‘I gave her cause. No. They gave her cause. Slayers of innocents, leaders of a misguided pogrom. She was the sword in my hand.’

‘The true instigator of that pogrom still lives,’ Renarr said. ‘He bears the new title of Mortal Sword. And now he wields sorcery. Would that Sharenas had begun with him.’

He was now studying her. ‘Will you now stand in her place, Renarr? Are you to be my confidante?’

The question arrived somewhere between hope and a plea. ‘Father, when I last departed this keep, you sent a squad to escort me back. Now, here I am, no longer a plaything for your soldiers. Required to remain in your presence or, by your leave, in an adjoining room. Will you now make me your reluctant conscience? If so, best not chain me.’

‘I need no conscience but my own, Renarr. But… you saw through the subterfuge of this meeting. You swiftly and truly gleaned the purpose of that miserable scholar. You grasp – instinctively, I believe – the needs of this new religion, its raw hunger and brutal pragmatism. And she accused you of cynicism! In any case, Syntara had not planned for you. She left her flank exposed, and Sagander served as a poor excuse in its defence.’

Renarr rose from the chair. ‘Forgive me, Father. Best not rely upon me to ward your flank. I am far too capricious in my own amusements. Sagander’s well-known disgust for the common-born and the fallen was the only invitation I required. I baited him out of boredom.’

He said nothing as she made her way from the chamber.

Oh, Sagander. Old man, mediocre scholar, an historian rocking on crutches from one scene to the next. Even the blessing of Light but underscores your flaws. Such clarity of vision, as promised by this burgeoning faith, yields no shades to truth, or justice.

Do you grasp that, Urusander?

Your High Priestess fears your Mortal Sword. Your historian is maimed by his own bigotry, and feeds fires of hatred behind his eyes. Your first captain dreams of his bloodline restored. And your adopted daughter must turn away from this dance no matter how honest its meaning, or how honourable its desire.

I see this light, Father, in all that comes. But I will not blink.

Still, the echo of those crutches lingered in Renarr, reminder of woundings that took away more than limbs or flesh. Scaffolds assembled to take the nails of pain and torment need not be visible to any mortal eye, and if the figure writhing upon the frame remained unseen, still the blood dripped.

Coat of arms. My banner. My perfect, perfected stain.

* * *

Captain Hallyd Bahann slid a hand down from Tathe Lorat’s bared shoulder, brushing the length of her upper arm, and then smiled across at Hunn Raal. ‘I know the risks in leading my company upon her trail, Mortal Sword.’