Forge of Darkness

NINE

Haral, the leader of the caravan guards who would not be called ‘sir’, had drawn up his horse to await them. Just beyond, the trail forked, with a cobbled track beginning there. To the left it climbed a hundred or more strides to the fortified walls of the Tulla Hold, an edifice carved into the cliffside. A dozen or more windows made rough holes in the rock facing above the heaped boulders that formed the defences. Along the uneven wall rose squat towers, four in all, each one twice as broad at the base as at the summit, with mounted arbalests commanding the platforms. To Orfantal’s eyes Tulla Hold rose before him like a fortress of myth, and he imagined high-ceilinged hallways shrouded in shadows, through which grieving lords and haunted ladies walked, and the rooms that had once held children now had their doorways sealed and the cradles — rank with mould and thick with dust — rocked only to faint draughts in the deep of night.

He saw rusting weapons on hooks lining the walls, and tapestries sagging beneath their pins. The images were faded with age, but all bore the scenes of war, the death of heroes and murderers in flight. In every room such tapestries brooded like faint echoes of battle, filling the walls with corpses of sewn thread, studded with arrows or bearing lurid wounds.

Gripp riding at his side, Orfantal reined in opposite Haral.

The captain seemed to be eyeing Orfantal’s nag with some regret. ‘We will camp here,’ he said after a moment. ‘The Lady is not in residence, so we need not pay our respects, which is just as well, since that horse would never manage the climb.’

Orfantal set a hand against his horse’s neck as if he could protect the beast from Haral’s cruel words. Feeling the heat of the animal under his palm, he found it impossible to imagine life surrendering in this beast. He saw it as a loyal servant and knew that its heart would not falter in its strong beat. There was glory in final journeys and he was certain that his mount would carry him all the way to Kharkanas.

Gripp was squinting up at the distant citadel. ‘Gate’s opening, Haral. Tithe, do you think?’

Scowling, Haral said nothing. Dismounting, he led his horse to the stone-lined well off to one side of the fork. Beyond it stretched levelled ground studded with iron tent pegs, and a half-dozen fire-pits lined with rocks.

Orfantal looked ahead, to where the cobbled track led deeper into the hills. If there were bandits, they would be hiding among those bleached crags crowding the road. Perhaps even now steady eyes were fixed upon them. Come the morrow there might be an ambush. Peace suddenly shattered: shouts and weapons clanging, figures toppling from saddles and bodies thumping heavily in the dust. His heart beat fast in excitement — the world was so huge! They might kidnap him, demanding a ransom, and he might find himself trussed up and left in some hovel, but he would twist free of the bonds and dig his way out, slipping into the maze of rock and crevasse, there to live wild as a beast.

Years would pass, and then word would come from these hills of a new bandit chief, clever and rich, a wayfarer who stole young women and made them all his most loyal warriors; and theirs was a loyalty beyond challenge, for each woman loved their chief as would a wife a husband.

He would conquer Tulla Hold, sweep it clean of ghosts and broken hearts. He would burn all the tapestries. There would be many children, an army of them. All would be well, with tables groaning beneath roasted meats, until at last all the noble houses marched to lay siege to the fortress. They would come in their thousands and when the walls were surmounted, he would fight to the last on the battlements, defending his children — but someone had yielded the gate, with gold in hand, and the enemy was suddenly in the courtyard. Assailed on all sides, he would be driven down to his knees by a spear flung from behind, and twisting round to see his slayer, his betrayer, he would defy the gods and rise once more ‘Off your horse now for pity’s sake,’ said Gripp.

Orfantal started and then quickly slid down from his mount. Together with the old man who was his protector, they led their charges towards the well.

‘That’s a wagon comin’ down,’ Gripp said. ‘And there’s a highborn with them. Young. As young as you, Orfantal. You ain’t curious?’

Orfantal shrugged.

‘When the Lady is in residence, she sends down fine food and ale to whoever camps here. It’s a measure of her honour, y’see? Haral was hoping and then he was disappointed, but now he’s hopeful again. We could all do with fresh food. And the ale.’

Orfantal glanced over at Haral, who was now busy stripping his mount while the others prepared the camp. ‘Maybe she’s out hunting bandits.’

‘Who?’

‘The Lady of the Hold.’

The old man rubbed at the back of his neck, a habit of his that left a dirty line that no amount of washing seemed able to remove. ‘No bandits this close to Tulla, Orfantal. A day into the hills, about halfway between here and Hust Forge, that’s when things get risky for us. But we’re not too worried. Word is, them Deniers are now making more money mining tin and lead and selling it to Hust — more than they ever could waylaying people like us. Mind you, mining’s hard work and not something I’d want to do. It’s all about weighing the risks, y’see?’

Orfantal shook his head.

Gripp sighed. ‘Saddles off and some grooming while we feed ’em. Your nag’s got a bad eye and it’s weeping more with all this dust. Getting old’s no fun at all and that’s the truth.’

For the past two nights there had not been sufficient fuel for cookfires, barring a single one upon which tea had been made, and so they’d eaten bread, cheese and smoked meat dry as leather. But this night three fires were built, using the last of the dung chips, and pots unpacked from under the wagons. By the time the tents were raised and bedrolls unfurled inside them, the visitors from Tulla Hold had arrived in the camp.

Orfantal finished brushing down his horse and then led it over to the rope corral. He watched for a time as the other mounts greeted the nag, wondering if they but felt sorry for it, and then he made his way over to the cookfires, where the strangers had drawn up.

He saw servants unloading charcoal and dung chips, which were then carried over to Haral’s wagons, and bundles of food now crowded the cookfires. A highborn girl was standing beside Haral, dressed in a thick midnight blue cloak of some waxed material, and as Orfantal approached he saw that her dark eyes were upon him.

Haral cleared his throat. ‘Orfantal, kin of Nerys Drukorlat, this is Sukul of the Ankhadu, sister of Captain Sharenas Ankhadu, spearwielder of Urusander’s Legion at the Battle of Misharn Plain.’

Orfantal eyed the round-faced girl. ‘Are you a hostage like me?’

‘A guest,’ Haral explained before she could reply, as if embarrassed by Orfantal’s question and fearful that she would take offence. ‘Lesser Families exchange hostages only with their equals. Lady Hish Tulla is of the Greater Families and powerful in the court.’

The expression on Sukul’s face had not changed.

Orfantal was unable to judge her age. Perhaps she was a year older than him, or a year younger. They were of similar height. Something in her eyes made him nervous. ‘Thank you,’ he now said to her, ‘Sukul Ankhadu, for this gift of food and company.’

The girl’s brows lifted. ‘I doubt you learned such manners from your grandmother,’ she said, derision in her tone. ‘She showed no honour to Urusander’s Legion.’

Haral looked uncomfortable, but at a loss, so he said nothing.

Orfantal shrugged. ‘I did not know that my grandmother has dishonoured your family. I am sorry that she did, as you have shown yourself to be generous in Lady Tulla’s absence from the Hold. For myself, I still thank you.’

There was a long moment of silence, and then Sukul tilted her head. ‘Orfantal, you have much to learn. But for this night, I will take advantage of your innocence. Together, we shall leave the bitterness of our elders in their restless hands. Your kind words have touched me. Should the need arise in your life for an ally, you may call upon Sukul Ankhadu.’

‘When I am a great warrior,’ Orfantal replied, ‘I shall welcome you to my side.’

She laughed at his reply and then gestured towards the nearest cookfire. ‘Join me then, Orfantal, and we shall eat like soldiers upon the march, and woe to the enemy awaiting us.’

Her laughter had made him uncertain, but the invitation was like a spark to dry tinder, as if she had unerringly set fire to his imagined future, and would readily take her place in it. He looked upon her most carefully now, imagining her visage — older, stronger — wrought in bold thread. A face to one side of the hero’s face; a companion of years, loyal and sure, and as they strode past Haral and Gripp Orfantal felt that face, smiling and flushed, sink into his soul.

They would indeed be great friends, he decided. And somewhere still ahead, hazy and vague but dark with promise, awaited their betrayer.

They left the two of them to their own fire, and at first this had perturbed Orfantal. He was used to Gripp’s company and thought of the old man as a wise uncle, or a castellan. But this was a matter of blood and purity, and although the Ankhadu line was lesser, still it measured far above that of Haral, Gripp and the others.

There was nothing in what Orfantal had seen while in the company of these guards and traders to make clear this distinction in class. Roughness of manner did not suffice, as it was, in Orfantal’s mind, the way of the road for all travellers; and even Haral’s brutal treatment of Narad befitted the man’s insubordination.

But when Sukul seated herself — on a saddle-like stool brought out from the Hold’s wagon — opposite him, and servants arrived bearing pewter plates on which steaming food was heaped, along with tankards of watered wine — in place of the ale being offered the others of the caravan — Orfantal was startled to realize that he had grown so accustomed to his companions on this journey that he had begun to see himself as no different from them, an orphan in their company, well liked by all and, indeed, one of them.

The sudden deference was unwanted, a reminder of all the rules of behaviour that made no sense; and watching how Sukul responded to it with such natural ease, all of his grandmother’s impatient lessons returned home, unwelcome as a switch to his back.

‘Orfantal,’ said Sukul as she picked at her meal, ‘tell me about yourself. But first, to save you time, this is what I know. Kin to Nerys Drukorlat, widow of the wars — she has a daughter, does she not? Once a hostage to House Purake. But of her family beyond her own estate, I have heard little. Indeed, it was my belief that the bloodline was almost extinct, like an ancient, once proud tree, with but a single branch left bearing leaves. You must have come far, then, from some half-forgotten brood at the very edge of Kurald Galain.’

Orfantal had been well versed in the tale he was to tell. But Sukul would be his companion, and as such there would be truth between them. ‘Nerys Drukorlat is my grandmother in truth,’ he said to her. ‘My mother is Sandalath Drukorlat, who now dwells in Dracons as a hostage. My father died in the wars, at a great battle where he saved the lives of many famous highborn.’

The girl paused in her eating and regarded him steadily. ‘Surely,’ she said after a moment, her voice low, ‘Nerys had for you a different story to tell.’

‘Yes. But it made no sense. I don’t know why I am supposed to pretend that I had a different mother and father. My mother is very kind to me and tells me many stories about my father. Theirs was a love only death could silence.’

‘With whom will you be hostage, Orfantal?’

‘To the Citadel itself, and the line of the sons and daughters of Mother Dark.’

She set her plate down, most of her supper untouched, and then reached for her wine. ‘And all arrangements have been made for this? I am surprised — would Mother Dark now claim for her closest followers — her sons and daughters — the unity and honour of a Greater House? What will the highborn make of that, I wonder? Bloodlines shall be crossed, and all for a cult of worship.’

Her words confused him. It was clear now that she was much older than him. ‘I think, yes, it is all arranged.’

Her eyes flicked back to him, as intent as ever. She drank down half her tankard and held it out to be refilled. ‘Orfantal, are we in truth now friends?’

He nodded.

‘Then listen well to my advice. In a few days you will arrive in Kharkanas, and be delivered into the keeping of those who dwell in the Citadel. There will be teachers, and you will feel plucked one way and then another, and even those into whose care you have been given, well, they will be busy with their own tasks and interests. It may be, Orfantal, that you will find life lonely.’

He stared at her. Would they not all gather to welcome him, as they had his mother? What of Anomander Rake? And Andarist and Silchas Ruin?

‘Seek out Lady Hish Tulla — she is there now. Before you leave tomorrow morning, I will send a servant down with a message that I will write to her, which you must carry upon your person, and then give into her hand.’

‘Very well. But you are not a hostage. You are a guest — why are you a guest in Tulla Hold?’

Sukul made a sour face. ‘My sister has a reputation in court, and our mother saw me upon the same wayward path. She endeavoured to prevent that. There was an old friendship, forged on the field of battle… well, my mother made a request and Lady Hish accepted. I am in her charge, being educated above my station, and under the protection of Hish Tulla — who herself has known the wayward life, only to have stepped back from its sordid path.’ She drank more wine and then smiled. ‘Oh dear, how I have confused you. Heed only this, then: blood is not the only loyalty in the world. Two spirits, matched of vision, can reach across any divide. Remember that, Orfantal, for on this night such a friendship has begun, between us.’

‘This,’ said Orfantal, ‘has been a wonderful night.’

‘Hish Tulla seeks to forge the same friendship, the same loyalty, between the highborn and the officers of Urusander’s Legion. By this means she seeks peace in Kurald Galain. But I tell you this: many officers, like my own sister, have no interest in peace.’

Orfantal nodded. ‘They have fought in wars,’ he said.

‘They sting to slights, both real and imagined.’

‘Will you visit me in Kharkanas, Sukul Ankhadu?’

She drained her wine. ‘If I am to stand at the side of a great warrior, why, I am sure we shall meet again, Orfantal. Now, finish your wine — you sip like a bird, when you should be filling your belly.’

‘I wish,’ said Orfantal, ‘that I had a sister. And that she was you.’

‘Better we be friends than siblings, Orfantal, as perhaps you shall one day discover. Upon friends you can rely, but the same cannot always be said for siblings. Oh, and one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘That tale your grandmother would have you tell? Make it a truth in your mind — forget all you have told me this night. No one else must hear the truth as I have. Promise me this, Orfantal.’

‘I promise.’

