‘In choosing you, he chose well. One day I will be a child again.’ Then he leaned forward. ‘But not yet.’ The sharpness of Henarald’s gaze glittered like diamond shards. ‘Captain Kellaras, has your master specific instructions as to this blade of his desire?’

‘Lord, he would it be a silent weapon.’

‘Ha! Does the cry of the sword’s supple spine unnerve him, then?’

‘No, Lord, it does not.’

‘Yet he would prefer a gagged weapon, cut mute, a weapon cursed to howl and weep unheard by any.’

‘Lord,’ said Kellaras, ‘the weapon you describe leads me to wonder which is the greatest torment, silence or a voice for its pain?’

‘Captain, the weapon I describe does not exist. Yet those fools in Urusander’s Legion would tell you otherwise. Tell me, will your master hide the origin of his blade?’

‘Of course not, Lord.’

‘Yet he would have it muted.’

‘Must all truths be spoken, Lord?’

‘Does the riktal un-man you, captain? I can call for wine if you prefer.’

‘In truth, Lord, I had forgotten that I had goblet in hand. I beg your pardon.’ Kellaras swallowed down another mouthful.

‘He wishes a blade of truth, then.’

‘One that demands the same in its wielder, yes. In concord, then, but a silent concord.’

Abruptly Henarald rose to his feet. He was tall, gaunt, yet he stood straight, as if the iron of his world was in his bones, his flesh. In the pits of his eyes now, nothing was visible from the low angle at which sat Kellaras. ‘Captain, there is chaos in every weapon. We who forge iron, indeed, all metal, we lock hands with that chaos. We fight it, seeking control and order, and it fights back, with open defiance and, when that fails, with hidden treachery. Your master seeks a blade devoid of chaos. Such a thing cannot be achieved, and the life I have spent is proof of that.’

Kellaras hesitated, and then said, ‘Lord, First Son Anomander is aware of the secret of the Hust swords. He knows what lies at the core of every weapon you now make. This is not the path he seeks in the making of his chosen sword. He requests that the spine of the blade be quenched in sorcery, in the purity of Darkness itself.’

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.