Closing the book, Anya read the telegram again to be sure she’d read it right. The book was proving of little help. It had interesting pictures but was written in a language from across the seas, one she’d never come across before and doubted she’d see again. But since Gaemil had bartered hard to get it for her, and it was about Aenuks, Kara, and Immortals, she was doing her best to interpret it. While Jonas had been both brief and deliberately obscure, the message only for her, the telegram was simpler to divine meaning from.

‘L’ clearly stood for ‘Llew’, and ‘bb’ must have meant ‘baby’.

Incredible sadness turned her lips down without her say so.

The next word was ‘dead.’ There was no other way to interpret that.

Anya rolled her eyes to the ceiling, blinked away the gathering tears, and sniffed before re-reading the next part. ‘L hurt but OK.’ Anya wasn’t too sure about that. How could Llew be okay after her unborn child was murdered? Perhaps he should have said ‘alive’. That would have been far more accurate. Hurt but alive, Anya could believe. Not okay. Llew was not okay.

The next part read: ‘Ars Immtl???’. Clearly, Jonas had no clue when it came to rules of punctuation.

She was stalling, her eyes still burning from her first interpretation of the message. Poor Llew! In the middle of Quaver, too, with only Jonas by her side. Certainly, Jonas was a good choice, but Anya couldn’t imagine him being there for Llew quite the way she could. She had to go. She simply had to go. And take books. Lots of books. Except, she couldn’t, because of what Aris had done.

‘Ars Immtl???’ Jonas thought Aris could be an Immortal. It certainly seemed likely. Jonas hadn’t taken the time to elaborate in the message, perhaps avoiding widespread panic, or simply not wanting to call attention to Llew’s vulnerability. But it would explain Aris’s desire to obliterate information about the previously extinct race.

It irked Anya to have so many new questions and no readily accessible way to answer them. If all the Immortals had truly been killed, how had Aris become one? Did that mean anyone could become one? That was a terrifying thought.

If Aris had been Immortal all along, how had he lost his powers? Had the answer been in one of those books? She couldn’t remember seeing anything along those lines, but she hadn’t read every book in Gaemil’s library yet. And now she never could.

Quaver would have books, about Kara at least, although if they were smart, they would have information about Aenuks, too. Turhmos might loan her books, but only while she remained in Brurun, and she couldn’t do that, not now. Not when Llew needed her. Jonas hadn’t specified that she was required, but she would be damned if she was going to let Llew go through this alone. If Llew was hurt, as Jonas had indicated in the telegram, then she had been injured with a Syakaran knife and it could take her months to heal. Longer, if she was struck down with infection.

Luckily, Gaemil had no argument against her going to Quaver to support her friend. All she had to do was pack, lightly, and head out the following morning, with Gaemil and a sizable escort, of course. But she would ride horseback. While many still frowned on women of both her societal and marriage status straddling a horse, Anya was not about to let the trip take any longer than necessary.

Someone sat on the edge of Llew’s bed, near her knees.

She wiped away the crusty sleep holding her eyes closed and blinked into the room, dully lit by the emerging sun through the heavy curtains. Lit enough to silhouette her visitor. The figure turned its head to the accompaniment of creaking leather. It wasn’t Jonas. She turned to the side of her bed, but he wasn’t there. The figure sat between her and Jonas’s little cot, but she was willing to bet that was empty, too.

‘Morning. I’ll leave you to decide whether or not it’s good.’ The cool, deep voice was undeniable. Like Jonas’s, but not.

Llew tried to scramble from her bed, moaned in agony, clutched her belly, and fell back onto her pillow, her entire body and mind screaming at her to get away, run, fly, die, anything to not be in the presence of the man before her.

‘You are . . . injured?’ Braph sounded concerned.

‘Get away from me you . . . you monster.’ It was pitiful, but this wasn’t the time for clever insults. She desperately scanned the room again, even though it was in vain. How had he arranged for her to be alone? Jonas would never have agreed to it. ‘What are you doing here?’

And how had he made it to the heart of Quaver? Then again, the man did know how to fly.

‘Looking for Jonas, but I don’t know where he resides now. I’ve followed a trail of crumbs to you, and I figure he’ll show up here some time. Besides, gives us a chance to catch up.’

Llew couldn’t see his features against the dull light through the curtains. Didn’t much matter; she could hear his smug amusement. She glared her deadliest glare at him, confident he would be able to see her well enough.

‘Tell me, what’s wrong with you?’ he asked.

‘Come within reach and I’ll show you.’

‘A Syakaran knife wound? Did you and my darling little brother have a fight? But wait . . .’ He cocked his head. ‘His knife is . . .’ He put a hand to his hip. ‘. . . right here.’

