Prologue

Outside the castle walls, the rain fell as if it would never stop. The stranger stood at the chamber window, staring out over the battered parkland with a sombre expression. Ever since he had come to this accursed country, it seemed to have been raining; and when it was not wet, the wind blew, a crazy wind with an edge to it that plucked at the brain. In his mind's eye, golden steppes unfolded under an azure sky, like the enamels of an eikon. He could not believe that he had left the court of the Staryetz to seek employment in this forgotten hole, where Death lay like dust on the sheeted furniture, and brooded in the alcoves.

On the parquet floor beside him stood the two suitcases that had travelled the miles from Sklava with him, and his papers – travel permits and a letter of introduction – were folded in a wallet slung from his back. For this journey, he had assumed the guise of a monk, and he observed with a cynical eye the black robes, straggling beard and long unkempt locks that decked his reflection. Only the yellow hue of his eyes that glinted at him from the glass was like a note to remind him of his true nature. The great Magus Kaschai, called the Deathless, would never have humbled himself to such a disguise; but Semyon knew he was not deathless, not yet . . .

The chamber door skreeked open, and a page with a pitiful cough announced his master: the Doyen of Ademar, Lord of the Forest, Seigneur of the lands between Yonar and Axar. Semyon struggled to keep his face straight as he listened to this long recitation. Was he not a subject of the mighty Staryetz of all Sklava, who needed no other title? And the personage that entered the room only served to increase his mirth. For a moment, he wondered if he were in the presence of a living corpse: an old man with a ghastly pale countenance, straight as a skeleton, who walked leaning upon his cane as if it were the iron stand that held up his bones. Semyon bowed.

"Greetings unto you, Semyon of Kiyev," said the old man in a voice that creaked like the hinge. Semyon approached to bow over his outstretched ring as if the Doyen were a Biskopa or a Patriarch. He found the old man's gaze upon him, steel blue; the eyes were all that lived in the wasted carcass.

"Do you bring me greetings from my cousin, the noble Staryetz?" said the Doyen. Semyon dared not speak for fear that he would burst out laughing. True, kings and emperors might call the Staryetz "cousin" out of courtesy; but it was absurd that this petty lord in a dark corner of a shattered realm should permit himself the familiarity. He reached into his wallet and brought out the letter of introduction that the Staryetz had dictated to his secretary, months ago, it seemed. The master of the Sklavan empire could barely sign his own name, but he was wily and astute as any high-born Boyar.

The Doyen took the letter in his bird-like grip, broke the wax seal and read. Semyon waited, watching his lips move. The letter itself was a formality, inviting the Doyen to give credence to the bearer and to use him as one of his own subjects, et cetera. It was Semyon who carried the Staryetz's instructions in his memory, perfect to the last letter. He watched the old man read with hungry eyes, eager to reach the heart of the matter – and taste its blood.

At last, the Doyen folded the letter and raised his eyes. He seemed to gaze down on Semyon from the height of scorn, as if he wondered what ragged figure the Staryetz had dispatched to deliver his news.

"It says here that you are a mighty magus, the most powerful at court," he said. Each word was crisp, loaded with doubt. Semyon bowed. "Do you have a tongue in your head?" said the Doyen sharply.

"It pleases my master to name me thus, Mon Seigneur," said Semyon, rolling the foreign words round his tongue.

"I see that you have some grasp of Franj," said the Doyen. Leaning on his stick, he limped to the campaign chair that was the sole piece of furniture in the room. He sat down, clutching the letter against his knee. His robes were rich, but his woollen cloak had been carefully darned and patched.

"Also some grasp of the Arts Magical," said Semyon, glancing at his suitcases to make sure that the page had not touched them.

"Indeed, that was why my cousin sent you to me," said the Doyen, turning his gaze towards that corner of the room. "He knows of my long-cherished plan to raise up Neustria, our great lost empire. He has written me many letters assuring me of his support. But I trust he has not sent me some mountebank, a counterfeit conjuror that he thinks will satisfy an old man in his dotage."

Semyon enjoyed the time it took him to answer. "Do not wrong my master, Gospodin," he said, using a title only he knew to be unsuitable for the Doyen's rank. "I will be apt for all your purposes, even for the awesome task to which you intend to exalt me."

