. I’m sorry that I can’t offer more convenient sessions.’

‘I understand. In two days then.’

‘Seven okay?’

Reynard nodded. ‘We’ll be here. Remember my warning, though, Gabriel. It is not given lightly. Come then, Angelina.’

She drifted over to them like a child with her attention riveted in her own thoughts.

‘Why don’t you say a proper farewell. I gather that you can,’ Reynard said with only a hint of sarcasm.

She looked at him with loathing. A quick glance was all Gabe was given but it was enough. He saw only humour in it.

‘Thank you,’ Reynard said to him, trying to smile but failing. ‘I can’t be sitting out in a draughty hallway each time,’ he added.

‘Well, you could just trust me with Angelina,’ Gabe replied.

Reynard pulled Gabe aside and dropped his voice. ‘It’s not about trusting you, Gabriel. It’s about not trusting her.’

‘There you go again. What are you so frightened of?’

‘She will bring you harm,’ Reynard hissed in warning as they watched her hit the lift button.

Gabe shook his head. ‘Not on my watch, she won’t.’

‘Well, see you Thursday,’ Reynard said.

Gabe was tiring of him. ‘You can read the papers or just people-watch in the café across the street. No interruptions this time. You must trust me.’ He looked at Angelina. ‘See you soon.’ He watched the light flash to say the lift was imminent. ‘Ah, wait. Hold the doors,’ he urged, dashing back into the apartment to grab the pastries, which he threw back into their bag. He returned just as the lift doors opened. ‘Take this for a sugary hit later,’ he said, winking at Angelina and noticed the glimmer of a smile touch her eyes.

He wondered briefly if he should charge a fee for this work. He decided he wouldn’t. He would regard it purely as a favour and then he owed Reynard nothing — they were square. Gabe closed the metal doors and watched the lift jerk before its captives began their descent.

He turned back into the apartment and was surprised to see a crow seated as still as a statue on the tall tree that reached up to his apartment. Its winter-bare branches clawed the air but provided good purchase for the crow. He’d never seen one in this neighbourhood previously; they tended to show themselves in and around the main tourist traps. He stepped closer to the window. It didn’t so much as blink.

And it had a lightish grey end to its beak, not at all like the highly glossy beak of the crows he was familiar with, and it was smaller. It seemed to be staring through his window and right into his soul.

He clapped his hands. ‘Shoo!’ he exclaimed. He stepped forward and banged on the window.

It jumped into the air at his yell and with an almost slow-motion beat of its wings, effortlessly dragged itself away from his building. The winter light caught its feathers and he saw a purple glow shine off its back, which was oddly beautiful. His interest piqued, Gabe immediately opened his laptop and searched the net for ‘crows’, unexpectedly becoming fascinated by the family Corvidae.

He finally found what he was looking for. His spy had not been a carrion crow as he’d first thought. He was now sure that the visitor was a raven, which had feathers that were described as iridescent. His bird’s beak was definitely curved, as the information said it should be, and it certainly had shaggy plumage at the throat. He’d noticed the bird’s feathers at the low point of the neck were pale, near enough to grey. Yes, definitely a raven.

Odd that it was alone, for apparently these birds moved like wolves, with certain laws of the pack guiding their lives. Perhaps it was a sentinel? His reading told him that while others trawled for food at lower levels, a few of the birds stayed higher in trees to keep watch.

And yet this one seemed to be watching him, not its companions, if there were any.

Gabe lost himself in an hour of research on ravens, strongly attracted to these mysterious old-world birds, once commonplace in Europe during the Middle Ages, now less so. He noted in particular their place in myth and legend, especially their association with death as escorts to the departing soul.

It never occurred to him to recall the death dream.

FIVE

Loup arrived silently at dusk but Cassien was waiting, sitting quietly on the stoop of the hut; he had sensed the man’s approach long before. He felt a flutter of nervous energy at what he planned to say, wondering if Loup could write an angry response fast enough. He didn’t plan on taking ‘No’ for an answer.

Loup nodded at Cassien’s wave.

‘Good evening, Loup. Welcome back.’

The man stopped at the edge of the clearing where Cassien’s hut stood. ‘It’s always good to see you, Cassien,’ he said.

Cassien’s mouth dropped open in astonishment as he stared at Loup, who gave him a sheepish look.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘All these years,’ Cassien murmured, shock racing through him.

‘I half wondered if you might sense it.’ Loup looked down at his big hands. ‘They were my orders.’

‘Brother Josse must be so proud of you.’ He was disgusted at the deception and wanted this man to know it.

‘As he is you,’ Loup said, still not coming nearer.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Cassien replied.

‘I am as obedient and committed as you are, Cassien,’ Loup grumbled.

Cassien stood abruptly and turned away. ‘There’s food in the pot,’ he growled over his shoulder. ‘Forgive me, I need to be alone.’ And then he was gone, grabbing his dagger and bow, blending into the forest in a blink and running silently, as far from Loup as possible.

It never failed to impress him that Romaine could know his mood. Many times she had suddenly appeared out of nowhere when he had found himself particularly unhappy, or hurting deeply from his injuries. Romaine would come, sometimes across many miles. She would lick his wounds and sit close to him, allowing Cassien to hug her, bury his face into her thick fur if he wept. The training had so often felt as though it had no purpose and now he felt betrayed. Loup — his one connection with the world outside the forest — had been lying to him. He was walking now, had stopped running as soon as he’d distanced himself from the man.

He heard a soft growl and Romaine emerged from the darkness. Light was fading from the day anyway, but here, this deep into the forest, it was almost always dark. Her pale coat looked luminous in the faint light.

‘Romaine,’ he whispered.

She whined softly with pleasure as he crouched down to embrace her.

‘Oh, those cubs are close,’ he said, forgetting his troubles and gently touching her swollen belly. ‘But you came to find me anyway, didn’t you, girl?’ Now he stroked the broad, almost arrow-shaped head, which tapered to her nose and pale grey muzzle.

She ran a large, dry tongue over his face in welcome as he dug his fingers into the bushy fur at the base of her head; she welcomed his rough scratching around her neck and ears.

‘You are so beautiful. You never let me down. How are you feeling? When will you have your family?’

She whined in response.

‘Soon, I think,’ he answered for her.

Romaine had always stood out from her small pack — not just because of her affectionate attitude toward him, but more particularly because of her colouring. Most of her kind were nondescript grey with a darker stripe of fur running the length of their back. Romaine was a creamy grey, lightening to a near-white around her flank. But each hair seemed to have a black tip, which gave her the extraordinary colouring of smoke.

Her yellow eyes looked deeply into his and he absently stroked her forehead.

‘I’ve been tricked,’ he moaned in answer, and went on to tell her of Josse’s orders and how angered he was by Loup’s deception. ‘It’s the final insult,’ he continued. ‘We are Brothers, raised to be loyal and that loyalty is our religion. You know how it is with your pack. You all trust each other. Without that to rely on, I don’t think I want to be part of this family any longer.’

She growled again, as if she wanted to convey a message.

‘Romaine is warning you that your decision may not be wise,’ said a voice.

At the first word, Cassien had flipped backwards and was on his feet in one agile move, which included drawing his dagger from its sheath. He was poised, crouched slightly, tensed and ready to strike in less than a heartbeat.

‘Who are you?’ his scratchy voice echoed back from the trees, inwardly seething that he hadn’t heard or picked up any stray sound or smell. Why hadn’t Romaine warned him?

‘No-one you should fear,’ came the reply. The voice was mild and friendly.

‘Where are you?’

‘Here.’ A small, spare man stepped out from behind one of the great oaks and stood beside Romaine. He touched her head and Cassien was astonished to see her lean against his leg as though they were long-time companions. Her mouth parted and she panted in that happy way of hers, her tongue lolling slightly. These two were friends.

Cassien backed away a few silent steps to rapidly gauge his surroundings. His senses strained to hear and see what threats might have accompanied the stranger.

The man seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘I am alone, unarmed.’

‘You came with Loup,’ Cassien accused, frustrated by Romaine’s easiness around this stranger.

‘Yes.’

‘To kill me?’

The man smiled. ‘May we sit? My name is Fynch. Loup knows to leave us be.’

The stranger called Fynch looked as relaxed and unthreatened as a person could be.

‘Please,’ Fynch urged, ‘sit with me.’

Cassien lowered himself fluidly in one movement to sit cross-legged. He could throw the knife accurately from a seated position; the man would get no more than half a step before it was lodged in his throat.

‘Thank you,’ Fynch said. ‘I’m sure you have questions but I come to ask for your help.’

‘Help,’ Cassien repeated.

‘A mission.’

‘Does Brother Josse know?’

‘He has sanctioned it. If it helps to ease your burden, he was sending Loup for you anyway … to bring you back to the priory because your testing is over. You are ready. I happened to come along the evening before Loup was due to leave, with a proposal.’

Cassien cleared his throat. All this talking was making it sound even grittier. ‘What sort of proposal?’

‘The secret sort,’ Fynch said. ‘Our new queen is under threat.’

‘We have a queen?’

Fynch’s grin broadened. ‘They haven’t been fair to you at all, have they?’ he replied, referring to Cassien’s isolation. ‘Lucky you have Romaine, if just for company.’

Cassien’s expression clouded further. ‘That’s my name for her. How do you know it? Loup doesn’t.’

Fynch stared at him. ‘She told me.’

Cassien blinked. ‘You and my wolf talk,’ he said, his tone acerbic.

‘You and my wolf are friends. I respect that. But yes, she and I talk.’

Cassien shifted his gaze to the wolf as she leaned even harder against Fynch’s legs. There was no doubting the bond between the stranger and Romaine. He felt hollow. Even his wolf was in on the betrayal.

‘Romaine is loyal to you,’ Fynch said, as though he’d listened in on Cassien’s thoughts. ‘I am her spiritual leader, you could say, and she has been known to me since she was still in her mother’s womb. I gave her to you. She has looked out for you and kept me informed of your progress.’

‘Romaine is a spy?’ he qualified.

‘No, Romaine is your friend and guard. She would never let anything bad happen — other than Loup and his fists and weapons,’ Fynch said, his tone tinged with regret. ‘She hated how he hurt you and it took all my reassurance to urge her to let it be … that the injuries would heal.’

Cassien shook his dark hair with disbelief. ‘What are you?’

Fynch shrugged. ‘An old man, as you see. A loyalist to the imperial throne. I called Emperor Cailech friend. I knew him when he was a youngster with red hair and freckles. His great-granddaughter is therefore like family — certainly someone I care deeply for — and I will do all in my power to protect her and the Crown.’

Cassien evaluated what had just been said. None of the paintings of Cailech he’d seen as a child had shown red hair. The great King of the Razors of yesteryear and emperor of the three realms had been a fierce, towering bulk of a man with golden hair … not a freckle in sight. But more confusing was the claim that this slight man, old but not aged or infirm, knew Cailech in his youth and was still alive decades beyond his time.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Fynch said.

‘Do you?’

‘I believe I do. Let me ask you this. Do you believe in magic, Cassien?’

It was the last question he could have possibly imagined being asked. Something in the man’s look demanded he be honest. ‘Yes.’

Again Fynch nodded, this time thoughtfully and as though pleased.

‘Do you?’ Cassien threw back at him.

‘Without question,’ the older man replied. ‘I am surely living testimony to it,’ he added with a wink.

‘I need that explained.’

‘I’m sure. You may go, Romaine. I feel your time is far closer than even you realise.’

Romaine obediently departed, first licking Fynch’s hand affectionately before trotting over to lick Cassien’s face as he bent down to ruffle her fur. It felt like an apology.

‘She is now the lead female in her pack,’ Fynch continued conversationally, as they watched her dark tail disappear between the trees. ‘She must keep the family going. Her pups will be the only litter for this year. But then I’m sure you know the salient facts — being so attuned to life in the forest.’

‘Her mate is the big dark wolf. All others fear him for miles around here. But he is as tender as any lover to Romaine.’

‘As he should be,’ Fynch said, ‘or he would answer to me.’

‘I’m not sure I understand why he would.’

‘I know. There is a lot to tell you in a short time. Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Then we shall begin,’ he said, seating himself comfortably on an ancient fallen tree. ‘You know my name, you sense my age is impossible and I have informed you of my connection to the royals. Do you trust what I have told you?’

He didn’t have a choice but also, if he were honest, there was only one answer. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because as much as I don’t like it, Romaine trusts you. What are you?’

‘That is probably the hardest question to answer.’

‘Then let’s get it out of the way,’ Cassien offered.

Fynch gave a wry, brief smile. ‘Who is the king of all the beasts in your estimation?’

‘Folklore would say the dragon.’ Cassien frowned. ‘No, wait, I must qualify that. It’s not just folklore. It is at the heart of spiritual belief in Morgravia. The dragon is the beast closest to Shar in our estimation. Plus, the dragon is the creature that belongs only to royalty.’

Fynch nodded his encouragement as Cassien thought back to his early education. ‘All the creatures in the world pay homage to the dragon in the same way that the people in Morgravia would pay homage to their king.’

‘Or queen,’ Fynch corrected. ‘Indeed. The dragon is a fearsome, splendid, majestic beast.’

‘And one of myth,’ Cassien added.

Fynch raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t seen one?’ he asked playfully.

‘Have you?’ Cassien challenged without hesitation.

‘Seen, ridden, know well. What’s more, I am bonded to the dragon in a way that no other can be.’

Cassien gave a mirthless snort. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Let me put it another way to you. The dragon and I are one … spiritually and to some extent physically.’

‘Physically?’

‘I ache to be away from him. I also suffer physically. He pines if I’m not near. We are of one flesh almost … not quite.’ Again the apologetic smile. ‘We are Shar’s servants but we are closer to Shar than any other. Why do you think that is?’

Cassien decided to go with the line of thinking and see where it led. ‘The spiritual story we learned from birth is that Shar gave a bone to the dragon.’

‘And the dragon gave a tooth to every other creature,’ Fynch replied.

‘And scales to those without teeth,’ Cassien finished.

‘So?’

It was like being back in one of old Brother Bellamee’s religious instruction classes. ‘So the dragon is of Shar and all the other creatures of the world are of the dragon, hence their homage.’

‘Good.’

‘But you said you were of the dragon and thus Shar.’ Cassien looked at him puzzled, unsure of what to think of this.

