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.
He had thrown off his cloak now, and there was something in his hands, cupped like a precious flower, but all that Emral — and Mother Dark — could see was what looked like a fragment of forest floor, a flattened layer of humus. Draconus looked into Emral Lanear’s eyes, and then spoke. ‘Beloved, in this gift, I offer you the consecration of this Citadel, and so make of it a temple in truth. You have embraced the Night, yet hold but a modest fragment of its power.’ He paused, and then said, ‘There is a war of forces here, waged in the stone walls, the stone floor. It seems my return was timely indeed. By this gift, all challenge is banished from this place. I give to you, and to all the Children of Night, this Terondai.’
With these words, he let fall the object in his hands.
It landed softly, like folded parchment, and for a moment sat motionless upon the tiled floor. And then it began to unfold, sending out angled projections upon the surface of the tiles, and these projections were black as onyx, and the pattern they formed seemed to sink into the worn marble, indelibly staining it.
Emral felt a growing horror within her, coming from Mother Dark.
The pattern continued to unfold, spreading across the entire floor. It bore twenty-eight arms, like the points of a black star. In the centre was a multi-angled circle. Draconus stood within it. The expression on his face was one of pride, yet there was something fragile in his eyes. ‘Beloved,’ he said, ‘from the lands of the Azathanai, I returned to you upon the Road of Night. I rode through the realm of Darkness.’ He gestured to the pattern, which now spanned the entire chamber. ‘You need reach no longer, beloved. I have brought Night here and offer you, once more, its perfect embrace. It is a gift borne on love. By what other means do we consecrate?’
Emral could feel her goddess, a presence recoiling in fear.
‘Beloved,’ said Draconus, ‘I give you the Gate of Kurald Galain.’
The pattern ignited. Darkness blossomed.
And the goddess fled.
In the Chamber of Night, Grizzin Farl stood before Mother Dark, watching as she grew ever more insubstantial. The unfolding of Night was fast encompassing the Citadel, pouring out from the Terondai to take every room, spreading like blight down every corridor. It swallowed the light from lamps, candles and lanterns. It stole the brightness from flames and embers in every hearth.
He felt it when the darkness spilled out past the walls of the Citadel, rushed like a flood across the courtyard. When it flowed down to the surface of the river, Grizzin winced at the shock that trembled through the water, and he heard in his mind the wretched howl of the river god as the darkness broke the barrier and rushed down into the depths. That howl became a death-cry, and then it was gone. And the river flowed with Night.
The darkness spread rapidly through all of Kharkanas.
‘You wondered at my presence here,’ he said to the goddess seated on her throne. ‘You wondered at my role. I could not let you speak. The silence needed… protecting. Forgive me.’ He then raised a hand towards her. ‘You will recover,’ he said. ‘You will find the strength to resist its pull. That strength will come from worship, and from love. But most of all, it will come from the balance that awaits us all. Alas, the achievement of such balance, so long overdue, will be difficult.’
‘What balance?’ she asked, her voice left hoarse by the denials she had screamed, the helpless cries against what her lover was doing; against what he had done.
‘All forces are arrayed in opposition, Mother Dark. It is this tension that weaves the threads of existence.
