Читать книгу The Deathless - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 6

Vasin Sapphire had risen long before the three suns, unable to sleep nor act, waiting, like the rest of the castle, for the drums of the hunt to begin.

He wished it were otherwise, that experience had taught him how to be calm, allowed him to conserve his strength, but it was always the same, his nerves as much a part of the ritual as everything else. How many times had he participated in the hunt? How many lifetimes? To his surprise, he was hazy on the exact number.

But his body knew. An instinct made him tense, the muscles bunching as he held his breath. And sure enough, on the next beat of his heart, the first drum was played, a single, thunderous strike. Housed at the very centre of the sprawling castle, its reverberations were felt at every corner, through the stone and in the guts, echoing throughout as the note faded to make way for the next. This was the deepest drum of the set, and its beat would steadily quicken as time passed, signalling all to prepare for the hunt.

Vasin exhaled. Some of the tension he had been holding in his limbs released. He kept looking out of the window. The darkness remained, starless and black, a greater emptiness that echoed the one inside.

Clearly he should be getting ready now, but the motivation simply wasn’t there. It was all he could do to resist lighting some Tack and inhaling its aroma of sweet oblivion. He’d been eking out his dwindling supply over the last year, taking just enough to bury his troubles.

But for all of his lack of motivation he didn’t dare. The honour of House Sapphire was in his hands, and no matter his misery, no matter how far he had fallen, he was a Sapphire, blood, bones, and soul.

The deep drum sounded a second time. Servants would be flowing down corridors, their measured steps at odds with their excited faces.

Hunting was at the heart of everything. The road-born supplied the castles of the Deathless, and the Deathless kept them safe from the demons of the Wild. If the hunt failed, then all Vasin’s people would suffer, the road-born from attack and the sky-born from starvation.

Though only he and his hunters would take flight, the whole castle would be present: the quality of the send off, it was believed, affected the hunt’s chances of success. Everyone had their part to play, especially Vasin.

But am I ready? It was a question he asked each time he led a hunt, but rarely with such uncertainty. A memory of his first life arose, him in another body, younger, nervous, his mother coming to his rooms to—

He dismissed it with a growl. He would not think of his mother. Not now and especially not today.

One set of feet stopped outside his open door and a man’s voice began singing for permission to enter. Without turning from the window, Vasin waved him in.

‘May I, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ replied Vasin.

A moment later, he felt the teeth of a brush in his hair. It started low, at the small of his back, banishing tangles from the tips, and worked up, each pull of the brush growing longer. There was a symmetry between the brush strokes and the drum beats that pleased Vasin.

‘I didn’t send for you,’ he mused aloud, and the brush hesitated halfway down his back. ‘Continue. I’m not displeased. Who sent you?’ he asked, curious. Who would know he had not requested assistance, and come to the conclusion that he needed some?

‘Your brother, my lord. Lord Gada bade me aid your preparations and tell you that he is on his way.’

It was unusual to meet before a hunt. Whatever was bringing him here it was unlikely to be good. They’d barely spoken in the last year, but clearly his brother was still keeping an eye on him, enough to know that he wasn’t grooming himself as he used to anyway. Vasin wondered what else Gada had seen and felt a twinge of shame as he regarded his room. The knowledge that a member of his family was arriving shortly threw the state of his quarters, and himself, into stark relief.

Vasin groaned, his brother always thought he knew best. ‘How long do I have?’

The servant, who looked familiar in a way that suggested Vasin had seen him before, and if not him, some ancestor who looked similar, chose his words carefully.

‘Lord Gada did not share that information with me, my lord.’ The servant made an apologetic face. ‘But if I were to guess, I would say he has already left his quarters.’

‘In that case we had best get to work. There is no time to bathe, but I must be scented and dressed before Gada arrives, and all of this clutter must be gone.’

The servant looked about the room, dismayed. ‘My lord.’

In the end it took the two of them to get everything straight, and Vasin had to spray the scented water over himself, then bind silk around his own chest, arms, and thighs, which was difficult, but by the time Gada entered, the illusion of serenity and cleanliness was established, betrayed only by the glistening sweat on the servant’s brow.

The body his brother had taken in this incarnation was classic Gada. Tall, thin, lightly muscled, as if exercise was something to be sampled but not indulged in. The thick eyebrows and beard, both neatly trimmed, suited, adding weight to an otherwise ephemeral appearance.

