Renarr watched their approach with detached amusement. For her, religion was a wasteland, a place only the broken would choose to stumble on to, their hands outstretched to grasp whatever came within reach. She recalled her own thoughts from some weeks past: the conflation in her mind of whore’s tent and temple, and the squalid surrender that fused into one these seemingly disparate settings. The need was the same, and for many the satiation achieved by both proved shortlived and ephemeral.

The High Priestess was bedecked in flavours of white and gold. An ethereal illumination clung to her like smoke. Her heart-shaped face glistened as if brushed with pearl-dust, and the colour of her eyes seemed to shift hues in a soft stream of blues, magenta and lilac. She was indeed a creature of stunning beauty.

‘Blessings upon you,’ said Syntara when at last she halted a few paces away from Lord Urusander, who had turned to face the new arrivals from his position by the tall, narrow window overlooking the courtyard.

Eyeing her adoptive father, Renarr sought to gauge his mood, seeking some hint as to the stance he would take with the High Priestess, but as ever, Urusander was closed to her. There was, she supposed, something to admire, and perhaps even emulate, in her lord’s ability to contain his emotions. If, however, she might have expected the man to be affected by Syntara’s radiance, his first words dispelled the notion utterly.

‘This light hurts my eyes,’ Urusander said. ‘I would rather the very stones of this keep not glow day and night. Your blessing,’ he continued, ‘has made me raw with exhaustion. Now, since you have sought me out, dispense with the incidentals and speak your mind.’

Smiling in answer, Syntara said, ‘You are witness to a power born to deny darkness, Lord Urusander. Here, we find ourselves in a holy sanctum, the very heart of that power. Light exists to be answered, and that answer will soon come. Mother Dark but awaits you.’

Urusander studied the High Priestess for a moment, and then said, ‘I am told that Hunn Raal proclaims himself an archmage. He has invented for himself the title of Mortal Sword to Light. He has, for all I know, a dozen more titles beyond those, to add to that of captain in my legion. Like you, he delights in inventing appellations, as if they would add legitimacy to his ambitions.’

It was, these days, almost impossible to discern a paling of visage among the Children of Light, but Renarr imagined she detected it nonetheless in the lovely, perfect face of Syntara. But the insult’s sting did not last long, for Syntara then resumed her smile and added a sigh. ‘Hunn Raal invents titles to affirm his place in this new religion, milord. “Mortal Sword” marks him as the first and foremost servant to Father Light.’

‘He would claim for himself a martial role in this cult, then.’