"You have, at any rate, a courtier's tongue, in spite of your mean attire," said the Doyen with a thin-lipped frown. Turning to the page, who had spent the last few minutes vainly trying to stifle his cough, he said, "Leave us." When the boy had gone, the Doyen did not speak at once but spent some moments studying Semyon, as if trying to unnerve him. But Semyon, who knew that his own master's smile could bode infinite reward or imminent execution, was not troubled by an old soldier's dour glance. He waited, his eyes modestly downcast, while the old man inspected his frayed and mended habit and the tangles in his hair and beard.

"What word does your master send to me?" said the Doyen at last.

Semyon decided that it was time for an oration. Gazing at the ceiling, he proclaimed, "Know that my master, the mighty Staryetz of Sklava, has hearkened to your plea and approved your noble cause. He will give you all aid" – except money – "in the reconquest of the lands once known as Neustria. And he has sent me, Semyon the Magus, to lay my powers at your feet and to do as you command. Above all, in the secret matter concerning your son."

"My son," the Doyen echoed, and his voice might have been some reverberation of the hills. Semyon sneaked a glance at his face, and saw without pity the lost look that had touched the old man's features and withered them with the frost of age and grief. He waited, in a semblance of respect, for the moment to pass, and was caught unawares when the blue gaze seized his own. For the first time, sweet fear returned and he knew the pleasure of serving a dread ruler. "Can you bring him back for me?" said the Doyen. "Are you the one?"

Semyon bowed, with his hand on his breast, recognising the divine madness of power. Power was a sweetmeat bestowed by the great, but it gave him joy to serve in its shadow. "Truly, Knyaz, I am the one," he said, using the word for "Prince" as he should have done before. The Doyen noticed.

"You honour me with many outlandish titles," he snapped. "I pray you, call me Mon Seigneur after the manner of my vassals. These foreign terms do not sit well with me."

Commanding one moment, petulant the next. Semyon studied his new lord sidelong. The Doyen might be a petty prince beside the greatness of the Staryetz, but he had learned all the tricks of the absolute ruler – the whims, the changes of mood, the vanities. A servant must study these foibles in order to satisfy the will of the master. Only thus would he himself grow in favour, and in power. Semyon had magic to play with like a toy under his hand, but the scent of temporal power was a more potent drug – above all, the power to manipulate one's lord by subtle means. He was eminent in court at Kiyev because he could do so much more than merely flatter his chosen liege. Let Kaschai think himself omnipotent! Those who were clever knew that these were new times, when magic alone was not enough to hold sway.

"Mon Seigneur," he said, "I know how to raise your son from the dead. To bring him back alive, not as a wraith or a walking corpse."

The Doyen stared at him, breathing fast. "I have dreamed so many times of this day, since I lost him, and of hearing those words," he said. "Now it seems like another dream that you stand before me, telling me that which I wish to hear above all in this world. I fear to wake."

"Do not fear!" said Semyon, turning and striding to pick up one of the suitcases. "I carry here the means to raise him up. Within this insignificant box, a world lies waiting at my command. With its power I shall turn death to life and tears to rejoicing." He paused, wondering how much he should reveal at this first interview. It always irked him to explain the workings of magic to his clients; they were forever asking awkward questions, and the Doyen proved to be the same as the rest.

"You tell me that you carry a whole world within that leathern chest?" he said, raising his brows. "You ask me to place great faith in you."

Semyon quelled an impatient urge to open the suitcase and let the old fool see just what it contained. "Truly, this world lies at my command," he said, with a show of modesty. "I shall draw upon its vital forces and use them to summon the soul of your son and knit it once more with mortal flesh. But you must understand, Mon Seigneur, that this is the most profound magic. I will have need of other elements to sustain your son in his new being."

"You speak darkly, Magus," said the Doyen. "Tell me what it is you need."

Semyon could see that it would be no use trying to mystify his patron with arcane words. Just as the Staryetz relished the aura of the occult, even though he was clever enough to see through its trappings, so the Doyen demanded plain speech and a clear explanation. Semyon bridled a little at the thought that he must eschew the pleasure of mystery.

"Mon Seigneur, I can bring your son to life – but it will be a short term, merely ninety days. To keep him in this sublunary world, I will need more than the forces that I carry with me."

"Say on," said the Doyen wearily. "I take it you must perform certain rituals. That you need to observe the movements of the stars and planets."

