‘ High Priestess, make of your worship an unflinching recognition of the unknown, and indeed, the unknowable.’

Such devotion promised no reward. It made every stance abject and solitary. Revelation proclaimed a vacuum, where faith was doomed to flounder. Then again, perhaps she intends by her prescription just such a revelation: that while we are light inside, there is nothing but darkness upon the outside.

Syntara, we face one another as enemies. But I wonder if even that is a profane conceit.

Frowning, she drew out her writing materials. It was time, she decided, for overtures.

The sound of rushing feet and then a rapid knocking upon the door startled her. She rose and adjusted her robes. ‘Enter.’

To her surprise, it was not a priestess who appeared, but the historian, Rise Herat.

‘High Priestess, I beg you, accompany me.’

‘Where?’

‘To the courtyard,’ he replied. ‘A conjuration is under way.’

‘A what?’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Emral, there is darkness there, impenetrable darkness, and…’ he hesitated, ‘High Priestess, this darkness bleeds.’

As they strode towards the front doors, Emral could hear faint screams, through which cut shouts as some sought to quell the panic in the courtyard. ‘Historian,’ she said, ‘this may well be Mother Dark’s sorcery, and so nothing anyone need fear.’

‘Your arrival and subsequent comportment might well invite that thought, High Priestess,’ Rise replied, ‘which is why I sought you out.’

‘But you do not believe it belongs to Mother Dark, do you?’

He glanced at her, his lined face pale. ‘As I arrived at your door, I admit, I longed for a calming response from you at the news I delivered.’

‘But in its absence?’

He shook his head.

They arrived outside. Figures had retreated from the manifestation, which dominated the centre of the courtyard, and from the entrance to the Citadel the gates themselves were no longer visible, blighted by the immense darkness. The stain filled the air, black and roiling, with tendrils spilling down to writhe like tentacles upon the cobbles. As Emral stared, she saw it grow larger, bleeding out to hide the gate’s towers, and the platforms where stood transfixed Houseblades.

The clamour of voices had begun to die away, and Emral’s outwardly calm appearance seemed to seal the silence.

The emanation itself made no sound, but cold drifted out from it — the same cold as was found in the Chamber of Night. Emral stared, wondering if indeed Mother Dark had begun this conjuration. But for what purpose?

In that moment, when doubts crowded her, a mounted figure rode out from the darkness, arriving at a canter. The huge, armoured man drew hard on the reins of his warhorse, and sparks danced out from the beast’s hoofs. He halted directly before Emral Lanear and Rise Herat.

She struggled to breathe for a moment. The emanation was fast dwindling behind the rider.

At her side, the historian bowed. ‘Consort,’ he said, ‘welcome back.’

Lord Draconus dismounted. Cold drifted from his shoulders, and there was frost glistening on his riding boots, and his armour. He drew off his gauntlets. ‘High Priestess,’ he said, ‘I need you.’

‘Consort?’

He gestured to the building behind her. ‘She knows I have returned. I promised her a gift, and for that, you must attend me.’

‘In what manner?’ she asked.

‘As the First Daughter of Night.’

‘I hold no such title.’

He approached. ‘You do now,’ he said, moving past her and entering the Citadel. Emral followed, trailed by Rise Herat.

Lord Draconus strode into the Grand Hall, and halted in the centre of the vast chamber. ‘Clear the hall!’ he commanded.

The quiet, brooding man Emral had known before now stood as if transformed. The power around him was palpable. His heavy gaze found her. ‘High Priestess, seek the emptiness within you. Surrender the will of your eyes to Mother Dark, so that she may witness my gift.’

‘Consort, I know not how to do that.’

‘Only because you have never tried. Look well upon me now, and within your soul, kick open the door of faith.’

All at once, Emral felt a presence flow into her body, shifting as if finding itself in ill-fitting flesh, and as she looked upon Lord Draconus there was a sudden surge of discordant emotions. She felt Mother Dark’s pleasure at seeing her lover again, and her relief, and in the midst of that, there was profound trepidation. Emral struggled to give herself over to her goddess, so that Mother Dark might speak through her, but something defied her efforts. She felt Mother Dark’s desire to address Draconus, blunt and heavy as a fist, pounding upon some inner door — a door that remained locked — and as her goddess pushed against it from one side, so too Emral pulled against it from the other. Their efforts failed, leaving to Mother Dark only the vision of her Consort.