The queen’s face betrayed no emotion as she stared at him, but he saw how her hands shifted as if itching to reach for a hidden weapon. “Relate your message,” she ordered.

“He said it was a great thing to travel so far with the woman he loved.”

Her hands clenched, forming tight fists as she advanced towards him. He heard two swords scraping free of scabbards as her lords came to her side, steel poised to take his life. “How did he die?” she demanded.

“Bravely. He fought well but the Kuritai are skillful, as you know.”

He found himself unable to meet her gaze, the impassive perfection of her face a terrible contrast to the burnt screaming woman who had fled the throne room. “I make no plea for mercy,” he said, lowering his head. “And await your judgement.”

“Do you hunger for death then? Do you imagine the Departed will make a welcome for one such as you?”

“I doubt it, Highness. But hope is at the heart of the Faith.”

“Then your hope is to be dashed, for now at least.” She gestured Iltis towards a locked cell, the Lord Protector working the keys and hauling the door wide, he and his fellow lord going inside to retrieve the occupant. Unlike Frentis this man had been festooned with chains, ankles, knees, wrists and neck all secured with newly forged shackles, forcing him to move in an inching shuffle as the two lords dragged him into the light. Despite his obvious discomfort his face was absent of any sign of distress, the features the familiar immobile mask of the slave-elite. His chest was bare and thick with well-honed muscle, a patchwork of scars covering the flesh from waist to neck.

“Kuritai,” Frentis murmured.

“The only one we have managed to capture in this entire war,” the queen said. “Found senseless at the docks the day the city fell. According to Lord Al Hestian he was set to guard Alucius, assurance of his father’s compliance. His name is Twenty-Seven.”

She moved closer to the slave-elite, her eyes scanning him from head to toe in critical appraisal. “Brother Harlick tells me these creatures have no will of their own, it’s driven from them through torment, drugs and, according to Aspect Caenis, various Dark means that stink of the Ally’s influence. Much as your will was driven from you, I imagine. What would he do if we were to free him, I wonder?”

“I would strongly advise against it, Highness,” Frentis said.

She turned to him with the same look of examination still in place, her eyes going to a particular spot on his chest. “Lady Davoka tells me the wound I gave you festered, that you have her to thank for your life.”

Frentis glanced at Davoka, finding her more ill at ease than he could remember, her forehead beaded with sweat. He saw she held a small glass bottle, the contents seeming to shimmer a little and he noted her hand was actually trembling. “That is correct, Highness,” he said, his unease deepening. What’s in there that could scare her so? “Though I believe it was your knife that truly saved me. Somehow it . . . freed me.”

“Yes.” Her gaze returned to the prisoner and she held out her hand to Davoka, speaking in Lonak. The queen accepted the bottle from her and held it up to the dim light, the dark liquid inside producing a foul odour as she removed the stopper. “The blade that freed you was coated with this,” she told Frentis. “A gift from our Lonak friends. One I suspect may prove highly useful to our purpose.” She moved closer to the Kuritai, speaking to him softly in Volarian, “I take no pleasure in this.”

She lifted the bottle to a spot at the top of his chest, tipping it to allow a single drop of the liquid to fall onto the slave’s scars. The result was immediate, the scream that erupted from the Kuritai’s throat enough to pain the ears as he convulsed, collapsing in his chains to writhe on the stones. The queen stepped back from him, her face grim, eyes bright as she stoppered the bottle. Frentis saw how she stiffened her back and forced herself to watch the slave’s torment. After a few seconds his screams abated to agonised whimpers, his back-straining writhes diminishing to gasping shudders. Finally, he lay still, panting and bathed in sweat.

Lyrna took a cautious step forward but Frentis raised a hand. “If I may, Highness?” She gave a nod of assent and he went to the Kuritai’s side, crouching to peer into his face, finding life returning to pain-dulled eyes.

“Can you talk?” he asked in Volarian.

The eyes blinked, finding focus, the response a croaking cough from a throat unused to speech. “Yesss.”

“What is your name?”