"The stars do not rule our destinies," said Semyon, pausing for dramatic effect. The old man must understand that magic needed more than simple words; it cried out for embellishment, burning cressets and swirling incense. He relished for a moment the shock his next words would create. "I must have two human souls and the heart of a thrice-powerful shaman."

To his disappointment, the Doyen studied him, his face unmoving. "Two human souls and the heart of a . . . shaman," he said. "And these will be easy for you to procure?"

The old fox was mocking him! Semyon felt chagrin redden his cheeks. He turned away, trying to contain his anger. How dare this insignificant country squire disparage his craft?

"I am a stealer of souls," he said, staring out at the green parkland beneath the rain. "Give me two mortal beings and I will husk them like corn. But the heart of a shaman – that is not so easy. Few bear the name thrice-powerful. I know of none in the empire of Sklava, from the west to the distant east. And I am the man who knows the name of every shaman in the land, whether insignificant or great."

Behind him the Doyen's voice said, softly, "I have heard of these shamans. And a shaman slew my son."

Semyon thought it best not to divulge that he himself was a shaman, and thrice-powerful. There was no need to mention Kaschai the Deathless, who was too wily to keep his heart inside his body. He found himself hoping that the Doyen would pronounce the task impossible, and give him leave to go.

"Then you have them in this . . . country of Neustria," he said, turning back to face the room. The Doyen had a strange look on his face, one that unnerved Semyon, though he was careful not to show it. It reminded him of a dog's animal mask before it attacked.

"Tell me what makes a thrice-powerful shaman, Magus," he said. "It may be that I know where one such is to be found."

Semyon thought quickly. "Mon Seigneur, they have all three shamanic powers," he said. "They can heal, they can kill, and they can travel beyond this world. And when they die . . ." He paused uneasily. "It is not certain that they are truly dead," he added, noticing how lame the words sounded.

The Doyen seemed to stare off into space. "How strange it is that he should be suited to your purpose," he said. "I have dreamed so long of revenge that the sweet taste became bitter, and gnawed at my entrails. I do not know where he dwells, save that he is here, in Neustria, his life mocking me with every breath. He slew my son, and still lives."

"You have someone in mind," said Semyon, wondering for the first time about the shamans of Neustria. He had imagined that they would be few, and weak, or the country would by now have gathered its severed lands together under the guiding hand of a mighty ruler. It had not occurred to him that there might be any that warranted the description thrice-powerful, thus creating the risk that his mission – the magical part – might succeed.

"Take his heart, and bring it to me," said the Doyen. "His heart, and the souls of his progeny. There were two. This alone will assuage my bitter grievance and quiet my mind at last. I will have no other. I can tell you their names, and when you have brought me my son, you, Magus, will find them and use them to heal his life."

"There must be many whose souls I could use," said Semyon quickly. "Why send me on an errand to find two who may be well hidden?"

"I will have no other," the Doyen repeated.

Semyon repressed a sigh. His hope of a swift return home faded like smoke in the air. "Tell me their names, Mon Seigneur, and I will begin the work," he said.

"The man you seek is named Yuda Vasilyevich. I will have his heart, and the souls of his children."

# # #

Chapter 1

The two girls stood side by side on the table, which represented their chariot as they entered Persepolis. Annat was brandishing a horse-whip, which she cracked with a ferocious sound over the heads of her captives, who crouched on the floor, their summer gowns fluffed with dust and their petticoats awry. Beside her, Eugenie stood with her hands folded demurely before her, though her cheeks were flushed with excitement. As Queen Zenocrate, she was wearing a diadem hastily coiled out of piano wire. Her porcelain beauty made a fine contrast with Annat's fiery darkness; she wore a gown of layered taffeta strewn with pink and red woven peonies, and a muslin bertha that modestly covered her shoulders and décolletage. The merest hint of white pantalets peeked out beneath the multitude of petticoats, stiffened with crinoline, that bore up her skirts. Beside her, clad in the black the law forced her to wear, Annat stood with her legs spread out. Although they were modestly hidden by white broderie pantalets, her skirt was cut short just below the knee, and the fichu that decorated her bodice was askew. Wisps of dark hair escaped from the smooth chignon on her head, and she was a picture of dishevelment that caused Mademoiselle de Clignancourt's heart to sink in dismay when she flung open the music room door to see who was making such a noise.

The mistress clapped her hands together with a sharp report, once, twice.

"Les jeunes filles! Annat! Mademoiselle de Bouget! Come down from there at once!"

