He glanced at her, briefly, from over a shoulder, and then said, ‘Not all posts have been abandoned, High Priestess.’

She approached. ‘What is it you guard, Rise Herat, demanding such vigilance?’

Shrugging, he said, ‘Perspective, I suppose.’

‘And what does that win you?’

‘I see a bridge,’ he replied. ‘Undefended, and yet… none dare cross it.’

‘I think,’ she mused, ‘simple patience will see a resolution. This lack of opposition is but temporary.’

His expression betrayed doubt. He said, ‘You assume a resolve among the highborn that I have yet to see. If they stand with hands upon the swords at their sides, they are turned against the man who now shares her dark heart. Their hatred and perhaps envy of Draconus consumes them. Meanwhile, Vatha Urusander methodically eliminates all opposition, and I do not sense much outrage among the nobility.’

‘They will muster under Lord Anomander’s call, historian. When he returns.’

He looked her way once more, but again only for a moment before his gaze skittered away. ‘Anomander’s Houseblades will not be enough.’

‘Lord Silchas Ruin, acting in his brother’s place, is already assembling allies.’

‘Yes, the gratitude of chains.’

She flinched, and then sighed. ‘Rise Herat, lighten my mood, I beg you.’

At that he swung round, leaned his back against the wall and propped his elbows atop it. ‘Seven of your young priestesses trapped Cedorpul in a room. It seems that in boredom they had fallen to comparing experiences at their initiations.’

‘Oh dear. What lure does he offer, do you think?’

‘He is soft, one supposes, like a pillow.’

‘Hmm, yes, that might be it. And the pillow invites, too, a certain angle of repose.’

The historian smiled. ‘If you say so. In any case, he sought to flee, and then, when he found his path to the door barred, he pleaded his weakness for beauty.’

‘Ah, compliments.’

‘But spread out among all seven women, why, their worth was not much.’

‘Does he still live?’

‘It was close, High Priestess, especially when he suggested they continue the conversation with all clothing divested.’

Smiling, she walked to the wall beside the man. ‘Bless Cedorpul. He holds fast to his youth.’

The historian’s amusement fell away. ‘While Endest Silann seems to age with each night that passes. I wonder, indeed, if he is not somehow afflicted.’

‘In some,’ she said, ‘the soul is a hoarder of years, and makes a wealth of burdens unearned.’

‘A flow of blood from Endest Silann’s hands is yet another kind of blessing,’ Rise observed, twisting round to join her in looking out upon the city. ‘At least that is done with, now, but I wonder if some life-force left him through those holy wounds.’