‘Correct again. How can it be, I presume you’re asking? All I can say is that it is. In the reign of the king known as Celimus — do you remember hearing of him?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Well, my loyalties were to his enemy. His enemy’s name was Wyl Thirsk.’

‘Thirsk,’ Cassien repeated. ‘Should I know it?’

‘Only if you’re a scholar of history. The Thirsk family were the celebrated soldiers of Morgravia. Each son became a general to his Morgravian king. Wyl was general, briefly, for King Magnus before the heir Celimus wore the crown, but the Thirsk ancestral line died with Wyl. His sister died young and in unfortunate circumstances.’

‘He never married? Had children?’

‘He did both. What I’m about to tell you I have not uttered previously to any person.’

Cassien frowned. ‘Why? Is it a secret?’

‘Yes. It is also dangerous knowledge.’

‘But you trust me with it.’

‘I do but only because you believe in magic.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because I am going to make you part of that secret.’

Fynch stared at him and Cassien felt impaled by the golden gaze. Twilight would be closing in on the forest but he was struck by the notion that the man seemed to glow with an internal light.

‘Wyl Thirsk’s life was profoundly changed by a powerful magic. It matters not the whys and wherefores to you — only that it existed. He unwittingly became King Cailech and ultimately emperor of the three realms of Morgravia, Briavel and Razors, through that magic’s curse. It’s Wyl and Valentyna’s descendants who are our current generation of royals: Magnus, Florentyna and Darcelle.’

An owl hooted once in the distance and Cassien could hear animals bumbling around not far from where Fynch sat. His sharp sense of smell picked up an aroma that he suspected was gobel … probably a pair.

Fynch continued. ‘The heir, Magnus, a fine young, healthy prince, died as a result of an accident, which was a shock to everyone. He left behind two sisters, one barely out of childhood, both of them groomed to be excellent wives — although I daresay Florentyna would go slit-eyed on me to hear it.’ He put a finger in the air. ‘That said, Florentyna has accepted her role with strength and energy.’

‘So where is the problem?’

‘Her sister, Darcelle. She is younger than Florentyna by five years, the spoilt child of the family, but she is quick and smart, fiery and very beautiful.’

‘She sounds like a perfect woman.’

Fynch shook his head. ‘Far from it. She demonstrates more of the arrogant, brutal brilliance of the mountain king’s ancestry than the subtle and more modest strength of the Thirsk blood that runs so strongly in Florentyna. Darcelle is cunning and capable. With Magnus dead and the way open for a queen to rule, an empress’s role to play — well, Darcelle suddenly fancies herself in that part. Up until Magnus’s death, I’m uncertain whether it had occurred to her that a woman might rule. Perhaps the possibility was too far away from the third child for it to concern her.’

‘Exactly how cunning is she?’

‘Enough to potentially consider regicide.’

Understanding erupted across Cassien’s expression. ‘I see.’

‘And she would make a terrible ruler. I suspect Darcelle is capable of some atrocious decision-making as long as it serves her needs. And with the wrong people pushing her she could be convinced to make the worst decision of her life.’

‘So you want me to protect Florentyna.’

Fynch glowed. ‘Yes. Protect her from her sister and those who would see her ousted. But here is the problem, Cassien. Florentyna will not hear a bad word against her younger sister.’

‘Do we have any sense of timing on the danger?’

His older companion shrugged. ‘It is present and immediate. Florentyna has not had much luck. She was promised to the eldest prince of Tallinor. He became king a few years ago and the wedding ceremony — a mere formality — was to take place at the cathedral.’

‘Let me guess. He was murdered.’

Fynch shook his head. ‘Close enough though. The king’s ship was accidentally sunk en route, smashed onto rocks during a storm. Two hundred souls were lost that day. Florentyna was deeply withdrawn for her moons of mourning. She is a sensitive girl but don’t let that fool you into believing she doesn’t possess a will of iron when required.’ Fynch pointed a bony finger. ‘Test it by saying something negative about her sister.’

‘Does Darcelle have a match?’

‘A mighty one, the King of Cipres. The power it brings in so many hidden ways can’t be ignored. Darcelle must marry King Tamas and here’s the most interesting part of all.’ Cassien looked over at him. ‘He’s fifteen years her senior and Tamas seemingly adores her as much as she adores the notion of being Queen of Cipres. In his presence she is almost gentle and genuinely fond of him.’ Fynch laughed. ‘A match made by Shar.’

‘And of course she would return to Cipres.’

‘If Darcelle goes to Cipres, I no longer have to fret about the threat from within.’

‘So where is the hurdle?’

‘Darcelle may not want to leave Morgravia just yet. The empress is not encouraging her to rush away. Her stepmother, whom she is very close to, wants her to have this Ciprean crown but again I think they’re clinging to their youngest.’ Fynch stood. He shrugged. ‘I can’t second-guess women. Walk with me. It is time to return to Loup.’

‘I don’t understand why you need me especially.’

‘I need your fighting talents and especially that magical skill you possess that you don’t speak of to anyone.’

Cassien halted abruptly. ‘What do you know?’

‘Only what Romaine has told me, for we both know that you have hidden this aspect from your fellow Brothers. Oh, Brother Josse knows there is something rather special about you but he doesn’t really know much at all. He believes you can “see” things. Puts it down to being in tune with the spiritual world.’

‘And you?’

Fynch urged him to move forward, his look gentle and reassuring. ‘Romaine has spoken of the magic you call “roaming” as dangerous to the forest creatures but that you’re careful.’

‘I shall have words with Romaine about her loose mouth.’

‘I must assure you that she was torn between her loyalty to you and her duty to her king. Be assured, she loves you, Cassien.’

‘So tell me how you want me to protect the queen? Should I call her a queen or an empress?’

Fynch nodded. ‘Confusing, I agree. In Morgravia she is addressed as its queen. But she also sits on the imperial throne and is an empress by right, although that increasingly seems to be in title only. The union of the three realms, so strong under Cailech, has been whittled away gradually. She hasn’t travelled enough to each for people in Briavel or the Razors to know their empress.’

‘How is she addressed?’

‘In Morgravia as Queen Florentyna.’

‘And surely she has an army to command,’ Cassien retorted.

‘She does. But no number of mortal men can fully protect Florentyna. The Crown needs the aid of skills that go beyond.’

‘Why?’

‘Darcelle is only the closest threat but by no means the most fearsome. The greatest danger to Florentyna will come from the spiritual world, where gods and demons play.’

Cassien stopped walking. ‘I’m very confused.’

Fynch chuckled and Cassien heard a soft note of underlying despair. ‘I have seen the signs. No-one is better placed than I who straddle the two worlds of men and spirits. The threat is real. The enemy is hungry. The queen is vulnerable …’ Fynch trailed off.

Cassien could see the soft drift of smoke coming from the hut’s rudimentary chimney. ‘What does the enemy want?’ He still didn’t understand what this was all about.

‘Oh, the usual. Destruction, damnation.’

‘Why?’

‘I suspect because magic was unleashed into Morgravia a long time ago — a very powerful magic that disrupted the natural order of life decades previously.’

‘Wyl’s magic?’ he wondered aloud in a blind thrust.

‘Wyl didn’t possess magic and he didn’t wield it. That was the tragedy of his life. He was a good man, who never sought power or wealth or status; all seemed to find him. But it was brought about originally by a curse being set upon him as a young man by a witch called Myrren. From thereon he was a puppet, dancing to the tune of her sinister magic. It controlled him. He moved through several lives, not by choice and each death he brought — including his sister’s — was heartbreaking in its own way. He tried to avoid it, but lives were given so Myrren could take her revenge on Morgravians.

‘The curse’s dark path was finally cut short when he entered the body of King Cailech and became sovereign.’ Fynch gave a sad smile. ‘I know I say that casually and I know it requires a lot more explanation but we don’t have time now. Wyl died of old age as Cailech.’

‘So it’s over? The curse I mean.’

Fynch frowned. ‘Myrren’s curse has ended but that dark style of magic may not be. I don’t know where the threat is coming from and I don’t really know why I feel it, but I do feel it … even as removed as I am in the Wild. All the signs are there.’ Fynch looked up from the leaf he’d been studying and fixed Cassien with a firm, disconcerting gaze. ‘The magic is alive.’

Wednesday night closed in early and Parisians knew winter had surely arrived as the icy cold wrapped its claws around the city. A ripe yellow moon was intermittently shuttered by heavy clouds drifting across its face and threatening rain. Gabe couldn’t wait to close the shop. He’d promised himself an indulgent risotto and on the way home had resisted the urge to take the shortcut; instead, wrapping his scarf tight around his mouth to keep out the chill, he ran to the nearest Monoprix to grab his fresh ingredients.

The clouds burst while he was paying for his groceries and he’d forgotten his umbrella; he pictured it on his desk at the shop and remembered that Cat had distracted him as he was packing up to leave. Cursing his luck, he had to walk home in the rain, but rather than allow himself to slip into misery at being cold and wet, he pictured himself turning on the fire, sipping a glass of wine as he chopped leeks and garlic, the intoxicating aroma spreading as both began to warm in the olive oil and release their fragrances and flavours. His mouth watered. Gabe delved into his coat pocket for his house keys and hit the stairs outside his building, taking them two at a time, and nearly tripped over her at the top. He only just managed to stop himself from sending the bag of food sprawling across the landing.

‘Angelina?’

She pushed herself to standing on the stair. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured but didn’t seem embarrassed; more amused if anything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Gabe asked, quickly adjusting his voice from surprise to a neutral tone. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently, suddenly worried for her.

She shrugged.

He looked around. ‘Where’s René?’

‘Not here,’ she answered and he heard defiance.

Gabe’s lips twisted slightly in thought. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, making up his mind. He opened the front door of his building and looked over his shoulder. ‘Come on, unless you want to sit here all night. It’s too cold to sit in the hallway.’

‘Not for René, though?’

‘Cruel guardians don’t count,’ Gabe answered with a wink.

‘He’s not my guardian,’ she said quickly.

‘All right. How would you describe him?’ he said. ‘I prefer the stairs to the lift,’ he warned.

She shrugged as if it mattered not to her and followed him.

‘Go on, how do you describe his relationship to you,’ he encouraged as they made their ascent to his apartment.

‘Keeper is too gentle a word. Jailer is probably too harsh.’

‘Supervisor?’ he offered helpfully but equally wry in his tone. ‘Minder?’ he added, flicking through his bunch of keys for the right one to open his door.

Angelina shook her head as she arrived alongside. ‘Guard.’

‘Guard?’ he repeated as the door opened. ‘Odd word. What is he guarding against, I wonder?’ She shrugged again as he tapped in the alarm code and deactivated the security. ‘Get that wet coat off,’ he suggested, letting the topic go for now. He dumped his groceries on the kitchen counter and flicked on the gas fire. ‘I’m just going to dry off.’

He strode to his bathroom and closed the door, reaching for a towel to dry his hair. As he dragged it across his face he caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused, only his eyes visible over the top of the towel.

‘What are you doing?’ he murmured to his reflection. ‘This flies against everything you know to be correct protocol.’ He took a deep breath, knowing he had to make a decision. He finished drying off his hair, neatened it with his fingers by pushing it behind his ears and nodded at himself. ‘It’s your funeral,’ he said, echoing a favourite threat he and his wife used to throw at each other when one was in disagreement with the other’s decision.

He emerged. ‘Okay?’

She smiled back. ‘Fine.’

Gabe watched her from the corner of his eye as he unpacked his groceries. Angelina had taken off her coat and stood with her back to the fire looking around his room as though seeing it for the first time. She didn’t appear in the least uncomfortable or embarrassed to be here with him alone.

‘So are you going to tell me?’

‘What?’ she said, turning to gaze at him with her smoky, dark eyes so full of promise that Gabe found himself clearing his throat. Today she was wearing a pair of narrow, tight jeans that clung to her petite, beautiful shape with vigour. Her mauve cashmere knit top was short and tight, revealing a few centimetres of bare midriff and accentuating her full breasts. He tried not to stare but this garb was entirely different to her almost childlike clothes of the previous day. For so long, women he met had not excited him in this way … now, suddenly, there was Angelina.

She found a lighter on the mantelpiece. ‘May I?’

He shrugged. ‘Of course.’

Angelina began to light the candles he’d put around the room months previously simply because they looked good. She switched off overhead lights as she continued around the room touching her flame to the wicks, making sure he had plenty of opportunity and time to watch the graceful movements of her lithe body. Six were burning by the time she returned to the fireplace and the space had already begun to fill with the rich perfume of earthy, fresh sandalwood and sweet, heady frankincense.

Control seemed impossible now. He wanted to hold her, feel the contact of her skin against his, his lips on hers, his hands on her —

She broke into his guilty thoughts. ‘Do you have a lover?’ Angelina asked, eyes glittering in the low light.

The question was so brazen the corkscrew he’d just placed on the wine cork slipped and stabbed into his left thumb, slicing it open.

‘Merde!’ he growled.

He heard her gurgle with laughter behind him, guessing at what was happening.

‘Idiot!’ he added.

‘Let me help,’ she said, gliding over.

He didn’t want her to touch him, but she was already close enough for him to smell her perfume — violets, he thought. The whole situation of candlelight and blood, pain, comfort: it was all dangerous and wrong.

Angelina had reached for a tea towel and was pressing it onto the cut.

‘It’s not deep,’ she assured him, still amused.

‘I’ll look after it now,’ he began, awkwardly reaching to take over.

‘No-one’s watching, Gabe. Relax. Let’s just stop the flow of blood,’ she said, preventing him from pulling his hand away.

‘You’re very different when René is not around.’

‘You haven’t answered me.’

He remembered her question. ‘Why would you use the word “lover” when most people would say “girlfriend”?’

She looked up at him now and he felt his throat tighten. ‘It’s clear to me you don’t have a girlfriend,’ she replied with the utmost confidence. ‘Lover strikes me as more accurate.’

‘How do you know I don’t have a girlfriend?’

‘There’d be signs of her around here. And don’t look at the scented candles — they don’t fool me,’ she giggled.

Angelina was being witty. Perhaps the slashed thumb was worth it.

‘What’s wrong with the word “lover”, anyway?’ she challenged.

‘Nothing … it’s just intimate.’