Like all Deathless, Lord Gada Sapphire held his own castle and looked after his own settlements. Despite this, he had become a regular fixture of Vasin’s life since their mother’s exile. Gada was still playing the game, fighting to keep them both in High Lord Sapphire’s favour. It was a fight he seemed destined to lose.

A slight flick of Gada’s finger dismissed the servant. They were alone.

Gada’s smile of greeting lacked sincerity, but then, it always had. It was why few trusted him and fewer warmed to him. If blood didn’t tie them, Vasin doubted he’d be very fond of the other man either. It wasn’t fair, because Gada had always looked after him, had taken his duties as elder brother seriously. Perhaps that was the problem. He’d always felt more like a duty to Gada than a loved one.

Vasin stood there, his habitual social ease failing him after years of disuse. Gada seemed afflicted by the same problem and so the brothers simply stared at one another, Gada’s smile looking like it could flee the scene at any moment.

Meanwhile, adding to the tension, the space between each beat of the great drum grew steadily shorter. Soon, the second drummer would begin, and Vasin would have to leave.

‘You look well,’ said Gada.

‘No I don’t.’

Gada’s smile faded away. ‘No.’

‘If you have something to say …’

‘Yes.’ He contradicted himself by pausing and Vasin felt frustration well up. His brother’s surprise visit was stirring up feelings he’d worked hard to bury. Grief stirred within him like a beast coming out of hibernation. He’d isolated himself on purpose, hiding behind his walls, refusing to see people. And when that hadn’t been enough, he’d used Tack, smoking himself into oblivion. Bad enough that he had to face the outside world today, but must he face the past as well? Why couldn’t his brother just say whatever it was and leave?

Gada closed the space between them, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder as he did so. ‘I was surprised to hear you had volunteered to lead the hunt.’

‘And you weren’t sure I was up to it?’

‘This has to go well, Vasin.’ His words were hushed, conspiratorial. ‘It’s bigger than you or me. All eyes are on us now, from below and without, and across the other houses … After the last hunt failed, we—’

He’d heard about the failed hunt, the hunt that failed even to happen. Sorn, one of the Sapphire holdings belonging to Lord Rochant, had called for help against the Wild. Lord Rochant had been between lives at the time, and so it had fallen to Yadavendra, High Lord of the Sapphire, to oversee Sorn’s protection. They’d made the proper sacrifice, followed tradition, but, for the first time in House Sapphire’s history, the call had gone unanswered. Not only had the High Lord turned his back on them, he had forbidden the other Sapphire Deathless to get involved. Since then, nothing had been heard from Sorn, and a feeling of unrest had settled over the rest of the Sapphire provinces. Sagan had been the first settlement to call for aid since, and though Yadavendra hadn’t responded personally, his silence allowed the others to take action.

‘If it’s so important,’ said Vasin acidly, ‘why doesn’t High Lord Sapphire lead the hunt himself?’

Gada’s expression was pained. ‘He’s still too disturbed by grief.’

‘What?’

‘Please don’t, Vasin.’

‘He’s disturbed by grief? He is! What about us? What about our grief? She was our mother—’

The sound of the second drum cut off Vasin mid shout. Two beats, close together, following on the heels of the first drum. Gada spoke into the quiet that followed.

‘Hunt well and thorough, brother.’

Vasin forced his fists to unclench. It wouldn’t do to part like this. He pulled Gada close, feeling the man stiffen before settling into an awkward embrace. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, but his voice cracked and his throat tightened, swallowing the rest of the sentence.

‘Sssh,’ Gada said. ‘Deal with the hunt today. I can wait till tomorrow, the court for a while after that. One thing at a time.’ He peeled himself out of Vasin’s grip as another beat of the drums reverberated through the castle. ‘Hunt well and thorough.’

Unable to speak, Vasin nodded and left the room. His eyes were blurry with tears but it didn’t matter, he knew the way well enough, the hallways and rooms mapped over many lives.

With effort, he could push aside thoughts of the Sapphire High Lord and his brother, but the rage sat there, burning, like a hot coal in his chest.

It had been a glimpse, nothing more. The bottom half of a tunic and a pair of boots ascending a stairwell. One of the night guards doing the rounds.

Honoured Mother Chandni wandered to the bottom of the stairs, a frown spoiling her features. She knew all of the guards by sight and yet this one had seemed like a stranger. She also knew the routines of the castle as well as she knew the habits of the babe in her arms, and there were no changeovers due for at least an hour.