‘The older you get,’ she said, in a tone that made her seem eye to eye with his grandmother, ‘the more you discover the truth about the past. You can empty it. You can fill it anew. You can create whatever truth you choose. We live long, Orfantal — much longer than the Jheleck, or the Dog-Runners. Live long enough and you will find yourself in the company of other liars, other inventors, and all that they make of their youth shines so bright as to blind the eye. Listen to their tales, and know them for the liars they are — no different from you. No different from any of us.’

Orfantal’s head was swimming, but in challenge to her words he heard a faint voice of protest, rising from deep inside. He disliked liars. To lie was to break loyalty. To lie, as the ghost of every dead hero knew, was to betray.

The night was sinking into confusion, and he felt very alone.

‘I am a great believer in invention,’ said Rise Herat to the small girl beside him. Glancing down at her he added, ‘But do be careful. It’s a long fall from here and I would not survive the displeasure of the entire Hust clan should harm befall you.’

Seeming intent on ignoring his warning, Legyl Behust pulled herself up and on to the merlon. Feet dangling behind her, she leaned out, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes wide with wonder.

Rise took hold of the nearest ankle and held tight. ‘I indulge you too much,’ he said. ‘But look well upon all that you see. The city holds its back to the river behind us, and indeed to the Citadel itself. We need not concern ourselves with those settlements upon the south shore, where you will find the factories, infernal with the stinks of industry. Hides into leather, the butchering of pigs, cattle and whatnot. The crushing of bones into meal for the fields. The throwing of clay and the deliveries each day from the charcoal burners. All the necessities of maintaining a large population.’

‘I don’t want to look there!’

‘Of course you don’t. Better these finer structures, this sad attempt at order-’

‘But where are the spirits of the forest? Where is the forest? You talked about forests!’

He pointed. ‘There, that dark line to the north. Once, it was much closer.’

‘It ran away?’

‘Think of Kharkanas as a beast crawled up from the river. Perhaps to sun itself, or perhaps only to glower at the world. Think of the long-tailed, beaked turtles — the ones the river folk bring to the markets. Gnarled and jagged shells, a savage bite and thick muscles upon the long neck. Claws at the ends of strong limbs. Skin tough as armour. An ugly beast, Legyl, foul of temper and voracious. Hear its hiss as you draw close!’

She was squirming about on the narrow stone projection. ‘Where’s its eyes? I don’t see its eyes!’

‘But dear, we are its eyes. Here atop the Old Tower. We are the city’s eyes just as we are the world’s eyes, and that is a great responsibility, for it is only through us that the world is able to see itself, and from sight is born mystery — the releasing of imagination — and in this moment of recognition, why, everything changes.’

She sagged back. ‘But I don’t want to be its eyes, Master Rise.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t know what I’m seeing.’

He helped her regain her feet. ‘That’s fine, because none of us do. Brush the grit from your clothes. You venture into a difficult area, this idea of “knowing”.’

‘I wasn’t going to ever fall,’ she said, slapping at the stains on her tunic. ‘Of course not. I had your foot.’

‘Ever.’

‘And you can be sure you may rely upon me, Legyl,’ said Rise Herat. ‘So, as you say, there are some things that can well be known. But tell me — did not the city seem alive to you?’

‘I could see everyone. In the streets. They were tiny!’

Taking her hand, he led her back to the trap door and the steep steps leading down to the level below. ‘Fleas from the mud, mites and ticks burrowing into the hide.’

‘It was buildings and stuff. Not a river turtle at all.’

‘I have shown you the city and to look upon the city is to look upon your own body, Legyl. And this Citadel… why, the eyes are set in the head and the head upon the body. This morning, you became the Citadel’s eyes. Is your body not flesh and bone? Is it not a place of heat and labour, the beat of your heart, the breath you draw? Such is wise Kharkanas.’

At the bottom of the steps she pulled free her hand. ‘Cedorpul’s a better teacher than you. He makes sense. You don’t.’

He shrugged. ‘I forget the narrow perch of the child’s mind. In pragmatism there is comfort, yes?’

‘I’m going to play in my room now.’

‘Go on,’ he said, gesturing her along.

The temple’s lone hostage scampered off, down the inner stairs to the next floor below. Rise Herat hesitated, and then turned about and made his way back up to the tower’s platform. His morning ritual, this private contemplation of Kharkanas, might still be salvaged. Cedorpul had ambushed him in the corridor outside his chambers, thrusting this young student into his care. Hasty words regarding lessons and then the young priest was gone.

More rumours, more agitation to rush up and down the hallways of the Citadel. The sanctuary of the Old Tower was Rise Herat’s place of strength amidst all this nonsense. Instead, he found himself left in charge of a girl he saw as almost feral and possibly simple-minded, so vast the temple’s neglect. Ever passed on to the next, scores of teachers and no lessons ever returned to, Legyl’s was an education of fragments, delivered in haste and out from airs of distraction. When he had looked down at her, however, he had seen sure intelligence in the large eyes staring back up at him.

As the court historian, he decided that history would be the lesson he delivered. Such ambitions proved short-lived, as her breathless scatter of comments and observations left him confused. She listened to his words as one might listen to a songbird in the garden, a pleasant drone in the background. Whatever she took in seemed randomly selected; but perhaps it was that way with all children. He rarely had any contact with them, and generally preferred it that way.

Rise looked out over Kharkanas. Thin smoke drifted above the cityscape, not yet lifting to the height of the tower. It softened all that lay beneath it, and he wondered at the loss he always felt when venturing into a vista, the way the vastness narrowed down to the immediate; the sudden insistence of details near to hand. There had been a time, a generation or so back, when the city’s artists had taken to the countryside, to paint landscapes, and to Rise Herat’s mind these paintings achieved what reality could not. A promise of depth and distance, yet one in which the promise remained sacred, for neither depth nor distance could be explored. To draw closer was to see only the brush strokes and dried paint upon the board; and with them the surrendering of the illusion.

Details cluttered the mortal mind, blinded it to the broader sweeps of history. He’d thought to reach this observation in his lesson with Legyl. It might have been, he now considered, that she was still rather too young for such concepts. But then, it was equally likely that age had little to do with comprehension. He need only descend the tower and plunge into the frantic world of the court to witness the same obsessions with detail and immediacy that sent Legyl Behust scurrying this way and that. If anything, he was, in making the comparison, being unkind to the child.

No matter. Thoughts unspoken left no scars upon others. The fate of the inner landscape of the one doing the thinking was, of course, entirely different. This was the procession, he knew, of the failing mind, and in that failure was found a place where many unspoken thoughts came to rest; and it was a place of prejudice, hatred and ignorance.

That said, he knew that he was a poor teacher. He wove his histories as if they were inventions, disconnected and not relevant. Worse, he preferred the sweeping wash of colour to obsessive detail, ineffable feeling over intense analysis, possibility over probability; he was, by any measure, a dreadful historian.

He could see a shadow upon the city below, not thrown down by the smoke; nor did it come from a cloud as the sky was clear. This was Mother Dark’s indrawn breath, stealing the light from the world. What, he wondered, did she do with it? Was it as the priestesses said? Did she devour it, feed upon it? When light goes, where does it go?

The landscape painters of old became obsessed with light, and reputedly that obsession drove many of them mad. But surely it was much worse if all light was stolen away. His thoughts turned to Kadaspala, the finest of all portrait artists — was it any wonder that he lived beneath a cloud of fear and flung his rage at the world? The priestesses promised gifts with the coming of darkness, and that none would be blind within it. Such gifts came from sorcery and so they were never free. Rise wondered at the cost awaiting them all.

He heard scrabbling from the stairs and turned to see Cedorpul climbing into view. The young priest was out of breath, his round face and round body seeming to bob loosely, as if filled with air. Behind him, as he stepped on to the platform, another figure loomed into view.

Cedorpul looked round. ‘She’s not here? Where is she?’

‘In her room. Playing.’

‘Abdication of responsibilities!’

Rise Herat tilted his head to one side. ‘My very thoughts when you left her with me, Cedorpul.’

The priest waved a hand and then spent a moment straightening his stained tunic. ‘These matters are beneath argument. Her whereabouts are known: that is all that is relevant here.’

The other priest edged past Cedorpul and stood looking out over the city.

‘Endest Silann,’ Rise said to him, ‘tell me what you see?’

‘It is less what I see than what I feel, historian.’

‘And what do you feel?’

‘Up here, it is as if the world’s weight falls from my shoulders. While in the corridors beneath us…’ He shrugged.

‘You are young,’ said Rise. ‘There is much for you to bear, but the gift of youth means you scarcely feel its weight. It distresses me to think that you are growing old before your time.’

Cedorpul said, ‘You’ve not yet heard. A rider has come in from one of the monasteries. Warlock Resh leads a party of Shake. They are escorting a guest, who will meet Mother Dark herself.’

‘Indeed? It is already known that she will grant an audience? This guest must be of considerable importance.’

‘From the Vitr.’

Rise turned to Cedorpul, studied the flushed face and bright blue eyes, wondering again at the lack of eyebrows or any other facial hair — did the man simply shave it all off, as he did from his pate? It seemed an odd affectation. ‘Nothing comes from the Vitr,’ he said.

‘We make bold claims at our peril,’ Endest muttered from where he leaned over the wall.

Rise considered for a moment, and then said, ‘It is said the Azathanai have fashioned stone vessels capable of holding Vitr. Perhaps entire ships can be constructed of the same material.’

‘No ships,’ said Cedorpul. ‘Beyond that, we know little. A woman, but not Tiste.’

‘Azathanai?’

‘It would seem so,’ Endest confirmed.

‘They should approach the edge of the forest soon, I would judge,’ Cedorpul announced, moving to position himself beside his fellow priest. ‘We thought to witness their arrival from here.’

So much for a period of restful contemplation. ‘I trust all is being made ready below.’

‘Nothing grand,’ Cedorpul said. ‘This is not a formal visit, after all.’

‘No polishing of buckles?’ Rise asked. ‘No buffing of silver?’

Endest snorted.

Puffing out his fleshy cheeks, Cedorpul slowly shook his head. ‘Ill-chosen my company this day. I am assailed by irreverence. An historian who derides historical occasions. An acolyte who mocks decorum.’

‘Decorum?’ Endest twisted round on one elbow to regard Cedorpul. ‘How readily you forget, that before dawn this morning I dragged you out from under three priestess candidates. Smelling like a sack of stale wine, and as for the stains upon your robes, well, I remain most decorous in not looking too closely!’ To Rise Herat he added, ‘Cedorpul finds the candidates when they’re still waiting in the chaperon’s antechamber, and informs them that their prowess in bed must be tested-’

‘I avail myself of their natural eagerness,’ Cedorpul explained.

‘He’s found an unused room and now has the key for it. Swears the candidates to secrecy-’

‘Dear me,’ said Rise. ‘Cedorpul, you risk a future of scorn and righteous vengeance. I hope I live to witness it in all its glory.’

‘Endest, you have failed me in every measure of friendship of which I can conceive. Into the ears of the court historian, no less! It will be the two of you who curse me to the fate the historian so ominously describes!’

‘Hardly,’ countered Endest. ‘I envision a night of confessions — no, whom do I deceive? Dozens of nights and confessions by the hundred. Yours is a fate I do not envy-’

‘You seemed thankful enough for my cast-offs last night, honourable acolyte. And every other night at that. Who was it who said that hypocrisy has no place in a temple of worship?’

‘No one,’ replied Rise Herat, ‘as far as I know.’

‘Indeed?’ Cedorpul asked. ‘Truth?’

Rise nodded.

‘Oh my,’ Cedorpul said, and then he sighed. ‘These matters are beneath argument. Let us ignore, for the time being, the unfortunate circumstances driving the three of us into each other’s company, and enjoy the view.’

‘And what of young Legyl Behust?’ Rise asked him.

‘Surely there is a sound argument to be made regarding the educational value of play. Besides, that chamber beneath us is the traditional sanctuary of the Citadel’s succession of hostages. May she bar the door in all assurance of privacy. Until the noon bell at the very least.’

It occurred to Rise Herat, somewhat ungraciously, that he would have preferred the company of Legyl Behust.

Cedorpul pointed. ‘I see them!’

Sister Emral Lanear examined herself in the full-length silvered mirror. The faintly blurred woman staring back at her promised great beauty, and Emral longed for them to exchange places. With such a prayer answered, none could pierce the veil, and she need not guard herself at every moment, lest someone glimpse the tortured truths roiling behind her eyes; and in expression she would give nothing away.

The world held up its illusions. No one could see for ever, beyond horizons, through the thickest of forests and the solid mountains of rock, or into the depths of dark rivers, and so there were promises out there as well, inviting the longing reach, offering up vistas of grandeur. The illusions were borne by all who witnessed them in the name of sanity, perhaps, or hope. And so too could others see her: a High Priestess taking her station in the altar room, with the other High Priestess at her side, both standing as representatives of Mother Dark, whose own veil of darkness none could pierce — they could indeed see this and so find whatever illusions of comfort they desired.

There was no cause to resent their expectations. Yet, for all that, she wished the image before her to step out from the mirror, leaving a space into which Emral could then plunge. Illusions held up the world, and she was so tired of holding up her own.