‘And that disturbs you?’

‘It doesn’t disturb me,’ he defended, hearing the lie in his hollow tone. ‘It’s a confronting word for want of a better description.’

‘Confronting?’

‘Too direct. It became an impolite question because of it,’ he cautioned.

She laughed at him. ‘You’re intimidated by a word.’

‘I’m not intimidated,’ he replied.

Angelina smiled. ‘Aren’t you?’ she said. ‘I’m usually good at reading people. My mistake. So answer my question then.’

He took a breath, feeling vaguely ridiculous as she held his hand. ‘No, I am not romantically involved with anyone at present.’

She cast a glance over his ingredients. ‘And yet this is such a romantic dinner you’re making for yourself.’

‘It’s a risotto.’ He could hear the defensiveness in his tone.

‘But risotto is a meal to share, to savour with another. There’s nothing lonely or selfish about a risotto. Risotto is a meal made with love because it takes time; a meal that speaks of love to the person you share it with because you have taken that time over it.’

Gabe swallowed. Surely it wasn’t that complex?

‘Such a tactile dish,’ Angelina continued. ‘Lots of attention,’ she said, mimicking stirring the pot. She rubbed her belly but there was something suggestive in it. ‘And so warming.’ She unwrapped the tea towel from around his hand as she spoke. They both watched as the blood sprang again to the surface and oozed through the cut. It was hardly flowing but it was bright and glossy. ‘Glutinous … sticky … wet,’ she murmured and then shocked him by raising his hand to close her lips around his thumb.

He could feel her tongue licking at the blood and instantly he felt an erotic rush of blood elsewhere. The risotto was forgotten — as was the bleeding thumb and the still unopened bottle of wine.

Like a helpless schoolboy his face guided itself to her mouth. He vaguely registered the smell of violets on her breath before drowning in the desire to pull her as close as humanly possible. She was so petite he had to bend to hold her properly. Before he knew it, she had clambered up onto him as a child might, her supple legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his neck. She was light and tiny, but her body was all woman.

The kissing was mind-blanking. He was robbed of all thought, all awareness of anything beyond desire. His traitorous fingers began exploring her body. Somewhere deep horror resonated that he was taking advantage of a vulnerable patient, but the patient was now rhythmically moving against him and moaning softly.

He was supposed to be a man entirely in control and yet here he was … like putty, suddenly incapable of resisting when she made her body so available — soft, compliant, eager. He blamed his new mood to change his life, he blamed the return of the cathedral — his mind palace — back in his thoughts. He wanted to blame the raven that had unnerved him — in fact anything except being a vulnerable man in the presence of an erotic young woman.

Suddenly they were on his bed and he was pulling off his clothes and hers. Gabe knew he should but he didn’t want to exercise control. He wanted Angelina. He needed this. His inner voice assured him as he pulled at her buttons. She’s adult, she’s consenting … she’s —

… your patient! reinforced another — René’s — but he ignored that caution.

Angelina never let go of him. There was always some part of her connected to him — mouth, hand, breast. It was as though she knew that to break the connection was to break the spell.

And then their bodies joined as one and Gabe was lost to it, riding a wave of unbelievable joy that he had found something he’d not thought possible to ever find since Lauren and Henry had died. It wasn’t love — he knew that. It wasn’t even affection because they’d barely paused to consider any fondness which might exist between them. He couldn’t call it emotional … there hadn’t been time to build this relationship.

It was purely the physical closeness to another that he’d denied himself for so long. She was unlocking years of pent-up need. There was nothing else but Angelina in his hollow, sterile life. Only her — beneath and above him. She was suddenly his sun, his sky, his earth, his sea. And he travelled with her now, drowning in her depths and soaring to her heights.

Did it last for eternity or was it just a brief interlude? Gabe lay confused and ashamed. The candles still blinked and guttered softly from a draft somewhere; the bloodstained tea towel still lay on the floor where it had dropped. His thumb had stopped bleeding now but he could see smudges of blood on the sheets. He glanced at the clock next to the bed. It was only just coming up to nine. He’d arrived at his building at around seven-forty he guessed. So he’d lost not even an hour and a half of his life and yet it felt as though he’d been absent for days.

He turned to gaze at Angelina, sleeping as still as a corpse next to him with her lips parted. There was blood smeared on her cheek where he’d held her face to kiss her, and seeing the blood reminded him of René’s warning. She will bring you harm. He leaned close until he could feel her breath against his lips, smell that curious hint of sweet violets on it. Her skin looked lilac-blue in the low light, except that her cheeks had a small pinch of colour, as though they alone held the memory of their passion. He swung his legs to the floor and held his face.

‘Insensé!’ he cursed beneath his breath. ‘Vous êtes fou!’

She stirred. ‘Who is mad?’ But she rolled over and her mumbling dissipated.

Gabe watched her for a moment, struck again by her ethereal beauty, the dark almost black hair such a contrast to the pale skin. He smiled in spite of himself — she was irresistible and he could only imagine what René would think if he could see this scene.

René. There had to be fallout from this. The man so jealously guarding Angelina was hardly going to take this event on the chin and with a grin. Gabe sighed again.

He padded over to the coffee machine and flicked it on. All he knew was that the myriad sensations of being with Angelina had swept away years of pain. As he ground the coffee beans, heedless of whether it disturbed his guest, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Turning around, he was alarmed to see the raven sitting on the balcony, backlit by the streetlight so that a halo of gold surrounded its menacing shape. It made no sound. Gabe was speared by its gaze, and Angelina’s arrival into the kitchen area nearly made him yell with fright.

‘Hello,’ she said sleepily.

He snapped his fear-filled attention from the bird to her. ‘Evening,’ he replied, as casually as he could. He glanced back to the window but the raven was gone.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, yawning.

‘Well past nine. Toast? Coffee?’

She shook her head with a smile. ‘But thank you.’

‘Do you ever eat?’

Angelina laughed. ‘I suppose I’d better go.’

He wasn’t sure what to say and watched her turn away. He took another worried look at the window. The bird was definitely no longer there but he felt rattled by its presence. Neighbours hadn’t mentioned ravens. He would have to make some enquiries.

Gabe sipped his espresso before moving after Angelina. She was pulling on her clothes. She’d never looked more desirable than now, half-dressed, her hair tousled and a bit sleepy still.

‘You don’t have to leave, you know.’

Angelina paused. ‘I’ll be missed.’

‘You never did tell me how you slipped René’s watch.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I just feel lucky I’ve had this chance to be alone.’ She shrugged.

‘Does he lock you up?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never disobeyed him.’

‘I’ve noticed. You’ve had opportunities to slip him even in my presence.’

‘No point.’

‘Why?’

‘Because here is where I want to be.’

He frowned. Didn’t understand. Angelina was behaving in an obtuse manner.

‘Here? But you don’t like Paris, you said you wanted to leave … and go home. A home that was far away.’

‘I’m glad you paid attention.’

‘You’re hard to ignore.’

She pulled on her sweater, a small strip of her belly showing at its lower edge. And once again he felt a pulse of desire. Not again, he told himself.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Angelina remarked and sat on the bed to pull on her boots.

‘Except what we did was wrong.’

‘Why?’ she asked conversationally, not even looking at him.

‘I mean, what I did was wrong.’

Now she gazed up at him. ‘I had some say in it, you know.’

‘Yes,’ he sighed, all too aware of how patronising he was sounding. ‘I’m trying to say that the blame is mine, not yours.’

She looked at him unimpressed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It looked very much to me like I was seducing you.’

‘Yes, but —’

‘And men are so predictable in this regard,’ she added, echoing his earlier thought.

‘We’re simple creatures,’ he said in mock apology.

‘Not you, Gabe,’ she said.

He gave a low snort. ‘I’m as simple as the next man.’

Angelina stood and walked over to him. He loved the way she moved. Silent and as though she glided over the surface of his carpet. ‘You underestimate yourself.’

‘And you know so much about me,’ he gently rebuked her.

‘You’d be surprised how much I do know.’

‘Angelina, don’t go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s late. It’s freezing outside. It’s …’ He paused to glance through the window, half-expecting a raven to leap at him. ‘It’s turning frosty so you could slip on the wet, icy pavement. Not very nice people use the cover of darkness to be abroad.’

‘Abroad?’ She laughed. ‘What a quaint phrase. How thoroughly medieval of you.’

He frowned. ‘Stay. Why don’t we revisit the conversation that René interrupted?’

‘Back to psychologist and patient?’

He didn’t respond immediately. Then sighed. ‘Why not? It’s what we are.’

‘Half an hour ago we were something rather different.’

He felt himself blush. ‘All right, I deserved that. What I mean is that it’s a perfect opportunity for us to talk without René breathing down our necks. Whatever trouble happens, it’s not going to happen for a few more hours. We have time.’

She nodded and let out a sigh, sank back onto the bed. ‘Ask your questions.’

Gabe swallowed his coffee, put the small cup down and sat beside her. ‘You feel safe here … in this apartment,’ he began. ‘That’s what you meant by “here”, I take it?’

‘I meant with you.’

‘You feel safe with me, then.’

‘No, I have found what I came to find. You.’

He gave her a searching look. ‘Let’s leave that for now.’ She smiled and once more he had that sense of an old cunning. ‘You said René is fearful.’

‘He’s scared of both of us now, particularly that the two of us might be alone together like this. If he knew this was happening, he would try and kill you.’

Gabe blinked in astonishment. ‘Well, there’s an overreaction,’ he said, unable to mask the sarcasm.

She stared back at him. ‘You think I jest?’

‘I know you do.’

‘Shall we call him and see his reaction?’

‘No. I want to know why you believe he is scared of me.’

‘Because of what you’re capable of.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Yes, but you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Try me.’

‘You have the capacity to bring down an empire.’

‘An empire?’ He tried not to laugh but the amusement was evident in his expression.

Angelina’s remained grave. ‘I need you to kill me, Gabe.’

‘What?’ he roared.

She flung her arms around him, staring gravely into his eyes. ‘Kill me. Release us.’

‘Stop it,’ he said, trying to unwind her arms, then her legs as they snaked around him.

‘Only death will free me.’

‘Angelina, where has this come from? You’re acting delusional again.’

‘I’m as sane as you. Remember when we were making love? Do you recall seeing anything?’

He shook his head. ‘My mind was blank.’

‘No, it wasn’t, Gabe. Think!’ She kissed him. Her tongue softly licked his lips and stimulated every part of him. He remembered now. The cathedral … from his mind palace. And then he was outside it, looking around for the first time. He could see it belonged to a huge city, but no city that he recognised. Angelina suddenly pulled away.

‘I know you saw it. I saw it too. The Great Cathedral of Pearlis.’

‘Pearlis?’ he stammered. The word reminded him of the name Reynard had murmured in connection with the quill. Gabe had heard Pearlis, and yet Reynard had quickly adjusted it to Paris.

Angelina nodded. ‘I know you used to visit it often but only in your mind. I can take you there, Gabe. I can give you the Great Cathedral of Pearlis.’

‘What are you talking about?’ he said, trying again to loosen her arms from his neck.

‘I can give you so much, Gabe, but you have to trust me. René is no friend of yours. He is the enemy.’

‘Enemy,’ he repeated, lost.

‘He wishes only harm. He wants me dead, but he knows he can’t kill me. Not yet anyway, and not here.’

‘Angelina, you’re speaking in riddles.’

‘The raven. I know it has found you.’

Gabe choked at the mention of it. She let him loosen her hold on him, and he almost jumped away, running a hand through his unbound hair.

‘You’ve seen it too?’ he said, suddenly feeling haggard.

She shook her head, moving into a kneeling position on the bed, following him with her gaze. She began to undress again. ‘I’ve felt it. The other day when I was here I could feel its taint. I can keep you safe but you have to trust me.’

‘Safe.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘Kiss me again. I want to show you something,’ she said.

He couldn’t resist her. He sat down and she moved to encircle him with her arms and legs as he kissed her.

What Gabe saw shocked him rigid.

SIX

Loup led them back toward the priory.

Leaving the hut hadn’t been difficult. Cassien had been dreaming of this day. Leaving Romaine had been another matter. Fynch had shown him where her nesting burrow was and Cassien had been amazed that her mate — the one he called Flint — permitted them to approach. Even in his wildest dreams Cassien would not have attempted to get past Flint unarmed. But with Fynch present the huge male wolf had sat back on his haunches. Fynch scratched the back of his ears while Cassien stepped forward to hug Romaine farewell.

‘I’ll be back when these cubs are grown,’ he promised in a whisper.

He watched with affection as the four fat, sleepy cubs snuggled closer. Blue eyes would yellow in the coming moon. Three of the cubs were dark like their father but the third, the smallest, resembled her mother. In his mind he called her Felys and, as the name formed and stuck, she stirred and he saw her tiny tongue lick at his finger. His heart swelled and he blew softly on the cub’s face. Cassien was sure it was an old wives’ tale, but he had been told that if you blew into the nostrils of a puppy, the dog it grew into would always be loyal to you and you alone. The baby blinked blindly but he glimpsed her pale blue eyes and smiled. She knew him now. And he already loved her nearly as much as her mother. He turned to Romaine and gave her a kiss on her forehead.

‘Thank you for being my friend,’ he whispered and stood.

Fynch had nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

The smells had changed as the forest gradually thinned. He was excited but it was nonetheless daunting to know that he was going to be amongst people again. He’d have to teach himself how to integrate, how to converse easily, how to be friendly even if he didn’t feel friendly, how to be polite despite his mood, how to cope with noise.

The reassuring perfume of the trees, the aroma of the damp earthiness of the forest floor, the daily meal — a soup usually — of vegetables he could forage for, were all comforting smells that would no longer be part of his daily life.

Initially, these had given way to the intoxicating scent of baking bread and he’d forgotten how heavenly it was and how it made his belly rumble in anticipation. But there were soon other smells that assaulted him — far less pleasant … the metallic, tangy blood of slaughtered animals mixing with the fouler smells of urine and dung from the local tannery. There was a yeasty smell of ale and a vapour of smoked plants that someone was using for healing. However, the all-pervading aroma was of people: sweat, perfumes, cooking …

‘Where are we again?’ he asked. Loup had obviously led them a less direct way to the priory.

Fynch paused. ‘I asked Loup to bring us through Barrowdean.’