Still frowning, she continued up the stairs and stepped out onto the ramparts. It was still dark, the three suns some hours from rising, but Satyendra showed no signs of sleepiness. She felt the same. There was simply too much going on for her mind to rest.

A guard saluted her as she came into view. His name was Ji, one of the older ones. Ji was not the one she’d seen on the steps, they had moved too quickly, their stride that of a much younger man.

‘Did another guard come this way?’ she asked.

‘No, Honoured Mother. It’s just me and the cold out tonight.’

‘You’re sure?’

He nodded. ‘Even the castle is quiet.’

‘It’s holding its breath. We all are.’ It was Lord Rochant Sapphire’s rebirth ceremony in the morning and they all wanted him back dearly. The halls had seemed empty since he’d gone between lives.

‘When do you think he’ll come back to us?’ asked Ji.

‘When he’s ready. It’s not for you to question the time or place.’

‘Sorry, I just miss him.’

Chandni allowed herself a polite smile. ‘We all do.’

It’s time to replace Ji, she thought. The man’s losing his focus. I’ll keep him on long enough for Lord Rochant to see him in uniform one more time, and then retire him.

She made a slow circuit of the walls. Had she really seen that guard? It was dark and she was tired, perhaps she had imagined it? Chandni didn’t believe that though. There was something in the air, a tension that she hoped was connected to Lord Rochant’s return. But it wasn’t hope she felt in her stomach. Satyendra stirred in her arms, uncharacte‌ristically restless.

‘You feel it too don’t you?’ she said softly. ‘You’re not alone. I doubt any of us will sleep easily tonight.’

Satyendra regarded her with dark eyes. He had always been a quiet baby but there was something alert in his manner, a watchfulness that suggested a wise head rather than a vacant one.

‘Somewhere over there,’ she continued, pointing into the night, ‘is another castle just like this, floating high in the sky. It belongs to Lord Vasin Sapphire. At dawn, he’ll be hunting for demons in a place called Sagan. Normally your grandfather, Lord Rochant, would do it, but his soul is somewhere else, somewhere far, far away.’

All along the battlements were sapphire lanterns that took the sunslight of the day and turned it into a series of little blue halos. Chandni loved the constancy of their light almost as much as she loved the order of their placement, each painstakingly positioned the exact same distance from its neighbours, a visible testament to the perfection of House Sapphire. She found it much more impressive than the stars, strewn messily across the sky.

Only the greatest minds can create such order.

And Lord Rochant’s castle was a beacon of order. Strong walls, symmetrical, smooth, polished so that the stone and sapphires shone. She had lived here her whole adult life and never felt safer or happier.

Her imagination re-conjured those feet on the stairs, unfamiliar, moving quickly, and she looked down into the courtyard, then across to the opposite wall, then either side of the ramparts.

Nothing.

The castle was as it always was. A fortress hanging impossibly in the sky, held aloft by ethereal currents and forgotten arts.

Safe and dependable and beyond the reach of demons.

The thought made her look in the other direction, out, over the edge of the battlements, away from safety.

Below, she could see miles and miles of unconquered woodland spreading in every direction: the Wild. Strange. Threatening. The very sight of it chilled her, and in the dark it was all too easy to imagine it growing, reaching out to engulf the road-born who dwelled on its perimeter.

She couldn’t imagine living so close to death. How do they sleep down there? she wondered. How do they bear it?

Her eyes moved to the silver-blue ribbon sparkling in defiance of the dark: the Godroad. There were many paths through the Wild but the only safe ones were the Godroads. Relics from the Unbroken Age, each was built straight and true, cutting clean lines of glittering crystal through the trees, dividing the great forest into sections.

Chaos and order. The Wild and the Godroad. The demons and the Deathless.

She let the thoughts roll around in her mind, seeing the way one connected to the other. Like a set of dance steps repeated over and over, endless.

The road-born scavenged the forest, in part to provide for themselves, and in part to provide for people like Chandni.

Inevitably, their activities would catch the attention of the demons and a stalking would begin. After a while, a farm animal would vanish, or a child that had not listened to the warnings of their elders. When this happened, a village would call to their crystal lords for aid and the hunters would come, sending whatever it was back into darkness one way or another.

So it is with the people of Sagan. A cycle. Demons, sacrifice and then the hunt. Soon there will be order again.

