Endest smiled. ‘Does it require faith to see magic? Well, perhaps, the faith that one can believe what one sees with one’s own eyes. If, however, one chooses not to believe what one can oneself see, or feel, or taste, then in that direction waits madness.’

‘This sorcery,’ said Cedorpul, leaning forward, ‘comes from darkness. From the Terondai. From the power of our goddess!’

‘Power she now uses, yes,’ said Endest Silann, ‘but it did not come from her. It is not derived from her.’

‘How can you know that?’ Cedorpul demanded.

Endest raised his hands, revealing the blood now dripping from them, from deep wounds piercing through the palm of each. ‘She is using it now,’ he said, ‘to attend this gathering, in spirit, if not in flesh.’

At that, Silchas moved to kneel before Endest Silann. ‘Mother,’ he said, head bowed, ‘help us.’

Endest shook his head. ‘She’ll not speak through me, Silchas. She but watches. It is,’ he added with sudden bitterness, ‘what she does.’

Straightening, Silchas made fists with both hands, as if about to strike the young priest seated before him. He struggled to keep his voice under control. ‘Then what does she want of us?’

‘I have no answer, milord, because I feel nothing from her. I am but her eyes and ears, whilst the blood flows, whilst the power bleeds.’ He twisted round to smile across at Cedorpul. ‘My friend, this power simply exists now. It is among us, for good or ill. Gallan, our would-be seneschal, rejects it, and for that I am relieved.’

‘Relieved? Why?’

‘Because, once tasted, it seduces.’

‘Endest,’ asked Rise Herat, with a sudden chill rippling through him, ‘does she taste it now, then?’

The priest looked down, as if faltering upon the cusp of his reply, but then nodded.

‘And… has it… seduced her?’

He needed no other answer, the historian realized, than the blood draining down from Endest’s hands.

* * *

There had been a desire, possessed of value, to assemble a cadre of mages. A court, to be more specific, of Tiste Andii practitioners. Whether it was talent or something else, many hands were now able to reach into that power, and to shape it, although the notion of control was, it turned out, dubious. There was something wayward, untamable, in this sorcery. Rise Herat understood Gallan’s warning, its bitter nuances, and, like the poet, the historian feared the magic now among them.

‘Name it for the realm,’ Gallan had said, earlier, when he stood in the centre of the chamber and the sorcery rose up to entwine his form, its serpent tendrils questing and probing like blunt-headed worms. ‘We become synonymous with this flavour, and the darkness from which it emerges.’