The Lord of Hust Forge was motionless, the lines of his face seeming to deepen the longer he stared down at Kellaras. Then he spoke, in flat tones. ‘It is said that the sceptre I made for Mother Dark now possesses something of the soul of Kurald Galain. She has imbued it with sorcery. She has taken pure but plain iron and made it … unnatural.’

‘Lord, I know little of that.’

‘It now embodies Darkness, in some manner few of us understand. Indeed, I wonder if even Mother Dark is fully aware of what she has done.’

The direction of this conversation was making Kellaras uneasy.

Henarald grunted. ‘Do I speak blasphemy?’

‘I would hope not, Lord.’

‘But now we must take care in what we say. It seems, captain, that as her power grows, her tolerance diminishes. They are like lodestones, pushing each other away. Does power not grant immunity? Does power not strengthen the armour; does power not find assurance in itself? Can it be that those who hold the most power also know the greatest fear?’

‘Lord, I cannot say.’

‘And yet, do not those who are most powerless also suffer from the same fear? What does power grant its wielder, then? Presumably, the means with which to challenge that fear. And yet, it would seem that it does not work, not for long, in any case. By this we must conclude that power is both meaningless and delusional.’

‘Lord, the Forulkan sought to extend their power over the Tiste. Had they succeeded, we would be either enslaved now, or dead. There is nothing delusional about power, and through the strength of our legions, including the Hust, we prevailed.’

‘If the Forulkan had won, what would they have achieved? Mastery over slaves? But let us be truthful here, captain. Not one Tiste would kneel in slavery. The Forulkan would have had no choice but to kill us all. I ask again, what would that have achieved? A triumph in solitude makes a hollow sound, and to every glory proclaimed the heavens make no answer.’

‘My master requests a sword.’

‘Pure and plain iron.’

‘Just so.’

‘To take the blood of Darkness.’

The captain’s brows rose. ‘Lord, her sorcery is not Azathanai.’

‘Isn’t it? She feeds her power, but how?’

‘Not by blood!’

Henarald studied Kellaras for a moment longer, and then he sat once more in his heavy, high-backed chair. He drained the goblet in his hand and set it down on the table. ‘I have breathed poison for so long, only riktal can burn through the scars on my throat. Age numbs us to feeling. We are dulled as black bedrock on a crag. Waiting for yet one more season of frost. Now that the First Son has discovered the secret of the Hust, will he barter his knowledge to suit his political ambitions?’

‘My master states as his sole ambition the desire never to yield to ignorance, Lord. Knowledge is all the reward he seeks, and its possession is the measure of his own wealth.’