The two young women stared at her. Eugenie's pretty mouth made a rounded O of horror, but the mistress saw Annat's dark brows clamp down into a mutinous frown.

"At once, I say! What is this disgraceful charade? Agnes and Therèse, you may stand up. Now, who is responsible for this? I am waiting!"

Annat sprang down from the table, a manoeuvre that revealed still more of her pantalets. She turned and offered her hand to Eugenie, helping the Princesse descend with all the gallantry proper to a man – but not to a young maiden of seventeen! Mademoiselle de Clignancourt observed this proceeding with pursed lips. Every time that girl returned from the six months spent with her father, she was nothing but trouble! And the trouble seemed to last longer with every visit.

"Well," she said crisply, "I am waiting for an explanation."

The four girls faced her. Agnes and Therèse, who were undoubtedly dupes, tried to brush the dust from their skirts as if she could not see them. Annat glared at her, holding the Princesse de Bouget's delicate fingers in her sallow grip. Mademoiselle hardly needed to ask who was to blame; it was the Vasilyevich girl, up to her usual tricks, with the Princesse abetting her, since Eugenie was all too clearly infatuated with the little pirate. Against her will, Mademoiselle felt a twinge of amusement at the incongruity of it. The de Bougets were an old Doxan family, who could trace their ancestry back to the time of the Empire; the Vasilyevichs were upstart Wanderers from Sklava, who had settled in Neustria barely a generation past. What Eugenie's mother, Madame la Princesse de Bouget, would say if she knew of this misalliance, heaven only knew.

"We were rehearsing a scene from Timur the Lame, Mademoiselle," said Annat. There was no fear or remorse in those dark eyes, only defiance. Many girls at the school bore a dark complexion and swart eyes, but only the Wanderer had that ivory pallor that hardly darkened under the summer sky.

"So I see," said Mademoiselle, who was not to be intimidated by some chit of a girl, even one with uncanny powers. Annat looked down. "You two, Agnes and Therèse, go back to class. I shall deal with you later. As for you, Mesdemoiselles Vasilyevich and de Bouget, you may wait for me outside the Principal's office. And I will take that whip!"

Arm in arm, Annat and Eugenie scurried along the carpeted corridor towards the Principal's rooms. Eugenie had forgotten to take off her crown, and it was Annat who stopped her and hastily plucked the wire diadem from the Princesse's chestnut ringlets.

"Do you think they'll thrash us, Anne?" said Eugenie, with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

Annat blew out her cheeks. "Pouf! Non," she said. "They never thrash the seniors. And they couldn't thrash you, Mademoiselle la Princesse. Think of the scandale!"

Eugenie laughed through her fingers, and Annat longed to kiss her soft lips. She caught the Princesse by the waist and pulled her against her, as she had seen her father do with women. Eugenie struggled a little, and laid her hand against Annat's mouth.

"Someone is sure to come by!"

Annat released her, smiling. Sentimental friendships between pupils were not frowned on, but she knew that her feelings for Eugenie went beyond that. The rose-madder lips, the azure eyes, those hidden, faintly swelling breasts . . . She did not think her desire would meet with the Principal's approval.

"I want to kiss you, Eugenie de Bouget," she said, and then they both burst out laughing and hugged each other before hurrying on to meet their doom.

The Principal's office was painted white. Heavy jacquard curtains draped the window, woven with pomegranates in red and gold. The Wheel of Doxa hung on one wall, but it was the only hint of a religious hierarchy in the school. The other panelled walls bore gilt-framed maps, and a large globe of the orbis terrarum stood near the window. There was a desk, and a chair in which the Principal sat. She wore a gown of slate-coloured damask, a watch pinned to her breast, and a lace collar ruffled to the throat. Her face was smooth under its powder, so smooth that Annat wondered whether she ever smiled or frowned.

"Mademoiselle de Clignancourt has been telling me . . ." she paused, as if to allow space for a sigh, "of your latest exploits, Mademoiselle Vasilyevich."

The two young women stood side by side before the desk. Mademoiselle de Clignancourt herself sat on a spindle-legged chair, the skirt of her blue dress spread out in heavy, sumptuous folds. She was holding the whip in one hand.

"Madame, we were rehearsing—" Annat began.

"Silence! I do not care what colour you choose to give to your mischief. All I know is that once again, you have been found as the ringleader in a scene of hoydenish behaviour not acceptable for the young ladies of this Academy."

