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he’s the red rider.’ Jostan spat. He expected the magician and Nthandra to both fall about laughing, but neither of them did. If anything, they both looked at Semian with even greater interest. ‘Did you hear me? He believes it. Prophecies, end of the world, he believes the lot. He thinks it’s him.’ There. ‘He’s crazy. And if you don’t think he’s crazy, then you’re both crazy too . ’ He walked away and left them to it. Not just crazy crazy, either. Dangerous crazy. Cracked. Mad as a bag of spiders. That sort of crazy. He looked back over his shoulder at the tiny circle of light surrounded by a near-infinite darkness. The three of them were huddled together as if they hadn’t even noticed him go. Nthandra had draped both arms over Semian’s shoulders now. She’d had her eye on him since they’d arrived, but Semian seemed oblivious. Close by, other riders sat and stared at the fire; around them, looming mountain shapes reached up to gouge dead black holes from the starlit sky. Some drank, others sang softly to themselves. Jostan knew a few of them, recognised more. Several caught his eye and gave him a nod. One or two waved him over to sit with them and share their drink or their sorrow. They’d all known Deremis. He was the first of the Red Riders to fall, and none of them, it seemed, knew quite how to take the news that he was dead. Jostan went and sat among them for a while, but somehow they were still apart. The Night of the Knives had brought these riders together and he’d missed it. While the Night Watchman and his Adamantine Men had put their brothers and their fathers to the sword, while Queen Shezira and King Valgar had been taken to be tried for treason, Hyrkallan and these few had fought their way out of the speaker’s palace. With them, somehow, they’d taken Queen Almiri - Shezira’s eldest, Valgar’s queen, mistress of Evenspire and now, because of these few riders, the fulcrum to end Speaker Zafir’s rule if only the right lever could be found. And Jostan had missed it. Missed it because he was with Semian and Princess Jaslyn at the alchemists’ redoubt, facing something far worse, but he could hardly say that, could he? Hyrkallan’s riders had all lost friends or family or both, and what did he lose? Nothing. Nothing and everything. They knew, of course. They knew he and Semian had faced the rogue dragons. They knew about the caves and the smoke and fire and the alchemists and the Embers. They knew that he’d shielded Princess Jaslyn and that Semian had taken dragon-venom so that, in being eaten, he might kill one of the dragons. They knew, they just didn’t . . . understand.
     
    They didn’t care. There. That was the truth of it. They only cared about Zafir and that she had tried to murder them. Them and their queen.
     
    When he looked again, Semian and Nthandra and the blood-mage were all gone. He stayed with the others for as long as he could bear it and then slipped away, back to their tent. Deremis’ tent. He approached it slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone inside. If Nthandra was with Semian well then he didn’t much care either way, as long as she gave him some warmth as well once she was done. He was beginning to understand how she felt. Anything, anything not to be alone.
     
    Sure enough, as he crept close, he heard whispered voices from inside.
     
    ‘I can feel it. I know it’s there.’
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    ‘I need to know. I need to know if I’m right.’
     
    ‘Yes.’ Jostan slipped closer. The first voice was certainly Nthandra. The second didn’t sound much like Semian.
     
    ‘It is true.’ Jostan had almost reached the flap of the tent. He froze. She was with the blood-mage. The thought made him want to be sick. He could almost see her, naked, straddling him while he pawed at her with his ruined fingers.
     
    ‘Let me touch you.’ No! Don’t let him touch you! ‘Yes. It is true. You carry a child within you. You carry a boy,