‘Then you shall fail,’ Andarist said. ‘Vengeance is not pure. It rewards with a bitter aftertaste. It is a thirst that cannot be assuaged. Leave me to name your sword, Anomander. I beg you.’

‘Brother—’

‘Leave me to name it!’

‘Then do so,’ Anomander said.

‘Grief.’

The word hung forlorn in the chamber, amidst breaths drawn and then surrendered, and it stung like smoke.

‘Andarist—’

‘Take this name from me, Anomander. Please, take it.’

‘It has no strength. No will. Grief? Upon iron, it is rust. In fire, it is ash. In life, it is death. Brother, I will take nothing from that word.’

Andarist looked up with bleak eyes. ‘You will take my grief, Anomander, or never again shall I look upon you, or call you brother, or know your blood as mine own.’

Anomander sheathed the sword. ‘Then you shall but hear the tales of the justice I will mete out in your name, and the vengeance I will exact – which I here swear upon the still body of your beloved, and upon her father’s cold flesh.’

Andarist lowered his head, as if his brother had just vanished before his eyes, and Gripp Galas knew that he would not look up – not until Anomander had departed this place.

Silchas stepped into the chamber, and as Anomander marched past him he reached out and spun his brother round. ‘Do not do this!’ he cried. ‘Take his grief, Anomander! Upon your blade, take it!’

‘And so dull every edge, Silchas? I think not.’

‘Will you leave him to bear it alone?’

‘I am dead in his eyes,’ Anomander said in a cold tone, pulling free. ‘Let him mourn us both.’

Beneath Gripp Galas, Kadaspala laughed softly. ‘I have him now,’ he said in a hiss. ‘His portrait. I have him, at last, I have him. His portrait and his portrait and I have him, on the skin. On the skin. I have him. Wait and see.’ And the mouth beneath those empty sockets twisted with joy, and with the fingers of his hand he began painting the air.

From the hearthstone Andarist wept, and then words spilled from him, loose and filled with despair. ‘Will no one share my grief? Will no one mourn with me?’

Silchas said, ‘I will bring him back.’

But Andarist shook his head. ‘I am blind to him, Silchas. Choose now.’

‘I will bring him back!’

‘Then go,’ whispered Andarist.

Silchas rushed from the chamber.

Kadaspala struggled free of Gripp, pushing with his feet. He rose, tottering, fingers cutting at the air. ‘Listen to them!’ he shrieked. ‘Who sees here? Not them! Only me! Kadaspala, who has no eyes, is the only one who can see!’

‘Kadaspala,’ called Andarist. ‘I hold your sister in my arms. Join me here.’