‘That door isn’t a thousand years old, Arathan. Maybe a hundred, or even less.’

He shrugged. ‘The fittings are iron, blackened but no rust. And that doesn’t make sense, either, does it?’

All of the windows fronting the house were shuttered, again with wood, and no light leaked from between the weathered slats.

‘No one lives here,’ Korya said. ‘It feels… dead.’

Stepping past her, Arathan walked up to the door. He made a fist and thumped on the thick planks of wood. There was no echo, no reverberation. He might as well have been pounding on a solid wall. Glancing back over a shoulder, he saw Korya still on the path, one hand held palm-up, and in that palm sat the acorn. There was speculation in her study of the yard to one side.

Arathan drew a breath, minded to voice a warning, when with an offhand gesture she tossed the acorn into the yard.

‘Oh,’ Arathan managed.

Where the acorn had landed amidst yellowed grasses, the earth suddenly heaved, rising and then slumping over, building a mound of steaming black soil.

Behind Arathan the stones of the Azath House groaned. Spinning round, he saw grit trickling like rain down the pitted façade. An instant later Korya joined him, her expression slightly wild.

From the fresh mound in the yard a tree was now growing, branches twisting out from a stunted trunk that visibly thickened. Roots snaked out to grip the mound.

The house groaned again, and Arathan heard a dull click. Turning, he reached for the latch. The door opened, and at a gentle push swung soundlessly inward, revealing a short corridor flanked by alcoves. The light spilling in reached no further.

‘The tree is trembling,’ Korya said, her voice unsteady and faintly breathless. ‘As if it’s in pain.’

‘What was that acorn?’ Arathan asked, even as he edged closer to the door’s threshold.

‘A Finnest.’

‘What’s that?’

She licked her lips. ‘Lots of things. A place in which to hide your power away, or a piece of your soul. Even a secret you want to keep from yourself.’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘Sometimes it’s a prison.’

‘A prison?’

‘There was a god inside,’ she suddenly said. ‘Ancient, forgotten. Someone shed blood in the camp and summoned it. That was a mistake, but Haut – me and Haut – we trapped it.’

‘You and Haut, was it?’

‘You saw! I had the acorn, not him, right? Yes, the two of us!’

The tree was now as tall as Arathan, but twisted, nightmarish, bleeding sap from swollen fissures in its trunk, its branches shivering incessantly. ‘That’s an angry god,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not going anywhere.’

‘Are you sure? I’d say it was fighting to get out, and whatever is trying to hold it down is in trouble. What I want to know is, what made you throw it into the yard?’