After a moment, as they walked, the historian spoke to her with atypical formality. ‘High Priestess, it is time to inform Mother Dark of the events occurring in her realm – yes, I well understand her usage of Endest Silann, but even there, we cannot know the fullest reach of her knowledge, or her awareness. More to the point, Endest resides here in the Citadel, and concerns himself little with what goes on beyond its walls. Is it not time for a full accounting?’

The question was doubly edged, and Emral understood that the historian was not unaware of this. He was, after all, one who chose his words carefully. ‘Your desires are ambitious, historian. But we will see. As you say, the effort is timely.’

Before long, they reached the ancient corridor that led to the Chamber of Night. The damage left behind by the Azathanai T’riss was still visible, in cracks and fissures latticing the stonework, in the slumped, uneven flooring. The passage was unoccupied, in itself a bleak statement of affairs. Approaching the door, Grizzin Farl hesitated, glancing back to his companions.

‘There has been a burgeoning within,’ he said. ‘A deeper and more profound manifestation of Dark. No doubt the effects of the Terondai, the Gate’s proximity.’ He shrugged. ‘I sense the changes, but can discern little else. Nevertheless, I hereby warn you both: what lies beyond this door is changed.’

‘Then,’ answered Emral Lanear, ‘it behoves the High Priestess to comprehend such a transformation, don’t you think?’

The Azathanai studied her, and something in his expression hinted of irony. ‘High Priestess, as it turns out, that which cloaks your mind may prove a benison.’

She frowned, but was given no chance to reply, as Grizzin Farl turned to the door, reached out to the latch, and swung wide the portal to the Chamber of Night.

The cold that flowed out was redolent with fecundity, and this alone shocked Emral Lanear.

She heard a grunt from Grizzin Farl, as if in acknowledgement of her own shock, as the darkness within was, from where they stood upon the threshold, absolute.

‘What awaits us?’ Rise Herat asked. ‘My eyes, though gift-given, cannot pierce this shroud. Grizzin Farl, what can you discern?’

‘Nothing,’ the Azathanai replied. ‘We must enter in order to see.’

‘Even the floor is lost to us,’ the historian retorted. ‘We could find ourselves plunging into an abyss. This chamber is negation, a realm devoid of all substance.’ He faced Emral Lanear, his eyes wide with alarm. ‘I now counsel against this.’

But Emral Lanear found herself shrugging, and then she stepped past the historian and, without giving Grizzin Farl a glance, continued on into the Chamber of Night.

She felt compacted earth beneath her feet, damp and cool through the thin soles of her slippers. The smell of deep decay and verdant life swarmed around her, as if the air itself was alive. We are no longer within the Citadel.