Behind her the lesser priestesses fretted, and the sound alone was sufficient to irritate her. They had fled their beds and the men lying in them as soon as the news reached them. In her mind she imagined them transformed, bright silks shed and in their place dark, oily feathers. Mouths twisting into beaks. Breathless, excited words dissolving into senseless cawing. And the musty heat of their bodies now filled the chamber, and the long-toed feet clacked and kicked through the white shit of their agitation, and in a moment Emral Lanear would turn from the mirror and look upon them, and smile at the death of illusions.

‘A woman!’ someone hissed.

‘Azathanai! It is said they can take any form they wish.’

‘Nonsense. They are bound by the same laws as the rest of us — you might well dream of escaping that ugly countenance of yours, Vygilla, but not even an Azathanai’s power could help you.’

High-pitched laughter.

Emral stared at the blurred reflection, wondering what it was thinking, wondering what it was seeing. There must be a secret dialogue, she told herself, between thinking and seeing, where every conclusion was hidden away. But to look upon oneself in this mirror-world was to witness every truth; and find nowhere to hide. Mirrors, I fear, are an invitation to suicide.

‘Sister Emral.’

At the familiar voice she felt something quail inside her. But the blurry reflection showed no sign of that, and Emral felt a flash of unreasoning jealousy. Yet she held that placid gaze and did not turn at the call. ‘Sister Syntara, is it time?’

High Priestess Syntara’s arrival in the chamber had, Emral realized, announced itself a few moments earlier, in the sudden hush among the priestesses. Such was the force of the young woman’s power, a thing of polished gold and dripping blood. Emral could see her now, almost formless in the mirror, neither beautiful nor imposing. She suppressed an urge to reach up and wipe through the shape, smearing it from existence.

There was no need for two High Priestesses. The temple was ancient, once consecrated to a spirit of the river. The god’s very name had been obliterated from all records. Pictorial representations had been effaced from the walls, but she knew the Dorssan Ryl had been named after the spirit that once dwelt in its depths. In that ancient dawn, when the first stones of Kharkanas were set down, a single priest led the processions, the rituals of worship, and conducted the necessary sacrifices.

The Yan and Yedan cults were survivors of that time, but Emral saw them as little more than hollow effigies, where ascetics invented rules of self-abnegation in the mistaken belief that suffering and faith were one and the same.

Instead of answering Emral’s soft query, Syntara spent a few moments sending all the others from the chamber. Now she turned to Emral once more. ‘Will you gaze upon yourself until All Darkness comes?’

‘I was examining the tarnish,’ Emral replied.

‘Set the candidates to polishing it, then.’ Syntara’s tone betrayed the first hint of annoyance. ‘We have matters to discuss.’

‘Yes,’ Emral said, finally turning to Syntara, ‘that does seem to be our principal task these days. The discussion of… matters.’

‘Changes are coming, Sister. We must be positioned to take advantage of them.’

Emral studied the younger woman, the fullness of her features, the unnecessary paint round her elongated, seductive eyes, the perfect moulding of her lips; and she thought of the cruel portrait Kadaspala had painted of Syntara — although it seemed that only Emral saw it as cruel, and indeed the portrait’s subject had uttered more than once her admiration of the rendition. But then Emral could not be certain that Syntara’s admiration was not for the woman depicted, rather than the genius of Kadaspala. ‘We must be positioned to survive, Sister Syntara. Seeking advantages is somewhat premature.’

‘That you are old is not my fault, Sister Emral. Mother Dark kept you elevated out of pity, I suspect, but that too is her decision to make. We are creating a religion here, but instead of glorying in the possibilities, you resist at every turn.’

‘From resistance comes truth,’ Emral replied.

‘What truth?’

‘Are we now discussing matters, Sister Syntara?’

‘An Azathanai has come from the Vitr. She even now approaches, as much as raised aloft by the Shake.’

Emral lifted her brows. ‘To challenge Mother Dark? I should think not.’

‘Did you know that Hunn Raal is in Kharkanas?’

‘I have observed his petition for an audience, yes.’

‘You should not have denied him,’ Syntara replied. ‘Fortunately, he sought me out and we have spoken. The Azathanai was found by a troop of Wardens of the Outer Reach, and it was a Warden who was escorting the woman here — before the monks intervened. The Azathanai was brought directly into audience with Sheccanto, and was a guest of the monastery for two nights. Do you begin to understand?’

‘I did not deny Hunn Raal. Rather, I saw no need for haste. He has brought you this tale? And what, do you imagine, might be his reasons for so eagerly filling your ear, Sister Syntara? Allow me to guess. He wishes to enliven the notion of this Azathanai woman posing a threat, and so receive from Mother Dark the command to once more muster unto arms Urusander’s Legion.’

Syntara was scowling. ‘She came from the Vitr.’

‘She is Azathanai. Perhaps she did indeed come from the Vitr, but she is not of it. Since when have the Azathanai posed a threat to us? If Hunn Raal gets his way, how will the highborn react to the resurrection of Urusander’s Legion at full strength? Particularly at this time when all of Kharkanas is talking about a holy marriage?’

‘Holy marriage? I assure you, Sister Emral, the talk on the streets is all about Draconus, and what he might do should such a union be announced.’

‘Only because they’ve thought further along this path than, it seems, you have, Sister. Draconus indeed — will it be his head on the plate offered to the highborn in appeasement? And how long will the pleasure of that last when a score or so of Urusander’s lowborn cohort commanders tramp mud into the Citadel’s Grand Hall? The banishing of Draconus from her bed is poor balance to the diluting of highborn power. The return of Urusander’s Legion will be a drawn blade, held high over our heads. And you would dance for them?’

At these last words, Syntara’s face darkened. The rumours of her childhood spent as an alley dancer — mouth round the cocks of drunken old men — never quite went away. Emral and her agents had done nothing to dispel them, of course. But then, Syntara’s own talespinners never rested in assailing Emral’s own reputation. Accordingly, there are always matters to discuss.

‘It would appear,’ said Syntara after a moment, ‘that you’ve become well acquainted with alley rumours of late, Sister Emral.’

‘Enough to know that the hatred of Draconus stems from jealousy-’

‘And his growing power!’

Emral stared at Syntara. ‘Are you now as deluded as the rest? He has no power. He is her lover, that and nothing more. A Consort.’

‘Who has doubled the number of his Houseblades over the past three months.’

Emral shrugged, turning back to the mirror. ‘In his place I would do no less. Hated by the Legion and the lowborn, feared by the highborn. To steal the threat from this, she would do no better than to marry him instead of Urusander.’

‘It is well then,’ snapped Syntara, ‘that Mother Dark does not seek our counsel.’

‘Upon that we agree,’ replied Emral.

‘But even that will change, Sister Emral. What then? Are we to stand before her snarling and spitting at each other?’

‘With luck, you will have aged by then, and so found for yourself some wisdom.’

‘Is that how you interpret the lines upon your face? Since you stare endlessly into that mirror, you must know those flaws well by now.’

‘But Sister Syntara,’ said Emral to the vague form standing behind her own reflection, ‘it is not me that I am looking at.’

Caplo Dreem and Warlock Resh rode at the forefront of the train. Behind them, unflanked and trailed by a half-dozen Shake, rode T’riss, astride her horse of bound and twisted grass. The black of the grass blades had faded in death; the simulacrum was now grey and brown, and in drying the entire creature had tightened in form, until the grasses bore the appearance of muscle and raw bone, like an animal stripped of its hide. The holes of its eyes were now spanned by the webs of funnel spiders. Caplo repressed an urge for yet one more glance back to the Azathanai and her ghastly mount.

His hands were sweaty inside their leather gloves. Up ahead, the forest’s edge was visible in a swath of dulled sunlight, as if the shadow of clouds resided in his own eyes, and he found himself fighting a shiver.

Beside him Warlock Resh was uncharacteristically silent.

As promised they had delivered T’riss to the Yan Monastery, riding into a courtyard filled with brothers called in from the fields and assembled to make formal greeting to the Azathanai. Many among the crowd had recoiled upon seeing the horse of grass — or perhaps it was its rider’s growing power, which Resh said roiled about her in invisible yet palpable currents — or the blankness of her expression, the flatness of her eyes.

Little had been said on the journey back to the monastery. None knew what they were bringing into the community; none knew what threat this Azathanai posed to Mother Sheccanto. Born of the Vitr was a fearful notion. Caplo regretted the enmity of the Warden, Faror Hend — he would have liked to question her more about T’riss: the first moments of their meeting; the details of their journey through Glimmer Fate.

Politics was worn like a second skin, smooth as silk when stroked but bristling when rubbed the wrong way. Caplo was as quick to make enemies as friends, and he had chosen wrongly with Faror Hend. Now that she was upon the other side, he would have to give thought to diminishing her reputation. But he would need his talent for subtlety, since she was betrothed to a hero of the realm. It was all very unfortunate, but a spy was the repository of many unpleasant necessities. The profession was not all daring and romance, and at times even the mask of seduction could turn ugly.

His thoughts returned to that fateful meeting between Mother Sheccanto and T’riss. There had been no delay in ushering himself, Resh and the Azathanai into the chamber of the Mother, known as the Rekillid — the old tongue word for womb. The candles of gold wax lining the walls had all been lit, bathing the round room in soft yellow light that seemed to lift towards the domed, gilt ceiling. The vast woven rug, rich with earth tones, was thick enough to swallow the sounds of their march across it to where waited Mother Sheccanto, seated in the high-backed chair of her office.

With Warlock Resh upon the Azathanai’s right and Caplo Dreem upon her left, they walked without speaking until halting five paces from the dais.

Caplo saluted. ‘Mother, the bandits have been eradicated. In sorrow I must report that no children were saved.’

Sheccanto waved one wrinkled hand in dismissal, her watery eyes fixed upon T’riss, who seemed to be studying the rug underfoot. ‘Warlock Resh,’ Mother then said, making a command of the name.

Bowing, Resh said, ‘Mother, the report of the Warden is that this woman emerged from the Vitr. Her escort named her T’riss.’

‘A Warden versed in the old tongue, then.’

‘Faror Hend, of the Durav, Mother.’

‘She had wise and knowledgeable parents,’ Sheccanto said, nodding. She’d drawn her hands into her lap and there they fidgeted, gripping one another as if to still an unseen tremble, but her gaze had yet to shift away from T’riss. After a moment, she lifted her chin and raised her voice, ‘Will you be a guest among us, T’riss?’

The Azathanai looked up and then away again, now studying the walls. ‘This light is pretty,’ she said. ‘I saw a fountain in the courtyard, but it seemed shallow. There is a dryness here that ill fits a mother’s home.’

Breath hissed from Resh’s nostrils in a rush, but a twitch from Sheccanto stilled the warlock, and then she said, ‘If you will not be a guest among us, Born of the Vitr, then we shall not delay you longer. It is your desire to speak with Mother Dark? We shall provide you a suitable escort.’

‘Your faith is empty,’ said T’riss. ‘But I expect you already know that. There was a spirit once, a god of sorts. From the river near here. It reached through the earth, pulsed in the well you bored in the courtyard. But now even the fountain is lifeless. In chaining and harnessing the power of the water, you bound the spirit and stole from it its life. The free shall live but prisoners shall die.’

‘It would seem,’ said Sheccanto — and now her trembling was beyond disguising — ‘that you lack the usual Azathanai tact.’

‘Tact?’ Still her eyes cast about in the chamber, more wandering than restless. ‘Mother, I am sure you mean amused condescension. Azathanai are amused by many things, and our superiority is not in question. Tell me, do we visit often? I imagine not, since the power that now grows from this realm called Kurald Galain is cause for consternation.’ She had slipped her feet from the odd grass moccasins she had been wearing, and now dug the toes of one foot into the deep plush of the wool rug. ‘Someone will come, soon, I expect.’

‘Is that someone not you, then?’ Sheccanto asked.

‘You are dying.’

‘Of course I am dying!’

‘No god sustains you.’

‘No god sustains any of us!’

‘This is wool. It is the hair of animals. You keep these animals for their hair, although some you slay — the newborn and the very old. There is a smell to the meat when it is old, but the meat of the young is most succulent. Mother, the bandit mothers opened the throats of their children — they would give you nothing. Many of your monks are old. Your cult is dying.’

Sheccanto sagged back in her chair. ‘Get her out of here.’

‘I accept your offer,’ T’riss said then. ‘I will be your guest, for this night and the next. Then we shall depart for Kharkanas. It is my belief now that Mother Dark has made a grave error in judgement.’ She turned back to the entrance. ‘Now, I will bathe in the fountain.’

‘Warlock Resh,’ said Sheccanto, ‘escort our guest to the fountain. Lieutenant, remain a moment.’

T’riss left her odd moccasins on the rug where she had kicked them off, and followed Resh from the chamber. As soon as the heavy curtains settled once more, Sheccanto rose from her chair. ‘They murdered their own children? Next time, employ stealth. Attack at night. Kill the mothers first. Your failure here is a grievous wound.’

‘We lost a generation to the wars,’ said Caplo, ‘and this cannot be replaced in a single day, nor from a single camp of wayfarers. Mother, they fought with the ferocity of wolves. We shall travel further afield next time, and employ the tactics you describe.’

Sheccanto was standing on the dais, tall and gaunt, a figure of wrinkled skin and prominent bones beneath her robes. Below the wattle of her neck, he could see the lines of her ribs, and the hollows beneath her jutting clavicles looked impossibly deep. Of course I am dying! This confession had shocked him. There was more to the Mother’s frailty than her two thousand years of life. It was said that there were great healers among the Azathanai. Caplo wondered if some desperate hope had been blunted in this meeting with T’riss.