But then, should it not also have been that way for the people of Sorn? Chandni shook her head sadly. High Lord Yadavendra had left Sorn to the mercy of the Wild. It was Lord Vasin, not Yadavendra, that was coming to Sagan’s aid.

Things are not as they should be, she thought. We need Lord Rochant back now more than ever.

Satyendra shifted in her arms and she realized she’d been ignoring him for too long. She lifted him up so that he could see over the top of the battlements.

‘Somewhere down there, the elders of Sagan will be choosing their tributes and sending them into the forest. Tributes are very brave, they draw out the demons so the hunters can get them.

‘If you look closely, you might even see their lights. Each one carries a torch to guide the hunters to them.’ Each one would also bear a fresh cut to lure the demons with their blood, but she didn’t mention that.

There were complicated rules about the choosing of a tribute. Some villages would pick their best in the hope that they would survive, bringing honour to all involved. Others would pick their worst, as the hunt was the neatest way to deal with undesirables. For a pariah, such an outcome could be a second chance. More than once, Chandni had heard tales of criminals volunteering to become a tribute in an effort to be forgiven for past crimes.

‘Though the Wild is cruel, my Satyendra, our world is fair. The road-born can rise all the way up here, if they are able enough. Lord Rochant proved that when he became Deathless. And even the Deathless can fall if they betray us. The traitor, Nidra Un-Sapphire, and the previous High Lord, Samarku Un-Sapphire, proved that when they made deals with the Wild. So you have to be perfect in all that you do and never bend, for when crystal bends, it shatters.’

Satyendra’s eyes attended her as she spoke. He is such a bright little thing. Chandni knew he could not understand her yet, but she liked talking to him and believed that, on some level, the spirit of her words was sinking in.

‘Our thoughts are with Lord Vasin and his hunters tonight. May they hunt well and thorough.’

When Satyendra gave a soft gurgle, she took it as agreement and planted a kiss on his forehead.

The rest of her walk passed peacefully, and soon she was back where she’d begun, at the stairwell.

Satyendra yawned and, a moment later, she found herself stifling one of her own. If she went back to her chambers now, she might have time for a few hours of sleep before the rebirth ceremony.

She turned to give Ji a goodnight wave before going inside. He was not the man he used to be, but he had served loyally and she was fond of him.

Halfway through the gesture her hand stopped, confused. Ji was nowhere to be seen. His post empty.

Though she knew in her heart that things were bad, Chadni took the time to check Ji had not simply slipped away to relieve himself or take refuge from the cold. He had not. She checked again. Then she ran.

The Chrysalis Chamber was glass on three sides, letting sunslight pour into the space. Even on a dawn like this one, when only the weakest of the suns, Wrath’s Tear, was peeking over the horizon, the heat was palpable, like a wall that Vasin had to press through.

Normally, sapphires adorned the back of the chamber, slowly spreading in pools of milky liquid, but on hunting days all was cleared away save for a single stand of armour and the two Gardener-smiths ready to help him change.

Each life that Vasin lived demanded a new set of armour, the crystals picked and grown by the Gardener-smiths the day his newest vessel was chosen, taking years and a great deal of skill on the part of the smiths to form it to the individual and establish a firm bond to the body. Though he preferred to be reborn as an adult, Vasin had gone through several childhoods and could recall little more tedious than the long modelling sessions.

Luckily, his last rebirth avoided the whole mess, his descendant having reached maturity before the soul was replaced with Vasin’s. This meant, thankfully, that it was his descendant, rather than him, that had spent several hours a day wearing each piece of crystal as it was grown and cut to fit.

It resulted in armour that fit so close and so naturally it was like skin.

More than that though, each set was grown from crystals harvested from the set before, and over time, they developed a personality of their own. For Vasin, putting the armour on was like reconnecting with the best part of himself. It was like coming home.

He raised his arms, assuming the ritual stance, and the Gardener-smiths took a little blood from his palms, daubing each piece with it, waking the crystal to his presence.

As the drum beats continued, nearing the point where the third and fourth drummers would join, the Gardener-smiths helped him into his Sky-legs, a pair of boots ending in long curving blades that would allow him to land safely, or bound easily into the air. Once mounted, he stood several feet higher than them. This was one of the things Vasin enjoyed most when hunting, the feeling of becoming something greater. Once, in better times, he’d talked about the feeling with his mother, and she’d told him it was the closest they came to being like the gods they were descended from.

