Night, and almost dawn. Thalia was sleeping, breathing softly, her hair hanging over her face, one hand raised near her mouth. Barely visible in the dark, the faint glow from the brazier catching on her skin. Marith sat and watched her for a while. His breathing in time with hers. Never ceased to wonder, watching her. Luminous bronze, like flowers opening, like water and light. The first time he saw her face, shining like that … Perfect beauty. Hope.

Misplaced. Like everything. The pitiful illusion that life was worth something. Life is death, Marith. Love is death. There is no hope. He had not told her about Tyrenae. She would understand, perhaps. But it would burn like ice, to see her face if she knew. She would have to know in the end.

I wish I hadn’t done it, he thought. Osen had asked him if he was certain. He had paused a long time, before he had said yes. And there, now, another guilt. I shouldn’t have asked it of him, he thought.

Betray me, he thought, looking at Thalia. Destroy me. Please. If you love. Carin loved me enough to help me. You … do not, I think. The Chosen of the God of Living and Dying, radiant with light. You do not understand. You cannot.

Osen understands, he thought then. It sickened him, then, to think that. Osen had always understood.

He got up, wrapped the thick fur blanket carefully around her. Caring. Taking care of her. Even despite everything. She moved and frowned and sighed. Didn’t wake. He dressed quickly, feeling his clothes in the dark. His sword caught with a clatter on one leg of the brazier: he froze, guilty, waiting for her to wake. She stirred and sighed again, her eyes blinked open blindly, then rolled back into sleep. Marith counted to two hundred in his head. When she was certainly asleep he buckled his sword belt, fastened his bloodstained blood stinking cloak. The movement of the fabric raised a stench of rot in the tent. Flakes of blood moving in the draft blowing in through the tent’s seams. He trailed blood where he walked now, like a man who had been walking in the muck. Slug trails. Sometimes Thalia had to brush it out of her hair.

He pushed aside the curtain separating the sleeping room from the main chamber of the tent, went through. A candle burned there on a low table set with fine worked silver jugs and cups. He lit a second candle, poured himself a drink, splashed water on his face. The wine was as cold as the water. He drank the wine off, refilled his cup, drank again. The cold sharp sweetness of it sang in his head. He drew a long breath. Stepped outside.

It was perfect dark, no moon, no stars. The cloud had thickened overnight. The torches had all burned down to embers, the campfire was dead. Utter silence in the camp. Tal sat hunched in the tent doorway, sleeping, his sword drawn across his knees. Should have the man cut to pieces, for falling asleep on watch. Cut him and maim him and feed his eyes and his tongue to the dogs.

He walked carefully over the curled bodies of the guards who should be watching. It was too dark to see, but he walked as if he could see. His eyes open. Staring into the dark. He walked further up the slopes of the mountain, his feet crunching on the stones. The air itself smelled of stone. In the sky in the east the very first faint whiteness of morning. He could see, without seeing, the tents damp with dew, the men sleeping, the dead fires, Thalia sleeping with her hands against her face. The slopes of the mountain were dead and silent. Everything still. Waiting. Afraid.

A memory came to him: walking on a riverbank, in the dawn, watching the mist rise, the world pale and strange, his own vision pale and strange. The bog smell of the water. Silence, and then the harsh sad cry of a bird. A terrible, fearful knowledge of impending joy and horror, of something coming in the dawn. A keening grief struck through him as of something lost. A pain.

I should kill her, he thought. Destroy her. Like I killed Carin.

He stopped walking. He’d come far enough. The camp was below out of sight in the rocks. The sun was rising. It was time.

So.

Marith sat down on a rock, took a drink from the wineflask at his belt, rubbed at his eyes. His hands were shaking. Stupid. No need to be afraid, he thought. I have no need to be afraid. Not now. He took another drink of wine. Looked at the ragged face of the mountain before him. Stood up and raised his arms.

“Athelarakt! Mememonsti tei essenek! Ansikanderakesis teme tei kekilienet! Athela!”