Cassien nodded. He’d never heard of it.

‘I’m not sure why,’ Loup admitted. ‘Farnswyth is more direct.’

‘Because, Loup, this is where we shall part company,’ Fynch replied.

Loup blinked. ‘But I thought …’

Cassien looked between his two minders uncertain of what this impasse meant.

‘Yes, I know,’ Fynch said evenly, ‘but I will guide Cassien from here. We look obvious enough as a pair, but as a trio we draw far too much attention.’

‘Brother Josse didn’t say anything to me,’ Loup replied, his brow furrowing deeply.

‘Brother Josse knows he is being paid for Cassien’s services, Loup. He gave me the freedom to set up Cassien’s mission — that he is aware of — as I choose. He made no stipulations.’

‘This is very unusual. He always briefs me. And he said nothing other than to take you into the forest to Cassien and then to bring you both back.’

‘Bring us both back to where I required,’ Fynch corrected. ‘I agree it’s probably unusual but then this is a very unusual mission. So, thank you, Loup, for bringing us to this point. I can recommend the Jug and Hare for a night’s rest.’ He extended a tiny jangling pouch to Loup. ‘This coin should cover your stay and a very good meal with plenty of ale. You have earned it.’

Loup stared at it, nonplussed. Cassien would have been surprised if Loup had taken it. No member of the Brotherhood was motivated by money.

‘You can journey to Hambleton tomorrow.’ Still the man didn’t move, but raised his gaze to Fynch and Cassien saw a hint of defiance in it. ‘This is beyond your control now,’ Fynch continued, with gentle caution, his voice just fractionally firmer, but no louder. He didn’t jangle the pouch, or push it any further forward.

‘Loup,’ Cassien began, feeling obliged to get involved, ‘you know where my loyalties lie. They’ve never been in question and I hope you don’t question them now. I am told this is for the Crown. We must assist. It is our purpose in life.’ He put a hand on the man’s thick shoulder. ‘It’s what you’ve trained me for. Let me do my work.’ He eased the pouch from Fynch’s outstretched palm into Loup’s reluctant one, believing that his conferring of the money might make it easier on his Brother’s conscience. The move seemed to work. Loup looked down at the tiny sack in his hand and didn’t move or speak.

Cassien turned to Fynch, who nodded. They walked away, not in a hurry, but also not dragging their heels. Neither looked around, although Cassien didn’t have to in order to know that Loup watched them until they had long disappeared.

‘That was well done,’ Fynch admitted.

‘Did you think he wouldn’t let us go?’

‘It crossed my mind. I didn’t want any attention drawn to us.’

‘Why do I think you didn’t discuss us coming to Barrowdean with Brother Josse?’

‘Because you are intuitive,’ said Fynch.

‘So is Loup.’

‘But Loup is obedient.’

‘So am I.’

‘But you live by your instincts. Loup doesn’t. He does only what he’s told. He can’t deviate.’

‘Except today,’ Cassien said, feeling a sudden surge of guilt.

‘Forget Loup. From now on you need to assume that everyone is your enemy.’

Cassien scoffed. ‘That’s dramatic.’

‘I can’t tell you from whom the threat might come.’

Cassien frowned as they walked, skirting the town, struggling with the noise, the dusty air and the new smells most of all.

‘You’ll have to get used to it,’ Fynch remarked and when Cassien threw him a glance, he added: ‘Your expression says droves, but you need to adjust quickly. I can’t have you staring in wonder at everything, or looking as shocked or disconcerted as you do, or you’ll be noticed.’

Cassien nodded absently, well aware that while his life had been slowed to a crawl, the rest of the world had clearly sped up. There were many people on the move, lots of yelling and frustrated carters angry with people in their way, while other people tried to weave around the disruptions, busy with their own chores. He saw a young woman lugging a basket as big as herself, full of linen. His inclination was to help her carry it but he knew by the set of her mouth how independent she obviously was. Dogs barked and gathered in groups, a bit like the old men sitting outside the dinch-houses grumbling about younger men and ogling the women who passed. There were so many people, so many horses and carts, wheelbarrows and activity. It made him feel dizzy.

‘Look at that,’ Fynch remarked, nodding toward the men clustered around their steaming pots. ‘We didn’t even know what dinch was in my time. Now we have watering holes dedicated to it.’

‘Really? Even I know dinch,’ Cassien replied.

‘You’re a lot younger than me,’ Fynch said with a wry smile. ‘It came over with the travellers and merchants. I gather the Penravens are particularly fond of their dinch and guard their recipes zealously. Would you like to take some with me?’ Fynch guided him to a table outside another dinch-house.

A serving girl was at their side immediately. She grinned at Cassien, who blinked.

‘I’ll have a pot please,’ Fynch said.

‘And for you, handsome?’ she said winking at Cassien.

‘The same,’ he said, amused by her saucy manner.

She bent down to place a jar of honey on their table, making sure that Cassien enjoyed a generous view of her breasts. ‘Right back, sirs,’ she said, casting him a jaunty smile before taking her next order. ‘Going to the bathhouse later?’ she quipped.

Cassien was too busy hungrily watching her to register her comment and it was several long moments before his wits came back and he turned to Fynch, realising how quiet it suddenly was. Fynch was smiling at him.

‘Sorry,’ Cassien said.

‘Don’t be. How long is it since you’ve been with a woman?’

He was not ready for such a direct question.

Fynch grinned and just for a moment Cassien glimpsed a boyish innocence. ‘Was that too direct?’

‘Er … it just took me by surprise.’

Fynch chuckled, genuinely amused. ‘I wanted to put you at your ease so you don’t have to apologise for enjoying the sight of a pretty girl. Did the priory make provision for your … needs?’

Cassien’s brief gust of a laugh was answer enough.

‘Ah,’ Fynch said, ‘that explains the phiggo root I noticed in your hut.’

He stared at the older man, confused. ‘I was instructed to brew a liquor from it each week and drink a spoon of it daily.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you were and I’m also sure that Loup checked on that brew and your supplies regularly.’

Cassien nodded. ‘He was quite particular. Assured me it was for strength, good health.’

Fynch sighed. ‘It’s traditionally used by armies to keep the men focused on their soldiering. It’s why you haven’t gone mad with pent-up lust.’

Cassien looked at his companion, astounded by this information. It made instant sense but that didn’t lessen the shock. ‘They drugged me?’ he murmured, shaking his head.

‘How else could they keep a virile young man in the forest without companionship for so long?’ Fynch nodded at the approaching serving girl. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll rectify the situation soon enough, although perhaps it should wait until we reach Pearlis.’

Fynch hurried the serving girl on with a bigger than usual tip. He gently tossed the moneybag and a second one he’d dug from a pocket across the table. ‘You’ve had no need of coin in the past. But you will need it from here on. Tie those to your belt, although I do think we should kit you out with some fresh garb.’

Cassien looked down at his clothes. They were certainly the worse for wear. Dun, colourless, shabby.

‘Have we time?’

Fynch nodded. ‘Plenty. You could use a shave, a haircut, too. Drink up, Cassien. And while you do, I’ll talk.’

He took his first sip of dinch sweetened with honey, although sparingly, knowing all of these rich new substances hitting his belly might bring him some grief. He could taste flavours of cinnamon and shir, and something else he couldn’t identify. The taste was complex and delicious. He sipped slowly and paid attention as Fynch looked away, lost in his thoughts, before beginning to speak. Gone was the light-hearted tone of their previous conversation. His voice was grave now and his expression sombre.

‘I told you I don’t know what the re-emergence of the magic means, but it was a cynical, sinister and destructive magic when it was first cast so I can’t imagine that part of it has changed. There is a demon called Cyricus who is likely to be its puppeteer but I don’t know who will be its host. I warned her majesty of it more than fourteen moons ago. I felt it stirring then. The Wild is like that. It is highly sensitive to changes, not just in our world but in the spiritual world that surrounds us. My experience with Wyl Thirsk and the evil curse on his life meant I would always know the taint of the same magic.’

Cassien didn’t like to interrupt but couldn’t help himself. ‘You said you warned the royals.’

‘As best I could. The chancellor believed me, or at least in taking seriously any threat to Florentyna, magical or otherwise. He supported my efforts to have an audience. Darcelle, I learned, sneered at the suggestion; regarded me as some sort of senile herbwizard. The queen gave me a fair audience but she couldn’t countenance the threat of a demon.’

‘Does she trust you?’

‘That’s tricky. I sensed she wanted to but demonic threat is hard to prove … and she wanted proof.’

‘So?’

‘We decided to find it.’

‘We?’

‘The chancellor and I. He offered his help and I took it.’

‘What of Briavel? Every little morsel of news I could glean from Loup I would turn over in my mind for days, trying to piece it together with other titbits he’d give me. I got the impression that Briavel’s and Morgravia’s relationship was strained.’

‘To say the least,’ Fynch admitted. ‘While Cailech and Valentyna unified their realms, their grandchildren allowed the strong bonds to slip. Briavel became touchy when much of its rich farming land was given to members of the Morgravian aristocracy and Briavel’s nobles didn’t seem to warrant equal generosity. There were high hopes for the great-great-grandson, Magnus. He was fond of a very senior and beloved noble’s daughter from Briavel. It was exactly what the empire needed; a marriage between those old realms and their families to reinforce the imperial bond. But when he died so did our hopes.’ Fynch shrugged with a soft sigh of despair. ‘It could all break down quickly because the union was only ever as strong as the royal couple that led it.’

Cassien noticed Fynch had not touched his dinch, just as he had not eaten a morsel since they’d met. There was clearly something otherworldly about the man, if indeed he could call him a man. ‘All right, that’s in the past,’ he began, finding it easier to leave that confusion behind. ‘Obviously you believe there is hope for the empire or you wouldn’t be conscripting help.’

Fynch nodded, pushed his untouched dinch forward. ‘Help yourself to more,’ he said absently. ‘I do believe in the empire. We can only have this conversation once, Cassien, so you need to understand all that you can now. Once we get deeper into the capital, there are ears listening everywhere, and I also don’t trust how long we might have. So with that in mind let me quickly sum up what you need to know. I believe our hope is Queen Florentyna.’

‘So you want me to protect the queen from any potential threat from her sibling or from an otherworldly attack,’ Cassien concluded.

‘Her life is paramount — there are no heirs other than Darcelle.’

‘How old is Florentyna?’

‘Twenty-two summers. She thinks like Cailech, looks like Valentyna, has all the dash and daring of her Briavellian line, and the courage, agile mind and determination of her mountain king forebear. And she has the green eyes of Wyl Thirsk. When I looked into them, I saw him there. I know he lives on through her.’

‘But what of the threat of Cyricus?’ Cassien demanded.

‘Indeed. Who sits on the throne is only one half of our frightening equation.’

‘Fynch,’ Cassien began, his voice hard, looking directly at the older man, ‘explain precisely to me what you believe Cyricus aims to achieve?’

Fynch took a deep breath. ‘The magic that was once the witch Myrren’s is, I believe, returning in a more dire form. It was formerly focused on revenge, Myrren finding a way from the grave to punish Morgravia for her torture and burning, but particularly its nastiest son, King Celimus, for his part in her demise. This time I think it will be used directly against the imperial Crown.

‘I have seen Cyricus in my dreams and in my spiritual wanderings. I don’t know from where he comes but he is an old, old mind. He is not of this region. He was ancient even when Myrren was casting her curious magic. I was too young, too caught up in the curse on Wyl Thirsk to notice Cyricus. But he was there — an interested bystander you could say, watching us. And I suspect his curiosity was pricked by her unique, twisted magic.’

‘What is he?’

‘A demon, as I told you,’ Fynch said, standing. ‘I think we should give you a chance to bathe, to get new clothes.’

‘But what about —?’

‘I realise I have given you a sense of urgency but in this matter we must show a little patience,’ Fynch said, raising a hand. ‘Now, you are wrinkling your nose at the smells of the town but I can assure you, the other travellers are going to pinch theirs when they get a whiff of your particular aroma.’ Fynch beamed Cassien the bright smile that lit up his eyes and warmed anyone it touched.

Cassien sniffed the sleeve of his leather jerkin.

‘That bad?’

‘Eye-watering,’ Fynch assured. ‘You’re going to meet a queen. We want you at your best.’

Cassien found himself immersed in an oaken barrel of hot water. He was mesmerised by the feel of the soap’s slipperiness on his skin, and the sensual pleasure of having someone wash his hair, rubbing his scalp clean. The fact that it was the bark-smoking Wife Wiggins with her black teeth and gravelly voice, rather than a pretty young woman like the inn maid, didn’t matter. It was heavenly.

Wife Wiggins was not in the least moved by his nakedness; she’d raised her eyebrows in disdain at Cassien’s bashfulness and cast a sigh over her shoulder towards Fynch. Nevertheless, Cassien emerged from the depths groaning with satisfaction.

‘I’m surprised you have no lice,’ she remarked, ‘you’re so grubby. Make sure you use the soap on your —’

‘Thank you,’ Cassien said, cutting off her advice. ‘I can manage now.’

She looked at Fynch, who nodded. ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to it,’ she grumbled. ‘I suggest you soak for a while. You seem to have leaf mould growing out of your ears, young man.’

‘I’ll see to it. Thank you again for the clothes,’ Fynch said.

‘Yes, well, you’ve paid handsomely. And I’ll be burning those old rags he wore when he walked in here.’

‘Do we tip the water out or —’

‘Tip it out?’ she cried from the doorway of the barn she called a bathhouse. ‘Are you mad, sir? I’ll wash three more men in that water before it gets tipped. Just leave it as you found it.’ She left, pushing the bark smoke back between her lips.

Cassien blinked. ‘What a scary woman.’

Fynch’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘You can just imagine the array of men who pass through her tubs. It started out as a service she offered the tanners but now she has to run ten tubs, and in high season can bathe fifty men a day. She doesn’t usually scrub them down herself, I must admit, but you’re special.’

‘Fynch, I must know more about this demon. It’s as though you hesitate.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to accept it as real and by getting you involved I must fully accept the reality of his threat.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I told you Cyricus has been watching us from afar for decades.’

‘And you have been watching him.’

‘I have watched you too. You are suited to the role.’

‘What role?’

‘To kill the demon when he presents himself. You are all we have. Your killing skills and your very special magic.’

