Like the d’bayang, this newly born way of thinking was in truth an inward spiral, with her own needs at the core. It was a world view that she now realized was far from unique, and, personal as it seemed, she but reflected the mien of countless others.

How many wealthy nobles, I wonder, see the world in the same way? Was it not, indeed, the means by which they acquired their riches, and with them their unshakable belief in their own superiority?

But, Mother forgive me, it is a cold realm I find.

The smoke warred against it, but feebly. With slurred words, it whispered lazy invitations into a refuge of ennui, to the sodden bliss of the insensate. Floppy limbs half beckoned in her mind, barely seen amidst the grey cloud. Over here… come… here waits oblivion.

Hardly a worthy goal for a spymaster. I lust for knowledge, yet refuse to taste it. I gather news and facts and secrets, and do nothing with them. I am like the Protector, Grizzin Farl, who claims to protect nothing. Just as the historian refuses to record history, and the goddess refuses the comforts of worship.

While arrayed against us, a general who would rather not lead, a commander who follows only his own drunken whims, and a high priestess still awaiting her god.

We are, all of us, nothing but impostors to our cause, because the cause we espouse is nothing more than the blind we raise to hide our own ambitions. This, I now believe, is the secret behind every war, every clash that sees blood spill to the ground.

The ritual of smoke could, on occasion, offer cruel insights.

Faintly, she heard the chime of the bell cord. Again? Am I to be afforded no rest, no luxury of escape? Senses blunted, her body leaden, she forced herself from the divan, found a cloak to hide all that felt exposed, and made her way from the bedroom into the outer chamber.

‘Enter.’

The historian’s appearance was no surprise, but the presence of Grizzin Farl was. Searching his expression, she found little given away. The Azathanai made a profession of secrets. Even so, she did not detect his usual façade of bluff amusement.

‘What brings you here?’ she asked them.

Rise Herat cleared his throat. ‘High Priestess. The Protector has agreed to guide us into the presence of Mother Dark.’

To what end? These words almost spilled from her, but she managed to hold them back. She would not give them the raw extremity of her own despair, or that of her fears. ‘I see. Are we to fling ourselves against her indifference one more time? Very well. Lead us, Grizzin Farl.’

The Azathanai bowed and then retreated into the corridor. Emral and Rise followed.