The babbling in his skull fell away, until a lone, quavering voice remained. It is the one question that haunts every artist, the one question we can never answer.

How does one paint love?

The brushes had done their work. The gods of the colours were all dead. Kadaspala sat slumped, with his eyes in his hands.

Chapter Fifteen

FIFTEEN

‘FIRST SON, TAKE the sword in your hands.’

Kellaras stood near the door, his eyes on the magnificent weapon that Hust Henarald had unwrapped. It seemed to divide the table it rested on, as if moments from splitting the world in half. Lord Anomander, his face hooded as if in shadow, made no move to reach for the sword.

Kellaras could see his commander – the man he had always known – through the midnight pitch of his skin, and the long hair that had been black and was now silver, the hue of polished iron, yet capable of trapping every colour in its strands. The glow of the lanternlight was gold deepening to red, rippling like water as Anomander slowly leaned forward. The shadows within it were blue, on the very edge of inky black, and the way the hair fell reminded Kellaras of rain, or tears. He still struggled to comprehend this transformation.

Henarald spoke again, his features all sharp angles, a glitter in his eyes that might have been fear. ‘First Son, are you displeased? The blade is silent, its tongue severed at the root. If it howls for you, only you can hear it.’

‘I hear it,’ Anomander whispered.

Henarald nodded. ‘The weapon waits only for the blessing of Mother Dark.’

‘You will see nothing,’ said Silchas Ruin from where he leaned against the wall opposite Kellaras.

Henarald shook his head. ‘Then I shall hear that blessing, sir. Or taste it. Or touch it, like a rose melting on to the blade, and I will feel warmth in the turning away of light. My head shall fill with the scent of the holy.’

‘You shall emerge,’ Silchas said, ‘with the skin of midnight.’

The Hust Lord flinched.

Anomander straightened, and still he did not reach for the weapon. Instead, he faced Andarist. ‘Well, brother, what think you of this sword?’

Andarist was seated at one end of the table, like a man chained down against his will. His need to be gone from the city, to be on the road that would lead him to the woman he loved, was like sweat on his body, an emanation of impatience that seemed to crackle about him. His eyes flicked to the sword, and then up to his brother’s face. ‘I am a believer in names, Anomander. Power unfolds on the tongue. A word sinks claws into the mind and there would hold fast. Yet the Hust Lord tells us this blade is without a voice. Still, brother, you say that you hear its howl. I would know: by what name does this sword call itself?’