He stood now, resting, in the narrow corridor, trying to hear the words being spoken at the front gate. From the window of his small cell he had seen Legion soldiers. Things were happening in the outer world, the marching of unheard footfalls; and the isolation he had willed upon himself, in the name of healing, now constricted him, tight enough to unleash a howl in his mind.

That cry battered him. There were Legion soldiers in Abara Delack. A dozen or more had ridden out to the monastery; he’d seen monks mustering under arms, and now it seemed that there was a confrontation at the gate.

And here he was, almost too weak to make his way outside.

The boy had a lot to answer for. Better he had drowned under the ice years ago. And as for the three daughters, well, he’d witnessed enough to know that their father should have slit their throats at birth. House Dracons was cursed, by its own blood, by all its secret histories the Lord guarded so well. But the tutor felt close to some truths. He had not wasted all his time here in the monastery.

He’d rested enough. The pain wasn’t going anywhere. Lurching into motion, Sagander made his way down the corridor. Cell doors were open on both sides, evidence of haste. Within he saw modest possessions, nothing of worth, little of interest.

The cult was reborn. He knew that much. The well in the compound had overflowed. The fountain in the garden ran red for days. That had been unnerving. Kharkanas was probably in an uproar. The Citadel itself had been built around an ancient temple to the river god. Sagander felt a certain satisfaction when thinking about all of that. When one viewed such matters from a distance, it was clear to see that Mother Dark and her cult were but upstarts, and all the blustering and displays of power hid paucity at the heart. His growing sense of contempt for Mother Dark was new, but he found pleasure in its cultivation.

Gasping, he reached the corridor’s end where it opened out to a high-ceilinged intersection. Off to his left ran the colonnaded transept leading to the assembly hall and beyond that the Vigil Chamber and then the front doors. A year ago and he would have traversed this distance in a few score heartbeats. Now it seemed impossible.

He saw no one about, none upon whom he could call for help – although of late they had been less inclined to give it. Their hearts were hardening to him, as he knew they would. Sympathy surrendered to pity and pity gave way to contempt and disgust. He would have to leave here soon. They might well decide to stop feeding him, or bathing him, or carrying him about. People were the same everywhere, no matter what lofty vows they proclaimed. Help was given only in the hope of its being reciprocated. Expectations of reward lurked behind every act of altruism. But he had nothing to offer them, nothing but more need, more weakness, more misery.