‘There has been news from Abara Delack,’ she continued. ‘The monastery has been assaulted and burned to the ground. Alas, the violence did not end there. Orfantal, we have word that your grandmother has died, and that House Korlas is no more. I am sorry. Gripp and I disagreed on this, the telling of such terrible news, but I feared you would hear it when in the Citadel, in an instant lacking sensitivity – the place awaiting you is a buzzing wasp nest of gossip, and often words are spoken for the sole purpose of witnessing their sting.’

Orfantal hunched over in the saddle, fighting a sudden chill. ‘This city,’ he said, ‘is so dark.’

‘More so in the Citadel,’ Lady Hish Tulla said. ‘Such is the flavour of Mother Dark’s power. At the very least, Orfantal, you will soon lose your fear of the dark, and in that absence of light you will find that you see all there is that needs seeing.’

‘Will my skin turn black?’

‘It will, unless you choose the ways of the Deniers, I suppose.’

‘I would have the cast of Lord Anomander,’ he said.

‘Then Night shall find you, Orfantal.’

‘At House Korlas, milady, did everyone die? I had a friend there, a boy who worked with the horses.’

She studied him, and did not immediately reply.

They rode out across the broad bridge, the clash of the hoofs on the cobbles beneath them suddenly sounding hollow. Orfantal could smell the river, rising up dank and vaguely foul. It made him think of brooding gods.

‘I do not know,’ Hish Tulla said. ‘The fire left very few remains.’

‘Well, he used to be my friend, but then that went away. I am glad Mother wasn’t there, though.’

‘Orfantal, grief is a difficult thing, and you have already been through a lot. Be patient with yourself. There is a substance to living, and sadness is woven through it.’

‘Are you sad, milady?’

‘You will find a balance. Whence comes the answer to sadness few can predict, but it does come, in time, and you will learn to appreciate pleasure for the gift that it is. What you must never expect, Orfantal, is joy unending, because it does not exist. Too many strive for the unachievable, and this pursuit consumes them. They rush frantic and desperate and so reveal weakness in the face of sadness. More than weakness, in fact. It is in truth a kind of cowardice, that which espouses an evasive disposition as if it were a virtue. But this bluster is frail work.’ Then she sighed. ‘I am too complex, I fear, and make of advice things insubstantial.’

Orfantal shook his head. ‘I am no stranger to feeling sad, milady. Tonight I will weep for Wreneck, and for the horse I killed.’