‘I am not dead yet,’ Sheccanto said, and Caplo saw how her eyes were fixed on him, sharp as knife points.

‘Mother, it is my thought that T’riss is a damaged Azathanai. The Vitr has stolen much of her mind.’

‘All the more cause for concern, lieutenant. Mad she may be, but her power remains, and it is unmitigated by the restraint of reason. She seeks an audience with Mother Dark? You shall be the Azathanai’s escort. Keep your skills close to hand.’

‘Mother, for all my skills, I do not think it possible to assassinate an Azathanai.’

‘Perhaps not, and you may well die in the attempt. So be it.’

‘Is Mother Dark so dear to us?’ Caplo asked. ‘Besides, it would astonish me to discover that one who would assume the title of Mother of Night is incapable of defending herself.’

‘By darkness alone, she defends,’ Sheccanto replied. ‘By darkness alone, she preserves herself. And in that darkness she trusts but one man and that man does not belong to us. Indeed, I am told that he has left Kurald Galain. Westward, into the lands of the Azathanai. Old suspicions are awakened within me.’

Caplo studied her, the face now in profile, hawkish and sharp. ‘Suspicions you have not shared with your chosen assassin, Mother.’

‘Nor shall I, as no proof is possible. I will risk you, lieutenant, even unto losing you, for the sake of defending Mother Dark. It is not that we need her. We don’t. What we do need from her, however, is her gratitude — and her certainty of our allegiance.’

‘Paid in my blood.’

‘Paid in your blood.’

‘Not even the Azathanai can pierce the darkness enveloping Mother Dark.’

Ancient eyes fixed on his. ‘You cannot be certain of that. Does not her gift steal among her closest children? It is said Anomander has no need for light in his private chambers — servants report candles filmed with dust, their wicks not even blackened. Yet books are left lying opened on the map table, along with scrolls bearing his own handwriting. We have no path into this sorcery of hers, but this is not to say it is an obstacle to others.’

‘I am made uneasy, Mother, by this assignment. There are too many unknowns. Would it not be more prudent that I kill her here, in the monastery? Before she can pose any greater threat to our realm?’

‘Her presence here is known, lieutenant. The Wardens have given her into our care.’

Caplo nodded. ‘To persuade them to do so, we also made guarantee of the Azathanai’s safety. But these matters are all contingent. There is sufficient precedent for the unpredictability of our guest to make believable a tale of her initiating violence. Perhaps upon you, or among the monks. Yes, we may weather a period of indignation and accusation, but in the absence of details our word would stand, and prevail. As you taught me many years ago, an assassin seeks to control as much as possible the moment of assassination. I fear that very loss of control when in the Chamber of Night, in audience with Mother Dark and who knows how many other advisers in attendance.’

‘Those others, lieutenant,’ Sheccanto said, ‘will have uppermost in their minds the protection of Mother Dark, not the Azathanai.’

Caplo cocked his head. ‘It has been many years since you last left the monastery, Mother. I have seen Anomander fight, and even in a chamber the size of Mother Dark’s, it is my judgement that he would reach me before I could kill the Azathanai. If not him, then Silchas Ruin.’ At her steady glare he shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is a gift of Mother Dark’s sorcery that has earned them such skills. Or perhaps their talent is entirely natural. Either way, I wager my chances at success as very low; in which case, if I understand you, my life is to be sacrificed as a symbol of Shake loyalty.’

‘We were speaking of this T’riss posing a threat to Mother Dark. I ask that you hold yourself in readiness for such a possibility.’

‘Of course I shall.’

‘And I trust you will understand, should the moment come, that your sacrifice is entirely necessary. After all, we will be the ones delivering the Azathanai into an audience with Mother Dark.’

Caplo lifted his brows. ‘Absolution of consequences? And if no one survives the battle but T’riss?’

‘Then few would argue, lieutenant, that we are all lost. Now then, you will have other responsibilities when in Kharkanas. Hold still your thoughts while I explain.’

A short time later, Caplo emerged into the courtyard and made his way towards the fountain. Warlock Resh was standing at a respectable distance from T’riss, who wandered naked through the knee-deep water, droplets glistening on her burnished skin. There were signs of sunburn upon her shoulders, the patches of peeling skin reminding Caplo of shedding snakes. Apart from the warlock and the Azathanai, no one else was within sight anywhere in the courtyard.

Children either flee the baring of flesh, or gawk. But it is unseemly to gawk. For me, I but admire.

He came up to stand beside Resh. ‘It is said that we are ever students, no matter our age.’

Resh grunted. ‘Lessons oft repeated, never quite learned. I see before me a new treatise on life.’

‘The critics will savage you.’

‘They shall be as midges upon my hide. Frenzied in scale, but the scale is small.’

‘Then I shall look with delight upon your pocked and wealed self.’

‘It is your secret admiration of savages, Caplo, which your words now betray.’

‘All betrayal will begin, or end, with words.’

‘Savage ones?’

‘I imagine so, Resh.’

T’riss had made her way to the far side of the fountain and now sat upon the broad ledge, face upturned to the sun and eyes closed.

‘If Mother Dark had rejected the element of Night and taken the element of Silence instead,’ mused Resh, ‘there would be peace everlasting.’

‘You suggest then,’ Caplo asked, ‘that all instances of violence involve some manner of betrayal?’

‘I do, and it shall be first and pre-eminent in my list of lessons never learned.’

‘The hawk betrays the hare? The swift betrays the fly?’

‘In a manner of speaking, most certainly, my sickly friend.’

‘Then we are all doomed to betray, since it seems implicit in the very act of survival.’

Resh faced him. ‘Have you not witnessed for yourself the anguish of philosophers? The glee of their guilt, the eager admonition of their selves and all kin? We have all betrayed the promise of everlasting peace, and was there not an age, long ago, when death was unknown? When sustenance itself was without cost or sacrifice?’

That notion was an old joke between them. ‘Warlock Resh,’ Caplo now replied, ‘all the philosophers I have seen are either drunk or insensate.’

‘’Tis the sorrows of loss, friend, and the wallows of recognition.’

‘’Tis weakness of will, I wager the more likely.’

‘A will crumbled helpless to the assault of revelation. When we are driven to our knees, the world shrinks.’

His eyes on T’riss, Caplo sighed and said, ‘Ah, Resh, but not all revelation arrives as an assault.’

‘You give me reason to drink.’

‘Then your reason is weak.’

‘And lo, I am the only philosopher brave enough to admit it.’

‘Only because you’re sober, and I always question the courage of sobriety.’

They both fell silent as T’riss rose once again and made her way over. Eyes flicking briefly to Caplo she said, ‘Your Mother advised against my murder, then? It is well. You would not like my blood on your hands, lieutenant.’

Caplo said nothing for a long moment, and then he cocked his head. ‘Guest, you surmise extreme conduct on our part. It is unseemly.’

She nodded. ‘It is.’

‘I am pleased that we agree-’

‘Murder always is,’ she continued. ‘I tasted the distrust in my friend, Faror Hend, upon your intervention. There were many levels to her displeasure.’

‘We mean you no harm,’ said Caplo, ‘but if we must, we will defend our own.’

‘I see much room for debate, lieutenant, as to what constitutes “your own”. Of course, you rely upon that ambiguity.’

‘Does that comment refer to me personally, or people in general?’

Beside Caplo, Resh seemed to flinch.

‘I do not know sufficient “people” to comment on them,’ T’riss replied, sitting down before them and running a hand through the warm water. ‘I believe you are a killer, and that you are both given reasons for the necessity, and assemble in private more of your own, bolstering such justifications as needed.’

Warlock Resh seemed to gag. Coughing, he said, ‘Guest, I beg you, constrain your power.’

‘You think this power is mine, warlock?’ Smiling, she rose. ‘I am weary. I see a monk in the doorway — will he suffice to guide me to my quarters?’

‘A moment, please,’ Caplo interposed, alarmed after a glance at his companion, who was gasping, half bent over. ‘If not your power, then whose?’

‘Your river god was dead. It is dead no longer.’

He stared in disbelief.

She met his eyes and this time held them. ‘Now you must contend with what you purport to worship, and give answer to the many things you have done in its name. Is it any wonder your friend quails?’

She set off across the compound.

Caplo stepped close to his friend. ‘Resh? Will you recover? Does she speak truth? What is it you feel?’

He looked up with savage eyes. ‘Rage.’

Thereafter, in the midst of panic and chaos tearing through the settlement, the Azathanai guest remained in her rooms, taking her meals in private. Upon the third morning she appeared in the compound. Summoning her grass horse, she mounted up and waited for the others.

Mother Sheccanto was confined to her bed. She had lost all control over her body and could not move, not even to lift a hand. Her lungs were filling with fluid, her breaths came in shallow rasps and her eyes, Caplo recalled, darted like trapped birds.

The hawk betrays the hare. The swift betrays the fly. God was bent to our will; and God now rages.

Riders had already gone out to Yedan Monastery, by Resh’s command, and word had come back the night before their departure for Kharkanas. Father Skelenal was on his way. Sisters had collapsed. The thirteen eldest among them had died. And in the Great Well of the Ancient God, the water boiled. The steam made a column that could be seen from the forest edge south of the convent.

When Warlock Resh announced that he would remain, awaiting the arrival of Skelenal, T’riss had turned to him and said, ‘You will not be needed here. Your Mother will recover most of her faculties. She will speak in private with her lifebound mate. You will accompany me, Warlock Resh.’

‘Why?’ he had demanded, and it had shocked Caplo to realize that his companion had not even questioned the Azathanai’s right to command him.

‘Who dwells in the forest north of Kharkanas?’ she asked him.

Resh shrugged. ‘Cast-offs, half-wild folk. Poachers, criminals-’

‘Deniers,’ Caplo said.

T’riss said, ‘Your Mother and Father need to prepare.’

‘For what?’ Caplo asked.

‘For what I must show Warlock Resh, lieutenant. It shall begin in the forest, but also upon the river itself, and in the streets of Kharkanas — until such time as Mother Dark awakens to the challenge.’

‘What will you say to her?’ Resh demanded in a harsh voice.

‘To Mother Dark?’ T’riss gathered up the makeshift reins. ‘I expect there will be no need for words, warlock. With my presence, she will understand.’

‘Do you threaten her?’ Caplo asked.

‘If I do, lieutenant, there will be nothing you can do about it. Not you, not her guardians. But no, I myself pose no threat to Mother Dark, and upon this you have my word, to weigh or discard as befits your nature. What I bring is change. Will she welcome it or resist it? Only she can answer that.’

In silence they had ridden out from the monastery, on to the south road that would take them on a route well to the east of Yedan Monastery, before entering the much diminished easternmost arm of Youth Forest.

The last words T’riss spoke, just outside the monastery gates, were, ‘I understand now the mystery of water. In peace it flows clear. When I stand before Mother Dark, turmoil will come to the water between us. But the promise remains — one day it shall run clear once again. Hold to this faith, all of you, even as chaos descends upon the world.’ She faced Resh and Caplo. ‘The river god tells me Dorssan Ryl’s water is dark, but it was not always so.’

It was not always so. The oldest of our scriptures say the same. This Azathanai has resurrected our god. This Azathanai has spoken with our god. But what does she promise the Tiste?

Chaos.

When they rode into the forest, however, Caplo had seen nothing unusual, nothing to give credence to the Azathanai’s portentous words. He had turned to the warlock riding beside him, a question on his lips, but Resh forestalled him with an upraised hand.

‘Not yet. It grows. Things stir. Dreams plague a thousand shadowed minds. Something is indeed awakening. We shall see its face upon our return.’

Caplo owned nothing of the sensitivity possessed by Warlock Resh and many of the others in the faith. Sheccanto once told him that even as a child he had knelt before pragmatism; and in so doing had surrendered his capacity for imagination. There existed a dichotomy between the two, and as forces of personality they often locked in combat. For some, however, there was an accord. Dreams defined the goal, pragmatism the path to it. Those who possessed that balance were said to be talented, but it did not make their lives any easier. The blunt of mind, who lived lives in which obstacles rose up before them with every step, were quick to raise similar obstacles before their ‘talented’ associates, and were often adamant in their belief that it was for the best, and justified their views with such words as ‘realistic’, ‘practical’ and, of course, ‘pragmatic’.

Caplo held much sympathy for those who would, by advice and by ridicule, rein in the unfettered dreamers of the world. He saw imagination as dangerous, at times deadly in its unpredictability. Among the many victims he had murdered, it had been the creative ones who caused him the most trouble. He could not track them upon the paths of their thinking.

That said, so many other things had been surrendered in the loss of his own imagination. It was difficult to feel anything for the lives of others. He had no interest, beyond the professional, in searching out empathy, and saw no reason to shift his own perspective on matters of opinion, since his opinions were soundly rooted in pragmatism and therefore proved ultimately unassailable.

For all of this, as they rode into the thinned fringe of the ancient forest, with the tight creaking of the Azathanai’s mount an incessant rhythm behind them, Caplo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden falling off of sunlight. He glanced across at Resh to see the man’s craggy face sheathed in sweat.

‘Does she awaken her power again?’ he asked in a low tone.

