A believer whose face twists, who points an accusing finger at a disbeliever, who then draws a blade with blood in his mind – that believer pronounces a lie, for his doubts are his own, and were he truly honest before his god, he would voice them. No number of corpses imaginable for this believer to stride over can quell the threat – the potency – of self-doubt.

A true believer, indeed, need never draw a weapon, need never rise in argument, or howl in fury, or make fists, or roll in a mob to crush some helpless, innocent enemy. A true believer needs none of those things. How much of the world insists on living this lie?

Blinking, he found himself standing at the entrance of a side corridor, the one leading to the chamber where Lord Draconus waited. Vaguely, he recalled hearing words spoken near the Terondai, a conversation perhaps, and a question thrown towards him. Frowning, Kellaras turned, in time to see Cedorpul and Endest Silann approaching him.

‘This war,’ Kellaras said, forestalling them, ‘is unnecessary.’

Both priests halted at his words, and then Cedorpul snorted and shook his head. ‘Dear captain, we all know that.’

‘We fight because we have lost faith.’

‘Yes,’ said Cedorpul, his round face grave.

‘Fighting,’ Kellaras continued remorselessly, ‘is proof of our lost faith. And now people will die in payment for our own private failings. This is not a civil war. Not a religious war.’ He paused, helplessly. ‘I don’t know what it is.’

Endest Silann stepped forward. ‘Captain, take care of your loved ones.’ He lifted his hands with their sodden, crimson bandages. ‘It is our folly to see a hole at the centre of our world, one of empty darkness, a manifestation of absence.’

‘But it is not empty,’ whispered Kellaras. ‘Is it?’

Endest Silann glanced back at Cedorpul for an instant, and then, facing Kellaras once more, he shook his head. ‘No, sir. It is not. She has filled it, to the brim. It is swollen with her gift.’

Behind him, tears were falling freely down Cedorpul’s cheeks.

Kellaras brought his hands to his face, as Pelk’s visage filled his mind. ‘Her gift,’ he said.

‘Draconus was the proof of it,’ Endest said, ‘if only we’d the courage to see. All of this,’ and he gestured with his bloody hands, ‘is filled with love. Yet see what rears up to stand in its way. See our innumerable objections to this simple, most profound gift.’ His smile was broken. ‘This is a war of fools, captain. Like every war before this, and every war to come. And yet, as proof of our failings, as proof of our weakness, and every petty distraction we so willingly embrace, it is, alas, no more than what we deserve.’

Kellaras backed away from the two men. ‘I await Lord Anomander and Silchas Ruin,’ he said.

Cedorpul grunted. ‘Too late for that. They ride to the Valley of Tarns.’