In tears, water runs free. One of the oldest poems in the scriptures, penned by an unknown hand. Generations had argued over the meaning, embracing both the prosaic and the profane; but in a handful of words from T’riss, that meaning was suddenly clear, and Caplo could almost hear the regret, echoing in the tormented scratching of quill upon parchment, from that unknown, heartbroken poet.

A truth buried in mysterious words. This was how imagination could be both gift and curse. For himself, he would rather have remained ignorant, but it was too late for that.

After a ride through the night, wrapped in silence and anguish, they reached the edge of the forest, and the city of Kharkanas rose before them, knuckled against the banks of the Dorssan Ryl, like a massive fist of black stone.

* * *

The old temple at the heart of the Citadel always made High Priestess Emral Lanear think of a closed eye within a deep socket. The bones spread out from this shuttered centre, in angular additions, the black stone heaped in a half-dozen architectural styles to fashion something like a crushed skull, flattened by its own weight, its innumerable burdens. There was nothing of beauty in the Citadel and for all the life that rushed through it, in corridors and chambers, on saddled steps and in musty cellars, it conjured in her mind an image of bugs trapped in that skull, desperate for a way out.

The stones were insensate, and so the eye remained shut. One could look upon a lifeless face for as long as one liked; if it was truly lifeless, it would never change. No flickering of the lids; no drawing of breath, nothing at all to shock the observer with the undoing of truth, or the unmaking of time.

She was walking beside Sister Syntara, in formal cadence, as they approached the Grand Hall that had once been the temple’s nave. Behind them trailed a dozen priestesses, their fluttering excitement stripped away as, with each step, the way ahead grew darker, defying the candles, devouring the light from the flanking torches on the walls.

None could draw close to the presence of Mother Dark without slowing their steps, and even though preternatural vision was now common among the priestesses and those closest to their chosen goddess, there remained an ineffable pressure in the air, and a chill that reached deep into the bones. Hands could not help but tremble. Breaths grew shallow, the air biting the lungs.

Fifteen solemn strides from the entrance, Emral felt something strike her forehead, and then trickle down to her brow. An instant later she gasped as the wet streak froze against her face. Another drop landed upon her hand where it held the Scabbard, and she looked down to see the bead of water form instantly into ice, numbing the skin beneath.

There was no rain in the city beyond. These corridors were so dry they stole the vigour of health from the youngest priestesses – this was true of the entire Citadel.