Almost shyly, Grizzin Farl edged into the room. ‘Mother Dark. Your goddess.’ After a moment, he shrugged and said, ‘The wounded heart contracts, like the closing of a fist. She will see you now, and you in turn will see her. Out from the darkness, a manifestation of flesh, blood and, perhaps, tears.’

Lanear sent out a stream of smoke, and then snorted. ‘A little late for that.’

‘Such things do not pass swiftly, High Priestess, even for a goddess.’

After a moment, Lanear set the mouthpiece down and then rose from her chair. ‘Has word come from Tarns?’

‘Not yet.’

Seeing him hesitate, she cocked her head. ‘Go on. No doubt, you have ways of… seeing things.’

He sighed. ‘Lord Anomander has struck the standard. The battle is over. Triumphant, the Liosan now approach the city. Many have died. That said,’ he added, ‘it could have been worse.’

She sat back down, all strength leaving her legs, and reached a trembling hand to retrieve the mouthpiece. ‘And… Draconus?’

‘Gone.’

‘Not dead?’

Grizzin Farl glanced away. ‘Gone, I think, is a better word.’

‘Mother Dark knows this?’

‘She has known this for some time, yes.’

Lanear smoked, studying the Azathanai through a veil of curling white. ‘And now, she will see her High Priestess.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I would think,’ he ventured, ‘preparations must be made. A wedding, yes?’

After a moment, she stood again, gathering her robes about her. ‘Lead on, Azathanai.’

The journey did not take long. They exchanged no further words, and a short time later they stood before the door to the Chamber of Night.

* * *

Surgeon Prok leaned against the sill of the window and used the palm of his right hand to melt the ice upon the thin, bubbled glass. ‘The tower’s flag has settled,’ he said after a moment. ‘Defeat. Surrender. Occupation. But then,’ he added as he straightened and turned to Sorca, ‘they are foreigners in habit only, and soon that too shall fade. I see an admixture ahead, and cannot but wonder at what spawn such union will yield.’ He lifted up his flask and drank another mouthful of spirit.

Sorca looked around, moved to a plush chair and sat heavily. ‘Beware the torch, lest your breath catch fire.’

‘If my words are fire, it’s a modest flame.’

She took out an iron pick and began cleaning her pipe.

Prok glanced at the door, through which Lady Sandalath and her daughter had departed but moments ago, on their way to that fateful meeting with her son. He had heard that two hostages dwelt in the Citadel, one a girl made mostly feral by neglect. Orfantal was the other. Sandalath’s bastard child. ‘I am fair drunk,’ he admitted with a nod. ‘Yet, what numb relief is offered proves a mockery to feeling. My heart still breaks, but no sharp crack issues forth. Rather, I faintly hear a dull sob. Such is the dubious gift of drink.’