“This is a sickness, you know that?” he said, so angry he was almost laughing. “My grandfather had it. This magic thing. He told us all about it when we were kids, me and Gordon and your dad. He tried to pass on what he knew to us. He didn’t have much magic. He couldn’t do a whole lot. Some people can’t, he said. He was hoping that we’d be different, that we’d be proper sorcerers. We loved the idea, but our dad, he hated it. He didn’t want us growing up and getting into wars that had nothing to do with us. He wanted us to be normal. He wanted us to be safe.”

Valkyrie just stared at him, unable to speak.

“When our grandfather died, our dad asked me to cut it out – cut out all the nonsense and the games and the stories. He asked me, and he cried as he was asking me. The only time I’d ever seen my old man cry. Of course I said yes. I started telling Des that it was all just pretend. After a while, he believed me. But Gordon wouldn’t play along. He was the eldest, and he refused to do what our dad wanted. Maybe it was because he was the eldest that he felt he needed to rebel, I don’t know. They barely spoke after that.”

“So you’ve known all along,” Valkyrie said.

Fergus nodded. He seemed suddenly drained, like this had been building inside him for years and now that it was out, he had nothing to hold him up. “I knew that Gordon always wanted to be a sorcerer, but he just didn’t have it in him. So he wrote about it instead, and he travelled that world, surrounded himself with all these strange people. I don’t know why he did it, to be honest. It must have been hell, to be surrounded by the kind of person that you wanted to be with all your heart, but knew you never could.