The eyes narrowed a fraction, the answer coming in rough, harshly accented Volarian. “I . . . began as Five Hundred. Now . . . I am Twenty . . . Seven.”

“No.” Frentis leaned closer. “Your real name. Do you know it?”

The eyes wandered a little, his brow creasing at a rush of memory. “Lekran,” he said, his voice faint then turning to a snarl. “Lekran . . . My father . . . was Hirkran, of the red axe.”

“You are far from home, my friend.”

Lekran jerked, his chains snapping tight. “Then . . . get this fucking metal off me . . . so I can go back there. For time on this earth is short, and I have many men to kill.”

• • •

“It truly prevents dreams?” Frentis gave the contents of the flask a dubious sniff, finding the scent less than inviting, like mildew mixed with stewed tea.

“It renders a sleep deep enough to prevent them,” Brother Kehlan replied. “I first concocted it in the aftermath of the Ice Horde. There were many in the Reaches troubled by nightmares when the killing was done, myself included. It will stop your dreams, brother. Though the aching head you’ll have come the morning may make you pine for the dreams.”

They aren’t dreams, Frentis knew. But it might at least guard against wayward thoughts when she touches my mind. The Fifth Order had established itself in the merchants’ houses near the docks, the many rooms and deep cellars providing space enough for most of the wounded and storage for their growing supply of bandages and curatives. It seemed Lady Al Bera had managed to persuade a few Alpiran merchants to risk a final supply run across the wintry Meldenean, bringing much needed medicines along with the food.

He thanked the healer and made his way outside, walking along the wharf to where Vaelin stood regarding the huge Volarian warship. He was aware of the many glances he drew as he walked, and more than a few openly hostile glares, but mostly just fear or surprise. He might still be the Red Brother to some, but to most he was now the King’s Assassin, freed by virtue of their queen’s endless grace. She stirred no fear in them, only adulation, and they laboured tirelessly at her command. Everywhere he looked people were at work, rebuilding fallen walls, hammers ringing in makeshift forges and new recruits being drilled to unaccustomed discipline. He saw fatigue on many faces but no idleness, all moving to their allotted tasks with a singular determination. Her captains might fear her course, but these people would sail every ocean in the world at her word.

He heard raised voices on the ship as he neared, his eyes picking out two figures on the deck, one short, the other tall. The shorter of the two seemed to have the loudest voice. “Your sister has a surprisingly waspish tongue, brother,” Frentis observed to Vaelin.

“Our new Lord of the Queen’s Yard brings out the worst in her,” he replied, watching Alornis angrily bunch up a sheaf of parchment and throw it in Davern’s face before stomping off the gangplank. “He asked her to make drawings of the ship. Something I suspect he now regrets.”

“Arrogant numb-head!” Alornis fumed, having made her way to the quay, her stern visage unmoved by her brother’s comforting hug.

“He didn’t like the drawings?” Vaelin asked.

“It wasn’t the drawings.” She raised her voice, casting it back at the ship. “It’s his pigheaded refusal to listen to reasonable advice!”

“I’m sure he knows his business,” Vaelin said, earning a reproving scowl.

“This monstrosity,” she said pointing at the Queen Lyrna’s hull. “Is massively over-engineered, yet he wants to copy it, expending vast amounts of labour and timber in the process.”

“Your own design being more elegant, no doubt?”

“Actually, yes, dear brother, it is.” She drew herself up, clutching her satchel to her chest. “I shall take this to the queen.” She gave Frentis a stiff bow and walked off with a determined gait.

“When last I met her,” Frentis said, “she was more softly spoken.”

“We are all much changed, brother.” Vaelin turned away from the ship, walking towards the mole with Frentis falling in alongside. “The queen’s design for you,” he said, halting a good distance from other ears. “You can refuse.”

“Hardly, brother. Nor would I wish to.”

Vaelin gazed out to sea, grey waters chopped by the wind under a turbulent sky. “The woman who haunts your dreams, do you think she will sense your coming?”

“Possibly. Though I’m hoping Brother Kehlan’s physic will mask my thoughts. In any case, her interest in me might work to our advantage, my mission being diversionary.”