Now, finally, it made sense. Fynch was after the weapon of his mind. He could see in Fynch’s open face that the old man knew Cassien understood that.

Fynch sighed. ‘Cyricus will come to Morgravia in the guise of a man, of that I’m sure. He must travel in that form in order to walk our land, otherwise he has no substance.’ Fynch held up a long, slim finger. ‘But as flesh he is also vulnerable in the way a man is.’

‘How will I know him?’

‘You won’t. But he will attack the Crown. That will be part of his plan. To bring it down. He will seek to destroy first the royals and then seize power.’

‘Why would he want to?’

‘Because he can,’ Fynch said in a weary tone, handing Cassien a linen, signalling it was time for him to clamber out of the tub. ‘Because he is bored. Because he enjoys stirring trouble, bringing problems. He sees an unsettled people and he wants to spice up the discontent. And because he has reason to destroy a single region of the empire that I will not, cannot permit.’

‘And where is that?’

‘It’s called the Wild. It is our bad luck that his attention has been attracted and focused on our empire but it’s no good bleating. We must act.’

‘Surely an army is better than a single man?’ Cassien stood with the linen wrapped around his lower body, water pooling around his feet. He knew Fynch’s story sounded far-fetched, and yet because Romaine trusted him Cassien felt compelled to follow suit.

‘An army against another army perhaps,’ Fynch replied. ‘But an army is no match against a foe it can’t see, or doesn’t know is there. What’s more, I have no desire to give Cyricus warning that we know of his presence. Right now he believes himself unknown — and to most he is. But I know him. I feel him. I smell him. I taste him and his hungry interest on a bitter wind. One day I may hear his cries for mercy or touch the dead body he chooses to inhabit, but right now surprise is my only defence … and you and I the only people who stand in his way.’

‘Has our world faced a demon before?’

‘Not to my knowledge, although Myrren’s curse on Wyl Thirsk could be viewed that way. But, while I might be old, this demon is as ancient as the Razors, maybe older. He comes from the east, I believe.’

Cassien pulled on the ill-fitting pants and shirt, posing for Fynch, who made a face of amused resignation. ‘That will have to do for the moment.’ As Cassien continued dressing and tidied his hair, Fynch finished what he could of the story.

‘Cyricus was astonished, excited by the power of the Wild when he discovered it, and sought to use it. The magic within the Wild repelled him, bouncing his acolyte, the sycophantic Aphra, out of our plane to another, trapping her and weakening Cyricus. This is very ancient history, mind you,’ Fynch warned, ‘long before my time. Cyricus did nothing until the scent of the magic of Myrren reached him centuries later, stirring him from whichever depths of thought he lived in.’

‘And being cautious now he simply watched?’

‘Exactly,’ Fynch said. ‘Ready?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Then it’s time to call on the tailor,’ Fynch said, looking up as they departed Wife Wiggins’s barn.

‘How do you know all of this information about Cyricus?’

‘I told you I’m old. I’ve mentioned I’ve travelled — and not just in this plane. On this you must trust me. I’ve had a talent since childhood for gathering, memorising and being able to collate vast amounts of what might appear to be unrelated pieces of information. And the beasts of the world are far more attuned to the natural order of things, especially if they are disrupted in any way. They know he is coming.’

Fynch guided Cassien to a small lane that dipped down and led to the centre of the town. ‘We don’t have to go all the way in. Just a few doors down is Master Zeek.’

‘You said he needs a host,’ Cassien wondered aloud.

‘He will inhabit a mortal to gain power before he begins to lay waste to the forests and the Wild as well as its creatures.’

Fynch had his hand on the door-knob of a shop doorway.

‘This is the tailor. We must stop our discussion now. I know you have more questions but there are only two points that matter in all that I’ve said.’ He raised a finger. ‘Your role to protect the new queen with your life.’ He raised a second finger. ‘And to find a way to slay Cyricus when he presents himself … and he will.’

The door was opened and Cassien had to bite back the flood of new thoughts because a smiling, rotund man emerged from behind a small curtain.

‘Master Fynch, welcome back. And this must be your nephew.’

The small shop smelled of endless rows of fabric, slightly oily and earthy and pleasing to Cassien. It was quiet too, which he appreciated after the bustle of the small lanes they’d walked to get here. Bolts of linens were piled high behind the smiling tailor in towers of colours of all hue; others lay on the ground in smaller heaps and others still, the finest cloths, were in glass cabinets.

Cassien watched Fynch smile warmly at the man. ‘Tailor Zeek, this is him, yes. Do you think we made a good fit between us?’

Zeek’s waxed moustache twitched as he appraised Cassien with a knowledgeable look, his head cocked to one side. ‘Indeed, Master Fynch. I doubt few, if any, adjustments may be required to what I made up on your instructions. Shall we try?’

Fynch turned to Cassien. ‘Would you care to try on some new clothes?’

‘They’ll scratch at first,’ Zeek warned, ‘but this particular yarn from the senleng plant softens like no other. You’ll barely know you’re wearing the garments in a moon or two.’

Cassien looked between the pair of them, realising that Fynch had had these clothes made for this moment, had obviously decided some time ago to steal Cassien away from beneath Loup’s nose and Josse’s rules and the Brotherhood’s care, and had planned their escape. ‘I’ll be glad to try them on,’ he replied, and stepped into the back of the shop.

‘I shall hang them here,’ Zeek said, placing a shirt, vest, trews and cloak on a hook nearby. ‘Take your time, young man.’ He disappeared to the front of the shop and Cassien could hear the men talking in low voices.

He regarded the clothes. The trousers were dark … the colour of scorched wood. The shirt was a lighter hue, but not by much, while the cloak was soft wool, black as the forest night and whisper-light. Each item was cut and sewn together beautifully. He’d never handled such fine garments before and could barely believe they were for him. Guiltily he climbed into them, amazed by their nearly perfect fit.

He came out from the back area and Zeek cast an appraising eye up and down, getting Cassien to turn this way and that.

‘Those trousers are not snug enough around the waist.’

‘Yes, I think you might have worked a little harder in the last few moons, Cassien, than I calculated,’ Fynch admitted, regarding him.

‘They fit like a dream,’ Cassien replied, unsure of what they were both unhappy with. He turned to stare at himself in the tall mirror on one side of the shop and blinked. He’d not seen himself from the chin down in a long time.

Fynch sidled up. ‘Recognise yourself?’

Cassien looked with surprise at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He was familiar with the face but the frame that these new dark clothes hung from was surely too tall, too hardened beneath the linens. He could see muscles outlined on a chest he’d never realised was that broad. He’d arrived in the forest as a youngster and he’d left it as a man. His hair was darker than he ever remembered it, even despite its dampness.

‘Now,’ Zeek continued, ‘as per your instructions, Master Fynch, I had these made in a town in the far north. Only recently delivered — I was worried, I’ll admit,’ he said, reaching behind his counter and straightening, holding an odd contraption of leather straps.

‘This is for you, Cassien,’ Fynch said. ‘I’m sure you’ll work out its use.’

Cassien studied what now lay in his hands, knowing instantly what it was. Fynch had obviously commissioned a special holster, not just a belt for a sword, but with straps that wrapped diagonally across his body and over his back so that he could also carry two concealed daggers on his back. Except he’d not brought any weapons. Loup had taken them.

Even so, he was thrilled to tie on the holster and marvelled at how its colour matched the shirt so as to blend in and almost disappear.

Zeek came up behind him and placed the hooded cloak around his shoulders, tying it at his throat. ‘This covers everything, but you should find it light enough that if you need to draw your weapons it can be flicked aside.’

‘I can see you are happy,’ Fynch said to him.

‘I am privileged,’ he remarked, unsure of what to say. ‘Thanks to you both.’

‘Well, there’s more, Cassien,’ Fynch continued. ‘All of that leatherwork is useless without its weapons. I presume you have my parcel, Master Zeek?’

‘Oh yes, indeed. I have kept these hidden and am very glad to finally pass them to their owner. They are fearsome. I hope you never have to use them, sir,’ he said to Cassien. He disappeared once again behind the shop.

Zeek returned, this time carrying a box. ‘Impossibly beautiful craftsmanship, Master Fynch, as only Orkyld knows.’

Fynch nodded. ‘Master Wevyr is a magician with weapons,’ he admitted.

Zeek placed the box with great care on the counter and Cassien, holding his breath, peered in. He could barely believe he was looking at the most beautiful set of sword and daggers he’d ever laid eyes on.

‘Aren’t you going to hold them?’ Fynch asked.

He tore his gaze away and turned it on Fynch. ‘These are truly for me?’

‘I can’t handle them, and I know Master Zeek is a wizard with a needle and thread, but a sword?’ Fynch shook his head in mock despair. ‘We are old men.’

‘I couldn’t even swing that more than once, Master Fynch,’ his co-conspirator, Zeek, agreed. ‘My shoulders aren’t what they used to be.’

Cassien reached in, holding his breath, and reverently lifted the two daggers first. ‘Caronas,’ he whispered.

‘Wevyr said you’d know them.’

‘Matching. Ancient styling. Perfect balance. To be drawn as a pair over each shoulder.’

‘Hence the special holster,’ Zeek remarked rather unnecessarily, but it seemed all three men were under the spell of the beautiful blades.

Fynch gave some explanation as Cassien ran his fingers over the metalwork of the throwing daggers. ‘The metal on all of these has been forged personally by Master Wevyr of Orkyld. Wevyr said he’ll discuss them if you pay a visit. For now I’m to tell you that they contain three metals each, and one additional ingredient that is a secret only Wevyr and I know is in the sword. They have been heated and cooled, hammered and re-heated many times. Their strength is unrivalled but within that strength is a flexibility you will appreciate. That pattern on the blade you see …’

Cassien touched the exquisitely expressed symbol of the Brotherhood — a twisted knot — that ran the length of the blades in a lighter metal. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.

‘No other sword or dagger will ever bear that marking again. He said he has done this for you alone.’ Fynch smiled. ‘He called this the Cassien Collection.’

‘Master Fynch, they must be worth a fortune,’ Cassien said, shaking his head.

‘Indeed, and if Master Zeek wasn’t such a reliable man I would have to ask you to use that blade on his throat right now to ensure secrecy.’

Zeek gave a soft squeal of horror. The weapons possessed a presence of their own — frightening in a quiet, elegant way. Fynch chuckled to reassure Zeek that it was a jest, but Cassien frowned. It was the first time that he’d heard a note of insincerity in Fynch’s laugh; he wasn’t so sure that Fynch had been jesting. In that moment, he saw the toughness, the spine that Fynch possessed; beneath the kindly façade was a man on a mission.

Zeek laughed nervously. ‘Oh, Master Fynch, you know I would never discuss private business matters,’ he assured him.

Cassien noticed what would be invisible to most people … tiny beads of perspiration on the man’s forehead.

‘Did you get the boots as I asked, Zeek?’ Fynch continued.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said with forced merriment. ‘Let me fetch those too. I hope they will fit.’ He disappeared once again.

‘He’s lying.’

Fynch regarded Cassien. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Small signs betray him.’

Fynch had no time to ask more, for Zeek was back, his forehead patted dry of its telltale beads, although Cassien’s keen sense of smell picked up the tangy dampness of fresh sweat. He was sure now.

‘Here we are,’ the merchant said brightly. ‘Boots, as you asked, Master Fynch.’

Fynch forced a smile at Cassien. ‘Hope they fit.’ He could smell the leather that creaked beneath his touch; it was soft yet held the shape of the boot perfectly. He knew they would be comfortable and this was proved as soon as he slipped them easily on to each foot.

‘Once again, perfect. Thank you, Master Zeek.’

‘Expensive, but worth it. I’m afraid I have no money to return to you, Master Fynch. But then we did —’

‘Yes, we did,’ Fynch agreed. ‘Have you kept any record of the transactions, Zeek?’

‘None at all,’ the tailor replied, scratching his head. Then he busied himself with clearing away the string that held the boots together. He began talking about the onset of bad weather. ‘I hope you don’t have far to travel, Master Fynch. There could be a storm in the region.’

Fynch ignored the small talk. ‘And you spoke to no-one else about the weapons or the belts, the boots or the garments … or of my presence?’ he pressed.

‘No, no,’ Zeek protested, his tone defensive. ‘I am as good as my word,’ he said, irritation beginning to crease his face but Cassien saw that his gaze never lighted on Fynch.

Fynch glanced at his travelling companion, but Cassien’s attention was drawn abruptly to the mirror … which held the image of Romaine. It was as if time stood still, just for a heartbeat.

He can describe you. He must be dealt with.

Her image shimmered away. He blinked, confused. Fynch was still looking at him.

‘Must be time to go,’ he said.

Cassien nodded. ‘Thank you, Master Zeek.’

‘Oh, any time, any time,’ he prattled, coming around the counter to show them out. ‘Watch that storm now. Farewell to you both,’ he said, hurriedly closing the door behind them.

Once outside and out of the shop’s line of sight, Cassien pulled Fynch into a small alley. ‘He can point me out, lead the enemy to either of us.’

‘You’re sure?’ Fynch pleaded.

Cassien nodded. He chose not to mention Romaine. ‘You impressed on me that surprise is our real weapon.’ He nodded toward Zeek. ‘No matter how innocent, he could have already ruined that.’

‘Who could Zeek have told that would trouble us?’

‘Does it matter? He’s talked, that much is obvious. I have to find out who to and then kill him.’

Fynch’s gaze dropped and he seemed to sag like a sack of flour. ‘I saw Romaine. I was not privy to what she shared, but I know she was present. She agrees, doesn’t she?’

‘That he must be dealt with, yes.’

‘I’ve known him a long time.’

‘Master Fynch, I’ve had to take you at your word, trust your instincts, believe all that you claim. I am even having to ignore orders from the Brotherhood.’

‘I have no reason to lie to you. Even letting Brother Josse in on this plan was dangerous, and by that I mean it endangered his life. Right now Josse doesn’t even know what you look like. He can’t describe you. No-one can.’

‘Zeek can.’

Fynch nodded. ‘Make it silent and clean.’

Cassien heard the familiar soft buzz behind his ears that arrived just before one of Loup’s tests. It spurred him on. He spun on his heel and walked back into the shop. It was deserted as before, but this time he didn’t wait, easily jumping the counter and pulling back the curtain where he found Zeek clearly packing up.

