‘How has he named you?’

‘Arathan.’

Gothos grunted. ‘And do you?’

‘What?’

‘Walk on water, for such is the Azathanai meaning of your name.’

‘No sir. Even upon ice, I broke through, and came near to drowning.’

‘Do you now fear it?’

‘Fear what, sir?’

‘Water? Ice?’

Arathan shook his head.

‘Your father means to free Hood. What do you imagine he desires from such a perilous act?’

‘I would think, sir, some form of redemption.’

‘Then it was indeed by Errastas’s hand, the slaying of Karish and now others. Alas, your father does not understand the Jaghut. He imagines that Hood will set out to hunt down the wayward Azathanai. He would see the legendary rage of my people unleashed upon this upstart with blood on his hands. But that shall not come to pass.’

‘Then what will Hood do?’

‘He grieves for the silence she now gives him, Arathan. I fear, in truth, that he will announce a war upon that silence. All to hear her speak again, one more time, one last time. He will, if he is able, shatter the peace of death itself.’

‘How is that even possible?’

Gothos shook his head. ‘Since I am the one who flees death tirelessly, I am not the one to ask.’ The Lord of Hate waved one ink-stained hand. ‘We wage war with our follies, Hood and me, and so are repelled in opposite directions. I chase the dawn and he would chase the dusk. I do not begrudge his resolve, and can only hope that my fellow Jaghut choose to ignore his summons.’

‘Why wouldn’t they? It is impossible. Madness.’

‘Attractive qualities indeed. Impossible and mad, yes, but most worrying of all, it is audacious.’

‘Then in truth, you fear they will answer him.’

Gothos shrugged. ‘Even a few could cause trouble. Now, more wine, please. I believe the bottle bred another in the trunk, somewhere. Do go and look, will you?’

Instead, Arathan glanced at the trap.

Sighing, Gothos said, ‘It bodes ill that you already tire of my company. Go on, then, and appease your curiosity.’

Arathan approached the trap and looked down. The steps were made of wood, warped and worn with age. They were steep. The light coming from below was pale. He made his way down.

After the twelfth step, he reached the earthen floor. It was uneven, with roots snaking across it like a tangled web. He could see no walls. The light was pervasive but without any obvious source. He saw his father standing at the edge of a pool fifteen paces ahead. In the centre of the pool was an island, only a few paces across, where sat a Jaghut. He seemed to have torn away his clothes, and raked claws through his own flesh. Heavy manacles bound his wrists, the chains plunging into the island’s rocky surface. Arathan made his way to stand beside his father.

Draconus was speaking. ‘… I mean to purge the gift, and give it to the Night. I know that this offers no absolution.’ He paused, and then said, ‘K’rul is not alone in seeking justice for the murder, Hood. I can think of no Azathanai who is not outraged by Errastas’s crime.’

Hood was silent, eyes downcast.

‘I would release you,’ Draconus said.

A low laugh came from the imprisoned Jaghut. ‘Ah, Draconus. You sought from Errastas a worthy symbol of your love for Mother Dark. To achieve that, he stole the love of another, and made from blackwood leaves the gift you sought. By this we are all made to bow before your need.’ Hood lifted his head, his eyes catching the strange silver reflection from the pool. ‘And now you stand before me, struggling to constrain your rage, a rage you feel on my behalf. But you see: I do not blame Errastas or his foolish companion, Sechul Lath. Nor do I look upon you with vehemence. Be a sword if you will, but do not expect me to wield it.’

‘My fury remains, Hood, and I will curse Errastas for his deed, and for my own role in it. I will forge a sword and make of it a prison-’

‘Then you are a fool, Draconus. I ask no redemption from you. I seek no compensation and am as unmoved by your sympathy as I am by your rage. Your gestures are your own.’

‘Quenched in Vitr-’

‘Cease this sordid description! What I will do, once I am freed, will unwind all of existence. Your fevered remonstrance is without relevance. Your gestures are reduced to petty exercises bolstering little more than your sense of self-importance, and in this I see you join the chorus of a million voices, but the song is sour and the refrain rings false. Give me the key, then, and begone.’