‘Your interruptions are most rude, young man – are you typical of your generation? If so, then the world is indeed on a downward spiral into the Abyss. Spirits, I was saying. All extinct now. All nothing more than dust. The Imass have outlasted their own deities. Difficult to imagine, but they are godless in every sense, Toc the Younger. Faith ... now ashes. Answer me this, my dear, do you envisage your afterlife?’

He grunted. ‘Hood’s gate? In truth, I avoid thinking about it, Lady. What’s the point? We die and our soul passes through. I suppose it’s up to Hood or one of his minions to decide what to do with it, if anything.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘If anything. Yes.’

A chill prickled Toc’s skin.

‘What would you do,’ Lady Envy asked, ‘with the knowledge that Hood does nothing with your soul? That it’s left to wander, eternally lost, purposeless? That it exists without hope, without dreams?’

‘Do you speak the truth, Lady? Is this knowledge you possess? Or are you simply baiting me?’

‘I am baiting you, of course, my young love. How would I know anything of Hood’s hoary realm? Then again, think of the physical manifestations of that warren – the cemeteries in your cities, the forlorn and forgotten barrows – not places conducive to festive occasions, yes? Think of all of Hood’s host of holidays and celebrations. Swarming flies, blood-covered acolytes, cackling crows and faces stained with the ash from cremations – I don’t know about you, but I don’t see much fun going on, do you?’

‘Can’t we be having some other kind of conversation, Lady Envy? This one’s hardly cheering me up.’

‘I was simply musing on the T’lan Imass.’

You were? Oh . . . right. He sighed. ‘They war with the Jaghut, Lady. That is their purpose, and it certainly seems sufficient to sustain them. I’d imagine they’ve little need for spirits or gods or faith, even. They exist to wage their war, and so long as a single Jaghut’s still breathing on this world...’

‘And are any? Still breathing, that is?’

‘How should I know? Ask Tool.’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘And ... he doesn’t know.’

Toc stumbled a step, slowed, staring at her, then at the T’lan Imass striding ahead. ‘He doesn’t know?’

‘Indeed, Toc the Younger. Now, what do you make of that?’

He could manage no reply.

‘What if the war’s ended? What next, for the T’lan Imass?’

He considered, then slowly said, ‘A second Ritual of Gathering?’

‘Mhmm...’

‘An end? An end to the T’lan Imass? Hood’s breath!’

‘And not a single spirit waiting to embrace all those weary, so very weary souls ...’

An end, an end. Gods, she might be right. He stared at Tool’s fur-clad back, and was almost overcome with a sense of loss. Vast, ineffable loss. ‘You might be wrong, Lady.’