Resh simply shook his head, a singular gesture of negation so uncharacteristic of the warlock that Caplo was startled and, indeed, somewhat frightened.

He looked about, eyes narrowed upon the shadows between the trees lining the road. He saw rubbish heaped in the ditches, and there, thirty or so paces deeper into the wood to his right, a squalid hovel wreathed in woodsmoke, with what might be a figure sitting hunched behind a smouldering fire — or perhaps it was nothing more than a boulder, or a stump. The air was cool on the cobbled road, redolent with decay, acidic enough to bite the back of his throat with each breath he took. There was little sound, barring that of a barking dog somewhere in the distance, and the nearer clump of horse hoofs upon the muddy stones.

The other times Caplo had ridden through, on his way to and from Kharkanas, he had barely noticed this stretch of woodland. There seemed to be as many stumps as growing trees, but now he realized that this was only true of the area immediately flanking the road. Things grew wilder deeper into the forest, where the gloom was a shroud no gaze could pierce, and to travel through would require a torch or lantern. It was astonishing to think people lived in this forest, hidden away, confined to an ever shrinking world.

‘They are free,’ said Resh in a strained voice.

Caplo started. ‘My friend, of whom do you speak?’

‘Free in ways lost to the rest of us. You see their limits, their seeming poverty. You see them as fallen, forgotten, ignorant.’

‘Resh, I do not see them at all.’

‘What they are is free,’ insisted Resh, his gloved hands making fists on the saddle horn where they gripped the reins. ‘No tithes, no tributes to pay. Perhaps even coin itself is unknown to them, and every measure of wealth lies within reach of able hands, and within sight of loving eyes. Caplo, when the last forest is gone, so too will end the last free people of the world.’

Caplo considered this, and then shrugged. ‘We’ll not notice the loss.’

‘Yes, and this is why: they are the keepers of our conscience.’

‘It is no wonder then that I never see them.’

‘Yes,’ said Resh, his tone removing all the humour from Caplo’s words.

Irritated, made uneasy by this wood, Caplo scowled. ‘It avails us nothing to elevate the impoverished.’

‘I do not speak of those who have fled our way of living,’ replied Resh, ‘although one might argue that by choice or by accident they walk towards truth, while we plunge ever forward into a world of self-delusion. No matter. Those I am speaking of are those who were never tamed. They live still in this forest — perhaps only a hundred or so left. One cannot imagine their numbers any greater than that. We take their home, tree by tree, shadow by shadow. To know too much is to lose the wonder of mystery. In answering every question we forget the value of not knowing.’

‘There is no value in not knowing. Roll that thick hide of yours, Resh, and shake free of this nonsense. The value of not knowing? What value?’

‘You have no answer and so you conclude that none exists. And there in your reaction, O pallid wretch, lies the lesson.’

‘Riddles now? You know how much I dislike riddles. Out with it, then. Tell me what I lack. What is gained by not knowing?’

‘Humility, you fool.’

Behind them T’riss spoke up, her voice carrying with unnatural clarity. ‘In ritual you abased yourselves. I saw it in the courtyard, many times. But the gesture was rote — even in your newfound fear, the meaning of that abasement was lost.’

‘Please,’ growled Resh, ‘explain yourself, Azathanai.’

‘I will. You carve an altar from stone. You paint the image of waves upon the wall and so fashion a symbol of that which you would worship. You give it a thousand names, and imagine a thousand faces. Or a single name, a single face. Then you kneel, or bow, or lie flat upon the ground, making yourselves abject in servitude, and you may call the gesture humble before your god, and see in your posture righteous humility.’

‘This is all accurate enough,’ said Resh.

‘Just so,’ she agreed. ‘And by this means you lose the meaning of the ritual, until the ritual is itself the meaning. These are not gestures of subservience. Not expressions of the surrendering of your will to a greater power. This is not the relationship your god seeks, yet it is the one upon which you insist. The river god is not the source of your worship; or rather, it shouldn’t be. The river god meets your eye and yearns for your comprehension — not of itself as a greater power, but comprehension of the meaning of its existence.’

‘And that meaning is?’ Resh demanded.

‘Recall the gesture of abasement, warlock. You make it in recognition of your own humility. A god’s powers are immeasurable and before them you are nothing. Therefore you would worship your god and surrender your life into its hands. But it doesn’t want your life, and knows not what to do with your longing, helpless soul. In ritual and symbol you have lost yourselves. Could the god make you understand, it would make you understand this simple truth: the only thing worthy of worship is humility itself.’

Caplo snorted and then made to speak, to heap derision upon her assertion — but he did not even need Resh’s gesture of admonishment to bite his tongue. It was true that he had no imagination, but even he could see the pattern of predictable behaviour, in this confusing of ritual and meaning, symbol and truth.

‘Then,’ said Resh in a rasp, ‘what does our god want of us?’

‘Dear child,’ said T’riss, ‘he wants you to be free.’

Caplo was not one to welcome revelation. He felt knocked askew, and what galled him the most was that he understood, with absolute clarity, the Azathanai’s argument. Earlier, she had announced to them that they had killed their ancient river god. In binding water to mundane uses, in taking away its freedom, they had slain the very entity they sought to worship. It was only logical, then, that what the god wished for was freedom, and in that freedom, a life reborn.

He did not know how she had resurrected that river god, but there was no dissembling when she then said that change was coming to them all.

They rode on in febrile silence following her words, and when Caplo glanced across at Warlock Resh, he saw that his friend was silently weeping, and the glitter of the tears, so raw on his cheeks, was like a bitter gift in the gloom.

In tears, water runs free. One of the oldest poems in the scriptures, penned by an unknown hand. Generations had argued over the meaning, embracing both the prosaic and the profane; but in a handful of words from T’riss, that meaning was suddenly clear, and Caplo could almost hear the regret, echoing in the tormented scratching of quill upon parchment, from that unknown, heartbroken poet.

A truth buried in mysterious words. This was how imagination could be both gift and curse. For himself, he would rather have remained ignorant, but it was too late for that.

After a ride through the night, wrapped in silence and anguish, they reached the edge of the forest, and the city of Kharkanas rose before them, knuckled against the banks of the Dorssan Ryl, like a massive fist of black stone.

The old temple at the heart of the Citadel always made High Priestess Emral Lanear think of a closed eye within a deep socket. The bones spread out from this shuttered centre, in angular additions, the black stone heaped in a half-dozen architectural styles to fashion something like a crushed skull, flattened by its own weight, its innumerable burdens. There was nothing of beauty in the Citadel and for all the life that rushed through it, in corridors and chambers, on saddled steps and in musty cellars, it conjured in her mind an image of bugs trapped in that skull, desperate for a way out.

The stones were insensate, and so the eye remained shut. One could look upon a lifeless face for as long as one liked; if it was truly lifeless, it would never change. No flickering of the lids; no drawing of breath, nothing at all to shock the observer with the undoing of truth, or the unmaking of time.

She was walking beside Sister Syntara, in formal cadence, as they approached the Grand Hall that had once been the temple’s nave. Behind them trailed a dozen priestesses, their fluttering excitement stripped away as, with each step, the way ahead grew darker, defying the candles, devouring the light from the flanking torches on the walls.

None could draw close to the presence of Mother Dark without slowing their steps, and even though preternatural vision was now common among the priestesses and those closest to their chosen goddess, there remained an ineffable pressure in the air, and a chill that reached deep into the bones. Hands could not help but tremble. Breaths grew shallow, the air biting the lungs.

Fifteen solemn strides from the entrance, Emral felt something strike her forehead, and then trickle down to her brow. An instant later she gasped as the wet streak froze against her face. Another drop landed upon her hand where it held the Scabbard, and she looked down to see the bead of water form instantly into ice, numbing the skin beneath.

There was no rain in the city beyond. These corridors were so dry they stole the vigour of health from the youngest priestesses — this was true of the entire Citadel.

Hisses of surprise and then consternation rustled behind her.

Sister Syntara stopped abruptly, proffering the Sceptre to Emral. ‘Sheathe it, Sister. Something is happening.’

There could be no argument to that. Emral accepted the iron and blackwood rod, slipped it into its protective shell.

Droplets of freezing water now rained upon them all. Looking up, Emral saw the gleam of frost covering the rounded arch of the ceiling. Shock stole away her voice. Blistering cold water stung her upturned face.

All at once comprehension arrived, a flood in her mind, and with it came wonder. For all that, the taste was bitter. ‘The eye has opened,’ she said.

Syntara’s glare was almost accusing. ‘What eye? This is the Azathanai’s work! She assails Mother Dark’s domain. This is nothing but unveiled power, mocking the sanctity of the temple!’

‘The sanctity of the temple, Sister? Indeed, but not in mockery.’ She glanced back at the train of huddling, frightened priestesses. ‘The procession is at an end. Return to your cloisters. The High Priestesses must seek private audience with Mother Dark. Go!’

They flapped and fluttered away like panicked crows.

‘The procession was not for you to command,’ snapped Syntara.

‘Paint your lines in spit and fury, Sister, if that is as far as you can see. I am not-’

Heavy boots sounded from down the corridor and she turned to see Anomander approaching, behind him his two brothers. Frozen water droplets bounced from their armour like diamond beads.

‘Emral,’ said Anomander. ‘The Azathanai is now through the gate of the city. The river is in flood and water streams down the streets. I would have your thoughts on this.’

‘The Shake, Lord Anomander.’

A low curse came from Silchas Ruin. ‘They invite a war of faiths? Are they mad?’

Syntara was looking back and forth between Emral and the brothers, her expression confused.

Anomander glanced to the barred doors just beyond them, and then he shook his head. ‘That seems unlikely, High Priestess. Their cult looks inward. Not once have they revealed any ambition to reclaim the old temple.’

He well understood the matter, she saw. The quickness of his thinking surpassed even hers. ‘Perhaps you are right, Lord. Then, they must be as disconcerted as are we. Sufficient to consider them as potential allies?’

‘Not reliably, I should think,’ he replied. ‘The impasse is theirs — I imagine there is chaos in the monasteries. One thing the worship of a dead god assures, and that is unmitigated freedom for the priesthood.’

‘But now…’

He nodded. ‘Their plans are awry. They face challenge from a most unexpected quarter.’

‘If they are nimble of thought,’ Emral ventured, ‘they will see the potential strength here, bolstering whatever position they take in matters of the realm.’

‘Profane matters, yes.’ He hesitated, still ignoring Syntara, and then said, ‘I am informed that Mother Sheccanto lies gravely ill — in consequence, I should imagine. And that Skelenal hastens to her side. They are old but hardly foolish.’

Silchas said, ‘Then we must look to Warlock Resh and Witch Ruvera to determine what is to come from the Shake.’

Another sharp mind, Emral noted. She could forgive Andarist’s distraction, although she well knew that among the brothers, the depth of his introspection was a close match to Anomander’s almost mythical talent in that area, although demonstrably slower in its steps. She said to Silchas, ‘I am informed that the Azathanai’s escort is Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem.’

‘Caplo,’ said Silchas.

‘Yes,’ mused Anomander. ‘Let us think on that.’

‘Sheccanto is afraid,’ concluded Emral. ‘There can be no other reason for Caplo Dreem.’ She regarded Anomander. ‘His eyes will be upon the Azathanai, surely.’

‘Agreed. But this is Sheccanto’s panic, not ours, and I do not see the value of a messenger slain at the foot of Mother Dark.’

‘Lord Anomander,’ Emral asked, ‘can you prevent it?’

‘We have the advantage of expectation,’ Anomander replied, with a glance at Silchas, who nodded and then shrugged.

‘You all hesitate,’ Emral observed.

Frozen rain still fell. Pellets like hail deepened on the floor.

Anomander sighed. ‘With blade in hand, Caplo Dreem is faster than anyone I have ever seen. I could well stand beside him and still fail.’

‘Then stand between him and the Azathanai,’ hissed Syntara. ‘They approach and here we blather on like old hens, wasting time! Mother Dark must be warned-’

‘She knows and needs no more from us,’ said Anomander. ‘Sister Syntara, we hens have much to decide here, yet you persist in pecking the ground.’

‘I am her chosen High Priestess!’

‘Your elevation was intended to ease the burden of administration from Sister Emral,’ Anomander replied. ‘Little did Mother Dark realize your venal ambition, and if you think high tits and a damp nest are the surest paths to power, might I refer you to Gallan’s poem, “Trophies of Youth”? By the poem’s end, even the words fade.’ He faced Emral. ‘High Priestess, I will address the matter of Caplo Dreem before we enter the Grand Hall.’

‘I am relieved,’ she replied, struggling to hide her astonishment at Anomander’s words to Syntara. An elevation to ease administration? She had not known this. And now… is there regret?

Silchas spoke. ‘What, then, of this matter of an awakened river god?’

Relief was flooding through Emral. These brothers, the first chosen among Mother Dark’s children, made fragile every fear and then shattered each one with sanguine confidence. Each time she looked upon them — Anomander, Silchas and especially Andarist — she saw their father, and the love within her, so shackled, so raw and bleeding beneath her obsessive flagellations, surged anew with defiant strength. Pleasure in anguish, hope in long-broken promises — she could almost feel years fall from her when in the presence of these three sons.

To Silchas’s pointed question, Emral said, ‘That depends, I now believe, upon Warlock Resh.’

‘We shall await them here,’ said Anomander.

