That was another name he had once known. Aenarion had been there when he had died. He had died himself shortly thereafter. Looking over at the sword, it came to him where he had seen it before. It had been Aenarion’s once, a long time ago, in that different world the gameboard represented. In the world they had died trying to save.

He saw a resemblance in Khaine’s features to Aenarion’s. Aenarion had been half a god himself. Perhaps they were related. Or perhaps this was something else entirely. He was not sure what, but he knew it was as well to question all of his assumptions here.

‘You are considering your move,’ Death said.

‘No. I am remembering Aenarion,’ said Caledor.

Death smiled. ‘He was my greatest servant.’

Even lacking all the knowledge that had made him what he was, Caledor sensed the lie in that. ‘Aenarion was never your servant.’

‘He bore my sword.’

‘That still does not mean he served you. It was a tool which he used.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Death. ‘Let me rather say that his aims and mine coincided for a while.’

Caledor did not have the energy to argue. Death picked up the piece that represented Aenarion from where it lay beside the board. It was old now, marked by age, its surface rubbed away in places. It might have been tarnished silver or grubby ivory. It was difficult to tell.

‘He was a very great killer,’ said Death. ‘Even the greater daemons, the firstborn children of Chaos, feared him.’

Looking down at the board, Caledor could see that a couple of his own pieces had similar features to the ones Death wore. One of them was tall, broad-shouldered and golden. Looking at the piece, Caledor saw him as he was in life. He could have been Aenarion reborn, but a smiling, good-natured Aenarion, without the weight of care that had always bowed the broad back of the first Phoenix King.

Tyrion, Caledor thought. That was this piece’s name. Tyrion, son of Arathion of the line of Aenarion. Looking at Tyrion’s face now, he could see it was twisted with uncharacteristic worry. He was wearing the armour of the druchii, which was not natural for him, for he was an asur, a high elf. It was a distinction that had not existed when Caledor had been alive.

Beside Tyrion was a woman of glorious beauty, whose life too had been touched by the power of a god. The piece that represented this woman’s mother had already been removed from the board. She was a pawn promoted, a new Everqueen. This was all part of the pattern, he told himself, and he needed to understand it, as he needed to understand what was happening to him.

Before you can rule others, you must first rule yourself.

It was a law of wizardry and more than wizardry.