With the others, Sandalath stared at Ivis. The scene the man described horrified her, and upon his visage, now laid bare, was something both haunted and suffering.

After a long moment of silence, Lord Anomander spoke. ‘Ivis, where did you find this… goddess?’

Ivis started. ‘Milord? In the forest, a glade.’

‘Does she remain there?’

‘I do not know. I confess, I have not the courage to return.’

‘And she spoke to you? What did she say?’

Frowning, Ivis glanced away. ‘That we shall fail in all that we do. The world changes and there will be no peace in what comes. What will be born anew will be as a babe atop a heap of corpses. A living crown,’ he concluded in a hoarse rasp, ‘upon dead glory.’

With a muffled oath, Anomander rose to his feet. ‘Enough of this nonsense. You did not imagine this, Ivis? She is out there? I will speak with this goddess – I will defy these prophecies of failure and death.’ He drew his cloak about him. ‘Failing that,’ he added with a half-snarl, ‘I will end her torment.’

‘I sought the same, milord,’ Ivis said. ‘She mocked me for it. Remove the spikes and she will indeed die. To live, she must suffer, a goddess of the earth.’ He looked again to Caladan Brood. ‘As the earth suffers in turn.’ Facing Anomander once more, he said, ‘Milord, the Tiste are as talons carving through the flesh of the world. Every ragged furrow is a victory won. Every savaged span of flesh maps our progress – but it’s all for naught. When we kill what we stand on, it all ends, and whatever destiny we believed in for our kind is revealed as worthless.’

By the time he was done, Ivis was trembling. He took hold of the wine jug and drank from its curled lip, spilling on to his shirt.

Lord Anomander stood as if frozen in place. Then he swung to face the Azathanai. ‘What advice, High Mason, or has your tongue died in your mouth?’

The Azathanai’s attention seemed to be fixed on the tabletop before him. ‘One in pain longs to share the suffering,’ he said. ‘Even a goddess. She has made artistry of despair and delights in an audience. Anomander, she will have nothing worthwhile to say to you. Indeed, she will deceive where she can. In any case, she is not real.’

Ivis scowled. ‘I saw her—’

‘You walked into a dream, Master Ivis, but not one of your own making. There are places, in the wilderness, when the visions of the Sleeping Goddess become manifest. Most often, they are caught from the corner of the eye, a flash, something blurred or hinted at. If violence attends her dreaming, however, they can sustain themselves, even unto an exchange of words.’ He rolled his shoulders in an odd shrug. ‘But most often, they appear as beasts. Hounds, or demonic cats with red eyes—’

‘An impaled goddess?’