He could feel the ritual building to its conclusion and braced himself. One final sliver of hope remained. An Honoured Vessel usually invited the Deathless soul inside. On some level, for reasons unfathomable to Satyendra, they wanted to be sacrificed. Perhaps he could fend off Lord Rochant’s soul by force of will, though he had no idea how. He tried thinking of how unlike Rochant he was, how unsuitable a match he would be. He thought about how much he wanted to live, and how much he hated everything. Underneath his internal ranting lingered a seed of doubt. For in many ways he was like Rochant: clever, devious, secretive. Would he be willing to take another’s life to prolong his own? Without hesitation.

All the while, the Bringers’ chanting got louder, their movements faster, the energy in the room more charged. At the peak of their working, the Bringers brought their wands together above Satyendra.

There was a clink, and the expected unpleasant sensation as the chime passed through him, and then …

Nothing.

How will his soul take mine? he wondered. Will it be as sudden as fingers clicking? Or will it be so slow that I’ll not even realize he’s in here until it’s too late?

The Bringers were bending over him again. The sphere was reverently placed back into its box, and the mesh removed from his mouth. The straps stayed in place however.

One of the Bringers made a gesture and the portal beneath the slab groaned open, not enough to drop him and the stone into oblivion, but enough for him to understand the threat.

‘One man is welcome here,’ said the lead Bringer.

‘Are you that man?’ asked another.

Satyendra blinked at them. The ritual had ended. If Rochant was going to come, he would have already. It didn’t work! He tried not to smile but he wanted to. He wanted to grin like someone who had taken too much sweet wine, or like the lovers in the stories, or the Wolfkin catching its prey. Looking at the Bringers anew, he saw something behind the masks and the theatrics. They are uncertain of me. It was subtle but it was there, a tiny hint of fear that confirmed his suspicions. They do not know if the ritual worked. They have no idea that it failed!

He let his own fear fall away. After all, they would expect him to be different now. Lord Rochant was calm, measured. He must be those things too. Having just heard the man’s voice made it easier to mimic his cadence. ‘I am.’

‘Name yourself.’

‘I am Lord Rochant Sapphire.’

‘Lord Rochant Sapphire is welcome, if you are he.’

‘If,’ hissed the others.

‘If you are he,’ said another, ‘you will prove your humanity. Look at yourself and tell us what you are.’