‘You see,’ says the man in gold. ‘It changes, but the core of a pattern is always there, a growing resonance in the warp, like notes rising and harmonising, or pieces being placed on a board, or a weapon being assembled bit by bit… I can’t see what it is, only its shadow, but it is there. Behind the night and the bloodshed, it is there.’ The man in black is still looking down at the cards. ‘There are other things, too. Factors that are out of place. The timing of the assault, for instance. It began at midwinter, in the pit of the cosmic nadir. And the order of things… The position of the planets is particular at this moment. It is a rare conjunction that has not occurred since… well, since before the last darkness. We have always presumed that the timing of the assault is driven by haste, but what if it is something else? What if it is something m–’

‘Yes,’ says the man in black. He stands. For a second the light of the oil flames cast his shadow on the wall, and for an eye-blink it is not the shadow of an old man, but of a figure on a throne, his hands gripping its arms, his head held straight. ‘It is there, under the surface, beyond the edge of night. I can… feel it growing.’

‘What is it?’ asks the young man. ‘What are they doing?’

The man in black is still for a second, his eyes distant. It has cost him much to send part of himself here, to this meeting of minds in one of the last sanctuaries that remain. Far off, and only a thought away, is the crushing dark, held back moment to moment, a flood tide halted on the shore’s edge by will alone.

‘I cannot see,’ says the Emperor, furs shifting over His aged frame. ‘Not within, nor beyond the edge of Night. The present is darkness and the future a horizon. There is only the struggle.’

Malcador, young and clad in gold, is still for a moment and then nods once, his face a mask that cannot hide his worry.

‘The others know,’ says Malcador at last. ‘The Khan, the Angel, the commanders… Rogal, in particular. The actions of the enemy don’t add up, and they see that there is a gap, a shadow in their understanding.’

‘That is what they are there to do,’ says the Emperor, picking up the furs from which the ice and frost has barely thawed. ‘To be tooth and claw, to fight and not to yield. The rest is yours to mind – to shield them so that they can be what they need to be.’

The Emperors turns for the door.

‘Can we still win this?’ asks Malcador.

‘That is not the question you are really asking,’ says the Emperor, turning His head but still facing away.