At that moment, heavy footsteps announced the return of Grizzin Farl. As the Azathanai entered the chamber, he tilted his head and sniffed the air. ‘Ah, well,’ he murmured, gaze settling on Orfantal. ‘My silent foil – will you join the historian and me in conversation?’

‘No, sir. I’m going to look for Ribs.’

‘Yes, he blurred past me in yonder corridor. Look for him in the furthest corner of the Citadel, or indeed in the stables outside.’

Nodding, Orfantal left the two and set out. He recalled Rise Herat’s words about hunters, and hunting, and the child mind that got trapped in all of that. But he wasn’t interested in using his wolves to hunt, and he wasn’t interested in hunting, either. There were no heroes among hunters, because killing was easy. Unless, of course, the prey decides it’s not innocent any more. And then stops being afraid. And decides that running is useless, because some appetites you can’t run away from, and a big hole behind you can be a mouth, too, getting bigger and bigger.

Wolves like mine… they aren’t afraid. They can turn. They can hunt the hunters.

What, I wonder, will that feel like?

* * *

‘She sees through the wounds in his hands,’ Rise Herat said. ‘That tapestry gift to Emral Lanear, it’s meant to show us that none of this is new. It’s happened before. The power in blood. What else, Azathanai, should we know?’

‘You fill me with sorrow, historian, with such anger.’

‘The gifts of the Azathanai are never what they seem.’

Belching, Grizzin Farl drew up another chair, and sat. ‘I have drunk too much ale.’

The historian studied the Azathanai, who was staring into the flames of the hearth. ‘Then indulge in loquaciousness.’

‘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.’