Leoman slid a dagger free, but was stilled by Felisin’s hand.

‘No,’ the ex-priest repeated. ‘My touch—’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Your touch.’

‘No.’

‘You were tested before, Heboric, and you failed. Oh, how you failed. You fear you will fail again—’

‘I do not, Felisin,’ Heboric’s tone was sharp, certain. ‘That least of all. I shall not be part of this ritual, nor shall I risk laying hands on that cursed Book.’

‘What matter if he opens the Book?’ the Toblakai growled. ‘He’s as blind as an enkar’al. Let me kill him, Sha’ik Reborn. Let his blood seal this ritual.’

‘Do it.’

The Toblakai moved in a blur, the wooden sword almost unseen as it slashed for Heboric’s head. Had it struck it would have shattered the old man’s skull, spraying bits of it for ten paces or more. Instead, Heboric’s hands flared, one the hue of dried blood, the other bestial and fur-backed. They shot up to intercept the swing, each closing on one of the giant’s wrists – and stopping the swing dead. The wooden sword flew out of the Toblakai’s hands, vanishing into the darkness beyond the Book’s pale glow.

The giant grunted in pain.

Heboric released the Toblakai’s wrists, grasped the giant by his neck and belt, then, in a surge, threw him out into the darkness. There was a thud as he struck and the clay trembled beneath their feet.

Heboric staggered back, his face twisted in shock, and the blazing rage that entwined his hands winked out.

‘We could see, then,’ Felisin told him. ‘Your hands. You were never forsaken, Heboric, no matter what the priests may have believed when they did what they did. You were simply being prepared.’

The old man fell to his knees.

‘And so a man’s faith is born anew. Know this: Fener would never risk investing you and you alone, Heboric Light Touch. Think on that, and be at ease ...’

Out in the darkness, the Toblakai groaned.

Felisin rose to her feet. ‘I shall have the Book now, Leoman. Come the dawn.’ Felisin, surrendering herself yet again. Remade. Reborn. Is this the last time? Oh no, it most certainly is not.

With dawn an hour away, Icarium led the others to the edge of the warren. Hitching the stock of his crossbow on one hip, Fiddler handed Crokus the lantern, then glanced over at Mappo.

The Trell shrugged. ‘The barrier is opaque – nothing of what lies beyond is visible.’

‘They know nothing of what is to come,’ Iskaral Pust whispered. ‘An eternal flare of pain, but shall I waste words in an effort to prepare them? No, not at all, never. Words are too precious to be wasted, hence my coy silence while they hesitate in a fit of immobile ignorance.’

Fiddler gestured with the crossbow. ‘You go first, Pust.’

The High Priest gaped. ‘Me?’ he squealed. ‘Are you mad?’ He ducked his head. ‘They are deceived again, even that gnarled excuse for a soldier – oh, this is too easy!’