Fiddler stared, seeing what he could not believe – the resemblance was unmistakeable, every feature an echo. His mind reeled.

‘My son must be stopped – his rage is a poison,’ the Jaghut said. ‘Some responsibilities surpass friendship, surpass even blood.’

‘We are sorry,’ Apsalar said quietly after a long moment, ‘but the task was ever beyond us, beyond those you see here.’

The cold, unhuman eyes studied her. ‘Perhaps you are right. It is my turn to apologize. I had such ... hopes.’

‘Why?’ Fiddler whispered. ‘Why is Icarium so cursed?’

The Jaghut cocked his head, then abruptly swung back to the fire. ‘Wounded warrens are a dangerous thing. Wounding one is far more so. My son sought a way to free me from the Azath. He failed. And was ... damaged. He did not understand – and now he never will – that I am content here. There are few places in all the realms that offer a Jaghut peace, or, rather, such peace as we are capable of achieving. Unlike your kind, we yearn for solitude, for that is our only safety.’

He faced them again. ‘For Icarium, of course, there is another irony. Without memory, he knows nothing of what once motivated him. He knows nothing of wounded warrens or the secrets of the Azath.’ The Jaghut’s sudden smile was a thing of pain. ‘He knows nothing of me, either.’

Apsalar lifted her head suddenly, ‘You are Gothos, aren’t you?’

He did not answer.

Fiddler’s gaze was drawn to a bench against the near wall. He hobbled to it and sat down. Leaning his head against the warm stone wall, he closed his eyes. Gods, our struggles are as nothing, our inner scars naught but scratches. Bless you, Hood, for your gift of mortality. I could not live as these Ascendants do – I could not so torture my soul. . .

‘It is time for you to leave,’ the Jaghut rumbled. ‘If you are ailing with wounds, you shall find a bucket of water near the front door – the water has healing properties. This night is rife with unpleasantries in the streets beyond, so tread with care.’

Apsalar turned, meeting Fiddler’s eyes as he blinked them open and struggled to focus through his tears. Oh, Mappo, Icarium . . . so entwined . . .

‘We must go,’ she said.

He nodded, pushed himself to his feet. ‘I could do with a drink of water,’ he muttered.

Crokus was taking a last look around, at the faded tapestries, the ornate bench, the pieces of stone and wood placed on ledges, finally at the numerous scrolls stacked on a desktop against the wall opposite the double doors. With a sigh he backed away. Apsalar’s father followed.

They returned to the hall and approached the entranceway. The bucket stood to one side, a wooden ladle hanging from a hook above it.

Apsalar took the ladle, dipped it into the water, offered it to Fiddler.