He pressed down on Mac Brón’s chest. Warmth seeped from his fingers, and into the barbarian’s heart. After a few moments, Tammet felt a heartbeat. The chest rose and fell. But something was wrong. Something moved beneath the man’s skin. Mac Brón opened his mouth, screamed, and then fell back.

The other lords, and even the common folk, reminded him of his status by calling him the Steward of Ketch, though he was Lord of Ketch, and acting steward of all Talahm-lár. The emperor’s hand—and now his heir—did not take these things as slights. He was not interested in the glow of power, only the thing itself.

Dim torches had been placed into the wall, but only at the longest intervals. Big as it was in some places, the great gray cabal squeezed into the rocky tube, filling it, bunching, and gathering mass as it went, like something being collected and compacted. Vile. Intestinal. Mac Brón felt his own throat heave.