Crokus turned to the sound of Iskaral Pust’s voice. ‘But why did her father lead us here? So that we may all be set upon and slaughtered by a horde of Soletaken and D’ivers?’

‘Servant journeys home, you withered mole carcass!’ The High Priest danced in place again. ‘If the convergence does not kill him first, of course! Hee hee! And takes her, and the sapper, too – and you, lad. You! Ask the Jhag what waits within the warren! Waits like a clenched hand holding down this fragment of realm!’

Apsalar and her father approached side by side.

Mappo had wondered at this reunion, but no expectations he’d envisioned would match the reality. Crokus had yet to notice them, and was instead drawing his daggers and preparing to close in on the sound of the High Priest’s voice. Icarium stood behind the Daru, a moment from disarming him. The scene was almost comic, for Crokus could see nothing, and Iskaral Pust began throwing his voice so that it emerged from a dozen places at once, while he continued his capering dance.

Fiddler, cursing under his breath, had removed a battered lantern from his pack and was now hunting for a flint.

‘Do you dare tread the path?’ Iskaral Pust sang out. ‘Do you dare? Do you dare?’

Apsalar halted before Mappo. ‘I knew you would win through,’ she said. She swung her head. ‘Crokus! I am here—’

He whirled, sheathed his daggers and closed.

Sparks flashed and bounced from where Fiddler crouched.

The Trell watched as the Daru’s reaching arms were captured by Apsalar and guided around her in a tight embrace. Oh, lad, you do not know how poignant your blindness is . . .

An aura that was an echo of a god clung to her, yet it had become wholly her own. The Trell’s sense of it did not leave him at ease.

Icarium came close to Mappo. Tremorlor,’ he said.

‘Aye.’

‘There are some who claim the Azath are in truth benign, a force to keep power in check, that they arise where and when there is need. My friend, I am beginning to see much truth in those claims.’

The Trell nodded. This torn warren possesses such pain. If it could wander, drift, it would deliver horror and chaos. Tremorlor holds it here – Iskaral Pust speaks the truth – but even so, how Raraku has twisted on all sides . . .

‘I sense Soletaken and D’ivers within,’ Icarium said. ‘Closing, seeking to find the House—’

‘Believing it to be a gate.’

The lantern glowed into light, a lurid yellow that reached no more than a few paces in any direction. Fiddler rose from his crouch, eyes on Mappo. ‘There is a gate there, just not the one the shapeshifters seek. Nor will they get to it – the grounds of the Azath will take them.’

‘As it might all of us,’ spoke a new voice.