‘Too many of us here suggests weakness,’ Andarist observed. ‘I will withdraw. Silchas?’

Silchas turned to Anomander and smiled. ‘The two of us together twice drowns the threat and what needs drowning twice? I am with Andarist. It’s said Captain Kellaras has returned but is waylaid in a tavern by Dathenar and Prazek. Andarist, I suggest we join them. Anomander, shall we enquire from your good captain Hust Henarald’s answer?’

‘Why not?’ Anomander answered. ‘I am passing curious.’

Both his brothers snorted at that, and then they set off.

Emral knew nothing of the meaning of these last comments. Hust Henarald stood outside all political machinations. She wondered what Anomander might want of the man. Foolish woman! What else could it be? My… if an iron cry sounds in the Citadel, the echoes will travel far.

But there had been not a moment of hesitation in either Andarist or Silchas. Their trust in their brother’s competence was breathtaking under the circumstances.

Sons of the father.

But of their mother’s flaws, I pray… none.

‘Are we to simply stand here, then?’ Syntara demanded.

‘You are not needed,’ Anomander said to her. ‘Seek shelter in Mother Dark’s presence.’

‘You invite me to private audience with our goddess?’ Syntara smirked. ‘I will accept, most assuredly.’ She waved a pallid hand, dismissing them all. ‘Surrender all decorum out here in the corridor, by all means. I shall remain above such awkwardness, since it seems that I alone understand the position of High Priestess.’

‘Would that be on your knees, Syntara?’

Despite the paint on her face, and despite the gloom of the hallway, Syntara visibly paled. Fury burgeoned in her eyes and she spun from them, marching towards the doors. A moment later and she was through. As the echo of the door’s closing drummed down the corridor, Emral shook her head. ‘She’ll not forget that insult, Lord Anomander, and for all her vanity, do not think her harmless.’

‘I was unwise,’ admitted Anomander. ‘However, it is not me at risk of her ire, it is you. For that I apologize, High Priestess.’

‘No need, Lord. I have cut deeper than that many times.’

‘Yet in private, surely.’

She shrugged. ‘With all the spies in this court, I doubt “privacy” even exists.’

‘This is the danger of darkness,’ said Anomander. ‘The world made unseen invites intrigue.’

‘It is no easy thing,’ she said, ‘to carve faith from secular ambition, Lord. The birth of any religion is bound to be tumultuous.’

‘It would be more relaxed,’ said Anomander, as the sounds of people entering the far end of the corridor reached them, ‘if Draconus were here.’

And just as quickly, a single comment from him could uproot the world from beneath her feet. She made no reply, no longer trusting her own voice.

Hold up no mirror, lest you like not what you see.

As the river crested its banks, pouring murky water into the streets and alleys of Kharkanas, and as shock and alarm rippled ahead of the tide throughout the city, Caplo Dreem and Warlock Resh escorted T’riss on to the main avenue that led out from the wood. Crowds were pushing up from the streets, funnelled by the rising water behind them, and gathering like flotsam along the high ridge that fringed the floodplain, halfway between the city’s edge and the line of trees marking the forest.

Floods were seasonal events in Kharkanas, occurring in the spring. Here, in the depths of a dry summer, and arriving without warning, the upsurge was accompanied by a sense of superstitious fear.

Where the main avenue sloped downwards, crossing the bank of the ridge, refuse-littered water lapped the cobbles directly ahead. Caplo reined in and a moment later Resh followed suit. T’riss drew up immediately behind them. Beyond her, the Shake halted their mounts, silent and pale-faced, ignoring the queries from refugees nearby.

‘Azathanai,’ said Caplo. ‘Will your mount suffer in form, should we ride through this water?’

‘I will walk,’ she replied. ‘The river resists its imprisonment. In this it speaks a truth of nature.’

The warlock’s voice was harsh as he asked, ‘What will the river god demand of this city? Of Mother Dark herself? The banks are walled in stone. The bridges are built. The jetties and piers stand firm against the currents. Must it all be destroyed in the name of water’s freedom?’

T’riss slipped down from the simulacrum. ‘Mother Dark is awakened to its presence. She asserts her domain.’

‘Is this to be a battle?’ Caplo asked her.

The woman studied him briefly, and then glanced up at the sky, as if invisible words were carved across its vault, which she now read out loud. ‘In stirring from sleep, the river god opens eyes upon a much changed world. Even the pillow upon which he rested his head is claimed by another — there is a temple within the Citadel, yes? It once belonged to the river god, but ownership has passed to another.’ She looked down, frowned at the city before them — and of the hundreds of Tiste now climbing the ridge to either side of the avenue, she was oblivious. ‘Even now the flood subsides. Mother Dark’s power is impressive.’

She strode between the two men and moments later walked into the water.

Resh’s sigh was rough. ‘I’ll keep my feet dry, if you please.’

Nodding, Caplo nudged his horse forward.

The procession resumed, this time led by the Azathanai, who cut a path through the swirling flood as if the river’s rising was a gift to her. Above the Citadel, Caplo saw clouds lifting, roiling away. Steam. Mother Dark banishes. We see here the truth of her growing power.

They continued on, at a pace somewhat quicker than the subsidence, although by the high waterline on the building walls it was clear that the flood was fast draining. The sound of rushing water was everywhere, as if in the aftermath of a heavy shower.

T’riss spoke without turning. ‘She must heed this lesson. To bind is to weaken. To hold is to make vulnerable, so that just as temples are focal points for worship and sacred gestures, so too are they weak points in a god’s armour. They are where the skin is thinnest, where fingers can touch, one mortal the other immortal. The meeting of lips, the sharing of breaths. Believe with all your heart, but know that your kiss can kill.’

Resh said, ‘Mother Dark is yet to sanctify the temple in her name, Azathanai. This is a matter of some contention. She may not need your warnings.’

They were approaching an intersection, opening out in a rectangular expanse. From windows on higher floors in the buildings to either side, people looked down, tracking their progress. Upon the far end reared the Citadel’s City Gate. There was no one visible in the concourse.

T’riss halted, turned to Caplo. ‘I have heard mention of highborn and lowborn, yet the Tiste acknowledge no royalty. How is this so?’

‘There was a queen once,’ Caplo replied. ‘The last of the royal line. She died on the field of battle. Her husband was not among the nobility, yet greatly revered for his martial prowess. When he fell, mortally wounded, she led a charge of her Royal Wardens in an effort to retrieve his body from the field. It failed. Thereafter, her body was not found, although that of her husband was.’

T’riss was studying him. ‘This queen was blood-kin to Mother Dark?’

‘Half-sisters,’ Resh said.

‘She could not have claimed the throne?’

‘No,’ Caplo replied. ‘An exception would have been made, however. There was precedent. But she was deemed… unsuitable.’

‘Esoteric interests,’ said Resh in a growl. ‘No talent for politics. Idealistic, romantic — well suited, perhaps, to her elevation into godhood.’

‘Then,’ said T’riss, ‘your throne remains unoccupied. I expect that this would indeed suit the highborn.’

‘The throne is transformed,’ said Resh. ‘Its place of honour now is in the temple. Upon it sits Mother Dark, and by title it is no longer the Royal Throne, but the Throne of Night.’

‘She will be seated upon it, then?’ T’riss asked. ‘When we have audience with her?’

Caplo shrugged. ‘Who can say? In darkness she dwells.’

The Azathanai was now looking from Caplo to Resh and back again. ‘The dead queen was the last of the royal line. By this you mean the direct line.’

‘Yes,’ said Resh, scowling.

‘There remain distant relations.’

Caplo nodded.

‘Lieutenant, I see little of the disingenuous in your comportment with me. You will give honest answer to my next question.’

‘If answer I possess,’ said Caplo.

‘The Queen had other kin. They now hold the titles of Mother and Father, and their names are Sheccanto and Skelenal.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet they are lifebound.’

‘Without consummation, Azathanai,’ replied Caplo. ‘To be lifebound is not a marriage. It is something… other.’

‘By rights they could claim the throne.’

Caplo shrugged. ‘It could so be argued.’

After a moment she turned back, resumed her trek across the concourse.

The water was gone, leaving little more than a few puddles and patches of wet stone fast dwindling in the sunlight. As Caplo made to nudge his mount forward, Resh reached out a hand and stayed him.

They watched her walking onward for a dozen heartbeats.

‘Warlock,’ murmured Caplo, ‘say nothing in the certainty of being unheard.’

‘I won’t,’ Resh answered. ‘But these matters — of lineage and blood — I see no advantage in her knowing them.’

‘To firm her footing, I should think.’

‘Nothing more?’

Caplo shrugged. ‘The age of kings and queens is past, warlock. The lesson was lost on no one. By love aggrieved she cast the realm into chaos. This shall not happen again.’

‘We should have left the Azathanai to the damned Wardens,’ Resh said.

This time, Caplo could not but agree. ‘She nears the gate,’ he observed.

They rode to catch up, avoiding the puddles.

Atop the Old Tower, Cedorpul, Endest Silann and Rise Herat watched the tiny figure of the woman walk towards the Citadel’s City Gate. As the Shake escort, momentarily halted, now rode to catch up to her, Cedorpul grunted and said, ‘That is Warlock Resh and Caplo Dreem. A curious pairing for this formality.’

Rise Herat glanced across at the young priest. ‘Of course the warlock should be in attendance,’ he replied. ‘The river has breached its banks and washed the city-’

‘As if to cleanse her path,’ murmured Endest Silann.

‘Faith can survive a little water,’ said Cedorpul.

The historian heard the diffidence in that assertion. ‘Do you sense this ancient awakening, priest?’

The round-faced man shrugged. ‘In witnessing something both unexpected and… vast, there is a sense of awe, but that is perfectly reasonable. Such reactions are beneath argument, I would say. Is this synonymous with reverential awe? I think not.’

‘Although we possess no documents,’ observed Rise Herat, ‘it is fair to assume that the seasonal rise and fall of the river was integral to the worship of the river god. Is it not clear that we have witnessed a miracle?’

‘Yet the water retreats,’ Cedorpul countered. ‘The power here belongs to Mother Dark.’

‘“Upon the field of battle, I saw peacocks.”’

‘The meaning of that, historian?’

‘Only that the ground is contested now, priest. It may well be that Warlock Resh will make claim to the temple itself.’

‘He dare not!’

Below, the Azathanai woman, of average height, thin, dressed in strange, colourless garb, now reached the gate. She made no pause and a moment later disappeared from sight. Her path would take her across a squat bridge to an inner gate, and from there into the Citadel itself. Behind her the two riders dismounted and followed, leaving their horses with the other monks — who, it seemed, would not be entering the Citadel grounds. Rise watched as the mounted warriors wheeled around and, leading the two riderless horses, set off back across the concourse at a fast trot.

‘These matters are beyond us,’ said Endest Silann. ‘I am unbalanced and feel unwell.’

‘Betrayed by your nervous constitution,’ Cedorpul said. ‘Mother Dark cannot be assailed at the very heart of her power.’

‘Mother Dark is not the one at threat here,’ said Rise, thinking of Caplo Dreem.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Endest Silann asked.

The historian shrugged. ‘An idle thought. Pay it no mind. Instead, consider this: it is only when opposed that some things find definition. Few would argue, I think, that Darkness is a difficult thing to worship. What is it we seek in elevating Mother Dark? What manner of unity can we find circling a place of negation?’

‘Contentious questions,’ Cedorpul said, his tone too light for the assertion.

Sensing the strain in the priest, Rise Herat spoke again, ‘Religious practice rises from precedent, after all.’

‘You would argue the matter of religious practice?’

‘If it helps this moment, Cedorpul, then my answer is yes. My point is, you are all starving for guidance. For all of Mother Dark’s power, there is no prescription. What form must ritual observance take? How is proper propitiation to be achieved and is it even desired by the one whom you would worship? In what manner do you announce obeisance? These are the issues occupying your priesthood, and the source of debate.’

‘The resurrection of the river god offers us no worthy answers, historian. The faith died, did it not?’

‘There was a rejection, yes; that much is clear. One need only look upon the determined defacing of the walls in the temple to grasp something of the rage surrounding that crisis. Yet, one could argue that it was the perceived death of their god that so triggered the frenzy of destruction.’

‘What if it was guilt?’ Endest asked.

‘That suggestion,’ snapped Cedorpul, his colour high, ‘displeases me on countless levels, acolyte.’

‘Not all thoughts are uttered to please,’ Rise said. ‘This does not diminish their value. Guilt is a powerful emotion… yes, I can see it gouging faces from walls, words from panels. If the god died, there is cause to ask why. Yet faith alone clearly proved insufficient sustenance, so we need not discuss its veracity, given the persistent presence of the Yan and Yedan Monasteries. And,’ he added, ‘the resurrection of this selfsame god.’

Cedorpul turned to Endest Silann. ‘Acolyte, we have dallied up here long enough. The others will be gathering — they will be looking for me. Before us now is a challenge and face it we must. Historian, fare you well. Oh, will you look in on the child?’

Rise Herat smiled. ‘I shall rattle the lock and demand entrance, and she shall cry me begone.’

Cedorpul’s nod was brisk. ‘That will do.’

