the Harlequin would not be able to bear much longer.
I am failing you, master, Venn thought distantly, knowing Azaer could most likely not hear his prayers; not while the shadow inhabited a mortal body. I had thought this was how I would deliver the Harlequin clans to you, but I do not have the strength. These spells you taught Jackdaw did everything I asked, but I am failing nonetheless.
He began to shuffle through the snow, barely noticing the cold at first. The evening was clear and sharp, the stars bright and the hunter’s moon free of cloud. In Kasi’s light the cloud-oaks studding the forest below glowed a dull white against the miles of dark pine. He stopped and looked up at the sky above the forest: Kasi lay low against the horizon while the greater moon, Alterr, was a yellowed lump at its zenith.
Kasi: this monument to a dull, unthinking thug, and Alterr: a spiteful bitch whose icy heart is displayed for the whole Land to pity. Neither of you deserve the magnificence of the night.
He hunched over, coughing, as the cold air began to tickle his throat, the effort causing his whole chest to ache.
Perhaps I shall ask to be the one to change that.
Venn smiled to himself at the thought. In the fullness of time there would be nothing beyond Azaer’s ability to grant.
He continued on, taking careful steps alongside last night’s trampled path, which had already compacted into treacherous ice. His bearskin was a leaden weight on his shoulders, but without it he would freeze so he bore it, and fought his body to keep the signs of hardship from his face. As he made his slow progress he watched carefully for discarded branches or stones that might trip him. Slowly an ache built in his chest, dull but insistent, wrapped around his ribcage like a serpent’s embrace. He let out a grunt. His foot scuffed along the snow-covered ground and hit something, a yielding mass that rolled under his foot and pitched Venn to the ground. A tearing sensation raced through his chest, driving the wind from his lungs.
He cried out again, unable to bear the pain as purple stars burst before his eyes. The apprentice Harlequins were quick to run to his side. One feeble arm, unable to break his fall, was pinned under his body.
They were about to roll him onto his back when the priestess’ stern voice cut the air. ‘No, fetch a stretcher!’
Without thinking Venn pushed himself over with his free arm. The weight on his body had lifted without warning, the sapping ache of exhaustion that gripped his body vanishing into numbness.
Spirits below, am I dying?
The pain in his chest was gone; whatever had happened in the fall, now he felt nothing.
‘Sweet Prince,’ exclaimed the priestess as she hurried over. The apprentices stepped back from Venn.
She crouched at his feet and Venn lifted his head to look at her, puzzled. She appeared to be inspecting his boots - no, she was looking at the lump he had tripped on.
‘It’s a man,’ she breathed.
Venn struggled into a sitting position, then looked down with wonder as he realised the ease with which he had moved. The apprentices stared at him with even greater astonishment and fear than they had before.
‘A man?’ he rasped.
She looked up, the face behind her half-mask of obsidian shards betraying even greater shock than the others. ‘Master — Your face — ? You look — ’
‘Reborn,’ Venn muttered, realisation stealing over him. ‘My faith has restored my youth.’
‘A miracle,’ one of the apprentices breathed. ‘That fall should have killed you in your weakened state!’
Venn inclined his head. ‘And yet my weakness has become strength.’
Paen turned to the figure on the ground, rolling the body over so they could see his face.
‘He’s not of the tribes,’ she announced with alarm. These parts were remote and the Harlequin clans did not welcome travellers eager to discover their secrets. She turned the head to one side. ‘These are feather tattoos; he was a priest of Vellern?’
‘What?’ screamed a voice in Venn’s mind. ‘What is happening?’
‘He must have travelled a long way to reach us, but he died at the very entrance to the cavern,’ Venn said softly. ‘Hush your mouth, Jackdaw, let me think.’
‘Is he Farlan?’
Venn peered at the dead body. There was no mistaking the face; it was the former Prior Corci, the monk dubbed Jackdaw by his new master, Azaer. The puckered scars where Azaer had ripped a handful