The rest of the armour was then attached. He shivered as the crystal greaves were locked into place. At first he could feel them, cool against his calves, and then it was as if they had melted and become part of him.

Plates were attached to his thighs and groin, to his chest and shoulders, arms and hands. He turned his head from left to right, catching a glimpse of crystal wings, feather carved, curved and blade thin, sprouting from his back. Unlike those of birds, his were rigid.

At last a helm was placed on his head. Open-topped to let his hair spill out like a waterfall down his back, the crystal was thinned to give only the slightest tint of blue to his vision, and grown to leave breathing space at his nose and mouth.

Into his outstretched hands they placed a long silver-handled spear with a sapphire tip. His fingers moved naturally to the trigger set halfway down the shaft.

‘Hunt well and thorough, my lord,’ said the Gardener-smiths together, bowing low.

Vasin saluted them, pleased with their workmanship, and made his way to the edge of the Chrysalis Chamber, being careful to take small steps so as not to engage his Sky-legs too early.

As he approached, the Gardener-smiths backed away and the glass went with them, sliding aside to allow him onto a balcony overlooking the central courtyard of the palace.

People had gathered below, their adoring faces peering up at him. A block of hunters stood in the centre, their spears and wings glinting proudly in the sunslight. They were armoured in leather, not crystal as he was, and their Sky-legs and wings were lesser, the most their limited skills could handle. It was not their fault, there was simply only so much that could be achieved in a single lifetime. Vasin did not judge his mortal followers for it as some did. In fact, it made him proud how far his people managed to get within so few years. According to his mother, Gada had taken two lifecycles to reach their standard.

About the hunters were their families, and about them a greater crowd of staff and visitors, traders and children. All were dressed in their finest, a shimmering display of silks and crystal, sparkling, joyous.

Vasin raised his spear, and the third and fourth drummers joined in, one deep like the first, and one lighter like the second. The resonance was growing, the faster beats beginning to build, forcing him to lean forward as his wings were pulled back by each wave of sound.

It would not be long now.

‘Who has made the call?’ he said, and it took all of his skill to project his voice high enough and far enough to be heard below.

‘The people of Sagan!’ came the choral reply. Sagan, a sister settlement of Sorn. He wondered if the plight of one had become the plight of the other.

‘And who has answered the call?’

‘We have!’ bellowed the hunters.

‘Then there will be a hunt. And who will lead the hunt?’

‘Vasin,’ replied the crowd as one, ‘Lord Vasin, Lord Vasin of the Sapphire Everlasting, it is he who leads the hunt.’

‘And what will carry him through the Wild places?’

‘We will!’

‘And with what will you carry him?’

‘With song and heart and blade and blood.’

‘Prove it!’

And with that he leaped from the balcony.

The drums paused for the slightest part of a second, long enough for the crowd to take breath, and for Vasin to plunge down. He held his arms out, straight and still, and closed his eyes.

Wind whistled by, hurling back his hair.

Then the drums played again, all seven this time, a frenetic blast of sound, with the higher ones dancing over the lower, and the crowd’s cheer blasting over that.

Each of the sounds came together to form a net, swelling beneath his wings.

There was a moment of utter weightlessness in the gasp that came between falling and soaring, like the moment between one life and the next, and then Vasin was skimming over the heads of the crowd, spear thrust in front, calling for the hunters to join him.

And they did, each step a sailing bound, bobbing beneath him as they raced towards the outer wall. When they reached it, the hunters threw themselves over the edge, trusting to their wings and the essence that rose up from far, far below. For directly beneath them was a great split in the rock, a chasm that led into fathomless depths. The sides of the chasm were grey and so smooth they were almost soft to touch, like stone worked by years of sand and sea. From it, currents of essence rose, oddly coloured wisps of purple and yellow that slowly bled transparent as they mixed with the air. It was these currents that held the castle in the sky, like a giant cork riding gentle, invisible waves.

As the hunters passed over the lip of the wall, the ethereal currents swept them upwards, allowing them to glide in Vasin’s wake.

This was one of his favourite parts of the hunt, before the dive, where the world was spread out below. The floating castle was picked out by the rising red light of Wrath’s Tear, its chain bridge a flopping tongue that reached down to Mount Ragged and the deep path gouged into its side. But the base of the mountain was mist-shrouded, hidden beneath trees that carpeted everything as far as the eye could see and beyond: the Wild. Monsters and nightmares, tricksters and demons lurked beneath that twisted canopy; all desperate to get their hooks into the unwary.

