‘The world around you speaks your language,’ Draconus replied. ‘It can do no else. All you see bears the paint of your words.’ He paused, and then grunted, ‘I wager none of you noted the flowers amidst the weeds, or the dance of the swifts above the old spring. Or how the sky, for but a moment, was like the purest porcelain.’

Unwilling to turn, to look upon Feren who rode at Rint’s side, Arathan stared at his father, fighting with the meaning of his words. ‘We are invited,’ he said.

‘Indeed, Arathan. You begin to comprehend the curse of the Azathanai.’

‘The Jheleck do not raid here any more.’

Draconus shrugged. ‘See you anything of value?’

A figure now stood in the doorway of the strange, carved house. Not tall but thin, and, from what Arathan could make out, barely clothed – and that clothing was little more than rags of the skins of small animals. All at once, to Arathan, the scene seemed perfect – perfectly rendered, and nothing was accidental. Nothing ever is.

Rint spoke and his voice sounded clumsy and rough amidst a sudden, fragile elegance. ‘Do we make camp here, Lord Draconus? You mentioned a spring and we have great need of water.’

Draconus nodded. ‘The horses will find it for you, but we shall camp just beyond the village, on the hill at the crossroads up ahead.’ He dismounted.

Arathan did the same, trying not to shiver and struggling not to gasp: for all the perfection closing tight around him, it seemed the air surrounding the carved house could not feed his lungs.

Studying him, Draconus said, ‘Draw nearer to me, Arathan, if you wish to remain.’

Rint and Feren had moved away. Raskan was hastening to gather up the reins of the other horses, his movements strangely panicked to Arathan’s eyes.

Stepping closer to his father, Arathan found that he could once more fill his chest with sweet, blessed air. He returned his attention to the figure in the doorway. ‘Who is he and how can he live in … in this?’

‘Azathanai, of course,’ Draconus replied, and then sighed. ‘I know, the name is meaningless. No, it is more than that: it is misleading.’

When it seemed that he would not explain, Arathan asked, ‘Are they gods?’

‘If they are,’ his father said after a moment’s thought, ‘they are gods in waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’