He was certain he had seen her before, but always from a distance – upon a field of battle – and of course helmed and girded for war. She was not one for attending formal events in the Citadel, preferring instead to remain with her legion. It was said that she had arrived to kneel before Mother Dark in sweat-stained leathers, with dust upon her face – he’d thought that tale apocryphal, but now he was not so sure.

She sat now amongst her soldiers, a tankard in one hand, and for all the grime of hard travel upon her, he could see that she was beautiful, yet in a dissolute way, and when Kellaras watched her drain the flagon of ale and then reach for another, he was not surprised.

He considered paying his respects, then decided that this was not the time, and so he continued making his way towards Galar Baras.

‘You look rattled, captain,’ Galar said when he drew close.

Not half as much as you, friend. ‘I have just come from my audience with your lord.’

‘And did he speak to you of childhood?’

‘He did, though I admit to my failing to make sense of it.’

‘And the other matter?’

‘My master will be most pleased. I see you have no drink in hand – I feel bold enough to assail the ale bench—’

‘Not on my account, captain. I cannot stomach it, I’m afraid. I see your surprise – what veteran cannot drink, you wonder? Why, I will answer you: a sober one.’

‘Does this prevent you from sharing in the festivities? I see you standing apart, as if outcast. Come, let us find somewhere to sit.’

Galar’s smile was faint, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘If you insist.’

They made their way to a table, Kellaras choosing one close to the servants’ entrance where a score of used flagons crowded the surface. As they sat he said, ‘Can you explain, then, your lord’s obsession with becoming a child once more?’

Galar Baras seemed to hesitate, and then he leaned close, one forearm pushing the flagons to one side. ‘It is troubling to us all, captain—’

‘Please, call me Kellaras.’

‘Very well. Kellaras. Something afflicts Henarald, at least in his own mind. He claims he is losing his memories, not of distant times, but of the day just past, or indeed the morning just done. Yet we do not see it, not yet in any case. There is an illness that takes smiths. Some believe it resides in the fumes from the forge, in the steam from quenching, or the molten drops of ore that burn the skin. It is called the Loss of Iron—’