High Priestess Emral Lanear stood beside Lord Anomander, awaiting the appearance of the Azathanai and her escort. Syntara had entered the inner chamber and now presumably communed with Mother Dark, although in truth Emral knew that such communion was notoriously frustrating. Perhaps an idealistic, romantic woman well and truly belonged at the heart of something as ephemeral as faith and worship. Perhaps indeed no virtue of pragmatism was possible in matters of the soul, and might even prove anathema to the very notion of the sacred.

Did not all prophets speak in riddles? Did not diviners slip like eels through an array of futures? Scriptures fraught with hard pronouncements might well be desired, but these were the ones most readily ignored, she suspected — although in truth she knew little of the religions of other peoples. One did not need to be a scholar to observe, however, that faiths were born of stone, water, earth, sun and wind, and should these forces prove harsh and inimical, so too the faith. Hard lives begat hard laws, not just in the necessities of living, but also in those of believing. She well understood that particular dialogue.

A river in seasonal flood, a forest to hold back the harshest winds, the plenitude of fish, crops and game: these did not describe a harsh world, a scrabble to live. The Tiste had traditionally recoiled from fast rules, as if such rules offended their nature. It was only war that changed this, and now, when Emral took a moment away from her mirror — when she looked upon the many now commanding positions of influence in the Citadel — she saw sharp edges in place of soft lines, and in a host of eyes there was stone instead of water.

Many were the natural forces to assail a people and give them shape; in her mind, she must now count among them war itself, no different from sun and wind.

‘They are coming,’ said Anomander. ‘Will you give greeting first?’

‘I see myself as more of a final escort into the presence of Mother Dark, Lord.’

‘Very well,’ he replied.

Motion at the far end of the corridor, and then a sudden bloom of light.

Ice cracked where it sheathed the stone walls, slid down in sheets. The glow surrounded the Azathanai, its golden hue deepening at its edges, reminding Emral of burning leaves. The power she unveiled as she drew closer made the walls groan and shift. Dust drifted down.

Emral found that she was trembling. It is a wonder that the Azathanai are not worshipped as gods.

Behind the approaching woman came Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem. Neither man bore an air of confidence; instead, they looked beleaguered, exhausted by uncertainty.

With the light came warmth, cutting through the chilled air, devouring it. The Azathanai woman, slight of frame, attractive in a delicate way, her fair hair drifting in the swirling draughts, halted three strides from them. Her gaze fixing upon Anomander, she said, ‘Night will claim your skin. Before your eyes, darkness will be revealed. But I will make visible the defiance within you, as a gift.’

Anomander frowned. ‘Azathanai, I ask for no gifts. I offer no defiance.’

The woman’s gaze drifted from him and settled upon Emral. ‘Your sorrow, High Priestess, is lonely, and you are driven to share your truths. I advise against it. Give voice to your secrets and you will be rejected by those for whom you care the most.’

Heat flooded through Emral and she fought to control her tone. ‘Azathanai, your words of greeting are presumptuous.’

Thin brows arched. ‘I cannot be but what I am, High Priestess. I come to stir the waters, and for a time we shall all be blind. Will you now turn me away?’

Emral shook her head. ‘She wishes to see you, Azathanai.’

‘A desire I share. I have been called T’riss and this name I now take as my own. I do not know who I was before I was T’riss. I dwelt for a time in the Vitr. I am of the Azathanai, but I do not know what this means.’

‘If you are here,’ said Anomander, ‘seeking answers to questions, you may be disappointed.’

‘The Tiste view the Vitr as an enemy,’ said T’riss. ‘It is no such thing. It exists for itself. It is a sea of possibilities, of potential. It holds life in the manner that blood holds life.’

‘Did it create you?’ Anomander asked.

‘No.’

‘Yet it grows. It devours land — this indeed poses a threat to Kurald Galain.’

The woman shrugged. ‘The sea does not dream of you.’

Emral’s attention slid from the Azathanai’s unperturbed equanimity, past her to Warlock Resh. The man’s face was pale, drawn. ‘Warlock Resh, you have brought us this guest. She has awakened your ancient god. What would Mother Sheccanto have you say to the followers of Mother Dark?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied, as if choking out the word. ‘For the moment.’

‘I will see her now,’ said T’riss.

Emral stepped to one side. The Azathanai moved past her.

As Warlock Resh and Caplo fell in behind T’riss, Anomander’s hands snapped out, grasped Caplo by the man’s tunic, and threw him up against the wall. He held the monk pinned there, feet dangling.

Resh stumbled back in alarm, and then quickly shook his head and Emral saw the gleam of a knife blade half hidden in Caplo’s left hand — which vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Ahead, T’riss did not so much as turn round, instead pushing open the heavy door and striding into the chamber. The door, left open, reflected flashes of yellow light, and Emral could feel the Azathanai’s power pushing through the darkness.

Anomander was speaking to Caplo. ‘No blood to be spilled within, do you understand me?’

‘Un-unnecessary, Lord,’ Caplo said in a gasp.

Releasing the man to sag against the wall, Anomander faced Warlock Resh. ‘Inform Sheccanto that we have no interest in sharing her panic. And should she ever again send her prized assassin into audience with Mother Dark, I will see his head spiked to the Citadel’s wall, with hers to follow.’

‘I will convey your message, Lord,’ Resh replied, but his tone was distracted.

From the doorway, the light suddenly vanished. A moment later, High Priestess Syntara staggered into view. Her skin was the hue of alabaster, her dark eyes like pools of ink. When Emral moved to assist her, Syntara threw up a staying hand, and her face twisted into a mask of spite and venom. ‘Do not touch me, you wretched hag! I chose my gift! I chose it!’

Pushing past the others, she rushed down the corridor.

Groaning, Warlock Resh set his back to the wall as would a man with too much drink in him. Eyes squeezing shut, he said, ‘She’s gone.’

Emral did not need him to elaborate. Bitter cold air was rushing into the corridor from the sanctum. The audience was at an end, and T’riss had vanished. The aftermath of the power unveiled in the last few moments made the air fiercely bitter, almost caustic.

Anomander faced the warlock. ‘She was banished?’

Resh’s eyes started open. ‘Does she give you nothing? This precious new goddess of yours?’

‘She may well give,’ Anomander replied. ‘But I do not ask.’

‘Not banished. Time twisted in the sanctum — in there, they might well have spoken for days. There is no way of knowing. She brought the blood — I felt it — she brought vitr into that chamber. Lord, I did not know — it must have been within her.’

Anomander half turned to the yawning doorway. ‘A weapon?’

‘No, Lord. A gift.’

‘Shake,’ Anomander commanded. ‘Await us here. High Priestess Emral, accompany me.’ He strode into the sanctum.

Emral followed.

As the door was shut behind them, Emral noticed at once that something had changed. The darkness remained, yet somehow lacked its oppressive weight, and before her eyes it seemed almost pellucid. In growing astonishment, she realized that she could make out details of the chamber.

Before them, motionless on the Throne of Night, sat Mother Dark, black-clothed in loose silks, black-haired, and now black-skinned. The transformation left Emral stunned, her thoughts plucked loose from all that she saw, as if she beheld a dubious world with the eyes of a drunk, and could make no sense of it.

As if nothing could rattle him, Anomander faced the throne, and something in his demeanour hinted at the defiance T’riss had seen within him. ‘Are you harmed, Mother?’

Her voice was soft, pitched low as if in weariness. ‘I am not.’

‘You sent her away?’

‘Beloved Emral,’ said Mother Dark, ‘you now stand alone as my High Priestess. Syntara has chosen, and from this a schism now threatens us all. In matters of faith, waters will part. This cannot be undone.’

But Anomander was not easily set aside. ‘Mother, the Azathanai resurrected an ancient god-’

‘There is peace between us. You see too many enemies, First Son. We are not threatened from without; only from within.’

‘Then we shall deal with it,’ he replied. ‘But I must understand what has happened here. I will defend what I believe in, Mother.’

‘But what is worthy of your belief, Anomander? This is ever the question, isn’t it?’

‘What has T’riss done here? The darkness itself is changed.’

Again, Mother Dark made no answer to him, instead addressing Emral. ‘Inform your sisters and brothers, High Priestess. This temple is sanctified.’

This was the Azathanai’s gift? Sanctified by vitr? ‘Mother Dark, what has driven Syntara from us? Her faith was unassailable-’

‘Easily assailed,’ countered Mother Dark. ‘By ambition and vanity. The Azathanai can see deep into a mortal soul, yet she understands nothing of tact, nor the value of withholding truths.’

‘And her gift?’ Emral asked. ‘She is made bloodless, white as bone.’

‘She is beyond my reach now, beloved Emral. That is all.’

‘But… where will she go?’

‘That remains to be seen. I have thoughts… but not now. You both stand in the presence of Night. You are no longer blinded by darkness, and all who come to me will receive this blessing. Even now,’ she observed, ‘I see Night comes to your skin.’

When Emral looked to Anomander, however, she gasped upon seeing not the ebon hue of his skin, but the silver sheen of his hair.

Mother Dark sighed. ‘You ever trouble me, First Son. One day I shall tell you of your mother.’

‘I have no interest in her,’ said Anomander. ‘Love cannot survive the absence of memories, and for that woman we have none.’

‘And has that not made you curious?’

The question seemed to startle him and he made no reply.

Emral wanted to weep, but her eyes remained dry, as if lined with sand. She struggled not to step back, to wheel and leave them to their bitter exchange. But she would not flee as had Syntara. Of vanity she had little, but ambition was another matter, twisted though its path might be.

Mother Dark’s eyes were upon her, she now saw, but the goddess said nothing.

Anomander finally spoke, ‘Mother, will you speak with the Shake?’

‘Not yet. But I warn you this, First Son, do not oppose the gathering of believers. The Deniers were never without faith — they but denied a faith in me. So be it. I do not compel. The Shake will insist upon their neutrality in matters of the state.’

‘ Then name your enemy! ’ Anomander’s shout echoed in the chamber, and behind it was exasperation and fury.

‘I have none,’ she replied in a calm voice. ‘Anomander. Win this peace for me; that is all I ask.’

Breath hissed from him in frustration. ‘I am a warrior and I know only blood, Mother. I cannot win what I must first destroy.’

‘Then, above all, First Son, do not draw a sword.’

‘How is it Syntara poses a threat?’ he demanded. ‘What manner of schism could she create? Her cadre is small — priestesses and a half-dozen spies among the servants. The Shake will not have her.’

‘It is the gift she now carries,’ Mother Dark replied, ‘that will draw adherents.’

‘Then let us arrest her, throw her and her lot into a cell.’

‘The gift cannot be chained, First Son. I see how you both struggle to understand, but the schism is necessary. The wound must be made, so that it can be healed.’

‘And what of Draconus?’

At Anomander’s question Mother Dark grew very still, and the air in the sanctum suddenly crackled with cold. ‘Leave me now, First Son.’

‘Without him,’ Anomander persisted, ‘you set before me an impossible task.’

‘Go.’

The way before him was indeed impossible and Emral could see that bleak knowledge in Anomander’s dark eyes. He wheeled and marched from the chamber.

Emral’s head spun. The air bit at her throat and lungs.

Mother Dark spoke. ‘Beloved Emral… I once asked Kadaspala a question. I saw in his eyes that he knew this question, as if, long ago, it had been seared into his very soul. But for all that, he could give me no answer.’

‘Mother Dark, what was the question?’

‘One to be asked of an artist, a creator of portraits, whose talent is found not in the hands but in the eyes. I asked him: how does one paint love?’

He knew the question. He asked it of himself.

But he had no answer.

‘Do you know,’ Mother Dark went on, ‘when you can see in darkness, nothing is hidden.’

If she wept now, the tears would freeze upon her cheeks, and burn leaving scars. For all to see.

‘Nothing,’ Mother Dark then added, ‘but darkness itself.’

Half drunk, Hunn Raal stared at the white-skinned woman who had come stumbling into his room. He saw the fear and fury warring in her eyes, but it was the alabaster bleaching of her visage that held him enthralled. Not even Silchas Ruin possessed such purity. He struggled to speak. ‘H-High Priestess, what has become of you? You are glamoured — what new gift of sorcery has Mother Dark discovered?’

‘I am cast out, you fool! Banished from Night! This was not her doing — the Azathanai said she could see into my soul. She said terrible things-’ Syntara turned away, and he could see how she trembled. ‘She reached out to me. There was light. Blinding light.’

He forced himself from his chair. The room tilted slightly and then righted itself. He drew a deep, steadying breath, and then moved close to her. ‘High Priestess, I will tell you what I see when I now look upon you-’

‘Don’t.’

‘I see a woman reborn. Syntara, you among all women do not belong in darkness.’

She looked up at him. ‘The light is within me. I feel it!’

He nodded. ‘And I see it shining through, High Priestess. There is nothing to fear — the truth of that is plain to my eyes.’

‘Reborn,’ she whispered. And then her eyes flashed. ‘I demand sanctuary.’

‘And you have come to me. I understand, High Priestess.’

‘Where else could I go? I cannot stay here. I need the protection of the Legion…’

He straightened, saying nothing. He needed to think this through.

‘Hunn Raal-’

‘A moment, please. This is a complication-’

‘Is that what I am? A complication? Hardly the grovelling stance you took yesterday, babbling how everything is in place!’

‘Yesterday you were the High Priestess of Mother Dark,’ he snapped. ‘But now she’ll not have you, Syntara. I must think of my master, and the future I seek for him. I must think of the Legion.’

