‘And Tremorlor knows,’ Icarium said, in a cold, flat voice. ‘The Azath can do naught but take me.’

If it is able, and so sorely tested before the effort’s even begun. In your anger you may destroy it – spirits below, what do we risk here?

‘I believe this warren has shaped you, Icarium. After all this time, you have finally come home.’

‘Where it began, it shall end. I go to Tremorlor.’

‘Friend—’

‘No. I cannot walk free with this knowledge – you must see that, Mappo. I cannot—’

‘If Tremorlor takes you, you will not die, Icarium. Your imprisonment is eternal, yet you shall be ... aware.’

‘Aye, a worthy punishment for my crimes.’

The Trell cried out at that.

Icarium’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Walk with me to my prison, Mappo. Do what you must – what you clearly have done before – to prevent my rage. I must not be allowed to resist.’

Please—

‘Do what a friend would do. And free yourself, if I am to be so presumptuous as to offer you a gift in return. We must end this.’

He shook his head, seeking to deny everything. Coward! Strike him down now! Drag him away from here – far away – he

will return to consciousness recalling none of this. I can lead him away, in some other direction, and we can be as we were, as we always have been—

‘Rise, please, the others await us.’

The Trell had not realized he was on the ground, curled tight. He tasted blood in his mouth.

‘Rise, Mappo. One last task.’

Firm, strong hands helped him climb to his feet. He tottered as if drunk or fevered.

‘Mappo, I cannot call you friend otherwise.’

‘That,’ the Trell gasped, ‘was unfair—’

‘Aye, it seems I must make you what I seem to be. Let anger be the iron of your resolve. Leave no room for doubt – you were ever too sentimental, Trell.’

Even your attacks with words are kindly said. Ah, gods, how can I do this?

‘The others are deeply shaken by what they have seen – what shall we tell them?’

Mappo shook his head. Still a child in so many ways, Icarium. They know.

‘Come along now. My home awaits this prodigal return.’

‘It had to come,’ Fiddler said as they arrived. Mappo studied each of them in turn and saw the knowledge plainly writ, in every hue. Iskaral Pust’s wizened face was twisted in a febrile grin – fear, anticipation and a host of other emotions only he could explain, had he been willing. Apsalar seemed to have set aside whatever sympathy she felt, and now eyed Icarium as if gauging a potential opponent; her uncertainty at her own ability showed for the first time. There was resignation in Rellock’s eyes, all too aware of the threat to his daughter. Crokus alone seemed immune to the knowledge, and Mappo once again wondered at the certainty the young man seemed to have discovered within himself. As if the lad admires Icarium – but what part of the Jhag does he admire?