‘Indulgence is the sweet drink, yes. There is an Azathanai, a woman of flesh. Her name is Olar Ethil. Have you heard of her? No. Ah, well. Perhaps not by name, but recall your dreams, historian, those troubling ones, when a woman you know and yet do not know comes to you, often from behind. She presses herself against you, and offers a carnal invitation. You would think,’ he said, sighing, ‘that she is but the harbinger of base desires, a play of lust and, indeed, indulgence, particularly of the forbidden – however you might imagine it.’

‘Grizzin Farl, you know nothing of my dreams.’

‘Historian, I know what all men share. But, very well. Look instead into this fire. There are faces in the flames, or rather one face, offering myriad expressions. The Dog-Runners learned to worship that face, that womanly thing. Olar Ethil was wise. She knew the manner in which she would make herself known to them. Goddess of flames, awakener of heat. Lust, desire, bloodlust. She’ll warm your flesh, but burn your soul.’

‘A serpent grows from her hand, yes? She is the one in the tapestry.’

But the Azathanai shook his head. ‘Yes, and no. The Dog-Runners will speak of their goddess of the earth. They name her Burn, and they hold that she sleeps an eternal sleep. In her dreams, she makes the world of men. But Olar Ethil stands near, sometimes beside the Sleeping Goddess, sometimes barring the way to her. She is jealous of Burn, and steals the heat from her. Every hearth, every lick of flame, is stolen. The serpent is fire, and blood. Life, if you choose. And yet, at its core, it is a force of destruction.’

‘You Azathanai play at being gods.’

‘Yes. Some of us do. Power is seductive.’

‘Even the Dog-Runners deserve better. Is Burn too an Azathanai?’

‘I cannot even say if Burn exists, historian. The belief in her does, and that suffices. It will guide the believers, and give shape to their world. You must lean towards the pragmatic, Rise Herat. Motivations are mere ghosts, and if meaning rides in the wake of every deed, indulge it at your leisure.’ Grizzin Farl looked up, met the historian’s eyes. ‘What you choose to do can, without effort, be seen as a betrayal. Though you might name it the purest act of integrity imaginable.’

Rise Herat felt the blood pool in his gut, chilling his limbs. ‘Do you accuse me of something, Azathanai?’

Grizzin Farl’s brows lifted. ‘Not at all. I but question the validity of your role in life. The historian will dissect events, counting the ledger’s list of deeds, and seek meaning from invented motives. When you invite indulgence, I see how familiar to you its flavour.’

‘Mother Dark is as much a goddess as is this Olar Ethil,’ Rise Heart said. ‘Sorcery in the blood. There, on the throne, her eyes are closed. She might be sleeping. She might be dead. Still, through serpent eyes she sees the world. And, I am told, the blood’s taste is seductive. What has Draconus done?’