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stones; the lightning storm and the True-men about to conduct the full-blood sacrifice, who turned out to be...
    Graelen.
    Sorne’s knees gave way as he sank to the ground with a groan. He hadn’t been able to save Graelen. In the end, the adept had sacrificed himself to save Sorne. And Graelen had died believing Sorne would warn the city. He’d meant to; he’d planned to go straight to Imoshen.
    Stunned, Sorne came to his feet and took a mouthful of watered wine.
    Had King Charald’s army reached the city yet? Did he still have time to warn them? Sorne looked around for some boots. He’d have to steal a horse and find...
    Find Valendia. How could he have forgotten his sister?
    He’d been trying to find Valendia when all this madness started. He had a flash of True-men mobs wandering the port and the bodies of Wyrds swinging from shop signs.
    He’d searched the crypts under the church, but he couldn’t find Valendia. She’d been hidden by–
    His brother walked in, dressed in a long brocade robe over a white under-robe and flat cap. That explained where he was; this tent was richly appointed as befitted the high priest, voice of the Father, greatest of the seven gods of Chalcedonia.
    ‘I see you’re awake.’ Zabier’s eyes glittered strangely. ‘Good. We’re running out of time. The Wyrds want to talk terms.’
    ‘Zabier... What have you done with Valendia? Did you send her to the retreat?’
    Zabier laughed. ‘Why would I do anything so obvious? She’s safe as long as you cooperate.’
    Sorne’s heart sank. ‘Brother–’
    ‘I’m not your brother and she’s not your sister. You’re just a brat our mother wet-nursed,’ Zabier corrected, then gave him a thoughtful look. ‘You’re still addled. I should never have given you that second dose.’
    So he’d been drugged. That explained his thick head. ‘What did you give me?’
    ‘Pains-ease.’
    ‘But that’s only good for minor hurts.’
    ‘Shows how much you know. In the pure form it brings visions.’
    ‘Do those visions come true?’
    Zabier gave him a sour look. He retreated three steps and called through the tent flap. ‘Holy warriors, come here.’
    Two burly priests entered the tent.
    ‘Clean him up. Dress him in the robes of the Warrior’s-voice–’
    ‘We only have the spare robes for the Father’s-voice,’ one of them said. ‘No one told us we’d need–’
    ‘I don’t care, as long as he looks the part of a religious visionary. Hurry up. The king is waiting.’
    Before last night, Sorne would never have believed Zabier could turn on him. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but they were brothers, or at least choice-brothers. Now there was a restless energy about Zabier that he did not like.
    Shocked and heart-sore, Sorne did not resist as the burly male priests stripped him, rubbed his body with sacred oils and dressed him in a robe that only came to his calves. He tried to make sense of everything, but his brain was still sluggish.
    After a while, something came back to him. ‘Last night you said–’
    ‘That was two nights ago. Last night Charald attacked the Wyrd city. Haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve said? The king has to meet the Wyrds to talk terms.’
    ‘The city walls held?’
    ‘We breached the walls. The barons’ men rampaged through the streets and palaces, but the Wyrds rallied. They shut the gates. They’ve been throwing bodies onto the causeway all day. We’ve been carting them off to the pits.’ Zabier gestured for the two burly priests to leave. ‘The war barons are furious, the king is livid and’ – he glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone – ‘I look like an idiot. I told them I’d had a vision of them marching across the causeway, triumphant. It seemed a safe guess, considering Charald’s past successes and your vision of half-bloods being loaded into carts by True-men. You...’ Zabier shook his head. ‘The king still believes in your visions.’
    ‘Because