‘I will face him,’ said Draconus. ‘He is chained in the Tower of Hate.’

‘Then you had best hope those chains hold!’

Hearing her thump towards his father, Arathan opened his eyes and turned to watch her. He saw her hands close into fists and wondered if she might strike Draconus. Instead, she halted. ‘Suzerain, will you ever be a child in this world? You rush to every breach and would fling your body into the gap. You offer up your own skin to mend the wounds of others. But there are things not even you can repair. Do you not understand that?’

‘What will you do?’ he asked her.

She looked away. ‘I must find my son. I must turn him from this path.’

‘You will fail then, Kilmandaros. He is as good as wedded to his half-brother, and even now Errastas weaves a web around K’rul, and the sorcery once given freely to all who would reach for it is now bound in blood.’

‘He is poisoned, my son,’ she said, hands uncurling as she turned away. ‘The same for Errastas. By their father’s uselessness, they are poisoned unto their very souls.’

‘If you find them,’ Draconus said, ‘kill them. Kill them both, Kilmandaros.’

She put her hands to her face. A shudder rolled through her.

‘You’d best leave us now,’ said his father, his tone gentle. ‘No walls of stone can withstand your grief, much less soft flesh. For what it is worth, Kilmandaros, I regret the necessity of my words. Even more, I regret my complicity in this crime.’

To that she shook her head, though her face remained hidden behind her hands. ‘If not you,’ she mumbled, ‘then someone else. I know them, you see.’

‘They will seek to twist you with their words,’ Draconus said. ‘Be wary of their sharp wits.’

‘I know them,’ she repeated. Then she straightened and shook herself. Facing Arathan she said, ‘Son of Draconus, let not your longing blind you to what you own.’ She gathered up her sodden furs and turned to the doorway, and was motionless for a moment, staring out into the hissing torrent of rain. Her hands became fists. ‘Like the rain, I will weep my way across the valley,’ she said. ‘Grief and rage will guide my fists with thunder, with lightning, as befits the goddess of love. All must flee before my path.’

‘Be careful,’ said Draconus. ‘Not every tower is empty.’

She looked back at him. ‘Suzerain, forgive my harsh words. Your path ahead is no less treacherous.’

He shrugged. ‘We are ever wounded by truths, Kilmandaros.’

She sighed. ‘Easier to fend off lies. But none comfort me now.’

‘Nor me,’ Draconus replied.

She slung her furs about her, and then set out into the gloom beyond.

‘I wish,’ said Arathan into the heavy silence that followed the fading thud of her footsteps, ‘that you had left me at home.’

‘Grief is a powerful weapon, Arathan, but all too often it breaks the wielder.’