She would not yield her heart to him, lest it sting with pity. In any case, such feelings within her had sunk into the depths. She did not think she would see them again. ‘Your High Priestess, Father, needs to understand – her temple, the faith she offers, it needs to be more than it is. Speak to her, Father, speak to her of hope. It’s not all there simply to serve her. She needs to give something back.’

She stepped away, retrieving her goblet. She drained it, and then went to her cloak. ‘My bed is not the place for confessions, especially the bloody kind. As for absolution,’ she turned and offered him a faint smile, ‘well, that will have to wait. There are things remaining, Father, that I still need to learn.’

The man looked wretched, but then he slowly straightened and met her eye, and nodded. ‘I will wait, Renarr.’

She felt that promise like a blow to her chest, and quickly angled away, to struggle with her cloak and fumble at the clasps.

Behind her, Urusander said, ‘Take your old room tonight, Renarr. Just this night. There are dire events in the town below.’

She hesitated, and then nodded. ‘This night, then. Very well.’

‘And Renarr, tomorrow morning, I would hear from you the details of that young soldier.’

‘Of course.’ But he would not. She would be gone with the dawn.

Bedrooms of girls and boys. All the way to tents and temples. Whoever could have imagined the distance possible between them, all in the span of a handful of years?

* * *

Silann walked through the camp, hunched over against the cold. His wife’s new habit of sending him on errands, delivering messages, along with a host of other demeaning tasks, was growing stale. He understood the nature of this punishment, and to begin with he had almost welcomed the escape from her company. Better than weathering the contempt in her eyes, the myriad ways of dismissal she had perfected in his presence.

Command was a talent, and he was not foolish enough to believe that he possessed it in abundance. Mistakes had been made, but thus far there had been no obvious, or direct, repercussions. That was fortunate and Silann had sensed a rebirth of possibilities, the way ahead opening up. He would do better next time. He would show Esthala that she had not married the wrong man.

Still, an angry woman carved deep trenches, and pulling her from them would not be an easy task. But he would make her see him in a new way, no matter what it took.

There had been that boy, that escape. And Gripp Galas. Back then, there was pressure, with choices that needed making, the kind of pressure that could stagger anyone in the same situation. Blood to be spilled, and then quickly buried. Moments of panic could take the surest officer.