"But Madame—" Eugenie began.

"Mademoiselle de Bouget, one would have thought that someone of your rank and breeding would have known better than to sink to such depths. Or to let yourself be led by Mademoiselle Vasilyevich, against whose influence you have been warned. But as an agent, not a principal, in this enterprise, your punishment will be less. Your privileges are suspended for the rest of the week, and you will spend the leisure hour copying passages from the Livre de Bon Conseil. You may go."

Annat felt Eugenie sigh. A thrashing might have been preferable, for they would be denied each other's company, and they both knew how dull were the nostrums of the Livre de Bon Conseil. She would have liked to touch her friend's hand, but she knew that Madame's gaze was fixed on them both, and she had to stand alone while Eugenie padded from the room in a rustle of petticoats. When the door had closed behind her, Madame focused on Annat alone.

"As for you, Mademoiselle Vasilyevich, what am I to do with you? Heaven knows I have suffered enough of your mischief. Need I tell you again that it was only as a favour to your aunt, one of the most respected professeurs in this city, that I agreed to take you on. You have privileges most of my pupils can only dream of: you are spared attendance for all the winter term and half of the spring, so that you may stay with your father; you are excused afternoon lessons and evening study, because of your attendance at the Shkola; and, out of respect for your aunt, I have permitted you to modify your attire in this extraordinary way, which can barely be called modest. Nevertheless, for the past two years you have abused my kindness and flouted my rules. You have been warned many times, and yet once more I find you using your influence to mislead other girls, and in particular, the Princesse de Bouget, to whom you show a most unhealthy attachment. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Annat's emotions welled up in her chest, hot and tight. She let loose a tirade in furious Franj, spilling out all the frustrations that had been building up in her since she returned to Madame Mireille's Academy for Young Ladies.

"But they are stupid rules, Madame! How can I rehearse for a play if it is not permitted to act? And why is it wrong for us to stand on the table? Nobody saw us except Mademoiselle de Clignancourt, and there was no need for her to be shocked—"

"Enough," said the Principal in her cool voice. "I see that, as usual, you show no remorse. I have no alternative but to send you home until I have decided whether or not to expel you. I will write to your aunt."

She lowered her eyes as if there was nothing more to be said. Silenced for an instant, Annat stared at her in dismay. She had never imagined that the Principal would consider her expulsion. She started forward a pace, and began, "But Madame, you cannot expel me! I have to come here to learn the Arts and Sciences which they do not teach at the Shkola—"

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before embarking on your latest rashness," said Madame, gazing up at her.

"Please punish me, Madame! I'll do anything. I could write lines, or study the Livre de Bon Conseil, or you could whip me—"

"A senior? That would be most unseemly. You have leave to go, Mademoiselle Vasilyevich. The interview is finished."

Annat opened her mouth to protest, but Madame had lowered her gaze once more, and picked up her pen. Mademoiselle de Clignancourt had risen to her feet and was looking at Annat with something like regret, for she liked the girl's spirit, even if she deplored her behaviour. Swallowing a sudden urge to cry, Annat bobbed a quick curtsey and fled the room. She would have liked to run up to the dormitory in search of Eugenie's consoling arms, but she did not want to get her friend into more trouble. Instead, with drooping shoulders and bent head, she walked along the marble floor that led from the Principal's office to the stairs, and slouched down towards the basement where her cape hung on its peg.

She would not go straight home to Aunt Yuste. Instead, she would go to the Shkola early. Though her classes did not start until after lunch, some of her friends might be there already – or she could take refuge in the library to do more work on her current assignment.

There was a book of poems by the Angliyan poet Xelle that Eugenie had given her, bulging in the hanging pocket of her cape. Annat took out the small volume and gazed at the foreign characters. The Anglitskuyi used the same writing as the Franj, but their tongue was quite different. Xelle had believed in the cause of freedom, which was why Eugenie had chosen his poetry as a gift for Annat. Inside, she had inscribed a few couplets of her own, dedicating the gift to her "beloved friend". Annat squeezed the book in her palm, wondering if Eugenie shared the same passionate and physical sensations as she did. Perhaps, if she were expelled, she would never find out; it was most unlikely that she would meet the Princesse de Bouget outside the Academy. She shut her eyes, feeling a prickling in her nose and beneath her lids. It would be shaming if someone found her weeping here, in the cloakroom.

