She did not object, as it gave her something to do. She set about ladling the broth into the bowls, while Rint moved off to his pack. When he returned he carried a flask which he offered to Raskan. ‘Sergeant, I’m of no mind to test your command this night. Nor shall Feren.’

The man frowned. ‘Meaning?’

‘Get drunk, sergeant. Get good and drunk.’

A faint smile cracked the man’s features. ‘I am reminded of an old saying and now wonder at its source …’

Rint jerked a nod. ‘Yes. “Drown the witch,” sergeant, with my blessing.’

‘And mine,’ Feren said.

When Raskan reached for the flask he suddenly hesitated and looked up at Arathan. ‘Lord Arathan?’

‘Mine, too,’ Arathan said.

Feren settled back on her haunches, closing her eyes.

‘Lord Arathan.’ It is done, then. He met his son’s eyes and knew them as his own.

‘Of course he’d know them,’ she muttered under her breath. They just needed a few hundred wounds first.

* * *

‘You did not expect me,’ said Olar Ethil. When he did not answer she looked across at him, and then sighed. ‘Draconus, it pains me to see you like this.’

‘What I shall deliver to Kharkanas—’

‘Will heal nothing!’ she snapped. ‘You always see too much in things. You make symbols of every gesture and expect others to understand them, and when they do not, you are lost. And, Draconus, you do not fare well when you are lost. She has unmanned you, that doe-eyed, simpering fool.’

‘You speak ill of the woman I love, Olar Ethil. Do not think I will yield another step.’

‘It is not you I doubt, Draconus. You gave her Darkness. You gave her something so precious she knows not what to do with it.’

‘There is wisdom in her indecision,’ Draconus replied.

She studied him. The night felt starved of faith, as if he had taken it all inside, and now harboured it with undeserved loyalty. ‘Draconus. She now rules, and ascends into godhood. She sits on that throne, face to face with necessities – and I fear they have little to do with you, or what you desire. To rule is to kneel before expediency. You should fear her wisdom.’

If her words found tender places, he had the will and the strength to not flinch, but there was pain in his eyes. She knew it well, from long ago. ‘There are Jaghut among the Dog-Runners.’

He looked at her. ‘What?’

‘Those who rejected the Lord of Hate. They amuse themselves ordering and reordering what does not belong to them. They make fists and call them gods. Spirits of water, air and earth flee before them. Burn dreams of war. Vengeance.’

‘Must it all crumble, Olar Ethil? All that we have made here?’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I will answer with fire. They are my children, after all.’

‘Making you no different from those Jaghut, or will you now claim Burn as your child, too?’