The Knife. One of several, Llew now knew, that could inflict injuries no Aenuk – not even a Syaenuk – could heal from. The knife Jonas had sworn to keep in his possession, under his control, to stop it from killing any more of his loved ones. Llew had stuck it in Braph and left it there. She had thought him safely dead. When she’d turned from saving Jonas’s life to see nothing but a smear of Braph’s blood left behind, she’d thought surely, he couldn’t make it far. Surely, though perhaps not dead there and then, he was as good as. She was wrong.

That knife had killed Jonas’s parents, his wife, his child. Jonas believed it cursed to take the lives of those he cared about, including Llew. Unless he possessed it.

It chilled Llew to see it on Braph’s hip.

He looked off into the center of the room for a moment, then turned back to her, studying her. ‘What happened?’

‘Like you have any right to know. Get out or I’ll scream.’ She didn’t consider herself the screaming kind, but this seemed like a good time to try.

‘But I’ve done nothing wrong.’ His voice carried a smile.

‘Ha—! Ooh!’ Pain fired through her.

‘I just want to talk to my brother.’

‘I doubt he has anything to say to you. You better be ready for the arse-whipping he has in store for you.’ She fought to keep a confidence in her voice that wasn’t there. Where was Jonas? She looked to the empty chair by her bed. Her hand reached out to the edge of the bed, where his head often lay.

‘How sweet. You Syaenuk women do have a mysterious power over us Vastergaard men, don’t you? Ah, well. I’m sure he’ll return soon. I can be patient.’ He shuffled his seat looking like he intended to stay put.

Llew’s bladder was waking up, but she would rather pee herself than have Braph assist her. She clamped her mouth tight and tried to think about something else, like what the hell Braph could want to say to Jonas now that he’d killed him once already. Was he here to kill Jonas again? But Llew wouldn’t be able to heal Jonas now she wasn’t pregnant with his child anymore! She tried to steady her breathing and not let him pick up on her panic.

‘You lay a hand on him and I will kill you myself. And I’ll make sure of it this time.’ An idle threat with the loss of her baby and the Syakaran powers that had come with it, but Braph didn’t need to know that.

Braph smiled at her. ‘Oh, you didn’t kill me. But you rest your weary head. I’m not here to kill him. I came to ask his help.’

Llew snorted and winced. Despite her vast improvement over the course of the week, her failed attempt to get away from Braph must have torn something.

Braph narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You’ve lost the child.’

‘I didn’t lose anything.’

‘That does put a dampener on my plans . . .’

‘To hell with your plans! To hell with you!’

Braph sat back at leisure, unresponsive to her outburst, looking her up and down. ‘History repeats . . . Tell me, if you will—’

The door swung open, pushed by Jonas’s shoulder as he stumbled in.

Jonas took a couple of giddy steps towards the bed before bracing himself, hands on knees. He probably should have let himself sober up before coming back, but he was tired. He let a belch slip through his lips. Nothing grotesque, but it felt a whole lot better.

He straightened, throwing his head back, stretching his gut out, finding some comfort as whisky and bread and whatever else he’d eaten settled.

Proud of himself? Not at all. But he needed some way of coping with everything. Normally, Aris would have been there to direct his energies, if not offer soothing words. It was hard to believe that, this time, Aris was the problem.

He puffed out another whisky-laden breath and brought his head down.

Braph was sitting on Llew’s bed.

He didn’t even have to clarify the thought.

He launched himself at Braph, threw him over his shoulder, sending him flying across the room, crashing into a wall and to the floor. He gave his brother time to clamber up. Somehow, behind a grimace, Braph managed a laugh, his teeth framed by blood. In the dark they appeared sharpened, with blackness between. Jonas gathered himself to strike again, suddenly quite sober.

‘Jonas.’ He thought he heard Llew say his name.

Jonas raced across the room, lifted and threw Braph to the floor. He followed him down, crouching over him, prepared to administer a world of pain. But his brother blinked up at him and the fight went out of Jonas.

‘Jonas!’ Llew called. She went to clamber from her bed but fell back.

‘Llew, don’t—’ He stumbled forward, tripping over Braph on his way to her. ‘Lie down. You’re still sick.’ He caught himself on her bed, swaying slightly, and gently pressed her back, then braced himself as he attempted to regain control of his swirling head. He was so tired.

‘You’re drunk.’

He nodded, not bothering to raise his head.

‘My pa used to drink.’ Llew braced herself on her elbow. ‘Never did anyone any good.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ And he was. He shouldn’t have been such a mess.

‘He wants to talk to you. But you’re in no condition for it.’

‘I’m done talkin’ to him.’

‘Jonas, look at him,’ Llew whispered harshly. ‘His arm is gone. His magic device is gone.’

Jonas looked at Llew. How could she stand the man being in the same room as her, let alone suggest Jonas talk to him?

‘The sooner you talk the sooner he’ll be gone.’

He nodded again. Sounded like sensible thinking.

