CHAPTER FIVE

      Honoured Mother Chandni brushed her long hair, slowly, almost fearfully. The shutters on her window were closed, as they always were when she prepared herself, holding the room in a permanent state of grey.

      Here, alone, she dared to consider how bad things were.

      On the surface, all was well. Lord Rochant’s castle ran smoothly under her leadership, arguably better than it ever had. Many saw her as a hero, including High Lord Yadavendra. Thanks to her, Satyendra had been saved from assassination, and Lord Rochant’s line preserved.

      Since then, under her guidance, Satyendra had grown into a fine young man, intelligent, quick, sharp eyed, a perfect vessel for the best of the Sapphire Deathless.

      Except, Satyendra wasn’t perfect.

      And she was no hero.

      As if to prove the point, the brush caught in her hair, making her wince and curse her clumsiness. Will I never get used to using my left hand? She shot a glare at her right, sitting dead and useless in her lap. She could work the fingers, of course, even get them to hold the brush, but without feeling it was impossible to sense resistance or the shifting of the brush in her grip.

      A tiny scar still remained from the assassin’s needle, a single white dot, innocent, in the centre of her palm. The poison from it had stolen all sensation, from the tips of her fingers to just below her bicep, and would have taken more had it not been for the quick thinking of Rochant’s cook, Roh, and Chandni’s own sacrifice to the Hunger Tree. On her right hand, the nails of her middle finger and thumb had never grown back.

       Proof of my betrayal.

      It was forbidden to deal with the Wild, but Chandni had done so twice.

      The first time to stop the spread of the poison, an act of desperation. The second was even worse, an offer of another’s life in exchange for Satyendra’s.

       And I bear the proof of that too.

      She put the brush down on the table and ran her hand behind her head until she found it, a different kind of softness nestling within her hair. Sprouting from the base of her skull was a feather, long and black. Over the years she’d tried trimming it back, cutting it off, once in a desperate rage, she’d pulled it out by the shaft. But whatever she did, however extreme she’d been in her self-surgery, she’d find it sprouting there again, good as new, the next day.

      Two dealings with the Wild.

      Two marks of shame.

      She should have told Lord Vasin when he found her. She should have told High Lord Yadavendra. But she didn’t because Satyendra needed someone to hide his imperfections until such time as he’d grown out of them.

      At least, that was how she justified her crime to herself.

      The truth was she couldn’t bear the thought of being judged any more than she could bear Satyendra being cast out. And beneath that was another truth: she wanted to be there when Varg came back.

      Tucked away out of sight in her chambers was an old piece of cloth, and wrapped within it were pieces of a mosaic. Each fragment had arrived quietly, discreetly, pushed into her hand by a travelling merchant who visited the castle the same time each year. Together, the pieces made a picture of two people kissing: a bearded man and a long-haired woman, their lips pressed together in a smile, with a large white Dogkin sleeping nearby.

      Fifteen pieces sat within the cloth. Fifteen units of time. Only one gap in the mosaic remained, and it had not escaped her notice that both the merchant and Pari’s rebirth were due any day.

      The last piece was coming, already on its way, and Varg with it.

      She still wasn’t sure what she’d do when he arrived, but the thought of him, the fantasy of him, had given her a much-needed escape.

      And though the wait had been agonizing the years had passed with a strange swiftness. Normal life had muted the reality of her time in the Wild. She’d taken to wearing gloves in public and plaiting her hair so as to tuck the feather from sight. The precautions had soon become habit, almost natural. From a lesser servant, such behaviour might have raised suspicion, but she was above reproach, a model Sapphire. Rather than garner criticism, she’d generated new fashions among the sky-born.

      A footstep, close, too close, broke her from her reverie, and she span round in her seat, putting her back and the feather to the wall.

      ‘No need to be afraid,’ said Satyendra, clearly delighted to have caught her out. ‘It’s only me.’

      ‘It’s not becoming for an Honoured Vessel to creep about like that. Suns! How many times have I told you to sing for entry like everyone else?’

      Satyendra smiled at her, but she did not feel reassured. In the half light his expression was ghoulish, and memories of his face – his other face – rose up from the depths. She had only seen it once, when he was a baby and they were on the Godroad returning home from the Wild. It had been enough: the image was seared into her mind forever. ‘And how many times have I told you I’m not like everyone else. I don’t like singing.’

      ‘That’s not the point and you know it. You should announce yourself, not sneak into other people’s chambers like a thief.’

      The comment seemed to bounce off him without impact. ‘It’s very dark in here, Mother. What are you trying to hide?’

      She took a moment to compose herself. Satyendra had a way of being able to get under her skin like nobody else. ‘I’m assuming you came here for something other than to torment me.’

      He fell silent then, his dark eyes glittering with hurt, and into that silence poured guilt. She was letting her temper get the better of her and it was most unbecoming. None of this was Satyendra’s fault. It wasn’t right to