The tailor turned and gave a soft, terrified shriek. ‘Please, I didn’t mean to bring any trouble,’ he begged.

Cassien took a deep breath. The man was confessing before he’d even exchanged a word. ‘Who have you told?’

‘No-one important, I promise.’

‘Who?’ Cassien’s arms were relaxed at his side although Zeek’s gaze kept flicking to them in case he suddenly moved to draw the weapons that the tailor had just seen him strap on.

‘You were sworn to secrecy.’

‘Yes,’ the man whispered, trembling.

‘You were paid handsomely for that secrecy, as I understand it.’

‘I was. More than I dared dream of.’

‘So why, Master Zeek?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen so much money at once. I drank too much. I went to the brothel and probably said more than I should. But she was just a whore. What can she do?’

‘What did you tell her?’

Zeek began to moan. ‘I can’t remember. But it wasn’t the local brothel. It was the one at Orkyld, when I picked up your weapons. She probably can’t even remember the fat, blathering drunk who fell asleep on top of her,’ he wept.

Cassien moved closer to the tailor and felt sympathy for him as he shied away. ‘She may not mean to but she could pass on information to any number of others. There are men who would want these weapons.’

‘You look like you can defend yourself,’ Zeek bleated.

‘Yes, I can. It’s not that. It’s the knowledge being out there that I have them. You have marked me by your loose mouth. What is her name?’

‘Name?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? I was drunk.’

‘Think. It will help your case.’

Encouraged by the titbit of pity, Zeek strained to remember, closing his eyes. He shook his head, his cheeks wobbling. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, please, I’m sorry.’

‘Try harder. Any clue?’

Zeek reached hard. ‘Pila? … No. Petal?’ He held his head. ‘I can’t recall. Something like that. I’m nervous, forgive me.’

‘Describe her,’ Cassien suggested.

‘Flame-haired, arresting eyes. Very popular.’ He sighed. ‘I was her tenth that day, she said. I know she won’t remember me or my ramblings.’

Cassien nodded.

‘I will give you the money, whatever remains,’ the tailor tried.

He knew it was hopeless. Not only was this man unreliable and untrustworthy, he was also a coward and he would beg on his knees to anyone who came around asking questions about Fynch or his so-called nephew, or the weapons.

‘You see that out there, Master Zeek,’ he said gently, pointing to the window.

Zeek frowned in spite of his fear and obediently looked … and it was in that moment of distraction that Cassien acted. In a heartbeat he had wrapped the man up into a hold favoured by the Brotherhood known simply as ‘the Tomb’. It was an effective death-hold that depressed a pressure point in the man’s neck rendering him unconscious. As soon as Zeek went limp in his arms Cassien laid him gently on the ground.

‘I’m sorry, Tailor Zeek,’ he murmured and then silently recited the Prayer of Sending that all the Brothers accorded their victims. It was short, committing Zeek to Shar’s safekeeping and acknowledging himself as the killer but on Shar’s authority to protect the Crown.

‘Search your heart until you see it as pure, Brother Cassien,’ Josse had said in parting on the day Cassien had been taken to the forest. ‘You cannot undertake the work of the Brotherhood until you have no conscience about it.’

‘How can we take a life coldly and absolve ourselves of any crime, any responsibility, any remorse?’ he’d queried, feeling angry. He recalled his mood well because Brother Josse had snapped at him.

‘You don’t absolve yourself. Shar does! But that’s not the point. You take responsibility for the killing because you are safekeeping the Crown and for no other reason. It is the law that guides us.’

‘Outside of the priory we’d be put on trial as murderers. Why are we any different?’ he’d argued.

Josse had regained his patience. His voice had been gentle when he spoke again. ‘Cassien, our work is on behalf of the royals alone. The ancient royal house of Morgravia that absorbed Briavel and the Razor Kingdom to form its new imperial throne decades ago was the seat of the dragon. You understand this, don’t you?’ Cassien had nodded. Of course he knew it. The sovereigns of Morgravia — and only those of royal blood — were linked with the dragon as their motif, the spiritual power that guided their reign. ‘The imperial throne answers only to Shar. Do you understand that too?’

‘Of course,’ he’d replied, trying not to sound exasperated.

‘Then the work of the Brotherhood, which is exclusively on behalf of the imperial throne, answers to no-one other than the imperial ruler. We are above all other courts or claims. It is not our collective conscience that should be troubled.’

Josse had made it sound reasonable. Since then — in the short space of not a decade — the empire’s structure had crumbled. The three realms that had been unified had since pulled apart with their quarrels, and now each had local governments and had settled into a loose triumvirate. The imperial throne was still acknowledged as Morgravia but any semblance of empire had fractured. Empress Florentyna had a long road and hard task ahead of her to rebuild what her father had allowed to slip.

He looked down at the unconscious Zeek. He could still walk away and the man would regain his wits shortly. But he was obliged to protect the Brotherhood as much as himself and Fynch. Besides, he’d already said the Prayer of Sending.

He smothered the tailor soundlessly. It would look as though the older man’s heart had given out. Cassien quietly overturned a chair to make it appear as though the tailor had simply fallen as his heart failed. He double-checked for any signs that he and Fynch had been in the shop, quickly gathering up the old clothes that Wife Wiggins had supplied and he had discarded. He knew there would be no written record of any of the transactions involving him.

He left silently via the back door but his mind was already reaching toward the next step of damage control. He found Fynch sitting on a low wall just beyond the alley, his head turned toward the sun. He thought the man was smiling but as he drew closer he saw that Fynch was grimacing.

The spry old fellow opened his eyes. There was sorrow reflected. ‘Is it done?’

‘Yes. No-one will suspect anything other than that his heart gave up.’

‘Then our secret is safe.’

‘Not quite. There’s a whore. He told her things. I don’t know how much she knows or whether she could even be bothered to pay attention, but I’m not inclined to gamble.’

‘A whore,’ Fynch repeated to himself, staring at the ground, although he didn’t seem surprised. ‘Does it end there?’

‘I hope so. But there’s more bad news.’

Fynch looked up.

‘Her brothel isn’t local,’ Cassien continued. ‘It’s in Orkyld.’

Fynch closed his eyes as if in pain.

‘We can’t undo it, but we can fix it.’

‘Quite right,’ Fynch replied with resolve.

‘I think we should ride, rather than take the coach. It will be faster. I can take us on a more direct route through the forest on horseback.’

‘Fine. Go to the stables and organise the horses — you have plenty of coin. I will get some supplies.’

‘This Wevyr, he’s reliable?’

Fynch snorted. ‘We have nothing to fear from Wevyr. The brothers Wevyr, in fact. They understand secrecy — were raised on it. I’m afraid your shave and haircut must wait.’

SEVEN

As their lips touched, Gabe felt as though he had become entirely disconnected from the world. Most of his senses simply shut down. He could hear the whoosh of his own blood pulsing in his head, nothing else. All the subliminal noises of his apartment — the drone of the fridge, the whirr of his computer, the beep from his coffee machine cycling through its stand-by phases — disappeared. Even the more persistent sounds of the building’s lift, voices from the street, the horns and general groan of traffic … all of it had been silenced.

Neither could he see his apartment anymore, or anything familiar. What had, at first, been a blank Void began to stir and change: the grey nothingness seemed to swirl and move as though reshaping itself, but even before it had fully formed, he knew what the dreamscape was showing him. He tried to pull back but he was trapped. Angelina’s lips held him, and he was sure if his ability to smell or taste were available to him, he would be surrounded by the fragrance of violets on her breath. The scene continued to sharpen. He wanted to scream but could not.

He mentally shook his head. Did not want this. Did not want to face the memory of the wreckage of his car because that would mean confronting the wreckage of his wife and son trapped inside. Dying, if not already dead.

‘Release me!’ he was sure he pleaded.

But just as the smell of petrol fumes and the tang of spilled blood assaulted him and he felt a cry of anguish racing to his throat, the scene changed. In a heartbeat, he was in the calm of his cathedral — or so he thought. It felt right, the atmosphere was right, but he saw in the shadow a man.

It looked as though it could be him but the figure had his head thrown back in agony.

The link was cut and Gabe snapped back to reality to find himself staring into the smoky eyes of Angelina. Her legs were still wrapped around his hips. She was smiling guiltily, knowingly.

‘What did you see?’ she asked, unable to mask the smug tone.

‘You … you promised the cathedral.’

‘I decided to let you choose and demonstrate just how connected we truly are. You seem upset, Gabe,’ she said softly, sounding offended now as she gently touched his cheek. ‘Are you frightened by the vision?’

‘Did you see it too?’

She nodded. ‘I don’t understand it though — it’s obviously something very personal to you. I smelled petrol. I assume the image was of the motorway accident that killed your family …’ He didn’t want her to say another word about it, and perhaps she sensed this. ‘Who is the man in the second vision?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He’s your dream.’

‘That may be. But I still have no idea.’

‘It’s obviously very powerful if it can override not only your nightmare of the accident, but more importantly, what I intended to show you,’ she remarked.

He frowned at her. ‘What are you?’

‘I am what I am. I have skills.’

‘Skills,’ he repeated evenly, gently disengaging her arms from his neck. She obliged by releasing her legs and sitting back on the bed. ‘Explain them,’ he said, deliberately getting up and walking away from her.

‘I can’t.’ Angelina shrugged, wrapping her arms around her knees, looking like a child again, and uncaring of her nakedness. ‘But it’s a reason why Reynard keeps me under such close guard.’

Gabe picked up the quill at the mention of Reynard. He stroked the soft swan feather and once again wondered at its significance. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said to her but also to himself about the strange gift.

‘No,’ she said in a slightly bored, dismissive tone, ‘but that’s because you’re not really listening to me.’ Her expression flared into something simmeringly close to anger, and she got up to pace near him. ‘I am not of this world, Gabe. You should trust that now. How else can I take you into your world of dreams and nightmares? I can take you to the cathedral in your mind palace. But you need to believe me when I tell you that it’s not just a dream or a fiction. It is not of your own mind. It is real. And it’s calling to you.’

‘And all I have to do is kill you,’ he said, flatly, his tone now dripping with disdain. ‘Are you aware how your request sounds to any sane person?’

‘You see? You don’t respect anything I say.’

‘Angelina —’

‘Well, Reynard can have me then. That’s his plan. He will kill me and he will travel to Pearlis.’

‘Then why did he involve me?’

‘He needed your skills to unlock what he believes is my mute mind and make it possible. He’s a fool if he thinks he can outwit me. He’s using you, Gabe, not just to provide “access” to me but making sure he can trust my magic. If you now tell him what you’ve seen, he’ll know it’s Pearlis. But he doesn’t want you to be the one to travel. He wants to go. He will be the one who has your cathedral. And the raven spy will have you!’ she snapped viciously, as she turned away from him.

It was too convoluted and so little was making sense. He grabbed her, the quill still in his hand. He didn’t want to lose her even though all of this was wrong; everything about Angelina and his relationship with her was wrong and yet he didn’t want it to end — not like this.

‘Wait! I need to understand, to know about you.’

Before he could say another word, she was holding him again, kissing him again; hard this time and angrily. But the sensation of his lips being bitten and bruised disappeared as he was thrust into the frantically busy market square surrounding … no, it was impossible. Impossible! Yet Gabe stared in hungry wonder at the huge doors and the façade of the cathedral he knew so well.

He felt the instant calm of close proximity to it. It was real. He realised he was walking up to it, desperate to lay his fingers on the stonework but his hand passed through its soft grey shimmering walls. Drifting through the open doors, he found his familiar place. The safe place. He had sat in here so many times in his mind. But it had never been real. Now he could actually feel the worn timber of the pew he sat on, hear the click of the flagstones beneath him, feel the cool of the grey stone around him. It wasn’t imagined. He was actually here! Gabe looked around in awe, but just as his thoughts turned to the famed mythical creatures, he was yanked rudely back to his apartment as Angelina’s lips withdrew from his.

‘Do you believe me now?’

In spite of himself, he nodded, lost for words, staring at her as though she were an alien.

‘I can take you there. I can put you physically into the cathedral you yearn for.’

He shook his head like a child trying to blot out a nagging parent. ‘I built that place. Its architecture is mine! My specifications … simply to please me.’

‘No, Gabe! If it was just a product of your imagination, how can I know it so intimately? You have never discussed it with anyone, have you … least of all me?’

‘It is private,’ he murmured.

‘Exactly!’

‘I don’t know,’ he bleated, confused, frustrated.

‘How can I know exactly the scene of your car pile-up if I was not able to tap into your mind?’

He shook his head. He could feel a migraine coming on and dropped the swan quill onto the bed. He rubbed at his temples.

‘Touch me,’ she demanded, pulling one of his hands to her and placing it on her chest. He could feel her breastbone and her heart thumping. ‘Do I feel real?’

‘You are real,’ he answered.

‘You’re a sane, smart man, Gabe. You know I’m real so I can’t be in your imagination. Even if you think I’m delusional, you know you’re not. How can I show you what I just have and not be telling you the truth? I have no reason to lie to you.’

‘Let me be clear about this … I will not be killing anyone or anything, Angelina,’ he said, flicking her hands away.

‘It’s ridiculous!’ he snapped, coming back to himself, regaining his equilibrium. This wasn’t the way to speak to a patient, but then neither was being naked alongside her. He’d broken every sacred rule of being a clinical psychologist.

Gabe hadn’t realised he’d aired this thought aloud.

‘Gabe, I seduced you. You didn’t ask me to do anything that I wasn’t already planning to do with you,’ she said in a soft tone, snuggling close. Angelina had a knack for wrapping herself around him in such a way that he felt owned by her.

It may have been a hollow reassurance but he was grateful to hear it all the same. Its effect was momentary, though, for he could feel a sinister and familiar sense returning, bringing with it all those old feelings of despair that he’d kept at bay for so long.

‘What’s wrong?’ she shook him.

‘It’s happening again. I’d escaped the accident, rebuilt my life, walked away from it all,’ he said, drawing back from her. He ran a hand through his hair again and stood in his apartment, naked and trembling — but not from the cold.

‘Gabe, I can make it all go away.’