Come out! Show yourself! Your king summons you. Come!

His voice echoed on the rock. Nothing moved. Pink breaking dawn. Thick black clouds at the peaks. A dead land.

“Athelarakt! Ansikanderakesis teme tei kekilienet! Ansikanderakesis teme! Athela!”

Nothing.

“Athela!”

A crow called, off to his left. Marith almost laughed: was that it, all he would find, his voice’s echo and a crow?

The crow called again. Stones rattled behind him. Ah, gods … He swung round.

“Marith.” Thalia was there, wrapped in her furs, Ithish diamonds at her throat. “Marith.”

He said in confusion, “What are you doing here? It’s not … not safe.”

“Not safe?” She smiled. “I chose to come. I think I will be safe.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was. You woke me up. Crashing around with your sword trying to be quiet.” Her smile faded. “You shouldn’t drink in the mornings.”

“I needed it, this morning.”

Opened her mouth to speak, then sighed. Laughed. Bitter laugher. Sad. “I’ll have a drink too, then.”

“You don’t need it.” Drops of wine red on her lips. It made him flinch, to see her drink. She gave the wineflask back to him.

“Come on then,” said Thalia. Marith shook himself, followed her further up the slopes of the mountain, the path winding up and back on itself, a hard scramble over rocks that cut at their hands. Thalia’s cloak caught, he had to detach it, ripping the lining; her hair came loose and blew in the wind. She was panting a little. Enjoying herself. He’d taken her climbing at Malth Elelane, on the cliffs of the headland that ran down to deep rock pools and caves and the sea. She’d laughed as she climbed.

They came to a narrow gap in the rocks, a thin passage through like an open door. The path ran through it, water running down in a stream making the ground shine. So narrow they had to go through sideways. It opened out into a wide gorge, sheltered and green, its walls great tumbled masses of stone. A peaceful place. Calm out of the wind. The cloud was coming down over the mountains, making it misty, as though seen through a hatha haze. Marith rubbed at his eyes again.

“Here,” Thalia said. She took his hand. “Ynthelaranemyn mae.”

He almost snatched his hand away from her. Then grasped hers more tightly. Warm. “Ynthelaranen, beloved. It will come. Singular. I hope.”

They stood together looking at the rocks and the grass and the gathering cloud. Slowly the world fading, grey mist covering everything, closing off their vision. Grey mist and grey rock. The side of the mountain merged away. Morning light dimmed. Silence, different to the silence before the cloud came down, heavier and waiting. Like the memory again, the river mist, the dawn, knowing something was near.

No, Marith thought. That, that was a memory of this place.

Ah, gods. Flee. Run away from here. Take her away. She is betraying me? Then beg her to kill me here, now, before it’s too late. She is betraying me? Then she is as wise as she is beautiful, and all the world should thank her.

The cloud stirred. Sounds in the rocks: scrabbling, stones shifting, stones dragging against stone. Stones shattering under great weight. A rasping breathing that sounded like a man breathing as he died in pain.

Athelenaranen.

It comes.

Smoke smell. Hot metal. Charred meat. Colour, coming towards them through the cloud. A glow of burning. Something too huge to be properly seen.

Marith drew a breath. His eyes itching. Fire. Smoke. Burning. Scalded metal. Fear. Joy. He clawed at his eyes. Thalia was trembling, her hand cold with sweat, fingers clutched into his palm. Marith squeezed it tightly. It’s all right. It’s all right, beloved. I’ve done this before, remember? That didn’t end … quite as badly as it might have done.

It came closer. A vast shape, vast as buildings, blocking out the weak little light of the sun. Its own light, red as coal fires, flickering from eyes and mouth and scales. The scrape of stones breaking beneath it. A hissing of steam and the rasping raw breath.

The dragon bent out of the mist. Lowered itself before Marith. Bowed its head.

Like a horse, waiting to be mounted. Like a dog, beaten and begging for treats.

Like a lover, kneeling in desire and surrender at his feet.