‘No,’ she replied. ‘You can have that table, Hunn Raal, and all the new but grubby faces around it. What I seek is a new place, a new realm, in fact. One where Light rules, and Dark has no claim. I will make it here, in Neret Sorr.’

‘That wins us nothing, Syntara. They will marry. There will be unification through balance, Dark upon one side, Light upon the other.’ His expression grew ugly. ‘Now you sit here, seeking to change what we agreed upon, and I like it not.’

She narrowed her gaze on him. ‘I sense how the power of my gift now infuses you,’ she said. ‘Who would have thought that Hunn Raal, this rough, rarely sober captain of the Legion, should find in himself a burgeoning sorcery? By title you should name yourself warlock and be done with it.’

He laughed, collecting up the wine jug and leaning back on the cushions. He poured his cup full once more. ‘I’d wondered if you knew. It is… interesting. I explore it, but cautiously, of course. Risky to be headlong in such matters, as I am sure you have discovered.’

‘My comprehension is absolute,’ Syntara replied. ‘So much so that I advise you to be most careful in that exploration, Hunn Raal. You may in ignorance unleash something you cannot hope to control.’

‘Abyss take me, Syntara, but you have grown arrogant. Young women come to you, shining with dreams of a better future for themselves, for their wretched lives, and you set most of them to scullery, to waiting on you and your guests. Your High House Light looks suspiciously similar to every other noble household, and yet here you sit, spouting bland pretensions to justify your – apparently – near universal contempt for everyone else.’ He paused, drank deep, and then said, ‘I see now what Lanear saw in you. The beauty of your flesh belies an ugly soul, Syntara.’

‘No longer,’ she snapped. ‘I am purged. Reborn.’

‘Repeated, more like,’ he said, smirking.

There would come a time, possibly soon, when she would no longer need this man. The notion calmed her down. ‘You have not yet asked, Hunn Raal.’

‘Asked what?’

‘The maid. Do you want her tonight? If so, she’s yours.’

He set the jug and cup down, and then rose, carefully. ‘A man has needs,’ he muttered.

She nodded. ‘I’ll send her to your chambers, then. You may have her, for a day or two. But no longer, lest the dishes pile up.’

He stared down at her with his red-rimmed eyes. ‘You say I should name myself warlock, Syntara. I would offer some advice of my own, to you. You are not alone in this newfound power. Best, I think, we work together. Urusander weds Mother Dark. He is given the title of Father Light. The civil war ends on that day. As for you and Emral Lanear, well, fight with your temples all you want, just keep it civil.’