Amid drifting consciousness, King Isendon of Sessalie dreamed. A wizened shaman sat with his daughter, Anja, his gnarled hand placed at her heart. Ancient eyes closed, a battered sword on his knees, he raised his voice and started to sing. The failing monarch felt each note as the kin tie to his heir rang out in summoned vibration; and all over the kingdom under his rule, the gathering darkness of the sorcerer’s lines broke apart and scattered like vapour. The sweet notes pealed on until nary a shadow remained. When at due length the feat was accomplished, the king woke to find Jussoud bent above him. ‘Did you hear?’

The nomad nodded, wonder shining in his grey eyes.

‘Fetch Taskin,’ said the king, very clearly.

The commander’s voice answered, close by. ‘Your Majesty, I am with you.’

King Isendon smiled. ‘Captain Mysh kael brought my daughter to Tuinvardia alive. The allies she treats with have spared us.’ This said, the old monarch drew his last breath and, content, his exhausted heart rested.