‘The two must recognize each other, friend, and then together look upon the deed between them. See how it is, in the end, one and the same.’

Narad studied the warrior. ‘It seems you have already invented me, Glyph. Found a way to, well, hammer me into your way of seeing the world. I am an awkward fit, don’t you think? Best find another, someone else, someone with less… less history.’

But Glyph shook his head. ‘We do not fear this… your awkward fit. Why fear such a thing? A world made smooth allows no purchase. Neither a way into it nor a way out from it. It is closed on itself. It makes its own answer, and so lies undisturbed by doubt.’

Narad scowled at the fire. ‘What are we waiting for, Glyph? There are soldiers I need to find and kill.’

Glyph waved a hand, and then straightened. ‘Visitors are coming. They will soon be here.’

‘All right. Coming from where?’

‘From a holy shrine. From an altar black with old blood.’

‘Priests? What need have we for priests?’

‘They walk the forest. For days now. We have been following their progress, and it seems that it will bring them here, to this camp. So we wait, to see what comes of it.’

Narad rubbed at his face. The ways of the Deniers remained a mystery. ‘When do they arrive, then?’

Glyph set a hand on Narad’s shoulder. ‘Tonight, I think. In your time of waking.’

In his dream Narad walked a shoreline of fire. He held a sword in his hand, but trailed its tip through the sand, and the sand was spitting sparks and flaring as embers were pushed to the sides of the wavering furrow left by the weapon’s point. The blood on the blade had burned, curled black. He was exhausted, and he knew that somewhere behind him he had left behind a much larger wake, one made up of corpses piled to either side.

Flames surrounded him, rising high as burning trees. Ash rained down.

There was a woman beside him. Perhaps she had always been there, but he had no sense of time. He felt as if he had been walking this shoreline for ever.

‘You’ll find no love here,’ the woman said.

He did not turn to her. It was not yet time to see her, to meet her eyes. She walked like a sister, not a lover, or perhaps just a companion, but not a friend. When he answered, a tremble of shock followed his own words. ‘Yet here I will stand, my queen.’

‘Why? This is not your war.’