The priest was nodding vigorously. ‘So this world insists, and I bitterly bless its every claim to veracity, each time I awaken, each time I stumble into it. Still, what answer will you offer me, historian, when I find her blood mingled with sweat upon the palms of my hands? I have examined myself, stripped naked before a mirror, and I bear no wounds. What correction will you provide to right my senses when I walk the Hall of Portraits and see her image so perfectly painted upon the wall? High Priestess Enesdia. The label is worn, but I can make it out nevertheless.’

‘There is no such portrait, priest – no, a moment. Ah, you speak of her grandmother, who was indeed a High Priestess, but before the coming of Night. Her name was Enesthila, and she served as the last High Priestess of the river god, before the cult’s reformation. My friend, such is the sorcery of dreams—’

‘And the blood?’

‘You say that you speak in your dream, but that the voice belongs to Mother Dark. Forgive this blasphemy, but if there is blood on anyone’s hands, Endest—’

‘No!’ The priest was on his feet. ‘Have I no will left to me? We beg her for guidance! We plead with her! She has no right!’

‘Forgive me, friend. I reveal only ignorance in speaking on matters of faith. Have you spoken to Cedorpul?’

Endest slumped back down in the chair. ‘I went to him first. Now he flees the sight of me.’

‘But … why?’

The young man’s face twisted. ‘His hands remain clean, his dreams untouched.’

‘Do you imagine that he would welcome what leaves you outraged?’

‘If she demanded his lifeblood he would offer her his throat, and know delight in the bounty of his gift.’

‘But you are not so enamoured of sacrifice.’

‘When my every prayer to her goes unanswered …’ he glared at the historian, ‘and do not dare speak to me of trials to test my faith.’

‘I would not,’ Rise Herat replied. ‘As I said, to track down this path is for me a fast unravelling of reason. But three strides along and I am floundering, too many ends in my hands and doubtful of every knot.’

‘How is it you can deny a belief in power?’

‘It is my thought that without belief, there is no power.’

‘What do you win with that, historian?’

Rise shrugged. ‘Freedom, I suppose.’

‘And what do you lose?’

‘Why, everything, of course.’

The priest stared up at him, his expression unreadable.

‘You are exhausted, friend. Close your eyes. I will abide.’

‘And when you see the blood on my hands?’

‘I will take them in my own.’

Endest’s eyes filled with tears, but a moment later he closed them and set his head back against the chair’s thick padding.

Rise Herat watched sleep take the young priest, and waited for the mask to crack.

* * *