He could feel the lift starting to fade from his wings and banked to the right, making a slow circle on the edge of the castle’s essence currents. The hunters followed his lead, all eyes alert for the signal.

A cry went up from Vasin’s right and he saw Mia, a young hunter, pointing. Following the angle of her arm, he was able to see the glimmer of light winking from the trees far below. It irritated him that the first spot was not his but he let it go. There would be more than enough glory to go round by the time this was done.

He raised his spear high, then let the point fall forward as he started his dive.

Away from the chasm, the essence currents were weaker and harder to manage. Enough to glide down but not enough to give lift. The Wild itself was a web of invisible essence but only the most skilled gliders could navigate it for long. The trick of the hunt was to drive the quarry towards the edge of a Godroad before putting down, otherwise the hunters could easily find themselves lost and overwhelmed.

As they descended on the first tribute, they could see the light was moving quickly through the trees, bouncing and flickering as it flitted under the canopy: something was making them run. This was to be expected, as each tribute was cut before they set off, the combination of blood and light designed to lure any demons from their hiding places as quickly as possible.

Another cry went out from the hunters. The second tribute had been spotted. Vasin frowned as he located them. They had become separated from the first and were moving deeper, their light flickering off to his left. The second tribute was not going as fast as the first, suggesting they were not under immediate threat, but Vasin was sure that would soon change.

He considered his options. The sensible thing to do would be to lead the hunters after the first tribute. They would surely lose the second but would maximize their chance of saving the first and killing the beast that pursued them cleanly.

However, this hunt did not need just to be successful, it needed to be perfect. The second tribute was nearly beyond the reach of his hunters but he could still get to them if he went immediately.

The thought made his wings nudge that way, as if the part of him that had seeped into the armour over the years, the better, bolder part, already knew what had to be done and was just waiting for him to catch up.

‘Mia,’ he called out. Hoping that his voice would carry over the winds. ‘You have the hunt.’ He pointed to the light of the first tribute and the dark shape glimpsed behind it. ‘Go!’

Whether or not she heard his words, she saw the way his spear pointed and read his intent, leading the hunters down in a sharp dive.

As they sped away, he banked left, doing everything he could to maintain his height. Still, it was not long before the greens and browns of the trees were racing only a few feet from his chest.

The canopy was thick here and he lost sight of the second tribute’s light, but it did not trouble him. In his mind he could still picture it, his imagination mapping its progress where his eyes could not.

This deep into the Wild, the gaps between the trees were few and far between, and it was a delicate choice to decide when to drop to ground level. Too soon and he would have to chase the tribute on foot, too long and he would crash into the branches.

One gap passed him, and through it, he was rewarded with a glimpse of a torch, another, and he could just see the outline of the one holding it. To his surprise, they’d stopped moving.

He dived into the next gap without thinking, submerging himself in the dark of the woods. The sudden stealing of the light left him blind for a second but he twisted and turned with the wind, instincts guiding him between the trunks as lesser branches clawed at his armour.

Three times his Sky-legs touched the ground, absorbing momentum until he could skid to a halt on the fourth.

Without the roar of the winds, the silence was abrupt, shocking. Vasin turned on the spot in the direction of the tribute’s torch, to find it was coming slowly towards him. An outline of a cloak, and a hood. Vasin’s eyes were still adjusting but he could tell the tribute was an adult.

A little of the red sunslight fingered its way through the trees above, coming in slender shafts in the space between them.

‘You have called and we have answered,’ he said. ‘Fear not, for you are under the protection of the Sapphire Everlasting.’

The figure stopped to laugh, a bitter and oddly familiar sound. The torch went out and the tribute threw it to land, smoking, at his feet, the damp grass hissing in protest against its heat.

Vasin raised his spear in readiness, glancing about for signs of others. He could see no one else, though in that moment he wasn’t sure who this favoured.

‘Who are you?’

The figure moved closer and Vasin’s throat tightened, his body knowing and reacting to the truth before his mind could grasp it.

‘Oh my sweet one, do I pass so quickly from memory?’

She pulled back the hood. Her dark skin had paled a little, and there was a scar on her cheek he did not recognize. Sorrow had marked her eyes and put new lines around her mouth but there was no doubt who she was.

Ashamed, Vasin lowered the spear and cast his helmet aside. ‘Mother?’

‘Always,’ she replied, stepping into the space where his spearpoint had just been.