‘I will convey your message, Lord,’ Resh replied, but his tone was distracted.

From the doorway, the light suddenly vanished. A moment later, High Priestess Syntara staggered into view. Her skin was the hue of alabaster, her dark eyes like pools of ink. When Emral moved to assist her, Syntara threw up a staying hand, and her face twisted into a mask of spite and venom. ‘Do not touch me, you wretched hag! I chose my gift! I chose it!’

Pushing past the others, she rushed down the corridor.

Groaning, Warlock Resh set his back to the wall as would a man with too much drink in him. Eyes squeezing shut, he said, ‘She’s gone.’

Emral did not need him to elaborate. Bitter cold air was rushing into the corridor from the sanctum. The audience was at an end, and T’riss had vanished. The aftermath of the power unveiled in the last few moments made the air fiercely bitter, almost caustic.

Anomander faced the warlock. ‘She was banished?’

Resh’s eyes started open. ‘Does she give you nothing? This precious new goddess of yours?’

‘She may well give,’ Anomander replied. ‘But I do not ask.’

‘Not banished. Time twisted in the sanctum – in there, they might well have spoken for days. There is no way of knowing. She brought the blood – I felt it – she brought vitr into that chamber. Lord, I did not know – it must have been within her.’

Anomander half turned to the yawning doorway. ‘A weapon?’

‘No, Lord. A gift.’

‘Shake,’ Anomander commanded. ‘Await us here. High Priestess Emral, accompany me.’ He strode into the sanctum.

Emral followed.

As the door was shut behind them, Emral noticed at once that something had changed. The darkness remained, yet somehow lacked its oppressive weight, and before her eyes it seemed almost pellucid. In growing astonishment, she realized that she could make out details of the chamber.

Before them, motionless on the Throne of Night, sat Mother Dark, black-clothed in loose silks, black-haired, and now black-skinned. The transformation left Emral stunned, her thoughts plucked loose from all that she saw, as if she beheld a dubious world with the eyes of a drunk, and could make no sense of it.

As if nothing could rattle him, Anomander faced the throne, and something in his demeanour hinted at the defiance T’riss had seen within him. ‘Are you harmed, Mother?’

Her voice was soft, pitched low as if in weariness. ‘I am not.’

‘You sent her away?’

‘Beloved Emral,’ said Mother Dark, ‘you now stand alone as my High Priestess. Syntara has chosen, and from this a schism now threatens us all. In matters of faith, waters will part. This cannot be undone.’

But Anomander was not easily set aside. ‘Mother, the Azathanai resurrected an ancient god—’

‘There is peace between us. You see too many enemies, First Son. We are not threatened from without; only from within.’