He flicked his gaze to her, filled with mistrust and a new sense of loathing as she offered herself to him. He wished Angelina had never come into his life, but even now, he felt desire stirring. She was impossible to resist … for him, anyway. ‘All I have to do is kill you, right?’ he said scathingly.

‘It is my way back.’

‘Your way out, more like,’ he sneered.

‘Your raven has returned,’ she taunted him, pointing out the window.

True enough, the bird was there, black as night, staring at him as it perched on his tiny balcony’s railing. It fleetingly occurred to him to wonder precisely how she knew the family of Corvidae. Most people would have called it a crow.

‘What does it want?’

‘He’s your enemy. He’s keeping you under observation.’

‘My enemy,’ he said, with a cold smirk. ‘Now I must fear even the birds. Why is he my enemy, Angelina?’

‘He’s following you. It’s his role. He is the observer … the messenger.’

‘You’re amazing. Do you just make things up as you go along?’

‘You don’t believe me,’ she said, disappointed.

‘I know you believe it, and I know how powerful that can be. I’m sorry that I can’t see what you do. I live in Paris, you live in a world of your own making.’

‘Is that so?’

He shrugged. ‘We should never have had sex. It’s my fault —’

It was Angelina’s turn to laugh and it sounded bitter. ‘I’m not talking about sex, you fool.’ She crawled forward on the bed. ‘I’m talking about knowledge. Things that can’t be explained, like showing you your own dreams.’ Gabe began to shake his head and he could see it infuriated her. ‘All right, what if I told you that in three seconds the phone will start to ring, there will be a banging on the door and you’d —’

She didn’t finish. His mobile began to vibrate loudly on the kitchen counter and a heartbeat later there was a loud rapping at the door.

Gabe blinked. ‘How could …?’ he said, staring at the door and then back at her.

‘Both are Reynard,’ she said calmly. ‘He knows you’re in here. He will now tell you that he knows I’m here too.’

‘I know you have Angelina with you, Gabriel!’ Reynard obliged.

Gabe stared open-mouthed, astonished.

‘He’ll bang again,’ she said. ‘Twice.’ Reynard did just that. ‘I shall have to call in the police,’ she mimicked in his manner.

‘I shall have to call in the police,’ Reynard repeated precisely and then simultaneously with Angelina mimicking the gesture, he rapped loudly on the door. ‘Open up!’ she said silently, but in perfect sinister synchronicity with Reynard. It was as though his deep voice had become hers. Angelina put her hand to her mouth and mimicked a cough in tandem with Reynard. She smiled mirthlessly at Gabe.

‘She is trying to escape! Don’t help her, Gabriel,’ Reynard urged, while Gabe watched her mouth forming each word also. It was chilling. How was she doing this?

‘How am I doing it?’ she asked, as though she could now hear his thoughts as well as Reynard’s. ‘I have skills that defy your understanding,’ Angelina said, moving toward him as though floating on air. ‘But not his,’ she sneered, pointing at the door. ‘Oh, definitely not. Reynard knows what I’m capable of. He was sent to keep me close, keep me from my mission.’

Reynard’s banging and the constant vibration and beeping of the phone’s message system began to fade and only Angelina’s voice was clear.

‘I was sent to guide you to a place called Morgravia. The bird is your enemy. Reynard was sent to stop you making the journey — he is also our enemy. But you and I must look out for one another. I am your protector, Gabe. I can take you to the cathedral, where I know you feel safe. And because I’m not real in the way you accept, you can’t kill me. It will be like a dreamscape. My death will not be real.’

She was playing with words. No longer making sense. Hitting all the right buttons to confuse him … his mind was becoming fuzzy. He could still hear Reynard, the phone, now the bird cawing at him. He could see it, flapping outside and leaping at the window. He could hear the thump of its body connecting with the panes of glass, the scratch and tap of beak and claws, as it desperately tried to keep his attention. He was being plunged back into the fear and the loathing, the old terror that haunted him after losing his family. And now here was Angelina handing him a knife. Where did that come from?

He tried to speak, but it was as though his mouth was suddenly filled with sawdust. His voice had slowed down and sounded deep and robotic, as though a machine was filtering his words. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Making it easy, Gabe.’ Her voice tinkled like crystals moving against each other. ‘Come, travel with me. I will take you to the cathedral. To safety. To peace.’ She leapt at him like a cat, fast and lithe; he heard her groan, wrapping her legs around him. He stumbled and they fell awkwardly onto the bed.

He could feel her flesh against his. It was cool and smooth, like marble, and then her lips were on his, her tongue searching, her body moving against him. Reynard, the phone and even the sounds of the raven disappeared. He was back in the Void, waiting for its movement — was he holding his breath? — then the swirling began, and what had been nothing but a grey mist a moment ago began to sharpen into the contours and colours of the scene he most craved.

He was far more exquisitely aware of Angelina this time. He could feel her touch, her skin, her warmth, whereas before, when she’d allowed him to glimpse this place, he’d been aware of nothing. Now all of his senses were his again. It was as though the scene was deepening into reality, while at the same time he could feel Angelina becoming slack against him and a wetness against his belly. For a moment there, he thought his desire to see his cathedral had twisted into something erotic — and who could blame him, with a naked woman wrapped around him?

Without warning, hard on the heels of the sensation of wetness, he felt himself toppling, falling, spinning without control. There was no pain, no flailing about; he didn’t know which way was up, but in his mind’s eye he was travelling closer to the cathedral. He heard Angelina’s voice in his mind.

Let go, Gabe, she whispered. Let go of Paris … of the world.

And he did, but as he did so his hand felt something familiar. The quill. It was all he had to anchor him and he wrapped his fingers around it, feeling its softness and its solidity. It helped him to focus on one final notion: that to let go fully would be dangerous. It was something in his subconscious, perhaps something from his training as a psychologist. Clutching the quill, in the midst of his confusion and dislocation, Gabe felt a part of him hold back as he began to fall into whatever new dreamscape Angelina was forming for him.

It was the kernel of strength and self-possession and even self-awareness that had brought him through his darkest hours; it was the part of him that urged him to breathe, forced him to wake up and accept the day and to find a way through each new one until the pain of his failure and loss of his family began to diminish into the background of his life. He knew from his counselling work that many people didn’t have this special private place in the core of their being to draw upon, to rely upon. It couldn’t be taught. Couldn’t be bought. Couldn’t be acquired. It simply had to be discovered within. He believed everyone possessed this special ‘force’ and he had encouraged his patients to find it, hunt it down. Many had succeeded, with his help.

He was sure his elders didn’t think he possessed any deep strength; they’d viewed him as a coward for running away from confronting the reality of his life, offering wisdom that, in his grief, he couldn’t stomach hearing.

The accident was a random event. It’s not your fault. Except it was.

You can’t be in control all the time. You can. He shouldn’t have looked away from the road.

You aren’t the enemy. He felt like the enemy.

You can’t save everyone. You’re a psychologist. Not a god.

Or his personal favourite. You have to move on.

He knew they meant well; knew these soothing words worked for some people, but to him they were sickening placations.

And so now as he travelled toward his haven, wondering whether he was dead or alive, he held back the one last part of him that he exercised total control over and no-one else could touch … not even Angelina, with her erotic, irresistible manner. He closed himself around the kernel of his most private self — his soul, as he liked to think of it. He rolled it up tightly, every bit of himself that was truly him — character traits, personality, ideas, memories — and wrapped them in a separate sphere that was no longer connected to his body but hovering invisible within it, and he clung to this sphere … this new embodiment of himself. It was his only link with the reality he knew. The cathedral was a dream. He couldn’t be convinced otherwise but, oh, how he wanted it to be real … to live it, touch it, smell its scented candles, taste on the back of his palate the fragrance of herbs crushed underfoot.

The scape before him was shaping into brilliant colour; he could hear muffled sounds beginning to sharpen, a faint aroma begin to reach him. This had not happened before. The cathedral began to soar before him in all its imposing, soft grey beauty, every aspect of it coming into sharper focus.

He hadn’t been aware of himself as flesh since Angelina kissed him but now he was aware of her body more than his own. And she was pulling away from him in a slow, gentle slump. Her once beautiful dark, smoky greyish eyes gave him a listless gaze in return and he could see the life leaching from them. Her grip around his waist was loosening but all the while the wetness that he recalled feeling, was increasing. It was not his desire … it wasn’t even hers.

It was blood.

He could see its red brightness, gleaming and glistening. He’d been stabbed! Angelina’s blade. She’d stabbed him and his hands were covered in his life’s blood. As he thought this, he became acutely aware of Angelina’s naked body becoming entirely limp as it fell away from him. There was a soft smile playing about her generous lips that had been kissing him so deeply just moments earlier.

And he realised with deeper shock that it was Angelina who was dead. And the knife was in her belly … it was her bright blood, her life taken.

He had killed her, just as she’d asked.

He looked around, desperate for help, the name of Reynard springing to his lips, but he was no longer in his apartment and he was no longer near his cathedral. He was nowhere at all that he recognised.

Reynard burst through the door of Gabe’s apartment with an anxious-looking concierge following hot on his heels and making loud protests. The small man fell instantly silent when they saw what was lying on the bed.

The ghastly scene and the iron smell of freshly spilled blood combined to make the concierge gag and he rushed for Gabe’s kitchen sink, retching helplessly before raising his head, his complexion ashen and expression filled with horror.

‘This is monstrous,’ he wailed. ‘I’m an old man, I shouldn’t have to —’

‘Go downstairs and call the police now!’ Reynard ordered him.

The man obeyed blindly, staggering out of the apartment.

Reynard approached the body of Angelina, her belly ripped open like a macabre smile. Blue-grey ropy intestines spilled in a glistening, gelatinous mess from the gash of the fleshy grin. Her eyes were open, distant, as though looking a long way past the horizon, but they were seeing nothing. He knew that. This was simply the corpse that some poor bastard would have to clean up and he could imagine all the forensics and pathology tests that would now follow. Few questions would be answered. And he would be here for none of it.

Next to her lay the blood-spattered weapon that had inflicted the damage. He nodded, turned away and walked to the French windows. As he moved, his attention was caught and held by the slender box with its navy satin that he’d given Gabe on his birthday. It was open and empty. The quill was removed; he cast a searing gaze around the apartment, but it was nowhere to be seen. Reynard sighed with a relief that felt more like deep sorrow and returned to what he’d set out to do. He pulled the two windows toward him, opening them, and stepped out onto the balcony.

‘It is done,’ he said to the now silent waiting raven.

It watched him, head cocked to one side as Reynard clambered with difficulty up onto the balcony railings and teetered. Reynard gave a last look at the bird that had been his co-conspirator and nodded with a sad smile. ‘Our part is over. I have achieved what I must. I cannot be taken alive by the police. You know what to do.’

The bird leapt at its companion and shoved at his head hard with its feet. It didn’t take any more than that to send Monsieur Reynard toppling from the penthouse floor of the apartment building, muttering a strange incantation as he fell to his death.

The raven blinked at the lifeless shape crumpled below, sad for Reynard, who had been brave to the last, before it leapt into the air, flapping its strong wings and lifting itself high above Gabe’s apartment to fly with purpose toward Notre Dame Cathedral.

It ascended higher still above the sweeping gothic architecture until it was a dark speck in an overcast sky. Only the keenest of sights would have seen the raven bank slightly and pause for a heartbeat before it began a fast descent, shaping itself into an arrow as though shot from a master bowman. Its target was clear, its aim was perfect. Moments later the bird impaled itself soundlessly on the sharp piece of wood it had previously marked out for this very task.

The raven’s last thought, cast toward another world, in the hope that his king would hear him, was a plea to remember the being that was Ravan as a brave member of his flock. And as the bird closed its eyes, its immortal spirit transcended the broken, pierced body of the host and fled.

EIGHT

As Reynard was banging in an apartment door in Paris, Fynch and Cassien had already been travelling north in Morgravia for six hours at a steady clip. Fynch had been determined not to wear out the animals with hard riding, and as much as Cassien urged him to push the beasts to a gallop, Fynch refused.

‘If we cover eighteen miles today, it will be a good journey and our mounts will have time to rest, to eat and be fresh for tomorrow.’

‘Where will we reach by this evening?’

‘By sundown we should crest Vincen’s Saddle.’ At Cassien’s frown Fynch gestured with his hands toward the rise ahead. ‘The path leads us up this hill and then another soon after, and from afar the landscape looks like a horse’s saddle.’

‘From a dragon’s back one could be fanciful about any landscape,’ Cassien suggested in a wry tone.

Fynch smiled and it was full of affection. ‘Indeed.’ But that was all. Cassien decided he would not pry further.

‘And Vincen?’ he said instead.

‘No idea.’ They both grinned. ‘There’s an excuse for an inn in the village below. The village is called, rather fancifully I might add, Partridge Vale, and the inn is even more deluded, boasting the name of the Queen’s Rest, but the ale is honest and the food passable.’

‘I don’t eat much,’ Cassien admitted. ‘I can go without if necessary.’

‘Nothing doing. Just don’t eat the pigeon pie if it’s on.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ Fynch said archly. He slid off his horse and walked it to the stream they’d been following for several miles. Cassien followed suit. It was a lonely road and they’d met few other travellers, certainly none in the last few hours.

He leaned against his horse as it quenched its thirst, and became aware of the new weaponry perched around his body. It was hard to credit how comfortable it felt — as though it had always been there or had been moulded to him. He blinked, realising another aspect about the weapons as he watched Fynch dig out an apple and feed it to his mount.

‘Have you noticed that Wevyr’s weapons make no noise?’

‘I wondered how long that would take,’ Fynch replied absently.

‘How can metal at my side make no noise?’

‘Ask Wevyr.’

‘Doesn’t it intrigue you?’

Fynch changed subjects. ‘You’ll need to push yourself to mix with people. Stoneheart is like a small city within the larger one of Pearlis. The palace is going to challenge you in ways you can’t imagine and one of the most simple and yet perhaps most daunting hurdles will be feeling comfortable around the endless movement. Stoneheart never sleeps. There are always people working.’

‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

‘You have to do more than manage, son. I am asking you to infiltrate the life of a queen. It is a tricky task and the politics surrounding her will make you dizzy.’

Cassien nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter about me. What matters is her life. I’m being sent in to keep her safe.’

‘Well said.’

‘Tell me, what does the queen think of this notion of a complete stranger walking into her life and shadowing her every move?’