To reach the Shkola from the Academy, Annat would have to take a tram. Outside were a spring day and a blue sky shot with grey, which made her spirits lift. The streets of the elegant quartier where the Academy stood were bustling with traffic. A gendarme rode by in his stiff uniform of blue serge, with a white feather in his kepi, and saluted Annat as he passed. There was a boulangerie across the road, where a small queue waited for the latest batch of fresh loaves, and next door a boucherie chevaline, with a plaster horse's head neighing disgustingly above the window. Outside, a nag that looked ready to be horsemeat drooped between the shafts of a small cart loaded with produce from a farm on the outskirts of the city. As Annat crossed the road, she caught the astringent scent of citrus from the piles of misshapen lemons and small, fierce oranges that grew on the south coasts.

The city had changed so much since she came here as a child, four years ago. Since the new City Council was elected, all the old rules of the Neustrian Empire governing dress had been enforced. Women had to cover their legs, and married women their hair; men could not go shirtless, and the respectable wore hats. Masalyar, the town that had once seemed so free it was almost lawless, had become a shadowed, austere place. No wonder her father had decided to leave as soon as possible after bringing her back to her aunt! Annat sighed as she walked down the street towards the tram halt. The new rules made little difference to her, since it had been much the same in her childhood home, the village of Sankt-Eglis. At least in the city no one persecuted Wanderers, or even seemed to notice the black she was obliged to wear. But the change seemed ominous to her, as if it were the beginning of something less harmless.

At this time of the morning, there was no one else waiting at the tram stop. At first, Annat took out the book of Xelle's poetry and tried to read, but her mind was too busy to concentrate on the foreign words. She put the volume away, and gazed at the business of the street, only half aware of what passed before her. A group of nonnes in their white sea-bird wimples and blue habits flocked past, two abreast; an elegant citoyenne, dressed in a plaid gown and bodice, the skirt stiff with many petticoats, swept by; bicycles bumped over the cobbles and tram rails, and manicured horses, their coats polished to a high shine, paced elegantly down the road, their riders seated high above the walkers. Annat was a lone Wanderer, unregarded, a shadowy figure standing with her back to the railings of the Jardin des Plantes.

Like most of the other women in the street, Annat wore a poke bonnet. Hers was made of plain straw, sheltering her face from the spring wind. She glanced up at the sky above the tall roofs of the houses opposite, to see the white clouds scudding past on their way inland from the sea. It was hard to believe, standing here in the midst of Masalyar, that she had once gone on a Journey so strange that no one would believe her if she told them of it, a Journey beyond the world. At the Shkola, the Teacher Sival was currently instructing them in the theory of such Journeys, and he often turned to Annat to ask her about her experience. It seemed odd, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the warm classroom, to talk about the frozen land she had visited. As if it were a dream that had happened to someone else, another Annat. The child of four years ago seemed very different to the young woman standing at the tram stop today. And yet none of her fellow students at the Shkola, all shamans like herself, had undertaken such a Journey, or would dare to try it until they were fully trained. After those classes, they would regard Annat with a touch of awe; but then they had all heard of her father, Yuda Vasilyevich, one of the most powerful shamans in Masalyar.

Annat folded her arms under her cloak. She wished she were with her father now, travelling to the city of Yonar in the distant north. But she had to spend six months a year living with her aunt in Masalyar and studying, the months of spring and summer, when it would have been wonderful to ride on the trains with Tate and follow him as his apprentice . . . Instead, she only lived with him during autumn and winter, and at those times he mostly returned to the city to live in a small house out near the marshes. The cabane . . . The best times there happened at the Winter Solstice, when her brother came home from university and Aunt Yuste and Sival left the Shkola to stay with them. They celebrated the Candle Feast together for nine days, and the snow closed them off from the outside world.

A movement overhead caught Annat's eye, startling her out of her dreams. At the same time that she heard the ringing bell of the approaching tram, she saw a flock of birds wheeling above the rooftops, like pigeons or starlings. But these birds made heavy black shapes against the sky, their crooked wings beating slowly as they circled overhead in a crowd of darkness. Crows. Annat's heart began to beat faster than it should, and she hurried to meet the tram as if she were running from a nightmare. It was only when she had collapsed on to a wooden seat, and the humming tram was speeding away from the halt, that she bent her head to peer out of the window at the sky above. They were there, on patrol above the streets of Masalyar, just as she had seen them four years ago, spying on another city far away.