Finished with the horses for the moment, Arathan carried the cook-pack to the centre of the chamber. Here he lit a lantern and set out a pot, utensils and food. Sometime in the past four pavestones had been removed to make a firepit. Lifting the lantern, Arathan looked up, but the light could not reach high enough for him to see the ceiling. Still, he could feel an upward draught. He made his way over to the supply of fuel his father had indicated, and found a few dozen large, seasoned dung chips.

Through all of this, and even when he returned to the firepit, he felt her eyes tracking him.

‘What think you, son of Draconus?’ she asked him. ‘Would I make you a good goddess of love?’

He concentrated on lighting the fire, and then said, ‘You would offer a vastness of longing none could satisfy, milady, and so look down upon an unhappy world.’

Her breath caught.

‘Come to that,’ he said, watching smoke rise from the tinder, ‘you may already be the goddess of love.’

‘Suzerain, I will have your son this night.’

‘I fear not. His is the longing that afflicts the young. You offer too much and he yearns to be lost.’

Arathan felt his face grow hot. His father could track every thought in his mind, with a depth of percipience that horrified him. I am too easily known. My thoughts walk well-worn paths, my every desire poorly disguised. I am written plainly for all to see. My father. This Azathanai woman. Feren and Rint. Even Raskan found no mystery in my tale.

One day, I will make myself unknown to all.

Except Feren, and our child.

‘By your words,’ said Kilmandaros, ‘you reveal the weakness of the Consort. You are found in love, Draconus, yet fear its humiliation. Indeed, I am this fell goddess, if in looking into your eyes I see a man made naked by dread.’

‘In the company of Errastas, your son has committed murder,’ said Draconus.

Arathan closed his eyes. The flames of the small fire he crouched over reached through his lids with light and heat, but neither offered solace. He could hear her breathing, close by, and it was a desperate sound to his ears.

‘By what right do you make this accusation?’ she demanded.

‘He and his half-brother are the slayers of Karish. They found power in her blood, and in her death. They now walk the lands stained with her blood, and as my son noted to me earlier, they bear it proudly. Perhaps your son less proudly, since he would not show himself to us. No matter. That which Errastas made for me was forged in blood.’

‘Sechul,’ Kilmandaros whispered.

‘You are too wise to doubt my words,’ said Draconus. ‘If there is dread in my eyes, then it now matches your own.’

‘Why do you not flee, Suzerain?’ she asked. ‘Hood will not turn from your complicity in the slaying of his wife!’