It seemed that he ever chose to do the wrong thing, and that each time boldness offered itself up he turned away from it; and to ride past the veterans with stern regard and silent resolve now struck him as diffident, if not pathetic. Self-possession, when nothing more than a pose, bared a prickly hide over a host of failures and all confidence could sink away leaving no trace: to hide weakness behind bluster was to hide nothing at all. He carried himself as if all eyes were upon him, and they gauged with critical judgement that hovered on the edge of mockery; Osserc imagined words muttered behind his back, laughs stifled when faces were turned away. He had earned nothing in his young life, and the airs he held to, he grasped with desperation.

Reining in at the steps, scowling as the grooms rushed in, he dismounted. He saw Castellan Haradegar – a man only a year or two older than Osserc – standing near the doors. Quickly ascending the steps, Osserc met the man’s eyes. ‘Where is my father?’

‘In his study, milord.’

Osserc had not yet eaten this day, but he knew his father forbade any food or drink anywhere near his precious scrolls. He hesitated. If he ate at once, then the import of his words would lose all vigour, but already a headache was building behind his eyes – he did not do well when hungry. Perhaps a quick bite first and then—

‘He awaits you, milord,’ Haradegar said.

‘Yes. Inform the kitchens I will eat following my meeting with my father.’

‘Of course, milord.’

Osserc strode inside. The lower floor was crowded with workers – masons and carpenters and their flit-eyed apprentices – and the air was filled with dust, the stone paving underfoot coated in sawdust and the crumbled plaster that was all that remained of the old friezes that had once adorned every wall. He was forced to step round men and women, their tools and the blocks of marble and beams of rare wood, and these obstacles only darkened his mood. When he reached the study, he thumped heavily on the door and entered without awaiting invitation.

His father was standing over his map table, but this scene lost its martial pretensions in the details, since he leaned over an array of fired clay tablets, and the clothing he wore was ink-stained and spotted with dried droplets of amber wax. Urusander was unshaven and his long hair, streaked with grey, hung down in greasy strands.

Osserc strode forward until he stood opposite his father, the broad table between them.

‘You are in need of a bath,’ Urusander said without looking up.

‘I bring word from Hunn Raal, and Commander Calat Hustain.’

Urusander glanced up. ‘Calat Hustain? You were in the Outer Reach? Why did Hunn Raal take you there?’

‘We were visiting, Father. In the company of Kagamandra Tulas and Ilgast Rend, as well as Sharenas Ankhadu.’