Gethol lifted a gnarled hand and eyed it speculatively. ‘My talons need trimming. Still, I am thankful I possessed them, although I expect the Seregahl I dragged into my place might venture a different opinion.’

‘Were your eyes open?’ Gothos asked.

‘No, of course not. That would sting, and besides, there is very little to see. Consider the interred, the buried man, be he in sandy soil or sodden peat. Note the closed eyes, the peaceful expression, the firm set of the mouth.’

‘Like that, then.’

‘No,’ Gethol replied, ‘nothing like that. Most buried people are dead, after all. Death seems to insist upon a solemn mien. Then again, in choosing an eternal expression, I imagine peaceful is preferable to, say, the rictus of terror.’

‘And yours, brother?’

‘Oh, I would suggest… disappointment?’

Gothos sighed and rubbed at his face with ink-stained fingers. ‘We all volunteered, Gethol. It was just ill-luck that—’

‘My fateful misstep, yes. It was, perhaps, more a case of my unexpected downturn in fortune. One does not rise in the morning, say, considering ending the day in black soil and bound by the roots of a tree, or, for that matter, being imprisoned for five centuries.’

‘Yes, that does seem unlikely,’ Gothos replied. ‘Still, the contemplation of what the fates hold in store must surely accompany each morning’s greeting.’

‘You always were the one obsessed with solemn contemplation, brother, not me.’

‘I deem it a measure of intellect.’

‘A failure I am proud to acknowledge,’ Gethol replied, baring his blackened tusks.

‘Hence the misstep.’

The grin fell away.

‘It is invariably those lacking in intellect,’ Gothos expounded, ‘who unceasingly rue their misfortune. The curse of the witless is to beat one’s head against the obstinate wall of how things really are, rather than what they insist upon their being. Thud, thud, thud. I envisage indeed an expression of dull disappointment, year upon year, century upon century.’

‘I blame Hood,’ Gethol growled.

‘Of course you do.’

The brothers nodded in unison, and then fell silent.

Arathan leaned back in his chair, looking at each one in turn. He crossed his arms. ‘You two are ridiculous,’ he said. ‘I believe the time has come to take my leave of you. Gothos, my gratitude for your… forbearance. The food, drink and the work you had me do. While I gather you and Haut have decided on where I am to go now, I humbly point out that I am of an age to make my own decisions. And I will now walk to Hood’s side, there to await the opening of the gate.’

‘Alas,’ Gothos said, ‘we cannot permit that. You made yourself a gift to me, after all, on behalf of your father. I don’t recall relinquishing my possession of that gift. Gethol?’

Gethol returned to eyeing Arathan speculatively. ‘I have only just arrived, but you’ve made no mention of anything like that.’