Draconus stood, and only now did Ivis note the shadows under the man’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ and then as if answering a question Ivis had not voiced, ‘and this time, I shall ride with my son.’

* * *

Malice pulled him into the corridor leading to the Chamber of Campaigns. Arathan knew it only by name; not once had he ventured into his father’s favoured room. He drew back, stretching the link between himself and his sister.

She twisted round, face darkening – and then she suddenly relaxed, loosening her grip on his wrist. ‘Like a hare in the autumn, you are. Is that what you think he wants to see?’

‘I don’t know what he wants to see,’ Arathan replied. ‘How could I?’

‘Did you see Clawface Ivis leaving? He was just ahead – took the courtyard passage. He’ll have reported on you. He’ll have talked about you. And now Father’s waiting. To see for himself.’

‘Clawface?’

‘Because of his scars—’

‘Those aren’t scars,’ Arathan said, ‘it’s just age. Ivis Yerrthust fought in the Forulkan War. They starved on the retreat – they all did. That’s where those lines on his face came from.’

She was staring at him as if he’d lost his wits. ‘What do you think will happen, Arathan?’

‘About what?’

‘If he doesn’t like what he sees.’

Arathan shrugged. Even this close to his father – thirty paces down a broad corridor and then a door – still he could feel nothing. The air was unchanged, as if power was nothing but an illusion. The notion startled him, but he would not draw close to it, not yet. This was not the time to see where it led.

‘He’ll kill you,’ said Malice.

He studied her face, caught the amused glint, the faintest hint of a smirk. ‘Names shouldn’t be curses,’ he said.

She pointed up the corridor. ‘He’s waiting. We’ll probably never see you again, unless we go behind the kitchen – below the chute where the carved-up bones and guts come out. Bits of you will be on the Crow Mound. I’ll keep a lock of your hair. Knotted. I won’t even wash out the blood.’

Pushing past him, she hurried away.

Clawface is a cruel name. I wonder what name they’ve given me.

He set his eyes on the distant door and set off, footfalls echoing. His father would not kill him. He could have done that long ago, and there was no reason to now. None of Arathan’s own failings reflected a thing upon his father. Sagander told him so, over and over again. This was not a settling of shadows, because the sun’s light, no matter how pale or dim, could never descry the binding lines of blood, and in place of light no words had been spoken to make it otherwise.

Reaching the door, he hesitated, wiped dry his fingers, and then rattled the iron loop beneath the latch. A muted voice bid him enter. Wondering at his lack of fear, Arathan opened the door and stepped into the chamber.