‘Find somewhere near to sleep and make the best home you can. Do not unduly isolate yourself, and do not forget that a world exists beyond that of Gothos, and the Jaghut. When you feel ready, depart. You are a far greater gift than Tutor Sagander ever intended.’

‘Father, be careful in Kharkanas. They think they know you, but they don’t.’

Draconus studied him. ‘And you do?’

‘You are an Azathanai.’

His father collected up the reins and swung Calaras around. He rode out into the centre of the clearing, and as he did so the light faded around him, as if night itself had been summoned and now drew close to welcome its suzerain. In the moments before all light vanished, swallowing Draconus and his mount, Arathan saw a transformation come to Calaras. The stallion’s black hide deepened, his form blurring at the edges, his eyes flaring as if suddenly lit with lurid flames.

Then they vanished within impenetrable darkness. A moment later the day’s dying light swept in once more, revealing an empty clearing.

No embrace. No words of love to seal this farewell. He’s gone. My father is gone.

He stood, alone, feeling lost. Feeling free.

Drawing out the clay figurine, he studied it. Olar Ethil’s gift, passing to him through the hands of his father. For all that it comforted him with its roundness and its weight, he wished that he did not have it. But it was all that remained, the only thing left that marked this vast journey, from the moment Sagander had made him halt and look back upon the gate of House Dracons, to this last, solitary instant, in the empty wake of his father’s departure.

Another gift soaked in blood. Hearing a sound, he looked up.

From across the clearing, two figures had appeared. A Jaghut in armour, and beside him a young Tiste woman, thin and sharp-featured. He watched them approach.

When they reached him the Jaghut spoke, ‘Is he within?’

‘He is, sir. Sleeping in his chair.’

The Jaghut snorted, and then strode inside. A moment later his voice echoed loud and harsh: ‘If you’re not yet dead, Gothos, wake up!’

The woman met Arathan’s eyes, and then shrugged apologetically. A moment later she frowned. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

The challenge in her eyes made him recoil a step. ‘I am a guest.’

‘A guest of the Lord of Hate?’

He nodded, putting the clay figurine back into the pouch at his belt.

‘Was that a doll?’

‘In a manner of speaking. A gift.’

‘It’s ugly. I had prettier dolls, once.’

He said nothing, made uncomfortable by the directness of her gaze.

‘Do you always do that?’

‘What?’

‘Chew your nails.’

Arathan dropped his hand and wiped his fingers on his thigh. ‘No,’ he said.

Chapter Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

‘DID HE EVER speak of family?’