She stood, faced him. ‘Save that nonsense for the fools who will believe it. I see your ambition, Hunn Raal. I know your bloodlines. You long to walk these halls again, in your rightful place. Your master is simply the means, not the end.’

‘We are not all as base as you, Syntara. Now, cease your raging. Give me time to see a way through this, to the advantage of all of us. Tell me truthfully now, why do you believe you need sanctuary?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Look at me! See what she has done!’

‘The Azathanai did this, not Mother Dark. You fled the chamber — why?’

‘You were not there,’ she hissed. ‘You did not hear the horrible things the woman said of me.’

‘Then,’ he concluded, ‘you fled in shame. Mother Dark did not cast you out.’

‘Nor did she defend me! Her own High Priestess!’

He grunted. ‘Fortunate for her then that she had two High Priestesses.’

Her slap against the side of his face sent him back a step, not from the weight of the blow, but in the shocked sobriety it delivered. One side of his face stinging, he studied the woman before him, and then sighed. ‘“Anger is the death of beauty.” Who was it said that? Never mind. This has been a fraught day — the city streets flooding to announce the coming of the Azathanai, and I am told there was ice in the passage leading to the Chamber of Night. And now you… what do these things portend, High Priestess?’

But her gaze had slid past him, to the jug of wine on the table. She strode over, poured full a goblet and drank it down in three quick swallows. ‘Are you too drunk to fuck me, Hunn Raal?’

Said the woman who just slapped me. ‘Probably.’

‘Men are so pathetic.’

‘I have other things on my mind.’

She refilled her goblet and then faced him. ‘Will Urusander take me?’

‘As what?’

Instead of the anger he expected from his careless retort, she laughed. ‘Now that would ruin your plans, wouldn’t it, Hunn Raal? Don’t you think I have had my fill of old soldiers? They are nothing but dumb need and you have no idea how tiring that is. No, Mother Dark is welcome to him.’

His nod was sharp. ‘So we’re clear on that. Good.’

‘A god now stirs the mud of Dorssan Ryl,’ she said, eyes narrowing, watching for his reaction over the rim of the goblet as she drank. ‘It was dead but is dead no longer. What ancient laws have been broken this day?’

‘Was this too a gift of the Azathanai woman? Then let us be plain. These were not gifts. A city flooded? Ice in the Citadel? They amount to an assault upon Kurald Galain.’

She shrugged. ‘Semantics.’

‘Hardly. You are speaking to an old soldier, remember? Dumb we may be but us soldiers know the answer to such things.’

‘Will you declare war upon the Azathanai?’ She snorted, somewhat drunkenly. ‘Not even Urusander is that foolish. Besides, the woman vanished — as if she opened a door in the very air itself, and then simply stepped through. The power of that made Mother Dark recoil.’

‘Then we are indeed threatened, High Priestess.’

She waved a dismissive hand, turning to refill the goblet. ‘We can do nothing about it. The Deniers will crawl out of the woods now, eager to lay sacrifice upon the banks of the river. Eager to walk the shore.’

‘And Mother Dark permits this?’

‘She is weak, Hunn Raal — why do you think she hides in darkness? Why do you think she draws close the three most feared warriors among the highborn and proclaims them her children? And why’ — she faced him — ‘did she take Lord Draconus to her bed? Sons may be all very well, but a man such as Draconus is another matter entirely. You understand nothing, Hunn Raal. You and your ridiculous plans.’

He saw the challenge in her eyes, glittering behind the alcohol, and felt something stir in him. She is like me. She is the same as me, exactly the same. ‘You will take this to Urusander, High Priestess,’ he said. ‘You will tell him of the threat now facing Kurald Galain. You will explain to him her weakness, her vulnerability. But more than this, you will show him what must be done. The purity of your skin is now a symbol — the light within you is a power. Above all, High Priestess, tell him this: in darkness there is ignorance. In light there is justice.’ He moved closer to her. ‘Remember those words. This is what you must do.’

She leaned against the table behind her, a smirk playing on her full lips. ‘I am to be a beacon, then? Still a High Priestess, but now in the name of light?’

‘It is within you.’

She glanced away, still smiling. ‘ Liossan. And who, then, are our enemies?’

‘All who seek to hurt Mother Dark — we will fight in her name and who could challenge this?’

‘And Draconus?’

‘He but uses her. Another way of hurting.’ He leaned over to grasp the jug of wine, and in the movement their faces came close, almost touching for a moment before he drew back. But he had smelled the sweet wine on her breath. ‘The old religion is a direct threat. The Deniers. The brothers and sisters of the Monasteries.’

‘There are more of them than you might imagine, Hunn Raal.’

‘All to the better,’ he said.

‘Sheccanto and Skelenal could even make claim to the throne.’

‘I wish they would. That would settle the sides quickly enough.’

She reached out and stroked his cheek, where she had slapped only a short time before. ‘We will plunge Kurald Galain into civil war, Hunn Raal. You and I, and all that we now do.’

But he shook his head. ‘We prevent one, High Priestess. Even better, once we have purged the realm, the end to all conflict is then offered to Mother Dark. By taking the hand of Lord Urusander. She will see that she needs such a man at her side. Strength to answer her weakness, resolve to stand firm against her whims. Light and Dark, in balance.’

‘I want Emral dead.’

‘You cannot have that. She is but your reflection. An imperfect one to be sure, but even then you fare the better between you. No, Syntara, you will be as equals, yet need share nothing but your titles.’

‘Then I shall proclaim Urusander as Father Light,’ said Syntara, her hand still upon his cheek. ‘And the light within me shall be my gift to him.’

‘If you can give it.’

‘I can, Hunn Raal.’

He was still holding the jug. ‘Now then, High Priestess, do we fuck or do we drink?’

‘Which do you prefer?’

A dangerous question that he shrugged off. ‘Either is fine with me.’

To his surprise she stepped away, and her stride was suddenly steady. ‘There is not time for either, Hunn Raal,’ she said, her words sharp. ‘I must gather my followers and we will need an escort from the city. Best we do this without fanfare — I shall cloak myself and remain unseen. My return to Kharkanas shall be in triumph.’

‘Of course,’ he said, setting the jug back down on the table, feeling a fool for having been so easily played. ‘I think I underestimated you, High Priestess.’

‘Many do,’ she replied. ‘And you — you must send word to your people, wherever they happen to be hiding in the countryside.’ Seeing the alarm on his face her smile grew cruel. ‘Yes, I know that you are ready to pounce. But they must wait — your enemy is no longer the highborn. Nor the sons and daughters of Mother Dark. Not even Draconus — not yet, in any case. Why so troubled, captain?’

‘I fear that it may already be too late.’

‘Then sober up, you fool, and make sure that it isn’t!’

The troop of riders came upon the train, meeting at a sharp bend in the road. There had been little sound to betray them, despite the high cliff walls to either side. Orfantal saw, just past the strangers, the road opening out, sunken flats flanking the raised track: the signs of an old, extinct lake.

Haral was quick to draw up, and he twisted in the saddle and with a shout commanded the wagons to one side, to let the riders past.

Orfantal looked upon those unknown faces. He counted eleven men and women, all well armed and bearing none of the ragtag equipment he would have expected among bandits. Nor did the strangers accost them, but Orfantal felt their sharp eyes gauging the caravan and its handful of guards. Beside him Gripp was silent, head lowered as if in deference.

A few, Orfantal saw as they plodded past, wore the colours of Urusander’s Legion, charcoal grey half-capes piped in gold, the high leather knee-guards that so faithfully copied Urusander’s own armour. He knew this from his grandfather’s kit, which he had examined countless times. Others seemed to be carrying the same gear, but rolled up and tied to the backs of their saddles.

‘Hunting bandits?’ Orfantal asked Gripp after the last rider had trotted past. ‘There were Legion-’

‘Quiet, boy!’ rasped Gripp, and Orfantal saw how pale the old man was, his mouth pinched, the lips dry. He was staring ahead to Haral, awaiting the command to resume. ‘Send us on, damn you!’ he said in a hiss.

Orfantal twisted on his saddle to look back at the strangers.

‘Turn round!’ Gripp snapped. ‘Now, let’s go. Ride on, boy, ride on. Eyes forward!’

‘What’s wrong?’

Ahead, Haral had swung his mount round, watching the wagons rock back on to the centre of the road.

Orfantal could see Gripp’s watery eyes fixed on Haral’s, as if seeking a sign.

It came when Haral frowned, and then straightened in his saddle. A moment later he half rose on the stirrups, confusion writ plain on his features.

‘That’s it, then,’ growled Gripp. He pulled his mount close alongside Orfantal’s. ‘Listen to me. They’re coming back.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because they shouldn’t be here, that’s why. At least three of them were from a disbanded unit.’

‘But-’

‘Ride ahead, Orfantal — and once you’re on the straight, kick that hag of yours into a gallop and don’t look back. No more questions!’ he added as horse hoofs sounded behind them, fast approaching. ‘Go, son, ride.’ And he slapped the hag’s rump, jolting the beast forward into a startled canter. The motion almost unseated Orfantal and he gripped hard the reins, which only slowed the beast.

‘Kick her on!’ Gripp shouted, and there was the sound of swords being drawn.

Punching the flanks with his heels, Orfantal pushed his mount back into a canter, and then a heavy gallop. Disorientated, he rocked in the saddle. He heard harsh shouts behind him. Someone screamed like a dying pig.

Mouth dry, heart hammering, he leaned forward. ‘Oh, run! Run, you, oh run…’

The horse thundered beneath him, but it seemed so slow, the beast labouring. The scene jolted up and down, side to side, and he thought of Gripp, and Haral and the others. He thought of that scream, and wondered from whose throat it had erupted. He thought of dying, cut down from behind. He could hear a horse running behind him, catching up impossibly quickly. A whimper escaped him and he felt hot urine in his crotch, seeping down the inside of his thighs.

He didn’t turn as the horse caught up, instead ducking down.

A moment later and the beast rushed past. Haral’s own horse, riderless, its flanks black with spilled blood and lumps of gore.

Orfantal looked back — but he was beyond the bend and not even the wagons were in view. He saw two riders emerge, reining in to watch him flee. A moment later they set off in pursuit.

The nag was labouring, breaths gusting harsh and loud. Haral’s horse was already twenty paces ahead. Desperate, Orfantal looked round. The sunken flats to either side formed a basin, but one edge was closer than the other — to his right — and he saw the fringe of an old stony shoreline, and then the ragged broken hillsides rearing up beyond. There were paths up there, places to hide.

Orfantal slowed his horse, and then pulled it down from the road. He glanced back to see the two riders drawing closer, their swords out.

The nag stumbled on the rocky slope, righted itself with a snort. Orfantal kicked it forward. The clay underhoof cracked and gave way, miring the horse in the thick mud hiding beneath the crust. The animal dragged itself clear, pushed on at Orfantal’s frantic urging. Lunging, pitching, the nag fought onward.

They were halfway across when the horse sank down to its belly, lurching helplessly, head tossing, eyes rolling. Crying now, the tears half blinding him, Orfantal dragged himself free of the saddle. He looked back to see the two riders reined in at the roadside, watching his progress. In a flash he realized that neither dared venture on to the clay.

He worked his way clear of the sucking mud, rolled on to his side.

The nag had given up its struggle and looked across at him with dumb misery in its weeping eyes. He could see that it had sunk down now halfway up its shoulders at the front, and deeper still at the back. Its whole body trembled and flies swarmed its mud-spattered hide.

He crawled away, still weeping, his face smeared. He had killed his horse, his noble servant. He had betrayed the beast, as only a master could.

But I’m not the betrayer — it’s not supposed to be me. It was never supposed to be me!

His weight was as nothing on the hard-packed clay crust. He made his way across it towards the pebble-studded old bank. Reaching it he straightened and looked back.

The riders were leaving, heading back up the road — and from beyond the bend two columns of thick, black smoke lifted into the sky, and Orfantal knew that his companions were all dead. Haral, Gripp, all of them. A disbanded unit, fallen into banditry and murder — but no, even that did not make sense. Those skins on the wagons were valuable. Bandits would not set them alight.

His gaze fell back to the nag.

The back end of the animal was now beneath the mud, and he could see how it struggled to breathe.

Orfantal ventured back out on to the clay, retracing his route.

When he reached the nag only its head and neck were visible. The crying left him weak, but he managed to throw his arms around that neck, holding on tight. The hide was hot and slick, almost on fire with life, and he felt the nag’s cheek settle against the side of his head, and he wept so hard he felt as if he was emptying his own soul. His wails echoed back from the cliffs behind him.

The mud touched the underside of his left arm; he felt his elbow plunging into soft coolness. The neck muscles strained and the nag lifted its head, nostrils opened wide, air gusting out in a long stream. But it had no strength with which to draw a breath inside — the weight of the clay against its ribs was too vast. As the exhalation dwindled, he felt the nag shudder, and then begin to sag, the muscles relaxing and the head settling on the clay. The horse’s eyelids dipped down half over the lifeless eyes, and stayed there.

Orfantal dragged his arms from the mud. With the nag’s death, the anguish left him, and in its place was a vast hollow, a numbness that made him feel small.

Truth cared nothing for stories. The real world was indifferent to what people wanted to be, to how they wanted everything to turn out. Betrayers came from everywhere, including inside his own body, his own mind. He could trust no one, not even himself.

He faced the broken rocks and started crawling.