‘Draconus,’ said Herat, ‘has done this before. See him? That wreath of darkness he wears like a cloak – or wings. See the woman at his side? Who was she, I wonder? What forgotten ancestor embraced his gifts, only to vanish from all memory?’

‘That is no more than a stain,’ she said. ‘Your imagination—’

‘Is beggared by truth,’ he said sharply. ‘Blind yourself if you must. At last, I begin to understand.’

‘What? What is there to understand, historian? We have done what was needed.’

‘No, I think we have failed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We saw Draconus, Kellaras on his heels. They were setting out for the Valley of Tarns.’

‘Yes, so that Draconus can retrieve his Houseblades.’

‘But he won’t,’ Herat said. ‘He can’t. Don’t you see? This is his battle. It’s been his war, from the very start. We just didn’t realize it.’

‘You are speaking nonsense,’ Lanear snapped. ‘Liosan is to blame. And Urusander’s Legion. Hunn Raal—’

‘Failure finds myriad details, High Priestess, each one like a trap. Each one can snare you into believing the moment was unique. And so you are deceived into focusing on the details instead of the failure itself. In this manner,’ he added, ‘failures breed unchecked, unchallenged, and more often than not, unrecognized in what they all share.’

‘Which is?’

He shrugged. ‘The face in the mirror.’ He heard her breath catch, but continued remorselessly. ‘This is a squalid revelation, High Priestess. Nor are we alone in our… errors in judgement. Draconus and the ways of love… it is my thought that, time and again, his ways of love become ways of war. Call him a fool – it’s easily enough done. But even then, Emral, spare the man a moment of pity.’

‘He was to be our only sacrifice, Herat. We set Silchas upon him, and what was done was only what was necessary.’ She gestured dismissively at the tapestry. ‘This signifies nothing, a web for your fears and overwrought imagination.’ Stepping away, she said, ‘I will leave you to struggle in its strands. I must resume my preparations for the arrival of my Liosan counterpart.’

He saw no point in responding, and simply listened to her dwindling footfalls.

Ah, Draconus. You poor, misguided man. All that power, all those years – how many thousands? And still you stumble, your arms laden with gifts, your words forever lifeless in their entreaties.

Perhaps you Azathanai were too few, more an extended family than strangers inviting fascination. Perhaps, in your collective knowing, you all knew one another too well. Or perhaps, Draconus, your failure was and is a personal one, written deep in your bones and blood, in that heart too generous, too bloated with all it would give, and far too intent on the giving to receive anything in return. To make generosity into a weapon… ah, you understand nothing, nothing at all, do you?