‘His talent?’ Urusander bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘Oh indeed, let us speak of his talent, shall we? Eye wedded to hand. Deft strokes of genius. And in this, my likeness is well captured in thinnest paint. You can look upon my face, on that canvas, Serap, and tell yourself how perfectly it renders depth, as if I stood in a world you could step into. And yet draw close, if you dare, and you’ll find my face is naught but paint, thin as skin, with nothing behind it.’ His smile was strained now. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Milord, no painting can do other than that.’

‘No. In any case, the portrait awaits a washing of white now, yes? Perhaps a sculpture, then? Some Azathanai artisan with the usual immeasurable talent. Dust on his hands and a chisel that shouts. But then, whenever has pure marble revealed the truth beneath the surface? The aches, the strains, the twinges springing from nowhere, as if every thread of nerve within has forgotten its own health.’ Sighing, he faced the entrance. ‘Even marble pits with time. Lieutenant, I am done with Hunn Raal on this day, and all matters of campaign. Do not seek me out and send no messenger in search – I am going for a walk.’

‘Very well, milord.’

He strode from the tent.

Renarr walked over to the chair Urusander had vacated and settled in it. The heat of him remained on the leather saddle.

‘He’ll not acknowledge you in this state,’ Serap said. ‘You have fallen far and fast, Renarr.’

‘I am a ghost.’

‘The ghost of regret for Lord Urusander. You appear as the underside of your mother, like a turned stone, and where all we saw of her was in sunlight, you are nothing but darkness.’

Renarr held out her right arm and studied the not quite pearlescent skin. ‘Stained marble, not yet gnawed by age. Naked, you are like snow. But I am not.’

‘It comes to you,’ Serap said. ‘But slowly, to mark the reluctance of your faith.’

‘Is that it? I but wear my hesitation?’

‘At least our enemies wear their blight for all to see.’

Renarr dropped her arm. ‘Take him to your furs,’ she said. ‘His aches, his twinges – drive away his thoughts of mortality.’

Serap made a disgusted sound, and then asked, ‘Is that what you glimpse each night, Renarr? In that uncaring face hovering above your own? Some faint flush of immortality, like a rose in a desert?’

Renarr shrugged. ‘He’s made his flesh a sack of faults. Untie the knot, lieutenant.’

‘For the good of the Legion?’

‘If your conscience needs a salve.’

‘Conscience. That’s a word I’d not thought to hear from you.’ Serap waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Today, it will be Hunn Raal leading the Legion. Out to parley with Lord Ilgast Rend. This madness needs to end.’