Isak found himself unable to move as the witch departed. He heard the creak of the stairs as Fernal walked down them, and finally the bang of the door as they left the house and he was again alone in a silent oasis, separated from the others by the walls he'd placed within himself. It took him a while to realise his anger had all but vanished, like smoke on the breeze. The guilt remained; that could not be so easily erased, but now he was not consumed by the desire to destroy everything within reach he could think clearly. He undipped Eolis' leather scabbard from his belt and sheathed his sword before sitting down, this time with his back resting against the wall.

'Look inside? What would I find there?' he wondered aloud. 'A boy, pretending to be a king? A king, pretending to be a boy?' He grimaced. 'A beast straining at its shackles? Or all of them?'

He thought on Ehla's words. Fresh eyes. He needed to look upon the Land with fresh eyes. 'What I need fresh eyes for is this damned city, for a way to understand the madness here,' he said aloud.

And finally he realised the witch, intentionally or not, had been teaching him a lesson sorely needed, and guiding him towards the answers they had all been seeking, answers neither Zhia Vukotic nor King Emin could provide, but that might spell salvation for them all in the years to come.

Look within yourself.

Isak smiled and did so. There, he found fresh eyes.

So now, my chained dragon, he thought, before 1 go to kill Isherin Purn, I need your eyes. You've been hiding yourself away inside me ever since we arrived in Scree, as quiet as a mouse – or as a child hiding under the blankets. Like a king pretending to be a boy. Something here frightens you, doesn't it? Something on the air, something you recognise.

He stretched out his legs and placed Eolis between them.

So, tell me about Azaer.

Like flowing swathes of grey in the darkness, the mercenary armies surged over the shattered remains of the Foxport gates and into the city. Rojak watched them through failing eyes, sensing the frothing tide of hatred and petty jealousies, now inflated to monstrous propor¬tions by the theatre's spell, more than seeing the men themselves. He was propped against a cracked column, part of the once-grand entrance to the Merchants' Forum, and the building's prominent position gave him a fine view of his handiwork. The inrush of soldiers swept up the maddened flotsam of the city's population and drove it on through the channels of Scree's streets. He felt them in his veins, their energy forcing his weary heart to beat on, the violent movement rocking his dying body as viscous, sludgy blood filled his arteries and powered his muscles.

The Forum towered over the neighbouring buildings. The fire that had ravaged the fretwork roofs around the central courtyard and devoured the beams holding them up could do nothing about the fat Stone platform the Forum stood on. On one of the steps, where blood had pooled in the worn-away centre and dried to form a cracked lake-bed, a figure lounged contentedly. She watched her own handiwork with a girlish self-satisfaction, looking back at Rojak every minute or so to ensure he was appreciating how prettily her blazes were light¬ing a path through the city. Flitter had cast off her delicate theatre clothes in favour of a stained tunic and hauberk, but there was still an intangible femininity about her carriage that Rojak recognised as something that would have stirred him in those years before Azaer called him to service.

He did not give her the satisfaction of appreciating the fires, instead forcing his face into a mask that hid his approval. He could feel her annoyance growing at his lack of reaction. Through the pain in his chest, a flicker of pleasure still shone. At one stage they had all as¬sumed they could manipulate him. One by one, Rojak had dismissed their efforts. Flitter was simply slow in realising that she was nothing compared to him, her fires were paltry in comparison to the conflagra-lions lie bad wrought. Only by the light ol the coming dawn would Scree be seen as the sculptured masterpiece over which he alone had laboured.

'It is time,' Rojak croaked. His throat was a ruin; speaking was a rapturous agony that sparked every nerve in his body, one that would soon culminate in the final pain of his demise. Not death, never death, he thought with the twist of a smile. The loss of his body was in¬evitable, even necessary, considering the runes cut into his festering flesh that echoed those once painted on the theatre's walls, and the ultimate goal of that spell. But he would not die.

I will be spared the gross indignity of that empty beings final judgment.

He gave a cough and saw Flitter looking up at him. Clearly the ruin in his throat had made him difficult to understand. No matter. As he tried to push away from the pillar, one of the Hounds saw his intent and scampered to help. The creature's arms were like polished oak under his body and he submitted gratefully, letting it bear most of his weight down the two dozen steps to the street below.

'Where are you going?' Flitter asked, appearing in a blur on the cobbled road before him. Rojak kept his eyes on the street. She had always moved faster than he could see, even when he was healthy.

'We go to finish our task.'

'But surely it's done?' she said.

The remaining Hounds joined them, stepping out from the shadows to surround Flitter. The woman paled and instinctively slipped her fingers around the hilts of her hooked knives as the Hounds stared in¬scrutably at her with their large black eyes. Her eyes flickered between the two she could see and strained to focus on the one just on the periphery of her vision. When at last her nerve broke and she turned to face it, the movement prompted all the Hounds to grin wolfishly and lope off down the street.

Only the one assisting Rojak remained, and the minstrel knew which of them, dog or master, Flitter was most frightened of. He could feel her eyes on him as he watched the Hounds trotting through the dark and snuffling at the air, as though there were horrors worse than them in Scree.

'What else would you have me do?' Flitter asked, looking cowed. 'I thought driving the people towards the abbot was all you intended.'

'Merely a means to an end,' Rojak whispered, 'as is everything in this city.' He took a tentative step forward, his helper as gentle and tender as a nursemaid. 'They will not hurt the abbot, only frighten him into doing something foolish.'

'They will tear him apart!' Flitter said. 'The Skull will not protect him against thousands who are so lost to madness they do not under¬stand fear.'

'They will not harm him,' Rojak asserted, wincing at having to repeat his words. 'I have another plan for the abbot, and when it comes to fruition I must be there.'

'To do what?'

Rojak stopped and looked deep into her eyes. They widened in horror as he looked deep into her soul. Her mouth fell open to shriek but no sound came, only a tremble of air from her shuddering lungs.

'To do our lord's will,' he hissed.

Leaving Flitter shaking and gasping, Rojak and his Hound started off down the street again. In the distance he heard hollering voices, discordant sounds of no meaning against the background of the grow¬ing crackle of flames. On his cheek he felt a breath of wind as Hit's zephyrs tentatively crossed the boundaries he'd raised and once more explored the avenues of Scree.

He smiled. His strength had been too meagre to maintain that blockade any longer, but the wind's return would serve him as well as its absence had. Flitter's fires were burning quickly now. The newly returned breezes brought him a taste of their soot and he knew it wouldn't be long before it carried sparks and heat as well. The place¬ment had been careful, sending the throngs of people east towards the abbot and the soldiers of the Greengate; now they would spread the flames throughout Scree as well.