She even liked the fact that birds continually became fouled in the nearly invisible netting that had been draped over the opening to prevent them from nesting in the vaults. There was something at once sinister and reassuring to the sense of flutter and battle hanging over her periphery. They relieved her, it seemed, of the need to make threats. On any given day, there would only be one or two trapped, their felt-limbed struggles too small and their cries too shrill to bring about any real compassion.

Today there were four.

Sometimes after sunset, she had allowed Samarmas help the slaves set them free. Eyes miracle wide. Hands trembling. His smile was like fear, it was so intense.

The gentle swell of orisons from the upper galleries announced the Matriarch’s imminent entrance—one of innumerable hymns to the Aspect-Emperor.

Our souls rise from darkness,
at once near and far.
Our souls fall into darkness,
through gates left ajar.

He comes before,
A candle carried into forever after.
He comes before …

Thinking of the twins, Esmenet set her teeth, warred against the pang that threatened to crack her painted face. Kelmomas had been inconsolable, and she had been forced to leave him bawling, begging for her to hold him, promising to become his dead brother for her sake.

“We l-love you, Mom-mommy … So-so m-much …”

We, he had said, his voice small and forlorn. She could scarce think of the episode without blinking the heat from her eyes. She exhaled slow and deep, doing her best to appear motionless. The great bronze doors swung soundlessly open, and she watched Hanamem Sharacinth, the nominal ruler of the Cult of Yatwer, stride into the abandoned Auditory. The Matriarch was supposed to dress in gunny to signify her poverty, but vertical bands gleamed across her earth-coloured gown with her every step. Maithanet accompanied her, resplendent as always in commodious white and gold.

He comes before,
A candle carried into forever after.
He comes before …

The end of the chorus faded into the pitch of ringing stone. The Yatwerian Matriarch stiffly dipped to one knee, then the other. “Your Glory,” she said, before pressing her face to her reflection across the marble floor.

Esmenet nodded to demonstrate Imperial Favour. “Rise, Sharacinth. We are all children of the Ur-Mother.”

The older woman lifted herself, though not without some effort. “Indeed, your Glory.” She looked to Maithanet, as though expecting some kind of assistance, then remembered herself. She was not accustomed, Esmenet realized, to the company of her betters. Esmenet had received many petitioners over the years, long enough to reliably guess the tenor of an audience from the first exchange of words. Sharacinth, she could tell, had made hard habit out of authority, to the point where she could not be trusted to show either grace or deference. Defensiveness hung about the old woman like an odour.

Esmenet cut directly to the point. “What do you know of the White-Luck Warrior?”