Beside her, the commander laughed. ‘This war is such a travesty. So crude in its cruelty, so obvious in its tragedy. Look instead to a life in times of peace, to see the subtler – and yet still brutal – battles of the soul. Day upon day, night after night. The soldier longs for the simplicity of war, making a coward of every sword-wielder. Peace, my dear, is the bloodiest affair of all.’

‘I weigh things differently, sir.’

‘Do you? I think not. Instead of finding your husband to be, you rode to the Hust Legion. Instead of claiming an estate and giving it the shape of your heart, you perch here like a crow on my shoulder, quick to judge but oh so slow to cast inward that unflinching regard.’ She waved a hand. ‘But I welcome your spite nonetheless. You are my barbed shield, Faror Hend. I draw you ever closer to feel the sting of the spikes, here on my chest, pricking the skin above my heart, and I but await the first crush of battle to see me home.’

‘You’ll make no descent into the press, sir,’ Faror Hend said. ‘I’ll not let you.’

‘Indeed, and why such mercy?’

‘Because,’ she snapped, ‘it is the very opposite of mercy.’

Toras Redone seemed to reel in her saddle, pulling herself upright with severe effort. Her face was suddenly set, the smile long gone, her gaze fixing forward now, to what awaited them all.

* * *

Once across the inner bridge, Kellaras dismounted close to the Citadel’s gatehouse and, handing the reins over to a steward, made his way into the keep. Its severe façade rose before him as he traversed the compound. It has not the look of a temple, but a fortress. And is it not odd, all things considered, how so often one demands the other. That faith needed defending suddenly struck him awry, the very notion jarring his thoughts, and it seemed that he tottered on the edge of a revelation. After a moment he righted himself, picking up his pace as he reached the broad flight of steps.

Philosophers can’t have been blind to any of this – my startling realizations stumble in well-trodden troughs of discourse, no doubt. No faith worthy of itself needs defending. Indeed, there can be no such thing as an external threat to faith – barring that of genocide. And even there, killing the flesh impugns not the faith held within it.

No, the sordid truth is this. Faith’s only enemy exists in the mind that calls it home. The only forces that can destroy faith are those the believer wields against him or herself.

He reached the doorway, saw the door left open – swung wide, in fact – and strode into the keep.