Itkovian bowed, then strode from the room.

‘And now, dear priest,’ Brukhalian said. ‘Are you certain of this ... invitation of yours?’

Karnadas shook his head. ‘No, I am not. I can discern nothing of its sender’s identity, nor even if its stance is true to ours or inimical.’

‘Yet it awaits a reply still?’

‘Yes, Mortal Sword, it does.’

‘Then let us make one. Now.’

Karnadas’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Sir, perhaps then we should call in a Mane, in case we invite an enemy into our midst?’

‘Destriant, you forget. I am Fener’s own weapon.’

Aye, but will that be enough? ‘As you say, sir.’ Karnadas strode to a cleared space in the chamber. He folded back the sodden sleeves of his shirt, then made a slight gesture with his left hand. A small, pulsing orb of light took form in front of the priest. ‘This fashioning is in our language,’ he said, studying the manifestation again. ‘The language of Fener’s Reve, intimating a certain knowledge of our company and its immortal benefactor. There is a message intended in such knowing.’

‘Which you have yet to ascertain.’

A scowl flickered for a moment in the Destriant’s weathered face. ‘I have narrowed the list of possibilities, Mortal Sword. Such knowledge suggests arrogance in the sender, or, indeed, it offers us a hint of brotherhood.’

‘Release the invitation, sir.’

‘As you command.’ He gestured again. The orb brightened, then began growing, its light thinning, the sphere growing translucent. Karnadas stepped back to give it space, fighting down his alarm at the sheer power behind this communication. ‘Sir, there are souls within this. Not two or three – a dozen, maybe more – yet they are bound within one. I have not seen its like before.’

A figure, sitting cross-legged, slowly took form within the orb, dark-skinned, lean, wearing light leather armour. The man’s face showed an expression of mild surprise. In the background, the two Grey Swords could see the interior walls of a small tent. A brazier sat before the man, giving his dark eyes a lurid glow.

‘Address him,’ Brukhalian commanded.

‘In what language, sir? Our native Elin?’

The figure cocked his head at the quiet exchange. ‘That’s an awkward dialect,’ he said in Daru, ‘with Daru the obvious mother. Can you understand me?’

Karnadas nodded. ‘Aye, close enough to Capan.’

The man straightened. ‘Capan? I’ve reached through, then! You are in Capustan, excellent. Are you the city’s rulers, then?’

The Destriant frowned. ‘You do not know us? Your ... communication suggested a certain knowledge of our Reve . . .’

‘Ah, yes, well, that particular weaving of my warrens has a way of reflecting those who stumble on it – though only among priests, of course, the target it was intended to reach. I assume you are of Capustan’s temple council? What’s that title again – Mask Council, yes?’

‘No,’ Brukhalian rumbled, ‘we are not.’

‘Go on, please, I am truly intrigued now.’