But there he found no respite. Instead, in the darkness of his own mind’s eye, he saw a vision both terrible and full of wonder. He saw no longer the great climbing pillars of marble, nor the soaring domes above him; rather he heard music – and such music – song and voices beyond description in their power and beauty, and yet one of them swelled from his own chest, filling him, bursting out of him like a sunbeam of morning. He saw mirrored surfaces bright as the sky, and towering walls and huge columns, glittering with jewels and sheathed in silver and gold. He saw a multitude gathered before a throne, each face iridescent and flawless, glowing like blades tempered in the heat of a smith’s forge-fire. They were all upturned towards what seemed like a throne but far bigger than any in which a man might sit. And when he turned to look with them, he found himself blinded. The very sun was there, the sun enthroned somehow, its light too pure to look upon. And then the vision suddenly rose away from him, or else he fell from it – falling and falling, his stomach giddy with the drop, and it felt like a memory, and the light rose away beyond sight until in place of the great golden throne room, dull grey and then dread black shadow came around him, fear and rage and bile and hatred filled his heart, a terrible weight of shame that dragged at his limbs, lower and lower and lower. . . into the abyss of abject darkness where no light could ever reach.

Erlan forced open his eyes.

He stood there still in the great temple, the people all around him now watching the patriarch standing by the altar, addressing the people again. But instead of escaping his vision, one terror replaced another. For there again were the purple flames, no longer a few flames burning here and there, but a great gushing cataract of fire cascading from above, tumbling onto the altar, swirling all around the old priest and the singers and the lesser holy men, hovering in a great roiling cloud over the congregation, yet they all stood there, their heads crowned in flame, oblivious, while the bank of fire rolled closer and closer to Erlan.

‘What will you do?’ the patriarch cried out suddenly. ‘Will you submit?’ He turned and flung out a burning arm. It seemed his finger pointed straight at Erlan. ‘Will you? Will you?’

The words rang with terrible force in his ears – the blood, the pain, the fire, all of it crashing in on him. He was mad, surely. He had lost his reason, certainly, every thought scattered but one. He had to get out. He had to escape that fire. He staggered sideways out of rank, barging his way between two other guards.

‘Stay in line, Northman,’ hissed Alexios, but Erlan was beyond caring what protocol demanded. He had to get out.