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had stolen his heart and his mind and shackled all his senses. The Emperor’s fury on discovering their dalliance had been such that Corlek was advised by one of his father’s friends to flee the capital or face charges of treason followed by a certain death.
    But now Magramon was dead, and his body was interred in the royal vaults on the Isle of Remembrance. Looking southwards across the outer estates of the city, he could make out the lanterns of the burial grove by Drum Park. It was a man-made hill amid the city, but was called the Isle of Remembrance by the Earthmother priestesses nevertheless. With night now encroaching, a carpet of lights was beginning to spread through the streets and districts as porch lamps and street cressets were lit. Suddenly he laughed, full of the belief that he was on the verge of new beginnings, new hope and a new life. All that remained was to seek out his mother and brother and see what might be salvaged from the old.
    He followed the wooden stairs downward, alongside the leaking water which veered away near the foot, disappearing into a bushy copse. With the hill behind him, Corlek hurried along a log-surfaced road with small, hedge-bordered fields to either side as he headed towards a slow-winding river called the Deinlok. Beyond it lay the northern districts of Sejeend and the former estate of the Ondene family. As he neared the substantial bridge that crossed it at this point, he had to pause as a caravan of ten or more horse-drawn wagons coming from the north rumbled across it. He guessed that they must be carrying the first harvest from the rich fields of eastern Khatris. The impact of horses’ hooves and iron-rimmed wheels passing over heavy planking combined to create a mighty din and as the last rolled onto the bridge Corlek tugged the wide brim of his hat a little lower, shouldered his travelling sack and followed close behind. Half way across, he passed a night-torch man hauling a little cart from which a lamp swung and a folded ladder jutted. Gruff nods were exchanged as the man stopped by an empty iron bracket and went about his business. At this ordinary sight Corlek felt a sense of certainty that he was back where he belonged.
    “Back to civilisation,” he whispered to himself as he reached the other bank of the Deinlok.
    Rather than follow the wagons uphill into the northern urbs, he ducked right along a grassy riverside track. In darkness he hurried, led by childhood memories which told him that before long he would come to a great, tilted kingsgold tree in whose bark he and Rhanye had carved their initials far back in their youth. At a bend in the river he paused to light a small, shuttered lamp then looked about him — sure enough, there in the undergrowth was a leaning tree. The initials were still there, if a little higher.
    Hanging the lamp at his waist, he tugged on his gauntlets and began tearing away a screen of dogthorn and winding grass, searching for the flat stones and split logs they had laid down over the boggy ground which blocked the way to the eastern boundary of the Ondene estate. Bushes and saplings had taken root but the stones were still there, providing a path for him to follow. But when he emerged a little while later from the trees, muddy and scratched, he was confronted by a tall, heavy pallisade rather than the flowering fences which had once served as an enclosure for the servants’ huts. Following it round to the right, he saw where it joined the old west wall which was a combination wood, turf and slate — eleven paces along from there he crouched down behind a clump of bushes and found his secret entrance, a small section of the wooden surface which fell inwards after several moments of determined pushing. As he crawled into the short, root-fringed tunnel on hands and knees, he laughed quietly as he imagined the surprise on his mother and brother’s faces when they opened the door to him.
    The lamplight showed the square wooden framework