‘Not yet. It grows. Things stir. Dreams plague a thousand shadowed minds. Something is indeed awakening. We shall see its face upon our return.’

Caplo owned nothing of the sensitivity possessed by Warlock Resh and many of the others in the faith. Sheccanto once told him that even as a child he had knelt before pragmatism; and in so doing had surrendered his capacity for imagination. There existed a dichotomy between the two, and as forces of personality they often locked in combat. For some, however, there was an accord. Dreams defined the goal, pragmatism the path to it. Those who possessed that balance were said to be talented, but it did not make their lives any easier. The blunt of mind, who lived lives in which obstacles rose up before them with every step, were quick to raise similar obstacles before their ‘talented’ associates, and were often adamant in their belief that it was for the best, and justified their views with such words as ‘realistic’, ‘practical’ and, of course, ‘pragmatic’.

Caplo held much sympathy for those who would, by advice and by ridicule, rein in the unfettered dreamers of the world. He saw imagination as dangerous, at times deadly in its unpredictability. Among the many victims he had murdered, it had been the creative ones who caused him the most trouble. He could not track them upon the paths of their thinking.

That said, so many other things had been surrendered in the loss of his own imagination. It was difficult to feel anything for the lives of others. He had no interest, beyond the professional, in searching out empathy, and saw no reason to shift his own perspective on matters of opinion, since his opinions were soundly rooted in pragmatism and therefore proved ultimately unassailable.

For all of this, as they rode into the thinned fringe of the ancient forest, with the tight creaking of the Azathanai’s mount an incessant rhythm behind them, Caplo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden falling off of sunlight. He glanced across at Resh to see the man’s craggy face sheathed in sweat.

‘Does she awaken her power again?’ he asked in a low tone.

Resh simply shook his head, a singular gesture of negation so uncharacteristic of the warlock that Caplo was startled and, indeed, somewhat frightened.

He looked about, eyes narrowed upon the shadows between the trees lining the road. He saw rubbish heaped in the ditches, and there, thirty or so paces deeper into the wood to his right, a squalid hovel wreathed in woodsmoke, with what might be a figure sitting hunched behind a smouldering fire – or perhaps it was nothing more than a boulder, or a stump. The air was cool on the cobbled road, redolent with decay, acidic enough to bite the back of his throat with each breath he took. There was little sound, barring that of a barking dog somewhere in the distance, and the nearer clump of horse hoofs upon the muddy stones.