‘At the cost of your mount’s life.’

Gripp glanced away, and then shrugged. ‘He is named Orfantal.’

‘An unwelcome name,’ she replied. Then, catching once more that odd expression on Gripp’s lined face, she frowned. ‘Have you something to say to me?’

‘Milady?’

‘I was never so wrathful as to make you shy. Speak your mind.’

His eyes fell from hers. ‘Forgive me, milady, but it’s good to see you again.’

A tightness took her throat and she almost reached out to him, to show that his affection was not unwelcome and that, indeed, it was reciprocated, but something held her back and instead she said, ‘That leg is likely to collapse under you. I insist we summon a healer.’

‘It’s on the mend, milady.’

‘You’re a stubborn old man.’

‘Our time is short if we are to meet them.’

‘You see me standing ready, do you not? Very well, let us bring your unpleasant news to your master, and weather as best we can Andarist’s outrage at our martial intrusion. The boy will be fine here in the meantime.’

Gripp nodded. ‘It was ill luck, I wager, and not an attempt at assassination. The boy has little value after all, to anyone.’

‘Except in death on the road,’ she replied. ‘The unwanted child as proof of unwanted discord in the realm. I would we had for him another name. Come, we will ride for the Citadel gate.’

* * *

Galar Baras was blind, but he sensed Henarald still standing at his side. The darkness within the Chamber of Night was bitter cold and yet strangely thick, almost suffocating. As he stared unseeing, he heard the Lord of Hust draw a sharp breath.

A moment later a woman’s soft voice sounded, almost close enough for Galar to feel its breath upon his face. ‘Beloved First Son, what value my blessing in this?’

Anomander replied, but Galar could not sense from where the words came, or where he stood. ‘Mother, if we are but your children, then our needs remain simple.’

‘But not so easily met,’ she returned.

‘Is clarity not a virtue?’

‘You will now speak of virtue, First Son? The floor beneath your pacing holds firm underfoot, and you would trust in that.’

‘Until I trip, Mother.’

‘And you think this blade will ease your doubts? Or is it my blessing that will serve you thus?’

‘As a blade sliding into a scabbard, Mother, I would have both.’

Mother Dark was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘Lord of Hust, have you thoughts on virtue?’

‘I know of virtues,’ Henarald answered, ‘but I fear my thoughts are little better than hounds nipping their heels, receiving only a hoof’s kick in reward.’

‘But dogged they remain … those thoughts?’

Henarald’s grunt may have been an appreciative laugh, but Galar could not be certain. ‘Mother Dark, might I suggest now, and here, that the finest virtues are those that flower unseen.’

‘My First Son, alas, paces not through a garden, but on hard stone.’