‘I don’t think she minds the notion yet.’

‘Yet?’

Fynch shrugged. ‘I don’t think she minds just yet because she doesn’t know you’re coming,’ he explained.

‘Shar’s wrath!’

The older man scratched genially at the close beard that made him look as though he’d been dusted with flour. ‘Florentyna will see reason, I’m sure of it.’

‘Reason,’ Cassien murmured, shaking his head. ‘What reason should I go with? A demon is coming to kill you, your majesty, and this man you see before you who, by the way, has just walked out of the woods, is here to keep you safe?’

‘Sarcasm is a cheap form of attack, Cassien, or didn’t Brother Josse teach you that?’ Fynch chided. ‘You must trust me. I think Florentyna does. I just don’t think most of the people around her do.’

‘Who else trusts you? Knows about this?’

‘Two others.’

‘And you trust them?’

He nodded and his expression became as sombre as Cassien could remember. ‘We should keep riding.’ He led his horse back to the road and Cassien followed, easily catching the apple that Fynch tossed over his shoulder for Cassien’s horse.

‘I have entrusted only one man with the information you now know. He is from the court, one of the most senior noblemen and a close advisor to the queen. He was, to some extent, like a father to her after she lost her own.’

‘That’s a relief. I’ll likely need some allies in the palace.’

‘He’s not in the palace, I’m afraid … not any longer.’

‘So how does he help us?’

‘He helps by observing someone.’

‘Master Fynch,’ Cassien said, pausing, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to be clearer. You were specific when you wanted me to leave the forest with you and yet you fall back on being vague now.’

Fynch stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. But what I have to say you will find hard to believe.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said, a tone of scepticism creeping into his voice. He heard it and tempered it, schooling his tone to be respectful. ‘Given what I’ve already had to accept perhaps you will allow me to be the best judge of what I find credible.’

Fynch nodded and began slowly. ‘Someone I think of as my friend and who was a close counsel to the queen, though astonished by my story, agreed to humour me and introduce me to the sovereign so I could bring her my warnings directly. The queen, though attentive, was dissuaded by her sister, Darcelle, who wields considerable influence.’

Cassien’s gaze narrowed. ‘Hmm, that does change the complexion of this situation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did Florentyna go along with her sister’s decision if she trusts you?’

‘Believing she trusts me is probably stretching the truth,’ Fynch admitted. When Cassien’s mouth tightened, he hurried on. ‘But she listened without scorn. However, without the close counsel of my ally in her presence — his name was Chancellor Reynard by the way — she was persuaded by the others. Her sister believes I am some sort of mad old fellow who has been chewing the dreamleaf or is in his cups.’ Fynch stopped his horse and whispered something to it before he climbed into the saddle.

Quietly, Cassien followed suit.

‘You see, Cassien, Queen Florentyna has no idea who I am. She likes me, humours me, perhaps because I’m old, more likely as someone who once knew her father.’

‘Why haven’t you told her the truth?’

‘You admit the only reason you believe me, trust me, is because of a wolf and because I know about your magical roaming. Do you really think a modern young queen — an empress, in fact — such as Florentyna is going to believe in magic?’

‘Have you asked her?’

‘I didn’t dare.’

‘Well, surely —’

‘And Chancellor Reynard assured me it would be dangerous to permit such talk around the palace. Too many ears. It plays right into the hands of Cyricus. We don’t know who our enemies are.’

‘Why did Reynard trust you, then?’

Fynch shrugged. ‘He comes from a line of courtiers — advisors to the Crown. His great-grandfather — a Briavellian, I think — was an old, old friend of King Valor, Valentyna’s father. So Empress Valentyna brought him to her court and enjoyed his counsel. The Reynards have enjoyed royal favour ever since … I suppose I was able to tell him things about his grandfather, for I remember his grandfather as a very young lad and I was not much older than him. I had followed Wyl Thirsk to the Briavellian palace … I won’t go into it.

‘Anyway, we met briefly and talked as lads do. I needed help at the time and all I had as currency was a small token my mother had given me. She had carved her and my initials into a disc of wood that she’d polished and varnished.’ He shrugged at Cassien. ‘We were very poor, you understand. I showed Reynard’s great-grandfather that disc and he liked it. So I snapped it in half and gave him one of the halves, which contained my initial.’

‘What did you exchange?’ Cassien asked.

Fynch smiled. ‘Food for my companion — a dog called Knave. Anyway, I was relating this story to Reynard in the hope that it would convince him that I knew his family. But he did better than I’d hoped. Reynard produced the half-disc. It was a valueless trinket that had been passed down but he had always loved it.’ Again Fynch shrugged. ‘I could have wept to see it again after so many decades. I was able to show him my half, which joined with his perfectly, and told him the initial he held was mine. He was astonished, shaken, of course. He didn’t really want to believe it but could not discredit it. He began to listen and the more I told him, the more he wanted to assist but was almost embarrassed that he believed me. You can understand how far-fetched it all sounds?’

Cassien nodded. If not for Romaine …

Fynch continued. ‘Despite logic, he followed his instincts and agreed to throw in his lot with me. He said he’d help but we could not press her majesty again. He offered to attempt the journey of shifting worlds that I spoke of.’ Fynch lifted a sad shoulder. ‘I don’t think he ever believed it would work.’

‘How do you know it has worked?’

Fynch’s expression clouded. ‘I don’t but I have faith that the imminent sign — the confirmation — will come.’

‘How are you so sure that this demon exists? That he’s coming?’

‘Because of Aphra. She can’t hide herself as well as Cyricus. She leaves a trace.’

‘Magical, you mean?’

‘Curiously visceral, actually, except it comes to me through ethereal means. Does that make sense to you?

Cassien gave an uncertain shrug. ‘Go on.’

‘She became suddenly active recently.’

‘Here?’

Fynch looked pained. ‘No, she’s still in another world.’

Cassien took a slow breath but kept his expression even. ‘And you know this because …?’

‘I could smell violets on the wind. There are no violets in the Wild to yield such perfume.’

Cassien’s lips thinned with growing consternation. ‘And that’s her trace?’

‘Yes,’ Fynch said softly. ‘Breath of violets.’

‘And if she’s active then so is Cyricus?’

‘Cyricus uses her. She is his acolyte and most effective minion. She can be anything to anyone in the female form … her preferred shape. It would take me centuries to teach you all I know, all I’ve seen, all I’ve read, all I’ve gleaned through my long, long life. You have to choose to trust me.’

Cassien breathed out and his shoulders slumped slightly. He scratched at his beard, well aware of needing a shave — he must look a sight, he thought, in fine clothes and ragged chin. ‘Right, so you realised Aphra was active,’ he repeated. ‘What else?’

‘I needed her followed. She was our only route to Cyricus … the only connection I could trust.’

‘So Reynard agreed to follow Aphra,’ Cassien presumed.

‘Yes. Reynard was entirely unknown to Aphra or Cyricus. He possesses not an ounce of magic. Only I knew the secret of world travelling. He trusted me, and his fears for Florentyna overcame any dread he might have had of my magic. I sent him, guiding him to Aphra’s trace.’ Fynch shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t watch him unless I leave this world but I needed to get you involved. Before you ask, the only way I will know that he has found what we seek is through his death.’

Cassien stared somewhat dumbfounded at Fynch. ‘The queen’s chancellor has to die to get a message to you?’

‘Former chancellor. Yes. It’s a special sort of death,’ Fynch admitted. ‘It allows him to utter words that will be carried across worlds and I will know that he’s found Aphra. And if she has effected her death, I will know she’s on her way back to our land to meet up with Cyricus, who was trapped here.’

‘In the Void,’ Cassien qualified.

The old man shook his head. ‘I wish it were still so. I blame myself. In trying to protect the Crown, I have made it vulnerable. Over the years I have sent three people out of our world to another, all connected with seeking Aphra. Reynard was the last.’ Cassien wanted to ask who each was but Fynch kept talking. ‘I considered myself clever … thinking that if I could retain control of events then I could contain Cyricus. I thought it wise to know what the enemy is doing. I designed a way to bring Aphra back to our world and I planned to fling her once and for all into the Void with her demon and then our world would not be troubled by them again. But what I didn’t realise is that using the Wild’s powerful magic for sendings weakened the Void’s hold on Cyricus. He escaped, although he doesn’t know why it occurred; his glee is so intense that he isn’t questioning it. He doesn’t know me, has no sense of me. However, I’ve set something in motion now that I must stop. He will use Myrren’s magic, of that I have no doubt.’

Cassien shook his head at the complexity of Fynch’s tale. ‘And you’ll know it’s begun.’

‘Exactly. If she has found her way back, she has her mortal host.’

‘Wait. You said there was another person you trusted who was helping.’

Fynch straightened. ‘Reynard was a man — mere mortal. This second companion is a creature. He is a friend of mine who was once a bird, then a man, and learned he could only be a man in this world, but that he could still be his magical bird shape in other worlds.’ Fynch smiled sadly in the lowering light. ‘It’s complicated, Cassien. Suffice to say Ravan is one of the most special creatures I’ve ever had the privilege to know: formed by a god, answerable to that god, but a friend of men.’

‘And?’

‘I think when we met on my travels Ravan was a little lost. He needed a purpose. I gave him one. Reynard couldn’t be everywhere; I needed him watching Aphra, while Ravan kept her target under observation.’

‘The host that you speak of, you mean?’

Fynch nodded. ‘Ravan readily agreed to be the second observer.’ Cassien gave an encouraging gaze to Fynch. ‘Ravan knew he too would have to relinquish his life — in this case, his life as a bird — in order to get back to our world. He will be safe, will walk as a man again. Reynard sadly cannot survive if he sees out his mission.’

They were all meaningless names to Cassien although he tried to sound respectful of Fynch’s obvious sorrow. ‘If Cyricus is trapped here, what is Aphra doing in her world?’

‘If my hunch is right, she’s sourcing a carrier to get herself back. It will need to be a very special individual who is somehow in tune — knowingly or otherwise — with other worlds.’

‘But you don’t even know what this vessel, this man in this other world, looks like.’

He hesitated. ‘No,’ Fynch then said, ‘but Reynard is hoping to mark him somehow. We couldn’t plan for something we neither knew nor understood. Fortunately, I was able to send him on the trace of the violets almost directly to Aphra, but it was his decision how he would clue me into the carrier from then on.’

Cassien took a long, slow breath as he digested all that he’d learned. He realised they’d crested the second rise that formed Vincen’s Saddle and down below them was the village known as Partridge Vale beginning to sprawl outward, perhaps with visions of becoming a town — but not yet. ‘Looks like we’re here,’ he remarked.

‘Tomorrow we’ll reach Orkyld.’

Cassien was pleased by the sight of softly smoking chimneys and the hint of cooking on the air. ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked. ‘No pigeon pie, Fynch, but roasted chicken, I think. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted that treat.’

He expected Fynch to smile but his companion looked suddenly troubled. ‘Violets,’ he breathed. Then looked at Cassien, his gaze raw and intense. ‘You smell roasted poultry. I smell Aphra.’

Fynch swayed in the saddle and Cassien leapt down from his horse and rushed to the old man just as he slipped sideways. Cassien’s fast reflexes caught him and carried him easily. The man was as light as his namesake.

‘Master Fynch!’ he cried, looking around for help, but there was none.

He hoisted Fynch over his shoulder and grabbed the reins of both horses to lead them into a nearby grove. After lowering Fynch gently to the leaf litter, he secured both animals. Returning, he noticed that the man he had thought looked so youthful, now suddenly appeared as ancient as the landscape they were traversing and the gnarled trees that shrouded them. His eyes were closed, his features slackening into wrinkles and creases, his skin taking on the look of parchment.

‘Fynch!’ he called again, rubbing his companion’s cold hand.

To his relief the man stirred. ‘It is done,’ he murmured.

‘What?’

Fynch opened his eyes and their light had dimmed: no longer like bright gemstones but more like pebbles on a shingle beach, dashed and rolled around until dulled. He spoke again, croaky this time. ‘My friends … their souls have spoken. Aphra is travelling and she’s bringing someone with her.’

Gabe woke properly, coming to his senses gasping, hands on knees, to draw breath. There was pain everywhere. He couldn’t isolate it. Even his mind hurt.

Be strong, Gabe, said a voice he knew. He straightened with a groan and looked around. He seemed to be alone and had probably imagined Angelina’s voice. He was in a shed of some sort … no, a barn but it was huge and full of wheat or barley in sheaves. How quaint. He staggered to the enormous doors and pushed on them. They were solid and heavy, but also barred from outside.

Through a wide gap in the doors he could see beyond to a patchwork of fields — uneven, ragged oblongs of brown and gold, and even pale grey for as far as he could see. There were people working … they were dark specks but he could make out signs of labour. No machinery, just the regular swinging of arms, probably with some sort of tool, he thought. And suddenly a man was approaching. Gabe gave a soft sound of panic and lurched back as the man lifted the bar and unlocked what sounded like a padlock. Sunlight burst in as the doors creaked back. Gabe blinked in the soft rays and saw an elderly man in a black robe regarding him.

‘How did you get in here?’ the man asked.

Gabe shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re naked, man!’

He looked down, only now aware that he was indeed standing there without a stitch on. He cupped himself, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m even doing here. Where the hell am I?’

The man lost his immediate fear and his voice softened. ‘Too much cider for you, eh?’ he admonished gently. ‘Well, I don’t know how you got in here, but go on, be gone with you. Quickly now, or I’ll have to tell Master Flek and he does so hate for anyone to be in the tithe barn.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Pel. No-one important.’ Gabe stared at him. ‘Why do you look so scared? I’m not going to punish you. What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Gabe … Gabriel. I’m lost.’

‘Where do you hail from? Perhaps I can help,’ Pel said kindly. ‘Is that a quill you’ve got in your hand, son? I hope you haven’t taken that from here?’ Gabe shook his head. ‘No, I don’t recognise it, but even so, a naked man and a fine quill.’ He made a small tutting sound.

Gabe’s sense of dislocation intensified. Say nothing! Angelina snapped and he only now realised she was talking in his mind … Gabe now felt deeply frightened but urged himself to stay calm, draw on all his counselling skills and practise what he knew. This was some sort of anxiety attack, for sure. He just needed to take a deep breath and be rational.

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