Before them, motionless on the Throne of Night, sat Mother Dark, black-clothed in loose silks, black-haired, and now black-skinned. The transformation left Emral stunned, her thoughts plucked loose from all that she saw, as if she beheld a dubious world with the eyes of a drunk, and could make no sense of it.

As if nothing could rattle him, Anomander faced the throne, and something in his demeanour hinted at the defiance T’riss had seen within him. ‘Are you harmed, Mother?’

Her voice was soft, pitched low as if in weariness. ‘I am not.’

‘You sent her away?’

‘Beloved Emral,’ said Mother Dark, ‘you now stand alone as my High Priestess. Syntara has chosen, and from this a schism now threatens us all. In matters of faith, waters will part. This cannot be undone.’

But Anomander was not easily set aside. ‘Mother, the Azathanai resurrected an ancient god-’

‘There is peace between us. You see too many enemies, First Son. We are not threatened from without; only from within.’

‘Then we shall deal with it,’ he replied. ‘But I must understand what has happened here. I will defend what I believe in, Mother.’

‘But what is worthy of your belief, Anomander? This is ever the question, isn’t it?’

‘What has T’riss done here? The darkness itself is changed.’

Again, Mother Dark made no answer to him, instead addressing Emral. ‘Inform your sisters and brothers, High Priestess. This temple is sanctified.’

This was the Azathanai’s gift? Sanctified by vitr? ‘Mother Dark, what has driven Syntara from us? Her faith was unassailable-’

‘Easily assailed,’ countered Mother Dark. ‘By ambition and vanity. The Azathanai can see deep into a mortal soul, yet she understands nothing of tact, nor the value of withholding truths.’

‘And her gift?’ Emral asked. ‘She is made bloodless, white as bone.’

‘She is beyond my reach now, beloved Emral. That is all.’

‘But… where will she go?’

‘That remains to be seen. I have thoughts… but not now. You both stand in the presence of Night. You are no longer blinded by darkness, and all who come to me will receive this blessing. Even now,’ she observed, ‘I see Night comes to your skin.’

When Emral looked to Anomander, however, she gasped upon seeing not the ebon hue of his skin, but the silver sheen of his hair.

Mother Dark sighed. ‘You ever trouble me, First Son. One day I shall tell you of your mother.’

‘I have no interest in her,’ said Anomander. ‘Love cannot survive the absence of memories, and for that woman we have none.’

‘And has that not made you curious?’

The question seemed to startle him and he made no reply.

Emral wanted to weep, but her eyes remained dry, as if lined with sand. She struggled not to step back, to wheel and leave them to their bitter exchange. But she would not flee as had Syntara. Of vanity she had little, but ambition was another matter, twisted though its path might be.

Mother Dark’s eyes were upon her, she now saw, but the goddess said nothing.

Anomander finally spoke, ‘Mother, will you speak with the Shake?’

‘Not yet. But I warn you this, First Son, do not oppose the gathering of believers. The Deniers were never without faith — they but denied a faith in me. So be it. I do not compel. The Shake will insist upon their neutrality in matters of the state.’

‘ Then name your enemy! ’ Anomander’s shout echoed in the chamber, and behind it was exasperation and fury.

‘I have none,’ she replied in a calm voice. ‘Anomander. Win this peace for me; that is all I ask.’

Breath hissed from him in frustration. ‘I am a warrior and I know only blood, Mother. I cannot win what I must first destroy.’

‘Then, above all, First Son, do not draw a sword.’

‘How is it Syntara poses a threat?’ he demanded. ‘What manner of schism could she create? Her cadre is small — priestesses and a half-dozen spies among the servants. The Shake will not have her.’

‘It is the gift she now carries,’ Mother Dark replied, ‘that will draw adherents.’

‘Then let us arrest her, throw her and her lot into a cell.’

‘The gift cannot be chained, First Son. I see how you both struggle to understand, but the schism is necessary. The wound must be made, so that it can be healed.’

‘And what of Draconus?’

At Anomander’s question Mother Dark grew very still, and the air in the sanctum suddenly crackled with cold. ‘Leave me now, First Son.’