What was it she’d said about Braph’s arm?

He looked over his shoulder. Braph had picked himself up off the floor and stood, bruised, and battered, awaiting Jonas’s next move.

A small crowd gathered at the door. Hisham pushed his way into the room. Seeing Braph, he tensed. Jonas shook his head. Leave him to me. He was his brother, after all.

Jonas pushed up from the bed, turning to face his half-brother.

‘Why are you here?’ Jonas asked.

‘I like the hair,’ said Braph, with a contemptuously annoying smile.

‘Why are you here?’ Jonas repeated.

‘I need your help.’

The room settled in a tense silence. Even the audience at the doorway hushed.

Part of Jonas wanted to laugh. Braph wanted his help? After everything he’d done. But he couldn’t deny an interest in the plea. His eyes settled on Braph’s truncated arm. Only weeks before he’d worn an unusual device on his forearm that when fueled by Aenuk blood gave him the power to do just about anything. Even fly, and control minds. While Jonas couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry it was missing, the reasons for its disappearance would no doubt be of some interest. Braph was now merely a Karan. A crippled one, at that.

‘Turhmos has taken my home and everything, and everyone, in it,’ Braph said. ‘As you can see, I am . . . disadvantaged in my efforts to reclaim it. I hoped that the knowledge that one of its inhabitants is, in fact, your son, might persuade y—’

‘Son?’ The pronouncement knocked the wind from Jonas.

Braph nodded.

Jonas narrowed his eyes at his brother. ‘Don’t you lie to me.’

Braph shook his head.

Jonas didn’t know what to think. His son was alive? But how? He looked at Braph. His half-brother looked smug as ever, but there was an earnestness, and honesty there, too. He turned to Hisham, whose head hung low, an admission of guilt if Jonas had ever seen one. He’d known something all along, and never said a word.

Jonas thought the bottom had fallen out of his world the day he’d returned to his home in flames. And it certainly had when Llew’s babies had been killed by none other than Aris himself. Now his mind reeled from the truth, unable to accept it, except that in Hisham’s attempts not to look at him, his best friend confirmed it. His son lived.

Jonas slammed Braph into the wall and held him there, a forearm across his throat. He would deal with Hisham later.

‘You stole my son and expect me to be grateful when you turn up beggin’ for my help?’

Braph tried to speak but had to settle for coughing through his crushed windpipe. Jonas eased off him a touch.

‘I expect nothing but . . .’ Braph gasped in a raggedy breath. ‘. . . your love for your son to bring you to his aid. He needs you now.’

‘He needed me a year ago!’ Jonas took a moment to calm himself, breathing through his rage. The whisky must have boiled from his blood, and yet his mind struggled to find a clear thought. His son lived?

Braph managed a conceding nod.

Jonas turned to Hisham. ‘Get him out of my sight.’

Hisham moved swiftly, eager to please. It would have been satisfying if he hadn’t been keeping such a devastating secret for more than a year. The betrayal cut deep.

Jonas eased off Braph only as Hisham stepped in, though it was clear his brother had no intention of fighting. Hisham hooked a hand under Braph’s armpit and hauled him across the room.

‘And don’t come back,’ Jonas said.

Hisham nodded, head down like a puppy caught making a mess inside. Then he reached down by Braph’s hip and brought up a knife. Jonas’s knife.

Jonas crossed the room to claim it. As Hisham left with Braph, he cradled the knife. The knife Llew had left sunk in Braph’s gut. The knife that had killed his parents and wife, and countless Aenuks. The knife he still feared was destined to take Llew’s life simply because he cared for her. Despite all that, a smile curled his lips as he held it again. The blade had history. A painful one. But all those deaths had occurred when this blade had been out of his possession. In his hands, it had killed none but Aenuks. In his hands, it would stay that way.

He hadn’t been wearing his knife-belt since its loss, so he slipped the weapon behind his belt and turned to Llew.

‘Did he hurt you?’

‘No. Just gave me a fright, is all.’

She was putting on a brave face. Still, it was something of a relief that she didn’t need him to be strong for her because his sobriety was wavering, his consciousness much preferring to run and hide than face facts. Braph was alive and had made it inside Quaver, right into Taither’s barracks, and into Llew’s hospital room. That alone filled his head with chaos. And now he had been told that his child, a son from his marriage with Kierra, had survived. It seemed simplest to shut down for a while.

He swayed slightly where he stood, then crossed the room and knelt by Llew’s cot.

He had time to think how disappointed she must be in him, and to say ‘I’m sorry’ before his head got too heavy to hold up anymore. He let it hit the mattress. Then he sent his hands out, grabbing sheet and seeking hers. After a moment of fumbling, she reached one of her hands to his, clasping tightly through the sheet.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered again.

‘Don’t be,’ she said.

He sunk into darkness.