‘There is no Bright Star. No Black Sun,’ Meical whispered. ‘Apart from the ones of our own making.’

‘That is why you did not want me to accept Jael’s challenge and fight the duel.’ Corban shook his head, the myriad implications and consequences staggering him. ‘What of truth and courage?’ he hissed.

‘I never said that to you,’ Meical said, looking away. ‘I could not say it to you. But in a way you are the Bright Star, as much as any man is anything. As real as any king. Because people have chosen to believe it.’

‘That does not make it so,’ Corban snarled.

You think not?’ Meical asked pleadingly. ‘We are what we choose to be. What makes a king a king? Is there something different about him? Does special, sacred blood run in his veins? No. He is chosen; he believes it, and the people believe. He rises to the task, or he fails it.’ He shrugged. ‘It is no different with you. And you have risen to the task, of that there is no doubt, surpassed it in every way. You are a testament to the power of belief. To what can be achieved through combining belief with will.’ He smiled, a faint, rueful thing. ‘What you have done is truly staggering.’

Corban was shaking with fury. ‘I have been lied to. Deceived. Danced to the tune of a prophecy that does not exist.’ He felt his hand reaching for his sword hilt, a rage such as he had never known filling him, fuelled by a bottomless despair. ‘And worse, you have made a liar out of me. I have lied to these people, fed them a deception hatched by power-mad immortal bairns.’ He yelled those last words, spittle flying, Storm rising to her feet with a growl, her hackles bristling. His fist closed around his sword hilt as Meical stood and looked down upon him, a world of sorrow scribed across his face, leaking from his eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ Meical whispered.

‘Sorry? We have armies coming to slaughter us. The only hope we had was based on a lie. My people will die – and you’re sorry?’

Corban released his sword hilt as if it had bitten him.

‘I cannot stand to look at you,’ he said and strode away, heading for the nearest exit, which happened to be the small door in the tunnel. He walked through it into the flickering torchlight and dampness of the underground passage and marched furiously on, Storm padding behind him. He glanced back before he rounded a bend and saw Meical’s blurred silhouette standing in the doorway. He turned his face from the Ben-Elim and, crying angry tears, he carried on into the darkness.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

RAFE