‘Dear Anomander, the weapon was blessed in its making. It waits for you, in the trembling arms of the Lord of Hust, for whom this exhaustion is neither peace nor virtue. A most restless child, that blade.’

‘Mother,’ said Anomander, ‘where has Draconus gone?’

‘He would bring me a gift,’ she replied.

‘It seems that is all he does.’

‘Do I hear resentment, First Son? Be careful. Draconus is not your father and therefore cannot suit being your target in such matters. Though there is no shared blood between you, nevertheless he is mine and wholly mine. As are you.’

‘You go too far,’ said Anomander then, in a rasp. ‘By title I call you so, as you ask of me, but mother to me you are not.’

‘Then wash the darkness from your skin, Anomander Purake.’

Her cold tone shivered through Galar Baras. Beside him, he heard Henarald gasping like a man in pain. Galar moved closer to him, felt contact, and reached to take the sword from his lord’s failing arms. As the full weight of the weapon settled in Galar’s hands, he grunted – it felt as if he was holding up an anvil.

Henarald sank to his knees beside Galar, shuddering uncontrollably.

Anomander spoke. ‘Devoid of sanctity, lost to virtue, and oblivious of all that’s holy, what manner of prize are you?’

‘If you would seek me, look inward.’

‘Perhaps that satisfies the priests, Mother, and you to see their feathers twitch above the vellum as if to mock the flight of your fancies. But I am a warrior and you name me your protector. Give me something to defend. Tell me not my enemies, for I already know them well. Advise no strategies, for that is my garden and it is well tended. Touch lips to no banner I raise, for all honour is found in the warrior at my side and my pledge to him or her. Give me a cause to fight for, Mother, to die for if need be. Shall we war over faith? Or fight in the name of justice or against injustice? A sword striking down the demons of inequity? A campaign to save the helpless, or just their souls? Do I fight for food on the table? A dry roof and a warm bed? The unfettered promise of a child’s eyes? Name yourself the prize if you must, but give me a cause.’

There was silence in the chamber.

Galar started at an oath from Anomander – close to his side – and he felt the sword taken hold of and then pulled from his hands, snatched away light as a reed.

Boots sounded behind him and suddenly the door was swung open and pale light spilled on to the stone floor around his feet. He looked across to see Kellaras, his skin the breath of midnight, stumbling into his master’s wake as Anomander strode from the chamber.

Galar crouched to help lift Henarald to his feet.